Short black hair and tired grey-blue eyes are all I can remember of him now. Inhale deep, exhale and ritually place the paper over the flame, cleansing me of his torment. I want to be free, to begin anew. Where to begin? When will it all end?

The flame catches the torn edge, shrivelturns releasing the pains in my chest from real to memories later locked away. So many memories tied to him. The ring, the love, moving away from it all to escape. Always a new beginning, never a happy ending. Relationships never end well, some do; but were they really a relationship to begin with?

Fake. Probably not.

Yellow and red consume the paper, the beginning of the end. Anger and confusion, are all that’s left of three years devotion. Time to recast the wheel of fate and see where it leads me, I think. The paper slowly shrivels into a fetal position like a baby sleeping. Black charred scars are all that’s left of the feelings awaiting to be replaced by someone, something new, exciting– always better.

But will there be another? Do you really want to go through this again? Perhaps it’s better to end it here. Spill the seeds of life and snuff the flame. Darkness is the only escape from the madness living provides.

It all begins in another time, another place. He needed me just as much as I him. It started during the season of growth and knowledge. In the distance the schoolbell rings, and the ants race in. Classrooms fill the mind with trivial musings. Life provides the real learning: harsh, cold and painful experience. I in a degree of the senses, he in a program of the logical. Opposites attract they say, and like moths to the same flame were we.

Flames dance across the mirror, reflecting the daemon destroying the dreams of the heart. Cast in shadows, my chestnut hair hangs in my face. Dark skin darkens further beneath the brown depths of my eyes. Razorblade slashes the wrists, marks of a true artist, metalglint from the light reflecting the pain within. I tear another page from the journal as a melancholy satisfaction flows over me.

Melpomene is the artist’s mark, tragedy tortured torment. Blood and script the tools of my creation. And from out of this marriage what comes? Only the thought of When will I ever be whole? Fuck living the two lives of a madman. I want to be one, to have the normal life of others. But even that is stretching it too far, I suppose.

The flame dances in the dark of the room, mimicking the motions of a person insanity lost. Mimicking me. Depression and mania are the fuel that feeds my life. Extremities are my playground. From which life has sealed my fate. To take them away from me would water the flame that builds inside this stone cold heart. Shatter the desire, and spew me into a thousand tiny fragments of a puzzle.

This will be the end. I repeat this over and over like a mantra, half expecting to see it true. The smell of burning paper hangs thick, adding incense to ritual. But, I’m human and we lie. I know that one day I will rebound. Pick up the scattered pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and find someone new to provide the motif. The next masterpiece in creation.

Silently I breathe the flame out and look outside. A new beginning unfolds out as the clear black sky above, turns to grey.

I will not cry anymore. The rain, it cries enough.

My kit is a backpack filled with things I consider useful. Pens and blank books for authoring stories and making notes; books for inspiration and reading; my tarot deck for that surprise read or two; and my portable music player. I drag all this stuff into my bag every time I set out for my hikes. Today, with spring emerging from the snow, I added my camera in the bag. I was hoping to get a few good shots of the city.

My mind wanders, my brain processing the sights, smells and sounds of the street. People hurried to and from the sidewalk to stores. Some were seated in chairs and tables, chatting, reading or drinking tea and coffee. A few seated patrons hold chain or leather leashes in their hands. Fuzzy canine companions laying patiently at their masters’ feets waiting for them to finish their rest and continue leading them on their walk.

Laughter cries out from behind me. I turn my head, smiling as I watch the two women hug in welcoming embraces. My eyes continue watching the women, hoping to capture some details of their happiness so I can paint the scene later. Since I dare not appear so foward, I continue walking the other way; not paying attention to where I’m going or what or who may be in front of me. What happens next startles me, although I know better that it shouldn’t. I run smack dab into this woman.

A faint “Oof” escapes my lips. The tranquil world around me collapses in a single jolt.

She wears a long, red, button-down shirt and black jeans. Her blonde hair frizzes in curls. A small bag is clutched tightly in her hands. The bag is nothing special, mostly black, prolly just her purse.

She smiles, takes no real notice of me as I recenter myself and my kit on my back. Instead, she extends the bag forward. I blink.

“Here you go,” she says dropping the bag into my hands.

