Neighborly Relations...

"I don't mean to seem rude, but that guy is really weird," Becca says to Mary as they both stare out the front window at the man walking his pet deer up the road. He glances repeatedly around with shifty, red-rimmed eyes, and stares up into the sky.

"Yeah, who exactly is he?" Mary queries, helping herself to more salsa and chips. "I mean, I've seen most of your road. I know your people. Is he a new neighbor?"

Laila comes over to the window as well. "Yeah, he just moved in across the street five days ago. And ever since, the light's always been on in his house. I've a mind to tell him to turn it off and conserve some energy." The rest of us smirk at her polite-seeming but secretly intensely passionate words. Of all of us, Laila is definitely the most in tune with the earth, and all its species, at this point. She wants to be a counselor, and her super-pseudonym has changed from "Electra" to "Lisirena," as she intends to heal wounds, not create them. She will be the balm for ills both both physical and psychological, with a combined herbal, meditative, and discussionary blend of super-therapy. She's stopped messing with the weather for fun (there were some very annoying incidents which I have chosen not to record), and is a passionate advocate of conserving energy, food, and friendship. The most important resources.

"Well,  I think he's very odd beyond what he chooses to do with his lights," continues Becca. "I mean, a pet deer? Isn't that illegal?"

"Uhhh, I think so." I reply, stretching out on the couch and trying defend myself from Amanda's sneaking up to poke me in the stomach. "But what does it matter?We haven't always followed the law ourselves. Besides. That deer is cute."

"Still, something's not right," Mary insists. "I think we'd better investigate."

"Okay," I laugh as we jump up to plan our scouting mission,"But don't just go burning the place down on the first sign of suspicion."

"Oh, for cryin' out-- it was ONE time!" she retorts. The others laugh quietly as we sneak out the back door.

While the new neighbor is engaged walking his pet deer, we lift up the garage door and creep into the house which used to be the Benders' until a very unfortunate cougar accident...
To find rows upon rows of a beautiful fan-like plant, hung in bunches from the ceiling and stacked in neat, clear boxes in shelves. "Cool, he's like a natureopathic physician or something!" I exult. "See, guys he's not that weird." Mary gives me a look.

"Hannah? That's marijuana."

"Oh..."

Laila paces back and forth in the crowded space. "Great! Now we have a grower on our hands! What are we supposed to do about this? He could be growing anywhere, on anyone's property. If we call him in, WE could get arrested! Granny could lose her home!"

"You appear to be in quite a predicament," says a deep voice from behind us. "Allow me to lighten your earthly burden." We turn around to see the guy, and his deer, both holding crossbows.

"Run!" Laila shouts, and we dash up the stairs to the second story, break out a window and fly across the field and into the forest, the man with his cache of long-range weapons in swift pursuit.

"Ya know, we reeaally need better surveillance systems," huffs Becca.  "That guy prolly saw us coming a mile away, and here we are being chased, instead of chasing him? What's wrong with this picture?"

"Right!" Amanda  says, and turns to face the small-time villain, when we realize he is nowhere to be found...
"That's kinda creepy..." Just then he jumps out from behind a fallen log. Instead of screaming, however, we ready ourselves for attack. We are, after all, professional heroes. Or will be. Eventually.

We manage to subdue the guy, then spend a few hours hiking around to find his plot. Thankfully, most of the plants were on his own property, so we won't get in any trouble...As we head back over to our house, Becca says, "We really need to get team efforts going more often. I mean, just one of us facing that guy, and we coulda been skewered...besides, you know none of us has the gumption to work alone." So we decide, once we graduate high school, we are going to move out together and get regular jobs and an apartment in Portland. "It sounds pretty cool to me," I say, and I don't yet tell them all about my own secret base in Mare Insularum on the moon, and Laila doesn't volunteer the information, so for now I will keep it to myself. Just so I have at least one place for peaceful, solitary refuge. I can still hang out with the gang on weekends. Plus, I can get really cranky, especially around people I love, when cooped up inside the same walls for a long time...

Relax...

