Ice maiden, she of the seven stars, brighter than all others. Ice maiden, daughter of the rugged mountain with his head in the clouds and the ice-cold mountain stream coursing down his rocks. Ice maiden, with the grey light of dawn shining in her eyes.

Descending from her place amongst her sisters, the ice maiden touched soft foot to hard earth, passed amongst the animals and men, her long hair flowing behind her like clouds before the storm, her skin shining with pearls of water, her gaze ever stoic, ever calm. Her affections were as cold as the stream that had given birth to her, and ne'er a hope of love did she bestow on any man.

One man thought to capture her through cunning, and when he did, crafted a fire to melt away the cold, turn to water the ice, the waters only served to douse the flames.

Though she pleaded to return to her home in the sky, she of the seven stars, brighter than all the others, no such concession was granted.

"I shall die if I am unable to gain your affections," said he who had made himself her captor. And he laid down upon the earth, giving up his weapons, and waited for her favor. But ice maiden would not give in. She was too cold for any warmth. This was how she was made, and this was how she must stay. When her captor slept, pine tree extended his branches into the heavens, and ice maiden climbed him back into the sky, where she was reunited with her sisters.

No longer so bright, having grown dull when the firelight melted some of her forever away, ice maiden is the dimmest of the seven sisters.

"Gwen Newsham?" said the man next to her at the newspaper stand.

Gwen turned, quite surprised to hear her name. She wasn't used to strangers knowing who she was.

"Yeah! That is you, isn't it?"

Her smile evened out when she realized that this wasn't a stranger at all. Gwen sighed unnoticeably. "Mr. King. How nice to see you," she forced herself to say, though her lack of enthusiasm was difficult to hide.

The man waved the magazine he was holding at her, losing his place in the process. "Oh, please . . . call me by my first name—Ben. I feel old otherwise."

Gwen wanted to mention that he kind of was . . . but she didn't. That would've been rude. Although it wasn't as if he hadn't been rude to her in the past. "I'm just so used to it," she instead replied, doing a fabulous job of keeping her smile in place. "It's not been too long since my high school baby-sitting days." She hoped the reminder would sort of scare him off, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"Oh, several years now, right? Although time flies. Lots can happen in a few years."

She waited, unsure how to reply. Did he want her to say what had happened to her in the past few years, or was he implying a lot had happened to him? Either way, she wouldn't have known how to respond.

At length, the man nodded, as if he'd asserted an opinion and she'd agreed. "Well then, I hope everything's going smoothly in your life."

"Oh, yes," she answered, wishing she could escape. "Very smoothly."

"You out of college, I presume? Making a living for yourself, now?"

She smiled, her annoyance showing through slightly, her lips tightening as if he was trespassing on some private issue. Gwen really didn't want to give details about her life to this man. "Yes," was all she said.

He sensed her irritation, finally. His face reddened slightly. "Well, it was nice to see you again Gwen. I hope things keep working out for you." So saying, he turned to the man in the newspaper stand and purchased his magazine, then wandered off.

Gwen stood there, still, looking small and lean, even in her winter gear, in the bright, wintry sunlight. She had forgotten why she'd stopped at this stall. The magazines and newspapers looked no more enticing here than they had at any other stand she'd passed. This one, like all the others, sold copies of The Wanderer, but she noticed (somewhat in dismay) that the rack was pretty stuffed with extra copies: either this stall had an overstock or people weren't buying them at all, and Gwen feared it was the latter, even though she'd counted three people look them over as if they'd been considering a purchase. She wasn't going to buy one; she was determined not to. As much as part of her wanted to buy five and frame one, she was resolute. She was going to practice restraint. There was something in her that would've felt embarrassed to buy a copy of her own work—ridiculous. As if she was patting her own back or something. As if she was supporting herself. There was nothing quite wrong with supporting oneself, Gwen knew, but when everyone else lacked interest, paying for her own work was an irony her pride couldn't face.

The longer she stood there, the more discomfited she began to feel. It was time to move away.

The day was bright and clear. Gwen couldn't help but feel bitter toward it. It seemed no matter what she accomplished, she was unsatisfied with herself. A little column in a low-interest paper wasn't very noteworthy; it was hardly worth a glance. She'd be surprised if anyone read it at all. Her words were fresh, new, and vibrant! She knew she had writing skills and interesting opinions . . . most of the time. Well, more like some of the time. As the days passed and she made little progress in her writing career, Gwen felt the pains of self-doubt creeping over her. She'd moved to the city to freelance. It had been a mistake; she knew that now, and yet she couldn't bring herself to admit it outside of the darker corners of her head. To hear the words . . . to write out on paper . . . to have someone else speak it: failure—that would be more devastating to her than she could imagine. This she knew somewhere inside, though she wasn't even quite capable of admitting that she was close to admitting failure. This city, from which she'd ridiculously expected life and acceptance, had not even stretched out a hand to her. The money Gwen had saved up during her college years had established her in the beginning. She had many nice things and was living comfortably; still, if she failed to pick up some more writing work, she'd have to add some meager job to her days to pay for utilities.

Oh it wasn't all so drastic as that. Gwen's parents were well-off. She and her four brothers hadn't suffered a bit growing up, and because she was the only girl, Gwen had been her parents' favorite. They would do anything for her, she knew, especially because she, unlike her brothers, had given them no cause to worry as she'd grown up. Her mother and father had sent her some substantial funds to get her feet on the ground when she'd made the decision to move to the city, and they'd send more money in a heartbeat if they knew she needed it—that was true. All she'd have to do is mention money and the check would be in the mail. But telling her parents she could use a little help was closer to admitting that failure . . . and because of that, she would wait until she needed to beg before running to her mom and dad. As far as they knew, she was their successful daughter.