My mouth opens, poised to explain to the woman that I am not a theif and that I didn’t want her bag. She skips off, humming. I close my mouth and watch her skip away. I blink in disbelief, my mind not knowing what to do next. The musty smells of the bag waif into my nose. It’s like a combination of years of smoke and perfume have melded into the fabric. While the bag itself is not heavy, I can tell something does appear to be inside.

I spin around in place, hoping to catch the girl. But she’s long gone. The street behind me appears the same, empty with no trace of her. Even the two giggling women are gone, having disappeared into a store. I quickly begin walking to get out off the sidewalk and onto a bench. Plopping down, I set the bag next to me. My mind wanders again. Attempting to make sense of what just happened to me. Questions quickfire through my mind. What am I going to do with this bag? What is inside it? Why me? Is she going to want it back? Do I dare open it?

It’s the last question that stops my racing mind. She said it was for me. But what if I’m not supposed to open the bag. I want to open the bag, and see what’s inside. Curiosity grips me badly. But fear of what may be inside keeps me from doing it in public. Cancelling my hike, I vow to go home and open it there. I drag the kit off my back, open it and quickly shove this gift inside. My eyes drift back to the street, hoping that no one is watching.

My heart races and while the small sting of disappointment hits my heart, I’m more ready to get home and open the bag. I briskly walk back to my place. Despite how fast my legs carry me, this time I make sure I don’t run into anyone else on my way home. The apartment building comes into sight and I rush into the door, throwing it open with a resounding WOOSH, run up the stairs and fumble to get the door unlocked. Safely inside, I slam the door behind me and turn the lock.

My heart still pounds. I catch my breath before moving away from the door. My apartment is small and modest. It’s more of a studio and I can easily cross from my bed to the small kitchen, which consists of a single stove, small refridgerator and a small counter with a sink. I set my kit on the bed and take one more long, deep breath. I sit down and pull the kit towards me as my fingers open it. Carefully, I pull the bag out. I gently place the bag into my lap and stare at it. Again the struggle between opening it and turning it to the cops battles inside my head. This is a hard decision to make. Curiosity wins over rationality as it normally does for me and I open the bag.

A deep ripping sound comes from the bag as I accidently tear and expose the black silk lining. The inside lining of the bag appears a deeper color than the light black, smooth velvet exterior. I shove my hand inside the bag and draw out the only contents. A box. The box is small. No bigger than a match box. Red ribbons done in bows wrap the box. A small card dangles from the ribbons, attached to them by a red tread. Hand written letters, carefully drawn in old english calligraphy reads, “For You.” I giggle and smile at the gift.

My inner child gets the best of me and I carefully shake the box. The box clanks as the objects inside hit the walls. Something IS inside the box. And while a small part of me is relieved that there is more to this surprise than meets the eye; I was hoping that it could have been a prank. Again, I debate whether or not to leave the box wrapped. Part of me wants to stop right here and keep the object as is. The other half wants to see what is inside. I savior the image of the box awhile longer and then begin the slow process of opening the box to see what lays inside.

First, I untie the bow. Then I remove the ribbon completely from the box. The shiny fabric slides right off the packaging in one sweep. The card, with it’s note, stays on the ribbon. As I have always done with 23 years of previous gifts, I set the ribbon aside. Since there is no wrapping paper to rip into, the process of opening the box is shortened. Turning the box around in my hands I look for the latch to open the box. There is none. Instead there is a small crevase in the lid of the box. I close my eyes as my thumbs push back on the box’s top. The lid slides off easily.

Two seconds pass before I reopen my eyes. Chuckling, I dismiss the notions of exploding boxes from my mind. Obviously, there weren’t any inside THIS box.

My gaze drops to the opened box. Two small items are nestled inside. One is a small crystal heart. It’s smooth surface glints in the sunlight streaming in from the window. The other is a piece of paper folded in half. Not wanting to disturb the stone, I carefully extract the paper. Two pictographs are brushed onto it. I recognize them as Japanese kanji. A translation in English reads below it:

Be Here Now

Another smile creaps across my face. Peace fills my body as I reflect upon the gift, the words and the stone… and their gentle reminder to always remain
in the present.