I've been having pretty bad dreams lately. Dreams where either I or my surroundings are completely out of control. Dreams where I am so tense, or bumbling into something stupid, that my skin starts peeling off in strips or my eyes become infected with an incurable disease or my feet turn into solid gold and prevent me from flying and rising to greet the dawn...Or, where the serial killers run rampant and nobody cares, and I cannot stop them because I am normal...They look in my eyes and laugh at the futile courage, sapped by fear, that I've managed to muster, which is nothing against the oncoming threat... Can it be a sort of dream-depression? Still. I am resolved not to let it get the better of me.

Laila and Amanda certainly seem to see it in me as well, because in my next dream, we are about to embark upon a routine patrol of the nearest city when Laila turns to me and says: "You look a little worse for wear. Let's take a break and do something fun."

"Fun?!?" I cry out in defiance. "There are people out there who need our help, and you talk of fun? We can't take a break from saving lives! We're superheroes, for whales' sake! We keep on fighting the good fight until we're DEAD!" I think the use of the antiquated exclamation clinches their theories about me, because the next moment we find ourselves on a secluded stretch of beach near Laila's college, soaking up rays and chilled Martinelli's apple cider...

 "Guys!" I insist, scrambling off of my towel. "Seriously, I'm fine! We need to get back to work, there are nefarious plots to be foiled!" They ignore me and keep reading their books.

I try a different tack and start slowly sneaking away, but Amanda, out of the corner of her eye, catches me, and with the lift of a finger raises a force field in the sand. "Nah-ah, Art. Just sit down and enjoy the sun. We're not going anywhere until you've calmed down a little. We know you haven't been sleeping well. You have the eyes of a rabid dog." I slump back down in defeat. Her force fields have always been stronger than mine. There's no way I'm breaking through.

"At least let me listen to the police scanner," I whine. Laila takes it out of the picnic basket and hands it to me, and like a spoiled and grumpy child, I curl up with it in a small ditch of sand, my back to my friends, to sulk over what I am missing.

Just then, a shadow falls over our beach. Something huge is rising from the water.

"Yes!" I exult, jumping to my feet and preparing to meet the monster. "Finally!"

"Pack your stuff," says Laila, grabbing her basket, shoes, and umbrella."We're leaving."

"WHAT?!" I cry in shock. "But that thing is coming towards the houses! We have to stop it before it destroys them! It is our sworn duty to protect the people!" I break out of the field with a muster of energy and rush toward the oncoming behemoth, leaping into the air, preparing to deal a glancing blow on its strange and unseemly head. Just as I am landing, I notice something strange. The monster appears to be...sliding apart...

The monster is not a monster after all. It is a whale. As the collected algae and coral and assorted sea life slides off its back, I can see the normal shape of a small whale, its side pierced by the weight of a hunting spear. It is already dead. I sink to my knees in the shallow water and place my hand on its rough skin. I was ready to attack this thing, when I didn't even know what it was. I could have hurt something innocent. My mind is obviously not ready for work right now.

 Amanda comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder, and I don't have to hear her words to understand. I stand up and help her push the poor whale back out to sea, and together we gather up the rest of our belongings and go home to watch movies and relax, and build ourselves up for the fights of tomorrow. The world and its troubles will always be there, I have discovered, but you cannot always be there for it if you do not first care for yourself.

Why we fight.

"What are you doing?! Give him back to me! You can't do this. We belong to each other, I need to be with my brother to take care of him, don't you see? He's fragile. You can't take him away like this! YOU MONSTERS!!!"

The girl stands in the center of the orphanage, pulling on the coattails of one of the four men carrying away her little brother, who kicks and screams with all his might. The man at the head of the awful procession, a tall, pale fellow with a spotless white tie, says dismissively: "We don't need the girl. We only want to-- adopt-- the boy. Remove her grasp from my associate's clothing so we may be on our way. Our time is a precious commodity."

The orphanage manager stammers politely, avoiding the eyes of the men, and firmly but gently pries away the clutching fingers.

This is when Syca jumps down from the ceiling.

"In what universe does kidnapping mean the same thing as adopting?" she asks politely, hands clasped demurely behind her back on the hilt of her concealed sword. "Just release the boy, and I won't tell the police about your little definition slip."

"Who are you?" scoffs the leader. "I wasn't aware this orphanage housed common ruffians as well as children."

