Waves of sea water lapped at May's feet as she stood along the shore just down hill from her private ranch. The private side of Catalina offered solace in the quiet winter months as few remained where the sun could be found just a hundred miles or so to the mainland. She dug her toes deeper in the granules of sand as she gaze off into to the early evening sky. It was beautiful here. Close to perfection. A prison of paradise.

As the wind swept across the beach, she hugged her sweater closer to her body, careful to favor her right side. Roger had gone to California for business, but have left strict instructions on how things were to be managed while he was gone. Fifteen years of marriage has not made her fit to handle his stables, he had stated, looking down at her sprawled on kitchen's white marble floor. She was like wild mare that needed constant direction in order to be tamed. The black and blue bruises forming along her ribcage were to there to remind her of that fact.

The climb up the dune was bitter and sweet. There were no raised voices or hands in her presence, just the steady thunder of waves meeting the shore.

The few hands still left on the property tipped there hats as they finished their rounds. Little to no tourist action left little for them to do expect walk and run the dozen horses in the stables. Except, of course, Hera - Roger's prized black Arabian mare. She was to be handled only by him. May knew exactly how that felt.

She took a deep breath as she approached Hera's door, wincing in pain, then doing it again. It got a little easier the more she did it. Simply breathing. Bundling up enough courage, she walked to the stall and stared into the dark of her husband's other love. Hera was beautiful in breed and form, even in stillness. The deep, jet black of her mane caught the light as she whinnied and clawed at the ground. May could only stare in compassion and shame.

He holds on so tight. He'll never let me go.

The words rang in her head as her hand reached for the latch. There was something so violently wrong to be shackled when you are born to run free. May found herself walking backwards, the door to the stall coming with her. Hera did not move from her place in the midst of her surroundings. Too scared, May thought. Too frightened of what could happen next.

"Go!" May shouted, the sound vibrating through her lungs. "Go! Run!"

Hera took off out of the stables, down the sand dune, onto the beach with bits of sand and surf flying behind her. She was majestic with the muscles in her sleek body taking flight down the stretch of shore. Shouts from the ranch hands were distant in May's ears as she watched Roger's prized possession run free.

Just breathe, she thought. It hurts a little less every time.
 

The cliff stood over the golden beaches of sunny Southern California. The wind high. The surf was up. The day was perfect...unless your named was Timmy Layton.

"I have a morbid fear of heights," Timmy murmured as the instructor secured him into a harness-like contraption. "I get these irrational thoughts and feel the need to do things to myself."

His friend and current college roommate snorted. "You're irrational, I'll give you that."

"I'm hungover from last night."

"So am I, and half the people waiting in line. Next."

"That bet was rigged and you cheated just to get me on this damn cliff."

Steve nodded in agreement. "True. Yet, that doesn't stop this from happening."

Sweat poured down Timmy's face as he searched for something, anything, to get him out of going over that cliff. The probabilities of death were astronomical. "I'll give fifteen bucks and...and... a breath mint!"

"Huh." Steve pondered the sweaty cash, tossing the mint over his shoulder into a bush. "Tacos do sound nice right now," he murmured.

"Tacos! Let's go get tacos and forget this whole paragliding -"

"Are you ready Mr. Layton?" shouted the instructor over the thundering waves.

"What?"

"Good enough for me." With two hand on his back, he pushed the young man over the edge, watching as his ungraceful form float on the wind currents.

Timmy Layton made it ground safely, screaming every moment until his feet touched solid ground. Steve the Roommate got his tacos. Along with a black eye.
 

The art studio was packed to the brim with people, milling around the see the Pollock's progeny's last works before her untimely demise. Stocked to the brim with people drinking champagne from flutes and women walking in impossibly high heeled shoes. These were the people I once wanted to be a part of. These were the people I allowed inside my soul for them to shrink all of my wild ideas away. And as I watch them now, I realize I have lost so much. For they will name these horrible wrecks of paintings mine - these temporary stains on white walls, lighted just right to see the dredge in just the right light.

I fade back, watching them all like fish in an aquarium. Smiling as they bump into each other.

A tattooed hand rested itself reassuringly on my ghostly shoulder. "Will they see your true work, mija?"

"Yes, abulito. Once the hour is up, they'll show my final work."

"A masterpiece," his wispy voice say into my ear.

I smile at him, taking his hand in mine. "Yes, it is."

My former art manager rolls out a cart covered in red velvet. The crowd draws to a hush before it revealed. Mimicking the movements, I wait for the grand finale. "This was her last work - her masterpiece!"

Together we lifted the veil - the red and the invisible - to reveal the true face of humanity.

I stood back as I watched their go from awe to horror to back again. Carved from wood that my grandfather had given before his own death, I painted the of truth, of humanity. Tattooed as my abulito was tattoo. All shapes, all colors, every surface. There was no escaping.

"Well done, mija. You did me well."

I chuckle, I can't help it. "Praise from the master is very high in deed."

And so we walk off in the lightness, my arm supporting him as we walk, and I can't help but stare at the beautiful face of grandfather.
 