Kelli, a girl with blonde hair. Last night I caught you and her dancing. Man, did you have me fooled, telling me you were studying. Next you’ll be telling me she never meant a thing to you ñ you only love me.

“Oh baby, I’ll never leave you” is that what you’ll say? Put that foot a few more inches deeper down your throat, Babe. Quit looking dumbstruck, you’ve done this before. Rumors have a way of spilling out when it comes to little midnight snacks. Stuttering broken promises won’t make it all better; it’s a little too late for that now, don’t you think? Thought you had me fooled? Until now, I believed that you were the one. Vacate my apartment, leave now. When this is over maybe I’ll look back and laugh. Xenophobia. You’re afraid of women, you’re afraid to commit and that women will get too close and find the real you posing behind the mask.”

Zither music plays in the background, a solemn melody about lost love found shattered in the dust.

Primal smells of sweat hang thick in the air. Strobe light effects and smoke ebbflow along with the listless bodies of the dancers. Then she walks in, materializing from the smoke itself. At first, there is nothing noticeable about the newcomer. Her physical features aren’t what draw them to her. No, she looks the same as the rest of the pulsating crowd with her ankle-length black velvet dress, a popular style from the Gothic era. Her hair is long, straight and blonde. Just your average adolescent immaturity hoping the local scene provides her with fun this Friday evening. Nothing too special here except what sits upon her head. A big red velvet crumpled tophat one size too large for her head beckons them from the hypnotic rhythms of the music.

She pauses at the entryway and the big red velvet crumpled tophat slides down over her eyes. She lifts the hat up and sets it right again as her eyes adjust to the scene unfolding around her. A foot slides out from under her dress and then another and she glides into the nightclub. She smiles when the perky goth in pink stands next to her and reaches out to touch the velvet. Soon, a second goth, dressed in black from her head to her toes, stands next to the first in pink. Together, they stare at the hat, admiring it. A few minutes later, the movement becomes a parade. The big red velvet crumpled tophat draws more and more people away from the chairs and stools and the dancefloor.

The nightclubbers flock to her. They are captivated by the big red velvet crumpled tophat and its wearer and what the pair might offer them. To some, the hat becomes the center of intense desire. They want it. They try and steal it from her. One reaches out and tries to grab the hat off the girl’s head. A boy jumps over two followers in an attempt to get a better view of big red velvet crumpled tophat that draws attention. Guys acting cool and tough, their leather jackets shielding them from emotion, lean against the wall. They mutter to one another, taking bets as to who will win this girl over tonight. Others wager how long she will keep the hat.

The crowd of people gathering around her crescendo as the attempts to steal the hat increase in number. A few believe that if they wear the hat, then they too can have the same power that she has over their peers. Two boys slide up to the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat, their eyes sparkle mischievous plans. They elbow one another and laugh, daring each other to grab the hat from off her head. One whips his arm out, snakelike, and comes close to snatching the hat from the girl’s head. She sees this and her eyes cut into slivers. A simple warning, do not try that again. The boys quickly back off and vanish back into the darkness. Her face relaxes and once again a smile forms. A few more attempts at removing the hat are made. A few of them almost succeed, but the girl with the cobalt blue eyes and rose red lipstick manages to keep the hat upon her head. She seems to enjoy the attention and jovial atmosphere that it fosters and isn’t offended by her familiars’ playfulness.

“Rancid dreams, knives bleed,” pours out of the loudspeakers as a fight between two rivetheads combusts. A boy with dreadlocks and goggles shakes his head at something a boy with a tall blue mohawk says. He punches the mowhawked rivethead in the arm and leans back against the wall. His eyes follow the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat as she moves around the club. The boy with the mowhawk nurses his arm as anger festers inside. A knife appears. The air changes from lightheartedness to something darker, more primal. Perhaps this is where the night begins. A circle of onlookers forms, bloodlust in their eyes. They expect something majical to happen, something violent to kickstart their desires. But the bloodmajic never occurs. The girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat comes into view before any damage gets dealt. She steps up to the boy with the mowhawk. He growls at her, daring her to make a move. His shoulders sag as the light causes something wet to sparkle on her face. A single tear forms at the corner of her eye, an unspoken sign of broken trust. In this moment of angry confusion the two boys glance between their savior and each other, awkward, wondering where to escape. The knife disappears, concealed, and the two melt away as if nothing ever happened. The circle, broken, parts. Those who were interested in the fight now return their gaze to the big red velvet crumpled tophat, somehow knowing that it offers them something better.