I jump down beside her. "We're not ruffians, and we're certainly not common. We would rather think of ourselves as Protectors. We're here to defend the weak, the young, the innocent, from being abused or manipulated. The girl says she doesn't want you to take her brother. It would be wise to listen to her. We don't like to use force. Well, actually, we do, but it's frowned upon in most centuries."

The men give an assortment of not-so-charitable laughs, and then quiet down immediately as the leader lifts a gloved finger. "I don't think that will be necessary, or effective. You have no jurisdiction over us. We have acquired this boy by the usual legal methods. He is now the ward of our company CEO. He shall be treated fitly for a boy of his-- nature-- and that is all you need to know. You have no evidence to dispute our claim. You have no power to deny us our due. Now step out of the way."

This is when Laila also comes down, on a rope rather than risking the considerable distance, since at the moment she has no sheild or flight to lessen the impact. She produces from her pack a series of photos of different children, hooked up to terrible machines of light and wires, their eyes haunted. In the background, on the wall, stares the insignia of an eye gazing boldly out of the center of the sun.

"You work for SolarFlare? The solar energy plant?" Laila questions.

"Perhaps," replies the Tie-Man stiffly, "But I don't see what this has to do with--"

"Are you aware that your machines are harvesting the energy of certain children's imaginations instead of the energy of the sun?"

"Why, that's preposterous! We would never--" I jump into the conversation.

"Save your breath. Already, pictures and videos of your crimes are being leaked to news sources around the world. What you did to these special children will be seen. It will be heard. The eyes of parents and grandparents and single mothers around the world will be watching you. They will not judge lightly your conniving abuse of these orphans, not to mention all the children that went missing from homes around the world. Your time for exploitation is over. Hand over the boy, and no one else will get hurt."

The villains decide, of course, to make a run for it. The leader slips a small device out of his pocket and, deploying it and flinging it to the ground, runs away into the ensuing chaos and smoke.

"He's headed for the back door!" Syca shouts.

I dash toward it and manage to catch sight of the fleeing coat. The man hastens to a waiting car, but I pursue it with all the muscle and brainpower I can possess this early in the morning. There is no way I am letting a criminal this terrible escape. Those who would willingly hurt children earn a special place in my book...

Tackle. Crash. Scuffle.

I do pride myself on being able to subdue an ordinary, weaponless human in three action words or less. Besides, longer fights are too exhausting...

We head back inside, my new prisoners and my own ragged-looking self, to meet the inevitable swing of Justice which the manager called on the phone during the fighting. As police sirens wail increasingly louder, I sneak over to have a chat with the sister.

"You defended your brother quite bravely today."

"I wish I had superpowers like you guys. Then I could really keep him safe from harm."

"I thought the same thing when I was your age. Turns out, most of these things are in your head. When you need them, and fervently believe in their power, they'll come to you. Or, perhaps, when you least expect it."

I get up and walk back over to the others, leaving her to develop that small, untapped potential of imagination dwelling in her brain. We have to wait here until the criminals are processed, then return for trial to make sure they are well and truly put away.

A Superhero Doesn't Need Family

I'm in New York.
I've never actually been to New York before, so this is my brain's very stylized version. Walkways on the ground and spiraling into the sky are filled with people of all kinds, bustling to their destinations in complete ignorance of the other people around them. There are vendors with hover-carts chasing the pedestrians, trying to sell their wares-- hot greasy foods and cheap nicknacks and second-hand jewelry. I really want to enter one of the third-tier bookshops to browse around, but I am here, like everyone else, for a specific purpose. I keep on flying through the crowded streets, searching for the sign that will say "Mulligan & Son's Time-Repair Shop." I have a message to deliver.

At last, I spot it-- a dinky, run-down shop on the bottom level of the city, the windows boarded up, the "Closed" sign swinging half-heartedly in the wind made by passing cars on their way to the Skyramp.

I knock tentatively on the stained door, peer in through the window. I know he is here. Syca told me he would be, and she is not often wrong.

"Hello?" I call out. There is a slight lull in the traffic behind me, so I quickly extract one of Prof. Willa's new devices, and unlock and open the door without ever having to touch it. I don't want fingerprints here. That might give some indication of exactly who did what I'm about to do...and I don't want him to become biased by that knowledge.