The arguments were always about something, and usually that something held no importance Amber except whether or not it ended in fists. As she sat at the end of the dining table, fiddling with her peas and carrots, to count another sip her father took from his bottle. Forty-seven tonight. If it didn't go over thirty, they'd all be okay. Over forty sips meant the world inside their little trailer was going to full of anxiety. Over fifty-five meant she was suppose to run out of the trailer into the backwoods, and not to come back until the screaming was over.

Forty-eight...forty-nine...fifty...

The look of her father frightened her most of the time. His face always looked full and red, the strands of his disappearing blond hair greasy at the touch, and after a day's work his face was sour as a lemon. Mama had told them - her and lil' Jack - not to make too much of a fuss or deliberately try to get on his nerves. It was best not to get him angry, or he'll think you don't care. Amber would always try her best. She hated him angry.But some times a question really needed to be asked.

Like today.

"I wish I had fairy wings."

The hush around the table grew stronger with her words. Refusing to look up at her father's face, she stared at the ant hole she made with her vegetables. "I've always wanted to fly up in the air with the birds and see what they see from way up high."

Fifty-one... fifty-three... fifty-four...

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could all do that? Have wings right on our backs and fly far away from here."

A fist slammed down on the table, making Amber jump. "You mean from me. You want to run away from me."

Their words clashed together like rocks as they tried to reassure him, but Amber knew there was nothing they could do. The red was up. He was angry. And for the first time she didn't care.

Her father yanked out her chair by two fistfuls of the back of her dress. Stocking outside, he bashed open the front and porch doors with the boot of his heel. "You want to fly away so badly, little girl. Go on then. Fly." He pulled her back with all his might before throwing her straight out the door.

For a second, as she began to fall through the air, as the breeze wrapped around her like a blanket, she felt two beautiful gossamer wings sprouted from beneath her shoulder blades. For that one moment Amber could have sworn she could fly.
 

The heat of the campfire crackled against the darkness of the forest night. The old man found himself staring across at his companion while he smoked his pipe, the anxiety of runny for the past few days finally catching up with him.

"This is beautiful, Asher." The young man held the scroll out in front of him, catching the fire's light to see all of the paintings details. "One of your best pieces to date."

Asher smiled, relief rolling off his shoulders. It had taken him weeks to come up with the right creation. Everything needed to be perfect for his mentor - every brush stroke and paint pigment. The scroll has been a culmination of his life's work.

Carefully, the young man rolled up both ends and placed it gently by his side. Asher remembered seeing him for the first time as a young boy. Throughout the decades he had grown old, graying in both hair and mind. Yet, his teacher had remained the same. A constant in a sea of war.

"They will come for us soon. Have you finished the rest of your script?"

Asher exhaled the sweet smoke from his lungs. "Yes, my teacher. Only a few lines left when the time is right. But I hesitate... I hesitate to finish this when we could try to change the minds of the people. Is there no hope?"

"The people have no need for me anymore, my friend. When the war has settled, they will find the Great Goddess to guide them. She has an abundance of compassion. It will soothe them. And if there is ever a need for me again, you know where to find me." He leaned back on the forest floor, hand tucked behind his head, and gaze up at the night sky. "Look at those stars, Asher. What a beautiful sight."

The royal guards found their resting place within the hour. The young man ran into the woods while Asher sat writing with his ink and quill. He great solace he signed his god's name into the scroll, assigning him into history as residing on the plains of a planet his crafted in shades of blue and green. A perfect view of the stars and the planet he had once watched over.

"Come, scribe." One of the royal guard's helped him from the ground by the elbow, sympathy in his voice. "You've wandered off again, Asher. The King and Queen wish you back to the libraries."

His smile was absent, his sight slightly vacant. "Need to finish my work."

"Of course, old man. Come on now."

And as the ink dried, he felt his teacher's essence pass into the scroll, waiting until the world needed him once more.
 

"I'm beginning to hate tourists."

Jorge made a small, non-committal sound at the back of his throat, spitting the thick, green contents on the ground between him and his fellow beast of burden.

"Think about it. They bring all of their stuff, heavy with things they don't up here, and have up trudge up these rocky months, only to complain about the ride."

"It could be worse, Luis. Imagine us having to actually bring them up ourselves."

Both of them turned to see their friend doing his best up a rural trail with a man over three-hundred pounds on his back. They shuck their heads as the weighed down llama brayed for help.

"You're right, it could be worse." Luis sighed as only llama's could. "We don't get enough respect for this."

Jorge spit again in agreement.
 

Two detectives from the Miami Dade Police Department sat at the long, tiled island in the kitchen, and gave her the worse news she had heard in her life. And after her husband's plane had crashed into the ocean, it was pretty hard to fathom anything topping that.

Slowly, Yolanda brushed dark curls from her eyes and did her best not to shed a tear. "There are no bodies? Nothing at all?"

The first detective cleared his throat, his dark gaze giving her the situation straight. "There's nothing but debris and some of their luggage. There were no signs of a body anywhere."

