The backyard shed had been my aunt's favorite part of the house when she bought it. Not for what it was, but for what she could turn it into - a makeshift art studio where she could get paint all over the walls and not feel bad about it.

Fuzzy music from her record player carried through the air as I walked out onto the back deck, and I followed the faint sound of Stevie Nicks' voice crooning out some soft love ballad to the half-open doors of the shed. Aunt Mel sat on a wicker stool in front of a canvas almost the size of her body.

Blues and greens in glossy oil paint splashed the corners, and she continued to paint the canvas with unwavering flow and elegance. She reached up and painted an aqua blue stroke at the top, then brought her arm down to the other corner and flicked her brush off the edge of the canvas. She was painting the waves, so she moved like one.

"What do you think?" She tilted her head to the side and studied the blank corner of the canvas with intensity. Everything about my Aunt Mel was soft and warm like a summer evening, that is until she had a paintbrush in her hands.

"It's pretty," I said with a shrug. "It's always pretty, Aunt Mel."

She frowned a bit and furiously mixed more blues and greens on a small plastic pallet.

"So I take it from your less than enthused tone that your interview did not go well?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the canvas.

I groaned and lowered myself onto another stool beside her. "It's ridiculous. These magazines and journals want you to have experience, but how could I possibly have eight years of experience for an entry level job?"

Aunt Mel finally looked over at me, and sometimes when the light hit her the right way, I could see bits of my mom in her. The twinkle in her emerald eyes and the mess of hair like honey piled on top of her head mirrored my mother's in the few faded old photographs I had left of her.

"Have a little patience. We've only been here a few weeks," she replied, her voice smooth and milky. She dipped her brush in her mixture and continued with her elaborate stroking. "Have you worked on your book at all?"

"No," I sighed. "This place has sucked all my inspiration dry."

The knot in my throat tightened. Stevie kept singing.

Thunder only happens when it's raining.

"You have to find inspiration elsewhere then. That's part of being a creator - making something out of nothing."

I couldn't contain the groan, and I rubbed my temples with my fingers. "Please spare me your philosophical artist mumbo-jumbo. Besides, this doesn't change the fact that I still need a job. I can't just not work, I've always had a job."

"I know, and I admire your work ethic." She dropped her paintbrush into a glass of water and turned to fully face me. "But maybe you just need a break. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I feel like I can't even afford a break." I rubbed the side of my face, feeling sweat start to collect on my temples from the hot, dense air that hung around. "I'm 22 years old, and I feel like I'm already running out of time to do something. To be something."

Aunt Mel threw a grin my way. "I have an idea that might make you feel better."

She got up from her stool and dragged another large canvas to the wall by the door of the shed.

"Paint balloons?" she asked.

Aunt Mel loved messes, and she was a firm believer that she could produce art from them. We had done it a few times back in Georgia, filling balloons with mixtures of paint, silicone, and water and throwing them at canvases. She pulled a bucket towards us and placed a squishy balloon in my hands. I underhand chucked it at the canvas, and I yelped as it exploded in a mess of green and blue and yellow. She did the same, and paint came sprinkling down on us like rain.

"Beautiful!" Aunt Mel laughed. "A true masterpiece."

We carried on with it for a little while, until the rays of the sun against the wooden floor turned to shadows, and the sound of frogs in the night echoed around the thin walls of the shed. I washed my hands in the slop sink in the corner as Aunt Mel moved our paint balloon art to a corner to dry.

"I think I'm going to submit a few of my portrait pieces to be shown at a gallery downtown," she said in passing.

I picked at the bits of blue caked under my nails. "That's...that's great."

As much as I was happy for my aunt, watching someone else be successful while I continued to struggle made my chest sting.

"You should try writing something. Anything. Even if it's a grocery list."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I waved her off before making my way out of the shed and through the backyard.

"I'm serious," she called after me. "Make a grocery list, I'm going to the store tomorrow morning."

I ripped the back screen door open to find Nikki standing in the kitchen with her usual bowl of soggy Lucky Charms, and a different oversized Nike sweatshirt she probably nicked from some poor boy before we left Georgia.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it." I brushed past her and darted up the stairs to my bedroom. The moment I slumped onto the side of my bed, I buried my face in my hands and felt a torrent of emotions rip through me. Anger, jealousy, fear, frustration, all mixed up in a pot. Natalie's emotional filets, served cold.

I looked at the clock on my bedside table - one of those old iHome things that were popular in middle school. It was white at one point, but now it was just a dirty pale yellow. 7:24 pm.

The sun was just starting to set behind a messy canvas of streaky clouds, ranging from blue and purple to orange and yellow. April was almost over, which meant every day that passed meant more sunlight for just a little longer.

I pulled my bedside drawer open and fumbled around for my tattered copy of Gods in Alabama. I rested the book open on my chest as I laid in bed, watching my ceiling fan spin and send flashes of shadows to my walls. I closed my eyes and prayed for a loose screw or a faulty wire. Something that would send the fan crashing down on top of me. After realizing that wasn't going to happen, I opened the book. The pages were musty and still smelled like dust and wet dog, but losing myself in a book seemed to be the only thing I could do to keep my own dismal story from consuming me. 

so some differences you might notice at this point in the new/updated/edited version that's being posted right now:

- obviously it takes place in south carolina now, not new jersey. i moved, so the story moved (and south carolina beach towns are prettier, fight me)

- natalie is a writer not a photographer

- i've aged the entire cast down from 25/26 to 21/22, with the exception of nikki and ella who are 19/20 - so yes I've also removed the "twin" aspect from brooklyn and ella. there was no purpose to it and i'd rather have ella and nikki be the same-ish age. this also allows me to now market it as a 'young adult' novel.

- both of natalie and nikki's parents have been gone for quite some time, and they were more or less raised by their aunt. i don't know why i thought having a toxic, absentee parent in the original draft was okay but it definitely doesn't sit right with me now. aunt mel is great.

that's all for now, i'd love to hear your thoughts/feedback!

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