The fast beat lingers throughout the hazy world this girl creates around herself. Dancing, she entices her followers like a messiah leading a chosen few to salvation. Along the way, the club’s atmosphere changes noticeably from the common angry, reckless demeanor to a more friendly and caring mode. People standing near the bar look into the mirror and see her. They turn and stare at the hat as she passes them. Those who gather around lose interest in the music, and become exhilarated by the felicity the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat kindles. Those still in the groove of the night also begin to glance around and whisper among themselves as the smoke obscures their vision of the wandering parade.

It’s obvious that this girl is alone. Not a single person emerges from the crowd to claim her, although they all desire her. She shyly smiles and giggles at the attention she draws as the tophat slips down her eyes, obscuring them and her smile from those gathered about her. Innocent and pure. All this attention is one big happy flirt to her. Her intentions seem no more devious than the big red velvet crumpled tophat that sits atop her brow. Yet, at the same time, her path seems planned, as if she is searching for someone or has a mission to fulfill tonight.

Off to one side of the nightclub an altar stands. Two figures clothed in black attire sit at a table laced with purple silk. A man sits on the left, a Victorian poet’s shirt ruffles as he languidly gestures around him. Deep black kohl burns rings around his eyes. To his right, a woman with tight fishnet stockings on her arms and legs eagerly listens to him. The chair masks the crinkle dress she wears. Her hair is done up in braids. Ten cards lay silent on the table, their wisdom locked in static pictures. A candelabra burns between them, casting dancing shadows across the familiar pattern in cards.

As the music rises and falls, so do the hands of the reader who divines answers from the pattern. “Ashes to ashes. Fallen rose to dust. Tarot cards, speak to me of trust,” the conjurer whispers into the cards. Just as he does, the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat crosses their path. The client glimpses the big red velvet crumpled tophat as it passes in front of their table. The reader, half expecting the cards to provide insight into the life of the woman across from him, sees a new vision crying out instead. His eyes widen, his face becomes even more pale, as a forlorn story unfolds from the cards.

Love is fragile. And when the last petal fell from the rose, a voice cried out from Heaven. I fell in love that day. It was you, wasn’t it? The one with the soft blonde hair and dreamy blue eyes. The one who leapt into my mind stirring crazy thoughts around? Yes, it was you. It had to be you.

But, I couldn’t.

The tarot reader’s eyes flicker back and forth, darting from the card with an image of two people chained to a devil to another depicting three dancing women. The cards, the story, nothing aligns.

Fear wouldn’t let me. Fear of rejection, stupidity. Perhaps I’ve gone too far, my mind screamed. But there was no turning back. I am condemned, my penance is life. To show others kindness so they can walk into the light. Yet the desire for you still burns within, intense and bright, even more so.

His eyes jerk from the client and then back down again.

You are the only cure to my disease. We are dangerous together. Fiery inspiration consumes me when you are near. Deviant thoughts enter my mind. I imagine what it is to kiss you, to probe your body with my tongue. Never knowing how you feel in return, but knowing that out of friendship a petal can never a full rose make.

Lucifer, my sweet. My fallen, my beloved. You called out to me, touched my heart in places I dare not know existed. One passionate kiss was all it took. I want to play a special role in your life, but know that I cannot. We are separated by a destiny that is greater than our friendship. Tonight… perhaps redemption.

The reader looks up, his eyes search the room. But she is gone. He cannot spot the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat. He reaches down into his pocket and retrieves a smooth folded up piece of currency. A shaking hand slides the currency across the table, over to the woman in the fishnet stockings. She looks at him, confused, but gladly takes the money back. She shrugs once more, as she leaves to find some other way to get the answers she seeks.

From out of the void, a voice emerges and approaches the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat. The voice shakes, fearful desire, as he carefully forms the words, “Are you having fun? Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, I’m having a good time,” she replies mechanically, “and no, I wouldn’t like a drink.” Her suitor appears crestfallen, distraught. This softens her, wakes her up. She reaches out with her hand and gently touches his cheek. She allows herself to break free from her meandering mission to dance a song or two with the starstruck admirer while onlookers watch in jealous contempt.