"So you're saying he's gone."

The second detective, female and around Yolanda's age, took her hands in hers in comfort. "Yes, he's gone. And all of his money is gone with it."

Yolanda did cry now, but not tears of pain. Tears of rage. That bastard had ruined everything they had worked for. Had taken away the dreams they had had for their small boys. He had been weak and greedy and had run. When she got her hands on him...

She escorted the detectives off her property, telling them she had to pick her sons up from school. Before driving off, she made them promise if they found her husband, to let him know that she'd be waiting for him. The smudged mascara and soft hiccups hopefully drowned out her malice enough.

She took her cold wrath inside and went into the master bedroom, peeling back boxes on the top shelf of their closet to reach an out-of-date Prada bag. It was ugly as sin but the memories behind it made her smile, a cruel twist of the lips. Yolanda took the disposal phone out of the bag and hit 1 on speed dial.

"Que?" A gruff voice answered on the other end. She could hear the busy sounds of the tarmac in the background.

"Remember that favor you owe me, Alejandro. I'm calling it in."

"Ah mira." He chuckled, a sound she knew well. She could picture him now next to his private jet, wearing some awful white suit, the sun shining off his bald head. He had been handsome, before he got "taste". "Why would I do that? After all, you are my ex-wife."

"Ex-wife or not, you owe me big. Remember Veracruz?" The silence made her smirk. "You do this thing for me and I'm out of your hair completely."

"What do you want done?"

"My husband abandon me and my children the day he abandoned his plane and made it look like an accident. I want you to find him for me."

"Do I even need to ask if you want him dead or alive?"

"Alive is preferable. Dead leaves me nothing to work with."

Alejandro truly laughed now. "Mi rena linda. You've always had a vicious heart. I'll have your results soon."

Yolanda hung up satisfied. And with as much decorum she could summon, she smashed the disposal phone into tiny pieces using one of her new red Manolo Blahnik all the while thinking of airplanes.
 

It was the perfect ending to an absolutely horrid week.

On a country road thirty minutes outside of Belfast, Sandra stepped outside of the rental car, feeling the humidity plaster the thin cotton of her shirt against her skin. The weight of her camera strap didn't help either. It was one of the many things she hadn't been prepared for on this trip - the unbearable heat mixed with rain showers whenever the weather had a mood swing. Glancing at the smoke funneling up from the engine, she could see where it might be coming from. Sandra has given up on this being special, and has settled on just surviving.

"Probably overheated. Or the radiator hose," Greg said as he carefully opened up the hood. Calm, controlled, her best friend took charge with absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"Ya think? Genius deduction, Watson."

"That's English literature, not Irish." He glanced up from the engine he was trying to divine, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A modern-day Merlin. "You okay?"

The mental screws of her control were popping out one by one. She was surprised she couldn't see them falling out of her ears onto the gravel road. "No, I'm not okay. It's hot as hell. The shower in my room overflowed onto the hotel floor and my bed. The adapter I bought for grand theft money back in the States doesn't work for beans here, which means my hair has been a black fuzz ball for a week now!" Her hands were flying, sending her hat flying into a green field. At the moment she could care less. "And just when I was able to finally find film to match my camera so we could take some pictures, this happens. Leaving me with SEAL boy genius out in the middle of nowhere on our last day here!"

Greg blinked at her for a moment. His impossible blue gaze unmoving as he tried to figure out if the rant was for real or just a momentary nutty. Finally, he pointed to his left. "Your hat is gone."

Sandra threw her hands up in the air, making a sound in the back of her throat between a growl and scream as she walked away. She spotted the straw hat a few feet away, just in front of an old stone wall, in what could only be a rainwater pond. She refused to chase after the hat. It deserved being stuck in the mud. Instead, feeling the frustration leave her shoulders, she walked toward the wall, breathing in the fresh, sweet air.

The stone wall was older had to be a least fifty years old, if not older. As she ran her fingertips of the smooth, cold stones, Sandra couldn't help but think of who was her before her, running their hands over same the wall to memorize each rock. Or the builders who had made a strong foundation that the wall still stood. There was so much history here.

A strong hand gently clasped her shoulder. "Beautiful, no?"

Sandra brushed her fingers over Greg's. "Absolutely. Definitely worth this trip."

Greg pulled the thick red and black strap over her head, and placed the free camera into her waiting palms. "Take a picture. Something I can keep with me when I ship out next."

Sandra took a picture of him acting goofy and one where he was mockingly serious reciting Macbeth. But when he started a conversation with the family that lived on the other side of the wall for generation, everyone shaking hands over the cobblestones, Sandra saw him look over to her with his elated little boy expression. She snapped a picture.

Pulling it up on her digital screen, she could saw it again once more -the old wall, the family, and Greg right in the middle of it - pulling at her heart. "This one is for me when you ship out," Sandra whispered to the Irish breeze, before heading off to greet Greg's new friends.
 

"Your move."

I rubbed the slick chess piece between my fingers, trying desperately not to touch the scratchy gauze surrounding my eyes and face.