I slip inside and make my way to the back of the shop, where a pile of old clocks and assorted clutter dominates a small workdesk. Using the device, I carefully lift the Object from my coat pocket and place it on top of the pile. I place the Letter beside it. Sometimes, you see, super heroes can save lives in obscure and non-aggressive ways...

I expect that when the Hermit Child comes tentatively out of the back room to discover who has come, he will immediately notice the new items, and their significance. He will realize that the loss of his father does not mean he can no longer do the world any good-- that he can perpetuate his father's legacy through his own struggle for right. I remember his sardonic comment that "A superhero doesn't need family. While they are busy out saving the rest of the world, their family gets left behind or held prisoner or killed. They trade the lives of those close to them for the power to defeat what most people suppose is the greater evil. The truth is, they invite pain and destruction upon themselves. They ignore their loved ones in the pursuit of glory. They are nothing but hypocrites." The Hermit told Syca that he could never forgive the pain caused when his father was murdered. His father who just happened to cross the path of a supervillain. The villain who just happened to desire information on the lower-tier super force his son had recently and not-so-inconspicuously joined. It was one of life's unfortunate happenings, and no one could have predicted its emergence-- but now, with this letter and gift from his father, which he never had the chance to send, I hope to inspire Daniel not to grow embittered at the world, but rather to keep fighting that which distracts us from our greatest priority of love, both in our foes and ourselves.

I cannot say what was in the letter, nor can I divulge the nature of the object. All I can say is: with an open mind, they have the power either to heal or destroy the world. It is the heart which divides this power. I hope that he makes the right choice. In the end, we are all one big family, the Human Race-- though a very large, dysfunctional, maniacal one. We tend to get in scraps too big for us.

Miss Mary the Pyromaniac

I have a friend.

This friend is where I received my very mediocre skills in fire manipulation-- I get most of my powers from observing and imitating others, the way Mystique changes her form. The only thing I can naturally do is fly-- and climb trees. I climb quite well.

Unfortunately, she also tends to have quite a temper in the Dreamworld, so when she is unable to get the part she desires in the Broadway play she tries out for, she decides to burn the theater down. She leaps to the stage and conjures from her lighter a glowing fiery bear. It dances to her mesmeric song and grows, till it reaches the rafters. The other auditioners, and the critics, stare speechless. Then a little blond girl lets out the first hysterical scream.

Panic ensues, and I leap after Mary as she escapes from the chaos, leaving Becca and Amanda to contain the damage. I catch up with her outside an old abandoned Starbucks, and grab her shoulder.

"Mary, WHAT were you thinking? So what if you didn't get the main part, you can't just burn the place down! You're supposed to be a superhero! You have to control these urges!"

She sulks, ripping her arm away from my grasp. "So what if I am? I take care of this town, I've saved these people from destruction a thousand times over, and what credit do I get? They don't even know I exist! I'm the best singer this side of the galaxy, I can break windows or lure the spirit of fire with these lungs, and they don't want to give them a part in the show? Forget it. I'm done saving these high-and-mighty skulkers. This place is so not legit." She stomps off, leather jacket smoking slightly from a singe-mark in the left sleeve.

I run after her. "Look-- I'm sorry that you didn't get the part. I know you'd have been great. But-- you can't just go off and be a giant PRAT! I mean...."

"What she's trying to say," interrupts Laila at a quite suitable moment, "Is that this isn't the best way to deal with the situation. Perhaps you could instead turn it to your advantage. Show the world that you are bigger than Broadway, that you have something even better to offer. Why not try starting your own company? You have the experience." I breathe a sigh of relief, as the two keep talking and the ardor of the flames in the theater slowly snuff out. It turns out, nothing was even very badly burnt. Mary never meant any lasting harm. She just wanted to scare, to impress. The flames were imitations. I thank the stars that I have a sister like Laila, for both fighting crime and settling disputes.

As the four of us friends drive home that night (across the stars, me flying alongside and hanging loosely onto the windowframe, Amanda using shield energy to transport the heavy van across the sky), I feel at peace.

The Costume Lady

I love costumes.
I love walking inside a thriftstore and running my hands over velvet and satin and tulle, and dreaming of what new persona could be born from them. So it comes as no surprise that when I see a small booth labeled "Costumes and Capers" inside the mall, I have to investigate. It is no more than a small shop front laden with clothing, piled in heaps and hung over strings on the ceiling, and a small covered pavilion in back, sectioned into dressing room and storage space. A wisened old woman sits on the cushion in front of the booth, calling for her wares with a rich, dark voice like the mysterious traveling trader that she is.

