As the cool grayness of dusk took over the outside world she smiled and opened her curtains. She stepped out onto her balcony and braced herself against the rail as she looked out over the world. In the glow of the moon, her skin shone cool and beautifully blue, but she knew if she stepped back inside under the harsh artificial light it was fish-belly white. Skin so sensitive even the soft moonbeams made it tingle, skin to be forever protected from the cruelty of the day. There on the balcony, kissed by moonlight, she thrived, a flower without sun.

Fireflies. All you had to do was place your hand directly in their path and they would land and wander around almost confusedly for a second or two before taking off again. Some kids were cruel. They would rip the softly glowing abdomens off of the bug to see how long it would glow after death. These are the same children who would use a magnifying glass to set ants on fire, and later in life, tie firecrackers to the tails of cats. Mean, mealy-mouthed creatures, we lived in the same dirty neighborhood, yet we came from two separate worlds.

He just said I was pretty! He didn't use words, but I could tell by the way he leaned in close to talk to me. By the way his hand lingered on my arm, his finger strong and warm... And the soft, almost dreamy smile that his lips formed when he playfully ruffled my hair and the slight huskiness that colored his voice when he told me I was silly. There is no doubt about it; with every sweet motion of his body, he was telling me he thought I was pretty.

And I thanked him. But not with words.

I'm sure it wasn't the first sign, they most likely ignored all those, but it was a sign they couldn't ignore. They say the day she fully flipped her lid was the day she went to the garden wearing her gardening apron with a spade in one pocket, miniature shears in the other, leather gloves on her hands and a wide brim hat on her head. This, in itself was, not unusual. It was the fact that she systematically pulled up all the flowers instead of the weeds.

And in the mangled remains of her garden, she could only laugh.

Turtle schemes. Kicks her legs. Wonders why these strange creatures are carting her off when all she wants to do is lay her eggs, drop them into the dark, dank hole she dug. Later in life, will she talk to her young, tell them the story of how Jacob, her firstborn was almost born airborne? Turtle dreams. Lays an egg. Wonders why these strange creatures returned her to her hole. Remembers the story or her older brother, captured and forced to live his life in a glass house. Scoops dirt over her eggs and wishes better things for her babies.

"You silly chit!" He said to her after reading her last entry. "Turtles are reptiles, and like most reptiles, once the eggs are laid and buried, they forget about them. Reptiles have no mothering instincts."

"No. I don't believe you." But she did. He knew more about these things than she did. "Everything needs love to survive. I don't think I like reptiles anymore."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, Alligators are the exception. They love their offspring very much." He hastened to say as storm clouds grew in her eyes.

"Now I know why I've always loved alligators."

"You're a miser." He said as she pulled on her jacket. "You're stingy and cheap."

"What? How can you say that? Didn't I treat to dinner tonight?" She was incredulous. "Haven't I offered to give you anything of mine you've ever admired?"

"All material things." He shrugged. "You're greedy with your time. Why do you hoard it so?"

"No one else complains..."

"They like the material. They only want the surface." He cocked his head. "I want deeper."

"Um... I gotta go... maybe next time... see you!" She fled, the truth of his words chasing her like hounds a rabbit.

Arsenic actuality. She's poison, but he doesn't know it yet. She'll slowly creep into his life and he'll grow weaker and weaker until she takes over his whole system. She'll press her lips against his then move away, leaving behind the taste of bitter almonds. She'll trail her hands down lower and he'll beg and cry for more. But even as the merest thought of her rages through his body like a fever, she'll laugh and walk away. And then he's hopeless, for this is where the twist comes in. She is the poison, but she is also the cure.

"Do you think about me when you're fucking her?" He words startled him. So much for hello, how are you, he thought as he wrestled with the receiver.

"No… yes… it's wrong, but yes, I do." He whispered back, his guilt making him wince.

"Don't you wish it was me you were fucking?"

"I love my wife… but yes… I do." He said in his normal voice. There was a moment's silence.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry… I dialed the wrong number." She hung up, leaving him wildly relieved he had confessed to a complete stranger instead of her.

Dream-catcher. Thief of dreams. You came and took what was not yours to take. And I want them back. But they were only nightmares, you say in your silky, cunning way, sending shivers down my spine. But they were my nightmares; you had no right to them. The nightmares were my memories and now you've stolen them away. You don't need those memories, all you need is me, you whisper deceptively into my ear, making my head spin with all the impossibilities you present. I try, but I can't resist. And so my Dream-snatcher, this dream is yours to take.