It's funny how the small things become your reality. The first few moments after waking up from surgery had been nothing but pain and a deep sense of panic. There was only darkness to gaze at. Only a large abyss to ponder. Reaching up to feel my bandages had been a mistake. The panic hadn't settled. It only grew. And with it, a deep sense of desolation as the gauze became my sense of time, my sense of failure, my world.

For the duration of my recovery I was confined to a small room with no furniture except a night table, a bed, an IV, and a small broken radio. When the drugs wore off enough, I wobbled my way around the room, feeling where obstacles were, memorizing how many steps to the door. Someone came in three times-a-day to give me more drugs for the pain and deliver one of my meals. How I went about feeding myself was entirely self-discovery.

I knew I deserved the neglect.

Every time I fell asleep I would wake and reach for the gauze, wondering if it was all a dream. Each time my fingers confirmed the same thing, the same nightmare. I was told in my first and only visit with the doctor that the gauze had to stay on for three weeks. So I counted every meal and itch until I thought the time was right. I wanted... no needed to see another face and interact with something once more.

Then she came like a breeze out of hell.

The pieces of chess were shoved into my grip by force. She simply told me to play. At first, I refused. But curiosity got the better of me. I fumbled my way through the pieces, often knocking them over. She'd guide my hand through each move - hers and mine - so I could see the board. It was frustrating as hell, but it was like buoy when you're drowning. I grabbed for it with all my might.

The chess piece was still in my hand. A bishop by the feel. I was playing the board in my mind when she grabbed my hand.

"You can take them off now."

It took a minute. Then I understood. Slowly, I reached up to the thing that had kept me trapped for weeks. My personal darkness. With shaking fingers, I unwrapped the gauze, letting it fall to the floor. Still there was darkness.

"Open your eyes."

The light gets you first, blinding with its brightness. But after the grit and blurriness fades, all that's left is clarity. The first thing I saw was my chess partner. And I saw that she had my eyes.
 

"It's another summons."

I did my best not to sigh aloud. "Hopefully, there will be a purpose to this gathering besides his majesty flaunting his ever-large ego."

My best friend, Judah, made the sign against evil over his scaly green chest. "You will push your luck one day, Mila."

"By the Old Ones, I hope so." My claws were itching to get back to the pages of my new book. Was it asking so much for a little privacy before we all went off on our private duties. Maybe if I were found insubordinate, and locked away in the Fiery Caves, maybe then I could get some well-deserved quiet time. Instead, I had to listen to our leader wax on and on about how important he was, strolling about the Giant Rock of Draco as if he were the best dragon known to dragonkin.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

"These past few weeks, as you all know, the council has been searching for a mate for me," spoke our leader, King Ryuu of the Dragonkin. The obsidian of his scales reflected the moon, bathing him in an aura of white moonlight. He looked commanding, fierce, and dare it say it, kind of good looking. That didn't mean he still wasn't a jerk of the first order.

"The members of the council had observed all eligible females of our clan, and have handed me the name of the one they feel will best serve me and our kind."

"I bet it says something like a "broom" or "rock". Those are the only two who could put up with his vanity," I whispered to Judah. He does his best not to laugh, coughing into his fist.

"The female they have chosen as mate is - Mila Bronzewing."

There was a loud pause of silence, followed by a large roaring of applause. I felt some pat me on the shower or try to shake one of my wings, but all I could do was stand there with my jaw on the floor. A deep fire was building inside. Seriously. Of all the boneheaded moves to play, how could the possibly think -

"- that I could mate with someone who was in love with his own reflection!"

The cheering stopped suddenly, leaving only a deafen. Dear Old Ones! Had I said that out loud? Really?

The sea of dragons turned to the large dragon covered in obsidian scale as he drew himself up to his full stature. With the little grace I had left, I lifted my jaw off the ground and tried to look contrite. I stared into his black eyes of endless abyss, feeling how one might feel when falling down a well. It was official. I was dead - deep fried and crispy - by this time tomorrow. If only I hadn't opened my big mouth.

If I hadn't been watching, if I hadn't been staring deep into his gaze for those long moments while I was contemplating my doom, I might had missed his wink, bringing me my first spark of hope that this might not be so bad.
 

Today was not going well.

The brightness of the afternoon sun could be a truly annoying when it was shining directly in your eyes Katy found kneeling in the midst of some forgotten forest. Unfortunately, there was little she could do to correct this situation given her current state of entanglement. Being held hostage truly put a crimp in one's day.

Katy flinched as pieces of old tree trunks and gravel bit into her knees, bringing a deep ache to her joints. The tightness of the ropes binding her wrists burned as they scraped against her skin, leaving the raw. She wished her captors would get on with whatever they had in mind - a ransom to her father, knowledge of the magical arts, instruction on folding fans - so she could get out this very uncomfortable position.

As if they had read her mind, a portly man dressed in an outfit made of bright red velvet and pearly white stockings stretched out of his carriage and swaggered over to her place of imprisonment. The sneer on his face made her inwardly roll her eyes. However, the distant sound of twittering in the trees above saved her from an act of insubordination...barely.

