She wore her green dress, the one the color of spring onions.  I can still remember the way it swirled, so delicately around her bare feet as she spun, laughing in the dead and decaying garden.  Dust flared up between her toes, around her ankles, coating her skin in a thin grey veil as she threw her arms up to the sky, head tilted back to welcome the incoming rain.  As the first adventurous drop fell upon her charming and dainty nose, she laughed and it was the purest, most beautiful sound I had ever heard.  When she turned to look at me, my breath caught and my heart stood still.  Her deceptively innocent eyes flashed from blue, to violet, to the most verdant green I had ever seen, all the shades of earth and life wrapped into one captivating variegated color.

Spellbound, I could not move as she slowly began to dance.  Though the steps were chaotic, she placed her feet with care, gracefully precise as she sashayed around the forgotten flowerbeds, the staccato rhythm of the rain her only guide to tempo.  My umbrella lay forgotten on the stone bench beside me.  Just watching her, in her glorious freedom and timeless beauty, green dress and swirling auburn hair twirling and caressing her like velvet ribbons in counterpoint to her mesmerizing performance, I yearned to join her.  I started to believe, and in doing so, opened my eyes to a whole world I had never imagined.

All around our corner of the world, I could see a brutal storm raging, see the lightning strikes assaulting the ground and taunting the world from behind their dark, eery cloud wall fortress.  The rain drove down in near solid sheets, obscuring my vision when I tried to look past the dried, brown border of dying hedges.  Inside, however, in this poor, deserted garden, though I was by now drenched to the bone, we faced a gentle, spring rain, the kind of rain you imagine brings the world to life.  The clouds were still grey, but of a strange, soft and fluffy variety, with a golden sunglow peeking around their edges.  The unnatural beauty of the scene was breathtaking in itself.

The performance, that wondrous and heartbreaking dance I could barely tear my eyes from, however, was the reason for our being there.  She had asked, and I, in a moment of unprofessional weakness, had succumbed.  I found myself not regretting the decision.  The sheer happiness I could see in her face was reward enough to bear any punishment I could face at the hands of my employers.  I smiled to myself to see her spirits so lifted, and that is when I noticed the changes happening around me.

Everywhere she stepped, everywhere a rain drop dripped from her flesh to the wounded ground, new life sprang up in her wake.  The tiny, first blades of spring grass appeared first, delicate and whisper soft, tickling the bare soles of her feet as she passed over them.  They were closely followed by flowers and herbs of every kind, a riot of color, texture, size and shape in a forgotten corner of the world.  I blinked rapidly, waiting for the vision to fade and my eyes to clear but desperate to hang on to the images before me, desperate to belong.

She stopped before me, smiling softly, and held out a hand I finally did not hesitate to take.  As she welcomed me, I allowed myself, at last, to accept.  I accepted that there were things in the world I could not see, or understand, but that did not make them false, that this girl, my ward for so long, had never lied or made up a story in the time that I had known her, that she was more than she seemed and would always be so.  She saved my life that day, as she danced with me through the rain and wind.  She showed me the beauty and awe of a world I had never dared believe existed, and welcomed me home.

Now, as I lay here, dessicated and withering myself, I smile at the memory. She sits with me, even as I make my peace with death.  Even now I can feel her soft skin holding my hand, hear the gentle and nurturing melody of the earth as she sings a lullaby to soothe me.  I don't kid myself.  I know the end is here; not tomorrow, not next week or next month, but now.  She is my only family, this woman I have known as a girl, and she alone will walk with me through the gates.  I have faith that, even as she brought life to that dying plot of land so many years ago, so now will she bring new life to me even as I lay dying.

My last sight is of her face and a sad smile, silent tears falling gently upon my face a she leans down to lay a kiss upon my brow.  And I am content.

Unfortunately, the only one I've had time and energy to finish thus far, but I'm working on it and I have a few ideas.  I hope you enjoy this one.  I really kind of like how it turned out, but sometimes I feel like it's a little unfinished.  Feedback is appreciated!