I enter excitedly and begin to paw through her wares. The clothes smell of musty air and musk, mothballs and lavender perfume, far away countries and grass after a rainstorm. They whisper to me tales of lovers' unions and bloody wars and working 9-5 at the airport as a janitor...

How much for this vest?" I ask, lifting a purple satin thing that dreams of palaces.

"Five dollars." The woman replies without looking.

"This embroidered pirate jacket?"

"Twenty-five."

"And this watch?" I lift up a golden pocket watch on a long silver chain, emblazoned with the image of the phoenix on its cover and inlaid with mother of pearl. On the back is the phrase, "May we meet again in Heaven or Hell. Only Time will tell..."and the initials: "J.M."

The woman freezes as she hears the clink of the chain. "Ah," she replies. "I almost forgot that was back there. I put it out on a whim so long ago, about two weeks ago, and no one has asked about it since. It was almost priceless, once...but now the memories clinging to it bring only pain. Here," and the old woman pushes it toward me with a gnarled hand. "May it bring you some measure of happiness. I do not esteem it worth paying for." Aghast but happy, I thank the woman and turn to leave-- but pause, midstep, feeling the pain in her eyes. There is a story here, waiting to be told.

I turn and sink down to the floor of the shop amid flurries of colorful dresses and scarves.
"Madame? Would you mind terribly much if I asked you the tale of this watch?"

A sigh older and heavier than mountains escapes her lips. She adjusts her head scarf and sits down beside me, hidden from shoppers by the front counter. "It is not a terribly long tale, but a sad one, I'm afraid. I haven't ever been asked for it, so it'll take me some time to find where to begin. Usually I'm much better at telling stories, so you'll have to forgive me. But-- no, I don't mind. perhaps it would be good to let it out at last...."

"You see, in my youth, the people of my town all called me the Costume Lady. Mostly I just worked in my mother's shop as her assistant, tailoring old coats and mending shoes and sewing little flowers onto hats. On occasion, I would attempt more daring projects with the little tidbits of exotic things friends and family gave me when they had opportunity. But one day, a stranger blew into town. He had on him the most beautiful clothes...breeches of silk, and a waistcoat of satin, and boots that went nigh up his thighs and were the most exquisite ebony black, like polished stone...he had on these soft, white kidskin gloves, a coat embroidered with silver dragons, and a cane tipped with gold...

"And draped round his waist was this gold watch, fastened with a silver chain. He almost glowed with elegance. He came into my mother's shop to mend a small tear in the inner lining of his tophat. I told him that my mother would be back shortly, fearing to try my hand with the cloth of such a distinguished gentleman, but he insisted that it must be fixed right away, that he had a very important meeting soon and did not want the tear to spread. I wondered what sort of meeting could possibly be so violent as to spread the tear, but said nothing. I acceded to his wishes and mended the hat, and thanking me hastily, the man flew out of the shop and down the street.

"The next day, he was in the shop again, this time for a stain on his collar, which I removed carefully with an assortment of different chemicals. The gentleman again sped out as if he had wings on his heels, but returned the very next day, and the next, with other small complaints, which he cheerfully declared could be fixed by my 'tailor's magic,' if nothing else.

My mother heard how much time he was spending around the shop and told me not to let him in after hours. The next night, however, he did not appear. I assumed he had incurred no more damage to his finery, and perhaps would no longer need my services, which for some reason made me sad. We had gotten to talking late at night, as I sewed and he waited impatiently, about the mysterious and miraculous adventures he was so fortunate to embark upon in his line of work. What that work was, he didn't say, but he did tell of the most interesting people. 'You don't have much chance to meet new people working all day in the back of a shop,' he said. 'If you want to taste life you have to really go out there, to see people for yourself, not just collect the stories that their clothes tell you.' I almost believed his words, and yet there was something sorrowful in his voice as he left each night, that barred me from following...