"I see you are doing well give the current circumstances," her captor stated, pulling an apple and small paring knife out hid pocket.

A flash of brown fur scurrying across the branches of the trees in her line of sight brought a sudden feeling of hope. "I'm coping after a fashion."

"You see, my dear, I've done this for your own good. Your father's magical school is bringing about a revolution of thought that is making of servant class think about their freedom. This can of thinking, especially given your tender age, could lead to some very unfortunate consequences."

The twittering was getting louder, closer. Katy squirmed on her knees hoping to distract her captor's attention. "So, in your way of thinking, keeping me tied up in the middle of the forest is much better for my mental stability than father's house?" She couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice. "Explain this to me."

Katy soon found that those were the last words she should have spoken. Her captor gladly went on and on about this feelings of proper etiqueete, society at large, and the state of which magic was corrupting the people from their sense of hierarchy. Having spent several days without sleep, she found herself dosing at the words. Had her hero squirrel not been gnawing through her rope restraints, she ran the risk of falling asleep right there.

"...and that it why I took you. This will be a shining example as to why magic should not be taught in schoosl and to the servant class. Imagine if the magic was given out freely - to slaves, to animals even."

As the last of the rope from her wrists feel away, she felt the small claws of the squirrel climb up her back and perch on her shoulder. The soft of the small animals fur made her sigh in relief. Slowly, she got to her feet, much to her captor's shock. The squirrel, using the moment to his advantage, sprinted the small distance to the captor's hands and snatching the remaining apple from his grasp.

The velvet man stuttered. "Wha-what is the meaning of this? Guards!"

"I am sympathetic to your position," spoke the squirrel from Katy's shoulder, munching on the apple slice, a fitting reward. "Animals with magic. What would the world be coming to?"
 

The thundering sound of hooves that came storming through the track to the back cattle, leading up the path to the ranch, brought Ginny's attention away from her mending to the window above the dining table. Her two younger brothers, Billy and Jack, rushed outside to see who this mysterious stranger was, ignoring her warning for them to stay inside. The hellions, the pair of them, always seem to give her grief. She sighed. No matter the grief they gave her, she still loved them.

As the sound grew closer, the more anxious she became, sending her sewing needle into the fatty pad of her thumb. As the red bloomed on the bruised finger's surface, Ginny ripped on a long strip from one of her mother's old rags and wrapped it tightly around her finger. It didn't make the pain go away much, or bring to her the identity of the mysterious rider. But if she heard the chatter coming outside her window correctly, there was only one person who could bring the squeals and innocent, joyous laughter out of her brothers... Pa.

+++

A giant of a man with a blond, slightly mangy beard and eyes the deepest shade of green outside a forest sat at the head of the long family table, speaking telling tall-tales about some of his wayward bounties. Everyone seemed to laugh, and so did Ginny, but she kept it to the slight widening of her smile. She couldn't help; she couldn't take her gaze from the revolver sitting atop her father's raggedy coat. Was he going back? How long is his stay this time? Will we ever be able to see him again?

"Cat got your tongue?"

The joke made her vision turn to face him. Light humor shone in the depths of his eyes, but when he saw her face, the smile fell from his lips.

"Will you be needing that revolver again soon, Pa?"

The whole table went quiet. First, for her boldness in asking the question. Then, they too wanted to know the answer.

Ginny watched her Pa sigh and run a rough hand over his face. Looking in her direction once more he tried to smile. "I'll be needing the gun, Ginny. Every house should have a weapon protecting."

Ginny ran his words over and over again her head before was satisfied she got what her father was trying to say. It made her hopeful and deep-bone scared all at the same time. "Pa..." Ginny twisted the napkin in her lap all into knots - like her stomach. "Will you be leaving us soon?"

"Not for quite a long time, if I can help it."

That was all Ginny needed. She flew out of her chair, knocking it down in the process, into the strong arms of her father. She could feel him smile against the top of her head. Finally, everything was right again in the world. At least, the world of Ginny.
 

Dr. McShane could not keep his eyes away from the painting he held in his hands. It was an intricate acrylic picture of a lion at rest, taking shelter under the branches of desert trees, waiting from his next bit of prey to come along. But even as he mentally formed those words, he knew they weren't accurate enough. The bright, vivid color of fur on the lion's mane and the unique shade of brown that covers each individual branch was breathtaking. And the wondrous attention to detail blew him away. The realism of the painting brought to mind the wide-spanning desert sands in Africa. The more he gazed down upon the picture, the more he could feel the Savanna sun beating down upon his skin. He could ever swear he saw the lion look towards him.

"How old is the boy?"

The principal leaned forward from behind her stately desk and looked at him pointedly. "He's five."

Dr. McShane adjusted small screw of his wire-rimmed glass to hide his amazement. In all his years, he had never met a student at such a young age who expressed so much talent - especially since he had never left the small town of Bakersfield. The young boy's ability was extraordinary.

"Can I meet him?"