Swept away by the ambiance, the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat suddenly spots a faint outline huddled alone in one far corner of the room. “She’s not insane. She’s gone insane,” a voice cries out in lyric. Excusing herself from her partner, she glides her way over towards the form, leaving him with tears streaming down his face.

“Mind if I join you?” the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat asks, her voice barely audible above the fast-paced beat of the music’s drum machine.

A thin girl perches on a cold, metallic barstool. She appears as if a halo were hanging from imaginary horns upon her brow. Black raven locks veil dead eyes from the chaotic world smothering her. Plain jeans and a Skinny Puppy concert t-shirt are all she wears. Unlike the others in the club, who are drawn to the big red velvet crumpled tophat, this one is different. She’s undisturbed by the hat’s presence.

The girl adjusts on the stool, pauses, cockshuresmile, and replies noncommittally, “Sure, why not,” and bows her head back down.

“Inner darkness only provides a false sense of security.”

Taken back by the girl in the weird hat, she replies, “What did you say?”

“Look Kelai, death is not for you yet. I see the real you and you’re different than the rest of these lost souls. As much as you’d like to disbelieve, your life is yours to control. What you have inside of you carries hope to this world seeking salvation.”

The words cut cold and feel shocking to Kelai’s ear. Her skin shivers with bumps. Stunned, Kelai looks over her shoulder, afraid some’s listening in to this bizarre conversation. Her body shifts uncertainly on the stool, poised to run. “I don’t know you. How did you know my name?”

The girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat leans in closer, so her words weigh heavy with understanding. Tenderly, she places a cold hand upon Kelai’s arm and says, “That is not important. Take what precious thoughts I offer you. Your dark moments will pass in time. They will pass. To be here is to be among the living. Allow yourself to revel in the moment. Enjoy the life that has lovingly been given to you. It’s too early for you to retire, and there is so much more for you to become before you give up.”

The music in the background fades into a melody. Kelai’s brown eyes gaze upon the girl wearing the big red velvet crumpled tophat searching for traces of deception, but cannot find any. Suddenly her eyes widen, then glass over, as waves of released feelings fall forgotten onto the floor. A pang of recognition awakens Kelai as the music behind then climaxes in a fury of anger. An arm extends and the two embrace, a soft touch during a moment of chaos. The girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat lets the embrace linger for a few minutes before detaching. The girl in the Skinny Puppy concert t-shirt smiles once more and becomes lost in the grasp of the dance floor.

Feeling satisfied, the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat also returns to the dancefloor to treasure the moment for a few more hours. She relishes this opportunity to come out tonight, to this nightclub, have some laughs, flirt, and dance to the beat of the drum. Her feet move delicately, purposefully. She allows the music to carry her arms high into the air. She tosses her head back and allows the light to shine down on her perfect skin. The fog and light chase her fingers and wrists as intricate patterns spiral in and between them. She dances as if tonight were the last. Yet, as the moon sets and the climax of the night comes and goes, she leaves.

The club now returns to the way it was before her miraculous arrival. Hardly a trace of her remains as smoke once again fills the room and the faces in the crowd become as blank and untouched as they were before. The reader, disturbed by the visions the cards laid out for him on the table, slinks quickly out the door. His hands buried deep within the pockets of his pants. The deck of cards still sits on the table, in that familiar pattern, abandoned. The girl in the Skinny Puppy concert t-shirt dances late, well past closing, a few people scattered around her. They spin and laugh and enjoy life as only those who have gone to the edge and come back can.

There wasn’t anything too extraordinary about the girl in the big red velvet crumpled tophat. But things changed because of her. Nothing truly extraordinary about her. Except, maybe the pair of wings that never once disturbed the delicate balance between man and angel.

He strolled down the street. Most of the houses were one or two stories tall. It was a newer development, so most of the trees were still yearlings and not yet as high as the first story houses. Some of the houses looked the same with their uniform design and uniform colors. They were all made of wood. The monster sniffed the air. Then he turned and found what he was looking for.