I hate laundromats.  It seems like no matter which one you turn to, they fall into one of two categories: the overly sterile ultra modern or the poorly maintained flash from the retro past.  The one closest to my home, however, is more the latter than the former.  The machines are this strange color that fails to be grey, green, or blue, but somehow manages to remind me of all three at the same time.  The floors were probably white once, or maybe tan, but now they're so worn they've become a dingy, dusty grey.  It's a forlorn sort of place.  While I sat, waiting on a dryer to sputter to another choking cycle end, I often imagined the fates doing their laundry there, in the dead of night when even the night owls are asleep, washing the tattered hopes and dreams of the masses amidst the dust and the cobwebs, perhaps occasionally losing one or two in the dryer like a well-worn sock.  The image fit, or at least I thought it did.  If you've ever been there, you'd know exactly what I mean.

After putting it off for so long that I was down to my last pair of panties (you know, the ones so old and tattered you'd never let anyone see you wear them but you can't get rid of them because you know you'll need them just for days like these), I found myself there once again, counting out my dwindling supply of quarters and feeding them into those aging monstrosities that are supposed to clean my clothing.  It was a miracle they even functioned anymore.  Sometimes, I thought it was a miracle I even functioned anymore.

I remembered having my own washer and dryer, how proud I was of such a minor accomplishment in my life.  They were my trophies, shining proof of my success and independence.  Of course, that was before the layoffs, before they shut the doors and forced me to disassemble my life, piece by piece, in order to keep food in my stomach and a roof over my head. Luxuries, as always, were the first to go.  I never imagined I'd envy minimum wage.
   
I was folding my threadbare clothes, trying hard not to think about the holes forming in the toes of my sneakers and where I was going to scrounge the money to buy a new pair when the little bell that hung over the door tinkled, distracting me.  Looking up was an act of instinctive curiosity.  I couldn't help but wonder who was sharing my little corner of domestic hell.  It was usually quiet as the grave in this place where appliances of the past came to sputter their last and die.
   
She seemed to be an ordinary woman, though her face still bore the last faint traces of girlhood. Very few people would have called her beautiful, but the sight of her, half-smiling as she paused in front of the window, head tilted and framed in sunlight, took my breath away.  Green eyes sparkled with mischief and her hair, escaping in wisps and tangles from beneath the purple bandanna around her head was that perfect shade of strawberry blond that shimmers like silk when caught in the right light.  I longed to free it from captivity so that I could run my fingers through it, discover whether or not it felt as soft as it looked.  With a startled gasp, I quickly turned back to my folding, surprised at my reaction.

When I dared to peek at her again, she had moved to one of the battered washing machines and was carefully lifting a riot of myriad colored cloth into the basin, not bothering to sort although she handled each piece as if it were the most delicate and precious thing imaginable.  Though she didn't seem to be wearing headphones of any sort, her head bobbed and her feet tapped to a symphony that apparently only she could hear.  In that moment, I envied her, for she exhibited such a joy and love of life as only the free of heart can know.  I wondered what there was in her life that could bring her such happiness and wished that she could share with me her secrets.

As if she heard my thoughts, she turned a full and brightly gleaming smile in my direction and laughed.  She didn't move, but I felt myself gathered into the sound, embraced by the music of her laughter, and I couldn't help but smile in return.  There was something about her, something that beckoned and attempted to coax my soul from the darkness of weary depression where it was mired.  More than I wanted to be her, or like her, I wanted to know her, wanted to luxuriate in her company and find what it was that made her so intriguing.  My hands moved mechanically as they folded, I scarcely paid attention to them.

My dryer buzzed, announcing that my final load of laundry was as dry as the last of my quarters would get it, distracting me for a moment.  When I gathered up my garments and made my way back to the folding table, she was waiting for me.  She reached out a hand and plucked a shirt from the pile, faded from days of wear and tear.  Before I could protest, weak with embarrassment, she laid out the cloth and started to fold.