The principal softly chuckled, ringing her thumbs in concern. "Peter been awaiting your visit. Let me take you to him."

The click of the principal's high heel down the hall began to tango on the ends of McShane's nerves. He didn't know what to expect when he finally saw the boy and that made him uneasy for the first time since the start of his career.

They stepped into a near empty art room with the exception of a little boy with dark, tasseled hair paintings at a selected easel in a circle of many. The principal went over to the boy first while Dr. McShane watched from the doorway. Although he couldn't hear their low voice, McShane got the impression that the boy wasn't unhappy to be looked over by a doctor. Hopefully, that went in his favor.

Dr. McShane walked over to Peter's painting with a tiny feeling of dread building up in his chest. Peter rose at his arrival and held out his hand.
"Dr. McShane, it nice to finally me you." The smile on Peter's young face was infectious. McShane couldn't help but smile in turn. "I've been waiting for you for some time now."

"Oh," Dr. McShane replied. "How long have you been waiting, Peter?"

"Almost two years. It gave me time to finish your painting, doctor."

Slyly, Peter handed over another small painting to McShane to see if he approved of the subject.

The doctor nearly dropped the painting when he saw what it was - photograph-quality portrait of his face.
 

A shout of glee echoed through the sparse woods, searching way beyond the blue of the fading afternoon sky. I laid back on the top of the hood of an old pick-up, sandwiched between two of the three people who knew me best in the world. The third was running across the tree tops, shouting at the top of her lungs, showing everyone just how gravity worked in her world.

"You'd think she'd get tired of doing that after a while."

I rolled my head over enough to peak at Ray with strands of blond hair covering his eyes, one brawny arm crossed over his chest while the other was tucked beneath him. He stared at Sylvie in wonder, that spark of bemused fascination still making him smile after years of friendship.

"What can you say." I looked back up at and watched her moon walk to her own silent beat. "She's easily amused. Must be the lack of oxygen."

"I heard that!"

A deep chuckle came from my right as long, calloused fingers curled around the fist I hadn't known I was making. There was a deep sense of calm that rolled over my skin like a spring breeze. For once, I didn't resist him, letting it sink into my body, taking a deep breath. Luc twined his fingers with mine, brushing his thumb back and forth over my wrist.

"Its not a bad thing, what's happened," Luc said quietly. I flinched at the word but didn't pull away. "We all knew this was going to happen at some point."

Ray elbowed me softly in the side. I sat abruptly up on my forearms to glare down at his infuriating smile. "We're going to be fine, Skully. These next few years will fly by. Nothing going to change."

I turned my sights back to the sky, watching the bottoms of Sylvie's shoes dance above us, pointedly ignoring the white sheets scattered at our feet. They were happy, I thought in sad surprise. They really think nothing going to change.

Through years of coming out to these woods, this circle of our trees, we hid who really were except from each other. Luc was right. It had always been a matter of time. Something was bound to drag us all apart. I just never imagined it would be this benign. It was suppose to be men in pretty white coats with testing needles and iron cages. Not colleges stretching to each coast of the country, separating us for thousands of miles.

The air around us grew tense, making it too hard to breathe. I felt Luc tighten his grip, silently telling me to let it all go. I shook off his hold and took to the sky, tree branches scratching at my arms and face. But I didn't care. I needed the open sky and fresh air. I needed something familar.

Grabbing Sylvie's ankle, I yanked her down with a laugh bubbling in my throat. The expression on her face was comical as I soared by. By the feel of the current she was far behind, planning her exact her revenge in our old game of tag. No matter what was coming, some things never changed.
 

A small toddler sat in the lap of his shivering sister to escape the cold blowing from outside. With gentle fingers, she placed the faded azure wrap closer to his body to keep him warm through the next dark hours. It would be long night, being trapped in craggy cave, but it was one that many have been waiting for centuries to witness.

The little girl's brother pulled anxiously on her shirt sleeve. She took her eyes away from the Azure Palace in the distance, and looked down into his baby blue eyes. "What is it, Little One?"

He shivered a bit as a gush of air blew past his face. "Why are we here, Sister? What have they brought us here?"

The little girl used her sleeve to wipe away some of the snot that had frozen on his upper lip. "We're here to see the birth of your future. We're here to see the moment you become king."

The toddler looked out into the scenery, his grey eyes fixated on the Palace, glowing in the night sky with bright blue tiles that line every floor and outside-wall. It was one of the most beautiful things he had seen in his life; and, from the the celebration he could see, raised laughter lifting itself to the air where it could dance among the other voices of joy and delight and freedom. Such a display brought a wide grin to his face.

He turned to his sister to see if she saw what he had - lights and music and joy - when he caught her expression as she talked their protectors. The Cave Men did not look happy. Anger better suited their long, hairy faces.

"The time to go is now!"

"Not," his sister demanded. "Until the absolute end."

"The end is now, Princess."

A large boom through the air, sending everyone in both the cave and the palace into screams. The toddler pulled from the clutch of his sister and went to the cave opening to see what had happened. Large block of stone and support down beneath the Palace. Blue tiles tumbled from the perch, leaving on specks of brilliant blue in the wake of the rumble. Everything had toppled over onto itself, smashing everything in it's path.

