Elle Rollinz
The Independent Urban Fantasy Writer


Seventeen year old girls are strange and fabulous creatures, and I used to be one of them, sitting on the cusp of that precarious stage in adolescent development in which I genuinely made my parents uncomfortable. SEV-EN-TEEN SEV-EN-TEEN SEV-EN-TEEN, three syllables that slide and skipped across the tongue when you spoke it. My Father was the most disturbed by the reality of a teenage girl because he was a boy and he knew what sort of thoughts could be conjured up in the dirty minds of his sort, age was irrelevant young or old it really didn’t matter when it came to that sexy number seventeen, they were all guilty of it from time to time, that wandering eye, that lost thought or illicit daydream. Of course in mixed company no man in his sane mind would dare admit to being a perv, but behind closed doors or driving in a car past a bus stop or simply watching a gaggle of us stroll along giggling at the mall was usually enough to get the fella’s to set the brain to flights of fantasy and eventually a good crank of the shank in the bathroom before bed.

Men and boys look at you differently when you are seventeen, why, I can’t really say for sure because I am not a boy or a man. There is however something quite definitive about seventeen. Seventeen is evolutionary perfection physically; the changes which took place in my own body over the course of one summer made me cocoon and blossom into


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