And who was to say she wasn't? All right, so Gwen hadn't made her first hundred-grand. She hadn't gotten into any big papers or publications as of yet. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to—and like all of the arts, it only took one little word or introduction to the right person to propel her into success, and it could all happen at some absolutely random instant. So there was reason to hope. No reason to get down! If only the stupidly bright, clear day would stop mocking her.

Running into Mr. King had been odd. Now that she thought of it, Gwen was angry at him for talking to her. How dare he speak to her as a friend might have. What was he doing in the city, anyhow? This was her city—hers. She'd come to get away from people like him. To be somewhere nobody knew her name. It felt like a bad omen . . . seeing him here.

The sunnyness was too much; it conflicted with her mood. Gwen turned off the over-populated avenue onto a quieter, shadowed side street. There were hundreds of cafés in the city, but she didn't want one where she had to wait for a table or stand in line too long. All she'd have to do is wander a little way and she'd find somewhere to stop.

Gwen reveled in the darker streets. She loved the way big buildings cast shadows on the strips of pavement running between them. There were some alleys and walkways that likely never had any sunlight on them at all; they dripped with moisture in the constant dimness. Trash bins and stairways remained coated in perspiration that never went away, and condensed air blew from building and street vents. These were not creepy, abandoned streets; they were connected to main boulevards and thoroughfares. Gwen wasn't in a bad neighborhood, but even the nicest ones had their dark spots. She was able to feel a bit dangerous while knowing she was safe in these alleys.

Her walking took her past many convenience shops, money exchange stations, and fast-food stands. She also passed several newspaper stalls but refused to let her eyes wander to their racks. Eventually, she settled on a coffee shop kind of on the corner of a larger street and went inside.

There were several people there, mostly men in business suits drinking their morning coffee and reading the paper. It was almost nine AM, so they would likely be leaving and heading off to work pretty soon. Gwen would have the place to herself. That was how she wanted it. After ordering her coffee, she sat in one of the large armchairs toward the back, where she still had a view of the front windows. It was cold out, and this café had a nice fire crackling in it. The atmosphere was cozy and comforting, somewhere Gwen figured she could sit for at least an hour. She frequently sat in coffee shops, though not so much for the coffee as for the excuse to get out of her apartment and attempt to interact with the world.

Overall, Gwen was cynical of all other people, and her views were somewhat misanthropic. She tended to suspect people, think they were all adversaries, even if they feigned friendship. Gwen figured lies and betrayal were innate qualities in all human beings—everyone told untruths to get things from people, whether they wanted actual material objects, affection, submission, or other untruths. And betrayal? Well, it was pure animal instinct to save the self over another. At the last moment, if not before then, all human beings acted on their survival instincts. Gwen had experienced some betrayal, some lies from people she'd thought were friends, although in truth, she had never been very close to other people because she distrusted them, so it had never hurt much to lose an acquaintance. She had always been best on her own, and she didn't expect that to change anytime soon. It was best this way, not just because it kept her from delusions of loyalty and honesty that might lead her to vulnerability, but also because it allowed her more time to focus on herself and her writing. If she had had scores of friends to keep up with or a boyfriend to pacify, Gwen likely would never get anything written at all. As things were, she had more time than she probably needed to work. It was glorious, and it was just what she wanted from her life.

Most interactions with other people, including such simple things as ordering her coffee from the cashier at the front register in the very café she now sat, brought out some annoyance in Gwen. She didn't like to speak to others; she was quiet and had little to say to those she'd never see again. Writing was a career she'd known she needed, because it involved few spoken words. Gwen had much to say, but she chose to say it through the written word. She knew that once others really saw her work, once they knew it was good, she'd have no problem using up all her free days fulfilling the myriad requests for columns and articles.

Soon. It would be soon. She thought this as she sipped her coffee, unaware that she was smiling blindly into space until a movement from across the room caught her eye and she blinked.

There was a man across the room, at the counter buying something, which wasn't weird—it was the fact that he was staring at her as he paid that caused Gwen's stomach to turn. He looked away immediately when she caught him, but she'd seen it all the same. He had certainly been staring at her.

She hated to catch people looking at her. It wasn't exhilarating or flattering . . . those things didn't cross her mind. She always took strangers' glances as unnerving, because her first instinct was to assume they had noticed something unappealing about her. Her physical appearance was, she knew, particularly awkward. She was too thin, and too pale, and virtually curve-less. She hated her little elf nose, and her flat hair that would never do more than lay there or be swept back, and her eyes that always looked dark and raccoon-ish. Gwen avoided mirrors and never looked into store windows for the express purpose of saving herself the agony of catching her reflection. She didn't hate her looks. Not really. She liked that she wasn't the main attraction playing on the movie reels in the minds of most men. Gwen would rather be dead than big-chested and glamorous. No, her appearance had been given her for a reason. As long as she kept her lips away from much of a smile, she was left alone to consider her work. Her writing. And that was how it was supposed to be. Her outward appearance kept people from approaching her. It kept men from wanting to ask her out on dates. It kept everyone looking everywhere but at her . . . except for the occasional sadist, like the one at the counter. Obviously, he liked to be in pain, because the look she shot him was caustic enough to sear through iron; no doubt he caught it, even though he'd looked away.

It didn't occur to Gwen that he'd been staring at her for any other reason than that she'd been odd-looking. She wasn't insulted by it. Not at all. And after repositioning herself in order to be out of his view, she pulled a book out of her bag and began reading it.

Her memory flashed back to running into Mr. King, in spite of the concentration she was placing on the words in front of her. She pictured his big, fleshy head being squeezed between the fingers of some unseen giant, squeezed until his eyes popped and blood came out his nose . . . but for some reason, even in her imagination, she couldn't picture the stupid smile disappearing from his face, and she felt real anger bubble up inside.