The horror of the destruction made the toddler weep in sympathy for all the people lost. "Can we do nothing?" He whispered to his sister.

She lifted a calming hand and placed it on his shoulder. "No, Arthur. There is nothing you can do. The ruins that now stand before are the last remnants of your father's tyrannical reign." She knelt down so they could be eye-to-eye. "Now is the time for you to built your own kingdom and be a king the people will grow to love."

Arthur buried his face in his sister's neck, the long, dark curls of her hair hiding his face. "I'm scared, Morgana. Will you stay with me? Will you help me build this kingdom?"

"Of course." She cuddled him close, a small smile playing of her lips. "When have I even been anything but true?"

 

Imogen leaned closer to the computer monitor, watching as the family of baboons fiddling with the laptop she had left in their habitat earlier that morning. The laptop was an experiment to see how well their cognitive function was progressing. She had high hopes for their advancement although her adviser, and harshest critic, Roberta seemed to think that higher learning for any types of primate was inconceivable.

She couldn't wait to prove him wrong.

Blowing a burst of air under her bangs to get them out of her line of sight, she noticed the primary male, an elder baboon who went by the name of Horatio, was examining the laptop like a soldier would a bomb. Lifting it left to right, pressing the keys with slightly large fingers, he didn't seem to impressed with the technology. Still, he kept the old relic in grasp.

Soon the younger baboons, many who were his offspring, crept closer to his work. They watched in fascination, making loud noises and pointing at the foreign object with excitement. Imogen was ecstatic. Her fingers flew across the keyboard in sheer glee. Her notes were always extensive, but this would going to be a full fledged report. Roberta could eat her heart out!

Inside the habitat Horatio peered down at the laptop in his hands with a keen eye. There was something amiss about this object. Things were just not right with the schematics.

"Father," called his older son. There children knew not to get in his way while he worked. "Is that the new HP Pavilion with holograms graphics. I've heard such wonderful things about the new system."

Horatio shook his head, scratching the patch of snow white hair atop his head in frustration. "No, my son. This a relic even the gorillas in the habitat next door wouldn't use."

His mate, a smaller-sized female named Maria, walked over to his side, her presence calming his sudden urge to scream. He hated getting upset in front the little ones. Anger was so uncivilized.

"Do you think they suspect?" Maria asked.

Again Horatio shook his head. "No. I'm afraid those individuals still underestimate our intelligence. The hidden cameras alone are insulting." He tossed the laptop aside knowing the piece of scrap would be useless for his Pentium III processor. "Humans..."
 

Sharp clacks of extensive loafers announced the arrival of the ballet choreographer. Dressed to the nines in a expensive three-piece suit made by an Italian designer, a finely woven scarf tied stylishly around his neck, Mr. Maxwell looked more the part of a businessman than a former prima ballerina. He slammed his polished cane down three times on the wood flooring to get the attention of his prime dancers, each lost in their own worlds.

The trio came to the front of the stage, their warm up clothes a mix-match of worn out leftovers from the Goodwill and remnants of lost lovers. Each had an attitude that went through the roof. It was understandable, they were some of the most talented dancers he'd ever had to the chance to teach. But underneath every smirk lied a depth of pain partical to the bearer. If they would allow him, he'd give the vehicle to exercise their demons.

Mr. Maxwell cleared his threat with a menancing expression on his face to cut the bullshit in the wings of the stage. "This is not the first time we've practiced this piece people, but not that our openning night is tomorrow, this will be one of your last."

His prime trio didn't flinch, but the leading lady Tali, seemed to go pale under her naturally glowing skin. Fear, he surmised. They'd have to break that soon.

"The ballet up until this point has been about Andre and Oliver's characters and the contrast between them. Now its Tali's character's time to shine. She be hiding in the shadows, but in this scene she will burst from her coccoon and fly!" He clapped his hands twice, ending the conversation. "Start from the top."

Mr. Maxwell to a seat in the front row, watching as Andre and Oliver clashed on stage, showing dominance as to who was the better man. He couldn't help but make his mind wander to his talk with Tali earlier. Trust was an issue for any dancer, but since that unfortunate night a few months back she hadn't been the same as a person or a dancer. The scars had only made it worse.

The music overhead hit a crescendo, marking the scene for Tali's entrance. She entered as if she was a different woman. The scars lacing her skin and face seemed to disappear as she took center stage. Andre grabbed her around the waist and she didn't struggle but flowed into the movement with grace. Suddenly, Oliver jerked Tali from Andre hold, lifting her high into the air by her waist and tossed her into the air.

For a moment everything was silent as Tali soared, without cords, without fear. She was more beautiful than if a newly-emering butterfly had flown out itself. Tali, for a moment, had been gifted wings.

Andre caught her on cue, ending the scene in a flourish. Mr Maxwell heard applause for the three only to realize he was standing, and it was coming from his own hands.
 