But one night he came back, just as I was about to close the shop. My mother, who had taken sick, was upstairs in bed already. He burst through the door with a big gust of wind behind him, and, trembling, locked it and barred it with a stool. He began dragging the heavy sewing table over to the door as well, and it was then I noticed how truly out of shape his attire was. The cuffs of his suit were torn, the collar dirty and ragged, and his pantleg shorn with one long tear, coloured on either side with the menacing dark hue of dried blood.

'Sir?' I asked, hesitating but wanting to come closer. 'Are you all right?' He glanced over with hunted eyes, drawing the window curtains closed.

'I'm sorry, Costume Lady. I had nowhere else to go. They'll find me soon, but I had to see you before I go on the run once more. I- I wondered if you could keep something for me.' He reached around and unclasped the watch from his waist, fingering the silver chain with a touch somewhere between love and fear. 'I need to borrow some clothing, some womens' clothing, and I am unfortunately out of money due to-- circumstances, and was hoping perhaps you might accept this in exchange?'

'But--' I gasped, 'That watch is probably worth more than this house! I cannot take it from you!'

'It would just be temporary, until I can return the clothing to you. In exchange for my disguise, I would ask you to keep the watch clean and undamaged, and to turn it three times every morning. Never let the watch run out of time. It is very important that you do that. Can you keep this promise for me?'

'I-- I suppose. But when will you return?' I asked, as I helped the man out of his ragged clothes, dressed the wound poorly but quickly, and helped him into one of my mother's dresses that was due for a patching and wouldn't be missed. I threw a warm wool shawl around his shoulders, and drew my own bonnet around his head.

'As soon as I can, I shall return. There are figures from my past who wish to haunt me, but once I have thrown them off the chase for good, I will come back here to rest my bones. For too long I have traveled. And-- I like this town. I would like to settle here... perhaps even marry.'

He looked at me and my heart leaped in its cage. I knew in that moment that this man I had met only weeks ago was someone I could spend the rest of my life with.

'I will wait for you.' I said. 'I will keep your watch.'
Then, he unbarred the door, peeked out, crept off into the night, and was gone.' "
                                                                 ~~~

"So...that's it?" I ask. "End of the story?"

The old woman rustles around on her cushion.

"Not quite... You see, the man didn't return for many months. I kept the watch faithfully for a long time, polishing it with a special cloth and winding it dutifully every morning. But I grew impatient waiting for my dapper stranger to return, and angry with him-- for, never in all the time we knew each other had he told me his name. All I had to go on were the initials on the back of this watch. They could be his, or they could be anyone's. He could have stolen it from someone. Much as I had been enthralled by his character, I really didn't know anything about him. He could be a thief, or a vagabond, or a wanted murderer...

 "And the months turned into years and I grew tired of staying in the shop, tired of getting up every morning to wind the clock and mend things for my mother, whose eyesight was beginning to fail, when I could be out with other young folk my age, dancing and laughing and seeing the world. I felt like I was in a prison, a slowly constricting cage. So, one morning, I left my younger cousin, whom I had been training, with the customers, packed my bags, slipped the watch onto a chain and hung it about my neck, and set out to see the world. I left a note with my cousin, should the stranger return, saying that I was still upholding my side of the bargain, but that if he wanted his watch returned he would have to come and find me.

"And, my, did I travel! I could tell you such stories of the world, and the things I've seen... But soon I met a young man my own age, who worked for the railroad, and we fell in love. We were practically destitute, but desperately wanted to start off a life together, and so I sold the watch, and all my past hopes and dreams, to pay for a little cottage by a lake. There we made our new home, far away from the bustling cities and the hectic new world outside our windows. But one night soon after, when my husband was out with his lantern gathering wood for the winter, a strange figure came to the door...

He walked with a limp, and labored breath, and I could hear the tap of his cane all the way along the stone path to the door. As he reached up to knock, I yanked open the door, fear getting the better of me, and whispered fiercely, 'What do you want? I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it. Speak up!'

The man's hand dropped. He spoke in a slow, weary voice: 'I've come to repay old debts.'

I knew it was the distinguished gentleman, but I was afraid, because I had not kept my side of the promise. I ushered him inside and pretended to be curious of all that had passed, asking of his travels and how he had enjoyed the spring. But after a time, he sighed and, leaning forward, took off his battered straw hat. His clothes were that of a poor farmhand, his motions ancient, and yet I swear the man's face had not changed from the day I met him as a little girl. Now I was a woman, and we were nearly matched in appearance, yet I knew that he must have aged somehow. He still carried the gold-tipped cane, which he tapped on the floor as he told me:

'You don't have it, do you, Costume Lady?'