"Here, let me help you."  Her voice was like liquid honey, rich and soothing.  I wanted to say something, to stop her, afraid that she would be disgusted by the disrepair of my clothing, but swallowed my pride and accepted the offer.  Together, we folded in silence, sharing an eerie but somehow comfortable camaraderie.  I don't know what possessed me to allow her assistance.  My mother taught me not to talk to strangers, but somehow, she didn't seem so strange.  I couldn't bear to turn her away.

I loaded the last of my clothing into the half-broken basket I had brought and got up to leave.  Tentatively, I held out a hand for her to shake, ready to introduce myself, but she gathered me into her arms instead, wrapping me in a fierce but gentle embrace, enveloping me in the warm scent of lavender and rain.  She ran one hand through my tangled, ill-washed hair and as she did, she whispered directly into my ear.
   
"Dreams are never lost.  We care too much for that.  But sometimes, just sometimes, we must hang them in our closets for a while, until they can be aired, refreshed and shaped into something new.  Don't ever give up hope, child, never that.  We haven't forgotten and you will have your time to shine.  We, however, can only point the way.  You must have the strength to tread the path and make it your own."

With that, she pulled away and planted a kiss on my forehead.  As she walked back to the row of washers standing along the wall, she slowly dissolved, fading into a mist that quickly evaporated in the morning sun.  I blinked several times, trying to force my brain past the shock.  When my mind cleared, I hurried to the machine she had been using and peered inside.  The cloth was gone, but inside, I found a business card, miraculously dry, with a name and phone number scribed on it in elegant letters.  My name and the word "possibilities" was written across the back and beneath that someone had embossed the image of a spider.  I snatched it up and shoved it in the pocket of my jeans before grabbing my laundry and nearly tripping in my haste to get out the door and to the nearest payphone.

I suppose my imaginings of the fates and their laundromat hauntings wasn't so far fetched after all.  I've been back there several times, though my needs are not so desperate anymore, but I've never seen her again.  However, sometimes, between the swooshing of a watery spin cycle and the clanking of metallic buttons in the dryer, I catch the faintest hint of impish laughter and the subtle scent of lavender and rain on a breeze that flows through closed doors and disturbs nothing in its path.  It lifts my heart and restores my soul.  It helps to remember that I'm not always alone... and that someone out there really does care.

We are the ones who are afraid, not for ourselves, but of ourselves, of the energies that swirl like chaos ridden mists within us, always powerful and often unstable.  We fear what we might unleash with our accidental words and unthinking memories, how it(we/they) will affect those, innocent or otherwise, who stand in our paths, who will be standing too near us when we lose that last fragile grip on our control.  No matter how fast we scramble, we have no way to know if we will react fast enough, smart enough, reasonable enough to dampen the worst that we can unleash.  Will the fires burn in anger, weaving a path of destruction and pain, or will they simply illuminate, bringing peace and wisdom to those who desperately need it?  We dare not find out, and so we cage ourselves in bars of empathy, strengthening our prisons with the iron of self-taught determination.

We are confusing, a sacrifice we make, not always willingly, for the protection of others.  Conversations couched in metaphors, words woven with a symphony of subtle innuendo are our best means of communication.  We fear for you and somewhere, deep inside, for ourselves, afraid of your reactions, those barely there accusations in your eyes as we tangle the threads of your reality, reweaving the tapestry of life into something beyond your imagination.  We cannot help it and yet we try so hard to deny ourselves, all for the sake of those who cannot see a truth they will not accept.  We lost our place in your world long ago, relegating ourselves to the side lines, voyeurs on the edge of existence, watching but unable to interfere.

Day after day, life after life, we struggle to hold on to ourselves, remembering while revealing nothing.  We congregate, like calling to like, taking comfort in the sharing of our dreams and memories.  Some of us long for safety, for the quiet and calm that come with understanding and acceptance.  Others seek release, a way to let the roaring fires burn without recrimination or reprisal.  Still others are finding it hard to care, depriving their souls of self for too long, leaking power into the world around them without notice.  Together, where we are strongest, we watch.  We wait and we hope, searching for that faint stirring of wings, another heart brought into the fold.  When you call for us, we will be here, but you might not always like what you find...