It was the house next to the barking dog. It was a two-story home, stained brown with green trim. The lawn had no trees and allowed the monster to come and go without too much of a trace. Sniffing the air once more, the monster double-checked to make sure his prey was still unaware of his presence. Licking his chops, he then bent down and peered into every window of the house searching for his snack.

No one inside or outside sees the giant bending down peering into the home with a giant red eye. The first floor was empty. There was no one in the living room where the papasan chairs and soft were white, complete with matching black pillows. The kitchen, spotless and empty, was large enough to double as a dining area. In one window, the monster saw huge shelves filled with books. A fire was dying in the fireplace suggesting that someone inside was recently awake. But not now, all was quiet in the house.

The second level was just as quiet. Two girls sleeping in their bunk bed, dreaming perhaps of boys they wanted to date. The monster spots Jason Jenkins in his bed, the third window from the left. Still asleep, his body breathing rhythmically. Completely unaware of what is about to happen to him. His wife, luckily for her, is away visiting relatives.

Sizing up the roof, the monster traces its molding, looking for a weak spot. And he finds it near the room Jason sleeps in. Grabbing under the roof with his left hand he
gets a good hold onto the roof. Placing his other hand on the backside of the roof, straight across, he straddles the right side of the building. Taking a deep breath and summoning all of his strength, the monster peels back the roof like a tuna can.

This startles Jason. A green arm reaches in for him, stealing him away from his family like a child reaching in a box of corn flakes to remove the prize decoder ring. He is only given a few seconds to react. Not fully awake or comprehending the reality of his situation, a muffled meep is all that escapes his mouth.

His children awake now, find their father gone and the roof torn off the house. Miraculously they escaped unharmed.

The police arrive later, aroused by a call from a hysterical neighbor, finding the roof of the house laying in the street.

Scratching his head, the detective in charge whistles, ìNever seen anything like it in my entire life.î

Another cop nods in agreement and says, ìYep. Looks like a freak tornado ripped through and tore the roof clear off. Took it and Mr. Jenkins with it.î

A strong gust of wind comes in from the west, blowing the caps off a few of the policemenís heads. High up in the atmosphere, a satisfied monster walks away trying to figure out the way back home.

Sitting on top of the stove rests a water jug. It is made of chrome metal and isn’t used for watering flowers. It’s not a pot, so you can’t cook pasta in it. The spout at the end of its long arm has a whistle hole, so steam can escape. And it has a lid. Inside your mind a solution for your thirst brews.

First you need to make sure you have enough herbal packets. So you go over to the cabinet and remove a 6 inch long by 2 inch high box painted with natural scenes and text that says “Celestial Seasonings.” Already the aroma of flowers, fruits, and herbs wafts into your nose.

You’re mouth begins to water. Today must be your lucky day because you see one bag left in the box.

Then you reach up into the cupboard and remove your favorite mug. It is white and has a squiggly cat drawn on it. His hair is all raised up and above it the word Stress is written in italics. This mug was a high school graduation gift from your mother. Smiling, you drop the muslin bag of herbs into the mug.

Next you reach over and grab the pot, removing its lid, and place it under the sink faucet. You fill it till it’s almost full with water and replace the lid. Then you replace it back on the stove and turn the burner on high. As the pot heats up your mind begins to wander, thinking about the tasty solution and snuggling up besides the fireplace. The pot suddenly draws you back into reality with its whistling eruption. You remove the pot and turn the heat off. Then you pour the water into the mug.

The muslin bag drifts lazily on top of the water. Holding the bag by one corner you steep it so that all the aroma from the bad is transferred into the water. Five minutes later, after the mug has cooled down and the bad has steeped properly, you cautiously take the first sip. With just one sip your thirst has been quenched and you feel a little more relaxed.

Sheryl never believed in the lottery. She thought it was a waste of money. But he did it just the same, like clockwork, every Monday night.

“You know these lotteries are just a scam,”she told Jack Richardson while washing his balding gray hair. “The city of Dallas does it to make more money. No one every really wins them.”

“Well, dear, you never know when it just might happen,” Jack responded while pointing to a blue towel. Soap had gotten in his eye.

Tuesday night was the lottery drawing. The Richardsons always ate their dinner in front of the television on their television trays to see the news. During the 6:40 new break, Mary Decks appeared on their screen. She was the lottery announcer. Instantly recognizing the numbers she had called out, Jack stood up and began whooping.