The building stood in pieces of its former self at the edge of a town of little consequence to anyone not born within its borders. It was the dusty remnant of an age lost to the shiny factories twenty miles east of the city. Stories surrounded its broken depths, tales of caution and intrigue. Few of the townspeople stepped inside to see what once was. But in their hearts they were silently proud of the building that had once put them on the map.

That frosty Saturday morning however things had changed. The eyes of the folks, elderly and young, expatriate and newcomer, view the cracked brick and mortar with gleams of rage. Of shattered faith.

Children, everyone knew, were curious by nature. It was to be expected that one day someone would wander within the past. That urge quickly turned on the unfortunate trio who wanted to quench the thirst for knowledge. The ground they walked was too unstable, the ledges they climbed too tired to hold their collected weight. Like the walls that once held firm to their foundation, the teenagers so full of life fell to their untimely ends.

It was the morning aftermath that had the people gather in silence to understand how their pride could so quickly turn. The anger within them built like a wave waiting to crash upon the shore. The first stone flew from the arm of the mayor too caught up in his loss to hold his position in high regard. Next was the little sister, the cousin, and the grandfather. Soon bits of rock sailed through the bitter air, bombing the trap that had fooled them all with its calm facade.

The wall took every ounce of hurt the town wished to hurl its way. Once it had served the people with prosperity, work, and respect. Now it was time had come to return to its bare roots, sent down by the ones that had raised it toward the heavens.
 

There is a type of friendship that goes beyond borders, beyond words. I can't say that my life was ever easy or that there weren't a few hardships growing up, but having a friend like Rodney made things a little easier. I never had to explain myself to him. I never had to be something I wasn't or pretend we weren't hanging out together. He always stuck by me. He was more than a best friend - he was family.

I met Rodney when I was six years old. My days up until that point had been hidden in the shadows, escaping ridicule from those around me. It was on the bright, sunny day however that knew things would change. When we saw each other for the first time, Rodney had the biggest smile on his face. There were no sneers, no words of censure. Just the best greeting anyone could ever have.

I wasn't the only who felt that way, either. While some people didn't like having Rodney around, others would go out of their way to greet him. He lit up the room when he walked into it, spreading happiness and smiles to even strangers. And he never asked for anything in return. There wasn't a selfish bone in Rodney's body.

Things aren't the same without Rodney around. We were the best of pals for as long as I can remember. Towards the end I can remember him being weaker than usual. It was harder for him to do things or go outside like we did everyday for years. But, even until the end, Rodney smiled like the sun.

After his death, the Rodney's family decided to keep me in the house instead of giving to their nextdoor neighbors. I'm glad. I'd miss not being in the place where I met Rodney for the first time. They tell me he looking down and watching over me from a better place. I hope where ever my pal is, he's smiling.
 

The sounds of taunts and jeers filled the large tiger's ears as he walked along the treeline. As time had slowly unfolded through his aging years more and more people had come to disturb his solitude. He had come to live as a singular creature, hunted at leisure and leaving conversation to the other lovely animals that shared his humid jungle.

But today he found his attention easily drawn to the ways of man. They hunted his game, sometimes even him, and stole his resources for their own profits. Had he not done the same once, a small voice would ask. Usually he would shake that thought away. Today, however, was different. Today the voice won their battle of wills.

Slowly he crept along the shadows, peering through the broad green leaves of the native flora. Four rather sour smelling men stood in stood terrorizing a small girl child, circling her as if she were a wild boar or tiny fox. A nagging feeling formed at the back of his mind. You must help her, cried the voice from within. Redeem yourself and save the child!.

Be silence! he wished to cry. But the voice would not stay quiet. Enough. He would help the weak girl, if only to get the putrid smell of man away from his nose.

"Come here, girly. You have no place to run."

The small girl with dark hair and even darker eyes kept turning in frantic circle to keep away from the men pursuing her. Although fear made her movement jerky, her reactions stiff, the tiger felt a speck of respect for the girl child. She showed courage for being so outnumbered.

The tallest of the men spit noisily in the dirt. "Enough already! Let's take her now before the sun goes down. We can sell her at the market if we make before the sun goes down."

The tiger, disgusted, used his rage to spring from the bushes, roaring at the top of his lungs. His fury scared the men off their feet, forcing them stumbling to the ground. Too scared to even fathom fighting back, they left the way they arrived, running as fast as their foul-smelling bodies would carry them.

The tiger watched in satisfaction as as the cowards scurried away. He turned back to the girl child to find her back pressed against the tree, her black eyes widened in fear. Walk to her slowly. Show her she has nothing to fear from you.

He snarled at the thought. Animals were meant to fear him. It was his skill. It was his curse. But as he watched her, he found his paws moving slowly towards her, his eyes level with hers to show he meant no harm.

Surprisingly, the girl dropped to her knees, her ragged dress brushed the dirt floor. Cautiously, she ran her fingers through his orange and ebony fur, a sensation he felt run along all his nerves.

Then the tiger did something he hadn't done since he walked as man so many centuries before. He bowed is head in gratitude.