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Equal Part 2Kale shook his head in disbelief as Race appeared before him, mud and dirt staining his white robes.
"Race, what on earth have I told you? Do you not learn?" Kale scolded. Race's enormous grin immediately disappeared as he looked down in shame.
"Dmth gn m clthn dirth." Race mumbled. Kale sighed and shook his head.
"So why are your clothes dirty?" Kale asked, fully understanding the boy's garbled speech. Race looked up with innocent eyes, ready to argue his defense.
"You said I have to look after the souls and that means plants too and there was a flower trying to grow under a rock and it was dying and," Race paused to take a big breath, "so I moved it into a place where it could get more sunshine and grow because Alikar doesn't want it to die yet." The boy burst into tears at his last words. Kale sighed and smiled.
"Don't cry Race. You didn't do anything wrong. You made Alikar very happy," Kale bent down as the boy wiped his tears on his sleeve. Kale winced but dismissed the action. "J
Equal Part 1"Look Race. No, don't look away." Advisor Kale turned the young boy's head back to look at the half rotten deer. It's bony legs and small head still remained identifiable but it's body had become a mushy mess and one could see where it had already become soil. Race looked at the sight as long as he could before he finally turned his head away once again. He stared into Master Kale's gray robes, wondering why he always had to wear white. It was so hard to try to keep a white robe clean.
"It's dead," the boy began to cry as the image in his mind ceased to go away. At six years old he had only heard of death. He had not witnessed his parents' death, his mother having died during childbirth while his father had disappeared. So seeing the dead deer truly unsettled him.
"It's body is dead, yes, but look." Kale kneeled and grabbed a handful of dirt straight out of the deer's body. His rough hands were dry and wrinkled much like his face. "This will grow grass and flowers for the rabbits and o
Danniel"I don't want to be Brianna!" I watched myself jump from my bed onto the ground. How little I was back then. I couldn't have been more than six during this memory. At least that's what it felt like. This dream was a memory that I had merely forgotten over the years. How many was it? Six or seven years, I'd say, for the dream came to me when I was thirteen.
A little boy looked up at my younger self with crayon in hand. He had short black hair, light brown eyes and was a couple years older than I was. On the ground before him was some blue construction paper covered in red crayon. "Danniel's and Brianna's Army Log," it read. Something sparked in my memory as I watched this scene unfold. Everything was so familiar to me. I could remember the look on Danniel's face when I complained about my name.
"Then what do you want to be?" He asked in confusion. I remember feeling the need to act tough. We were playing "Army" after all. I remember thinking I need a guy's name.
"Jack!" I blurted out. D
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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