From up in the bleachers, the Luminaries were pretty, the soft glow of the candles breaking up the darkness of the night. Up close, they were heartbreaking. The ones lit in memory still far outweigh the ones lit in honor. Yours I lit in honor. You did survive melanoma. You suspect there's more but won't get it checked out. And you're a smoker; you have been for over forty years. Statistics say it's going to get you sooner or later. Maybe not next year, or the year after that, but how long before I light one in memory of you?

"You make my blue skies bluer." She said. "Oh, yuck... phooey... damn I hate this mushy stuff."

"Well, then, why are you trying to come up with something mushy to say?" I looked at her from my position on the floor, stretched out, ankles crossed, headphones halfway on.

"Well, I want him to know how much I love him. And I can only think of mushy clichés." She sighed as she flopped herself down on the beanbag chair.

"Then tell him that." I slipped the headphones back over my ears.

"You make me think in clichés. Yeah... that will work."

Last night was not a good night for sleep. All night long I dreamt about an apocalyptic future where the fate of mankind came down to one band of survivors, decent people trying to make it in a plague blighted world but up against another group of survivors who had raised armies of the dead to wipe out the rest of mankind. I spent the whole dream hiding under a blanket while the final battle raged on around me, trying with all my might to look like nothing but a rumbled blanket. And it worked… until the cat found me.

"Okay, now close your eyes, and don't open them until I tell you to." He waited for her to close her eyes and then took her hand and pulled her forward. She stumbled, biting her lip and tightening her grip on his hand, but she didn't open her eyes. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he guided her past him into the room. "There, now tell me what you think."

"Wow! I've never seen anything like it! It's beautiful..." She stared in amazement and wonder.

"I know." He said, staring at her and thinking the same thing.

He's an Angel. I think as I run my hand down his back, lightly touching the stubs where his wings used to be. He pulls back a little to look at me, his eyes reflecting more light than normal eyes should. He smiles his strange little smile as he stares at me, his head cocked as though he can almost hear what I am thinking. And I'm thinking not every fallen angel makes it to hell. I'm also thinking here is more intensity than I ever needed to know. At this thought, he throws his head back and laughs silently.

Here I sit, whiskey and coke in my hand (yeah, that's right, I'm a wimp, I water it down), wondering what part of my personality will come out tonight. One drink and I could be cool, calm and laidback or I could be simmering, a pot ready to boil over. Two drinks and I could reveal secrets not meant to be revealed and this is true for both cases. Three drinks and I could be the friendliest cat in the joint, rubbing up against everyone or I could wander, separating myself from the crowd., allowing no one to come close.

"Look how pretty that is." She said, looking down at the broken glass. "The sun really makes it sparkle."

"You're funny. You'll find beauty in anything." He shook his head as he looked around the tattered and torn city neighborhood.

"Growing up here, I had to." She shrugged. "Look at all the empty, bitter people… I didn't want to be like them."

"Yeah." He could tell by her forlorn expression she was thinking of her parents and their squalid existence. "Wow! That cloud looks just like a horse."

She looked up and smiled. "Hey! That one looks like a dog!"

I let him in. Now what do I do? I'm not used to letting in, only keeping out. Is it too late to change my mind and ask him to leave? So far he's remaining pretty quiet, but I can still feel the ripple his very existence is sending through my life. Maybe he doesn't know yet that I've let him in and I can pretend it never happened. But from the smile on his face, I suspect he knows full well what I have done. And he likes it. It's what he's always wanted. What do I do now?

To this day, they don't know what made her run. She was standing next to them in the yard, listening to their friendly banter, when she just took off into the woods behind the house. They looked at each other nervously, tried to carry on chitchatting, then meandered over to the copse and called her.

They found her two hours later, her long brown hair a tangled mess, dirt smeared across her face, her legs and arms covered in long red welts, and her brown eyes bright and feral. And they knew she was someone they would never know again.

"Shhh! Hold still, I don't want to hurt you." He held her by her wrist, and managed to pin her legs between his. "If you don't hold still, I'm never going to get that out."

She froze, but only for a moment. As soon as he prodded the area around where the glass had sunk onto her palm, she started to twist and pull away. Teeth bared, she hissed at him. Twenty long minutes later, the glass was out and she sat sulking in the corner, glaring at him with baleful eyes.

And he wondered why he felt like apologizing.

