It was the hair that captured me at first, like long fingers beckoning from behind the live oak tree, in Texas. I was new to this state, feeling homesick, but comforted by her hair. It asked nothing of me. It just called me.

The woman followed–she was attached to the hair of course. And things just got even better.

Mouthpieces, they are my Aunt Fannie told me as we passed a bed of those yellow goofy-like flowers in the park.

Mouthpieces? I asked. What do you mean.

I mean, they never shut up, she said as she yammered on and on.

He looked at something and looked long enough for it to change into something he no longer wanted to look at. He did this several times throughout his life and came to some shaky conclusion that the longer he looked at that thing it became something he would no longer want to look at. So he decided to look less at his. He’d study it less and try to make less conclusions about. He would go weeks and months without looking at it. He would look at other things in the meantime and while that was happening would make sure not too look at those thing as much either. His eyes shifted, flitted from thing to thing and he felt if he continued to do this, the world itself might not be such a bad place.

Why me? Why us? It was a question I and others asked as the wind approached and the lightning pitchforked along the horizon. None of us were worried about this upcoming thunderstorm. We were really worried that it would zap out Zenith television. It was the night we were set to find out Who Shot JR.?

I followed the line until it veered and wavered, no doubt with a mind of its own, following its own path, its own desires.

I have to become my own line.

The cocker spaniel provided the first clue. It no longer leapt onto the red flyer wagon. It knew the boy would not come by to pull it.
I was that boy. I was an adult now. The dog, somehow, had stayed young, bounding up to me, but no longer bounding up to the wagon.
He did not believe I’d used to the boy. I looked different, smelled different, petted him different. But it was still me. I’ll admit it: I had changed. And not for the better. For what is better than a young boy? A young anything?

Bluish light hit her face–hardly an assault of light,but definitely a wake-up call. She was in a place she didn’t wan to be. She’d allowed herself to be talked into this place.
Now she had to get out. She tried various doors. They were all locked. Finally she had to just break a window. Once outdoors, yellowish light hit her face. This hurt more than the bluish light. There was no other light. The outdoors was better than indoors and so she endured. Eventually she found peace. But it would not be until the light went from blue to pink to to a soft white before she would realize she was waking up in a park, at dawn.