Not a question, but a sad statement of what he already knew.

'You gave it away long ago. You had no faith in me.'

'No! I did wait! I did trust you, but I waited so long, and you did not come! I only recently gave your watch away to pay for a new life for myself. I had to-- I had nothing else!'

'Nor did I,' the man replied, and the sorrow in his voice tore at my heart. A single tear spilled down his cheek as he rose and gathered up his battered coat and hat. 'I had hoped-- but it does not matter now. I have nothing left. The watch is lost. Someone some morning will forget to wind it, or already has, and it will slowly and inexorably wind down until it stops, and that will be the end of it all...Still, I suppose that is a fitting end, for a traitor...' Then he left.

"I wished I could have said something to cure his pain, wish he could have told me more so I could help in some way, but he did not. His trust in me had already been broken, and though we were yet strangers, I felt like a very valuable connection had been lost...

I went on to have many more adventures. Though my husband and I never had children, we traveled a great deal, and told our stories to relatives' children when we had time. Then, one day I was in a small antique shop, and I came upon the watch. Old, battered as you see it now, but the same watch, to be sure. I snatched it up and bought it. For a very meager price, considering what it had once been worth; for the surface was scratched and, as you see, the inner workings have stopped functioning.

I tried to wind it once, but it is hard-fastened inside, and will not heed my touch. I am an old woman now, alone but for my work. I have lived long, and been full. Yet, now I think on it, I wish I could go back and reverse my decision. I would take all the life I've lived, back to that moment, just to see him once more, to learn more about him...I wonder if his life was truly bound up in that watch. I've seen stranger things. But-- it hurts to think I might have unknowingly killed that strange and lovely man."

I look down at the watch, which I have been fingering and turning over in my hands ever since the story began. The outline of the Phoenix has such very vivid eyes...

"Madame Costume Lady...what if...the watch could be mended? What do you think would happen then?"

"Well, I--" she pauses, hand to her lips. "I must admit I hadn't thought of that. If it starts ticking once more...But I must say, I've no idea what would happen. Do you-- do you know someone who might fix it?"

"I think I could do it myself," I respond, prying gently at the catch and gazing intently at the watch-face. "I have always been a bit of a tinkerer, and I have certain...abilities which could help me remove any unseen obstructions to the mechanisms, though I must admit I've never worked on so small a scale before...Would you mind if I gave it a try?"

"Couldn't hurt, I suppose." the trading woman says slowly, trying to keep the hope out of her voice. "At the very least, you'd get a working watch instead of a broken one."

I stand up, and go into the back pavilion where no one outside can see me. The old woman follows, drawing the curtain closed. I lay the watch down on the dressing-room bench, and crouch before it, my arm outstretched in the air above it. I close my eyes and try to find the inner workings with my mind-- which is no easy feat, even for the friend of a very powerful psychic. I'd ask Amanda for her help, but I want to do this one on my own-- and also, she's at school right now. I feel there is something very big, and dark, lodged in the gears and mechanisms of the tiny clock. If I can just dislodge and remove it, without snapping or bending any of the tiny little pieces...then...maybe...

Slowly, and painstakingly, I remove the substance, beckoning it outward ever so gently outward with my fingers and mind. I feel the gears straining against it, the freer they get, and as I pull out the last of the darkness, my mind resounds with the swish of motion and the THUD of one great Tick. I open my eyes, and pull my arm away from the watch. It has started working again.

The old woman is gazing fervently at the watch. Almost as if she is willing herself to see the inside as well, to see some sign of the man she still dreams of in the dark of rainy Oregon nights...

And then a finger taps her on the shoulder. A glowing man in a silver dragon waistcoat stands in the doorway of the dressing room, a worn silk tophat in the crook of his arm.

The trader gives a cry of delight and shock, and rushes forward to the man. He takes her hands. She looks up onto his eyes and stammers, "H-Have you come for your watch? I have it here, if that is what you want." She totters over to the bench and gently lifts the watch, and proffers it to the glowing gentleman- but he denies it.