Today, we're lost. We've been set down in a world that is close to, but nothing like our comfortable, familiar world. It seems we move in slow motion while the rest of the people speed up around us. It's almost like we're children again and we've even lost the ability to procure food for ourselves as we wander around hungrily. So we stand there, our eyes wide and moist, hoping for someone to throw us a crumb. We were never meant to be tourists, we're too much addicted to the known. So why did we seek a brave new world?

His words are alluring… sweet without being sickening… spicy, but not so spicy that you can't taste the flavor underneath. So I respond with my own words… tart enough to make his eyes water… as warming as a shot of Barenjager, and sometimes just as sneaky… And I should know better than to play these word games. I know how just the right combination of words can leave me vulnerable… Yet, I am still the first soldier on the battlefield, plotting out my strategy with a dictionary in one hand, a thesaurus in the other. Maybe one day I'll win.

She could only stare as the jar of jam, jostled by her carelessly flung elbow crashed to the floor, spilling sticky redness to the edge of her feet. In the background, over the blare of the television, she could hear the fighting of her two oldest children. Her toddler, still in his highchair at the table, wailed. The phone started to ring and she closed her eyes, opening them quickly when she envisioned her children laid out on the floor, something sticky and red pouring from their throats. She clutched her stomach where new life grew and thought, not again.

"You certainly are a bitter brew, now aren't you?" His words made her smile.

"Ah… probably. But like the darkest coffee, or the strongest whiskey, I am irresistible to the right kind of people." She studied him, trying to figure out if he was such a person.

"Hmm… I could see that. You're better taken straight. Diluted with cream or cut with water, you wouldn't be half as interesting. Oh, I think I could acquire a taste for you." His grin was wicked.

"Then maybe I'll let you taste me. But I warn you, I'm more potent than you think"

He shot himself in the head the day before his fifty-sixth birthday while sitting in an underground parking lot at the mall. Before he did it, he covered the cream-colored leather upholstery in clear plastic. After the investigation, when the cause of death was ruled as suicide, the police returned the Lexus SC 430 to his widow. She walked around the silver car, running her fingers over its sleek body. She opened the door and got behind the wheel. She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling.

"You bastard! You didn't put plastic on the ceiling!" She screamed.

She's a magnet. In two weeks she's drawn men to her like proverbial flies to sweet, golden honey, and it's fascinated her to no end. It's power, and she's thrilled to have it, but she's not sure how she'll handle it yet. Will she abuse it? Bat those long sooty lashes and smile demurely the whole time she twists their hearts around her finger? Accept it as her given right as a woman? Or will she turn the lightest, most delicate shade of pink and pull back, a shy but wise kitten, shaking her head at the folly of men?

You think deceit is tricky. But let me tell you, reality can be just as tricky. And here's where I run into a problem. I know my reality. It's something I curl up with every night, sometimes it's warm and comforting, other times hot and stifling, and other times I tremble and shiver beneath it. Well, here's where the tricky part comes in. I don't know his reality. His could be completely different, and that could lead us to trouble. I mean, his reality could be the same as mine, but what if it isn't? What if he wants more?

"Make them go away." She waved one hand lazily, keeping the other hand pressed against her forehead.

"It's not as easy as that." He smiled at her dramatics when she heaved a big sigh. "Besides, they're your friends, or at least they want to be, so why don't you visit with them?"

"I don't need anymore friends. They're too much work." They hurt too much, she thought but didn't say. "I have you and Mi'ico, isn't that enough?"

"Darling, I don't think your cat counts." He kissed her on the forehead.

"Hmmph... she's a better person than most people are!"

He's making his list. He's checking it twice. No, he's not Santa Claus, it's just vacation time again and he doesn't want to forget anything. Me? I never dealt with lists. I just packed and threw anything in that came to mind. Of course, I always forgot things. But I learned to adapt. There's more than one way to brew a cup of coffee if you leave the coffee pot at home. But now I have his lists. Packing is quicker, easier, but less of an adventure.

I bet he wishes he could organize me into such neat little segments.

He looked as though he had stepped straight out of an old Southern novel. His ebony skin glistened under the hot sun and he dabbed his forehead with a dingy handkerchief. His pants were too big and held up with suspenders (which were twisted, and I resisted the urge to fix them). His blue dress shirt was stained with grease and a utility belt around his waist told me why. He spoke softly, politely, not lifting his eyes from his shoes. Something about this man reached out and touched me. Some people can only tell stories… this man lives one.