“Betsy, you know what this means?” he said while looking over at his wife who was smiling and clasping her hands, “Now we can do all those things we’ve been talking about doing in the past few years.”

Jack walked into the kitchen to verify that he had the winning ticket. The lottery people only gave winners a three day grace period to prove that they held the winning numbers. Staring at the refrigerator, where he always pinned the ticket, he saw that the ticket was missing. Worried, they started searching for it Wednesday morning. Even his daughter and her family drove all the way from Carrollton to help them search for it. It was nowhere to be found.

“Dad,” his daughter said, “what about calling Sheryl? She knows this place better than any of us. Perhaps she moved it while cleaning up the house?”

Smiling, Jack replied, “Good idea,” as he rushed over to the telephone. Sheryl picked up just after the third ring.

“Hello,” she said in her sing-song voice.

“Sheryl, Jack Richardson calling.”

“Oh hiya Mr. Richardson. What can I do for you?”

“We have a problem here. Did you see Tuesday’s lottery ticket when you were here last,” he said after clearing his throat.

“Sure did,” Sheryl said. Jack relaxed a little. “I threw it away after cleaning up. Oh, I know it was the wrong thing to do, Mr. Richardson; but, I really hate seeing you waste your dollars on a pipe dream like the lottery.”

Jack couldn’t believe his ears, “You. Threw. It. Away,” was all he got out before collapsing to the floor.

His family gathered around him in disbelief. “Doesn’t she know it was the winning ticket,” his granddaughter Leslie said tears rolling down her cheeks.

Gazing at the little girl while cradling her dead father, Julie replied, “No sweetie. I guess she didn’t.’

“Hello are you still there,” echoed from the receiver.

And with her chyldish giggle she removes her masque exposing tattooed skin behind. Gives a shriek, and a wink, moving her arms in chant… the Lillend peers into your mind, to steal the seeds of dreams. While you awake, to the clock’s alarming tick, it is because of the beautiful Lillend chylde that some of your dreams slip lost between the lines of time.

Red balls of fire, creativity pure and simple, dart like smoke between my fingers. Unlike the blue translucent ball whose ebb and flow wave up and out of my fingertips. These balls keep my toes atop the oscillating stardust. Growing bigger and smaller with the passing season’s change, the green ones of chaos– with their ever changing sizes– keep my muscles from getting lax. The last of the balls that I juggle, is the whom without light, darkness would not be known. Absent of all colour, and hard as onyx, the black ball of fate strengthens my grasp on life.

Without me the darkness captured within the ball would escape and corrupt and release fates that werenít meant to happen across the universe. Each ball is precious, very special, and very, very, very fragile; even the black ball whose hardness and fragility lies still a mystery unsolved by the universe.

Another orb glows within my view. Unlike the glass balls, this one is not within my control. It’s surface is covered in brown and blue flecks while white wisps speckled with black dance in its heavens. Smooth and hard, another puzzle waiting to be unlocked. Green flecks of colour dash between whiteness and I can envision them. This is their home. Touched only by what dreams and fates my balls bring them. Back and forth, up and down, the circular dance of colour, the euphony of sight and sound, clink, clank, and chime passing the moments of creation between my hand’s bones. I have watched the slowly spinning orb below, snap out of the bang of chaos into the colourful glow it wields now.

I am not a creator, nor do I profess to be one. I’m just in charge of juggling. From sunrise to moonrise and back again I juggle my balls high above their wisps, away from prying eyes. My feet dance across the points of the stars precariously, and they twinkle like glitterdust. One false movement of fingers or a tripdance of the toes and the circular media of colour passes from my grasp to touch one of them below. And sometimes it happens.

Sometimes, the balls drop. For no one, not even I am perfect. They drop and spread change– flowing faeriedust and molecules tumble down, fate cast upon sleeping minds below, unaware of the twists they are about to slide down. Embers touch and embed themselves into dreams. And then the new moon awakens them and the process of colour, my glass balls of colour, begins a new cycle. Yet, through all this, the orb still turns, unaware of the assault its children have just witnessed within their cherry-blossom dreams.

“What type of creator is that?” I ponder as the orb silently spins away. Giggling, I suppose the answers are hidden inside.