"No, Costume Lady. It is yours to keep, for you have freed me from its curse at last. I was doomed by a man long ago to live my life in tandem with its gears, forever, guarding it and my secret from those around me, cursed to live forever but surrounded by enemies. But now my soul is free, and I may give up this life and this prison. I am forever indebted to you, and hold no grievance for what has passed long ago." He takes his hat, and places it on the Costume Lady's head. "I have it in my power to grant you one wish, as it might be called, before I go. What would you desire?"

The Costume Lady clutches the collar of her dress in a dizzy haze of happiness and tears. She looks up at the man. "Don't go. Stay with me, at least until the end of my life. I have searched and longed for you all my youth. Do not part from me in my age, now that I have found you."

He smiles, and brushes her cheek gently. "It shall be as you wish."

 The man's glow brightens to a flash, and standing next to the old trader is a handsome grey-haired man. He traded his watch-energy for a last few years in mortality, to spend with the one he loved. As they move to embrace, I sneak out the back of the tent and wander through the rest of the mall, to finish uneventfully a wonderful shopping experience.

When a Brain Gets Bored...

Years ago, in the past, my brain was very bored and decided to invent a series of bizarre and meaningless events in one of my dreams. Over the years, this particular dream has recurred, adding to itself even more random and meaningless (to me, at least) sequences of the tale, until it has reached the form I just read in my journal today. This particular version is over two years old, but I have no doubt it will come again with even more additions in the future-- at which point I will realize I haven't been doing enough interesting things and will go out for a hike. In the meantime, to persevere with my record-keeping, here is a string of meaningless words. :)

A voice from the dark growls, "Find out what's happening out there and be heroic about it!" I put on my feet and go grocery shopping for yogurt and salad. I decided not to brush my teeth before watching Star Trek in the ice cream isle, in which the reflection of the glass doors creates a portal into the alternate universe where Star Trek actually exists...As a result, my teeth disappear. Not to worry, though-- I know where the Dentist lives. I've been stalking him for quite some time.

His steps are crowded with refuse from all the patients who have come before me, from old hamburger wrappers to broken guitars. Inside the waiting room, magazine pictures come to life, and fill the air with the musical sound of advertisements:
"Fat myelin sheaths encoding your axons? Get Brain Liposuction, with a 20% discount through Thursday!"
"Trouble at work? Buy the Silencer 3000 to keep your employees productively subjugated!"
"The New, The Revolutionary, The Only: Triumph Toilet Paper. Dispose of your waste with pride."

There are advertisements for everything you could ever dream of, but after awhile their voices seem to blend together into one long stream of white noise. I tune them out and focus on the moving pictures on the walls. They are rearranging themselves so as to look most aesthetically pleasing to the patients.

A holographic dental assistant opens the thrice-locked steel door leading to the operating room, and calls my name. I enter, nervously taking a torch from the side of the wall, and proceed down a dungeon passageway to the appropriate white room. I sit on a shining dental chair. Finally, a side door squeaks open, and the Dentist himself peers in at me. His eyes are hidden behind aviator sunglasses and his hair is shaped like toothpaste in a thick comb-over, dyed to match the minty flavor given out in treat bags.

He takes one look at my mouth, digs around in his pocket for a moment, and tosses me a set of wooden teeth. "Take these." He orders. "They were George Washington's."

I put the teeth in, and they set to work digging into my gums and making themselves one with the nerve endings in my jaw. I look in the mirror, and they are white and straight. Perfect.

So I leave the office and go hunting for flying bluebells, a very clever species of inter-ecologically-niched fish.
I find one sitting in a tree and strumming a ukelele. I ask him what he thinks of my teeth.
"Well, they look very sea-worthy. You should go on an adventure with them before your old ones come back."

"Come back?" I ask, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, your real teeth were only temporarily transdimensionally teleported. They could return at any minute, at which point you would loose the magical strength and purity of the Washington Set. You'd better hurry."

I thank the fish for his advice and leap into the air, soaring toward the nearest bay, where I commandeer  a small sailing boat for no other reason than to see if I can climb the rigging with my teeth.
I can. I climb to the top of the lone mast and survey my kingdom, balancing on my two front teeth in a vertical stream of serenity.

Then the sun goes down, and I am forced to abscond, teeth in hand, for my real ones have returned and claimed their rightful place.