In a distant age tucked inside the mind, there lived a boy in an abandoned house. The lonely street was called Memory Lane, and at night, all childhood yearnings and days of the past would come alive.

It started with a lonely star in the sky, then transformed into a sea of swirls and brightness. Like the Northern Lights, lit up in all colors, swaying in the sky, it would project the things he could not remember. How he came to be stuck in an eternal age of just ten. But as soon as the memory played and he could recall his name, and time, his tears would erase the marks that had turned to scars in his heart. For he was doomed to never recall any of these things unless the lights were displayed for him to see. Every morning it was his wish to leave the lonely place that had become Memory Lane. He could not recall why he'd want to leave such a lovely place filled with stars in the pond, a garden filled with lanterns that held the dreams and laughter of strangers or the library in the back of his house that displayed encyclopedic knowledge and depth of such wisdom that some pages were even empty waiting for him to write on. All he knew was that he had to get away, make something of himself, because out there, life was waiting for him, not here in this Memory Lane. Yet, as evening came, the lights would display, calling out to him, whispering his name. He'd go outside and sit on the porch, the old porch that as one memory had displayed, his father had built for his mother. His older brother and sister had played on it. Gathered to watch the meteor showers, or to fall asleep gazing at the evening sky. He'd sit on the steps and remember that his name was Timothy and that his mother was a lovely woman, a very giving one. Why the kitchen he would make his food in, just cereal and basic things, was where she had once baked birthday cakes and turkey, he remembered he'd like that. But as dawn came, and then the sun glowing in the horizon, the lights would fade and so would his memory. It was gone like a thief, stealing the joy from the past and replacing it with emptiness. He would wake up feeling an ache in the deep of his chest, an ache that felt more like a void, a vastness he could not seem to fill from his days playing in the backyard catching the stray cat or looking for his dog, Napoleon. Where had he gone? Where was Mama? Where was Annie and Charles? Where had they gone? He vowed to remember the next morning, while watching the memories, he vowed to no avail. Unless, unless...he wrote it down, yes he'd do just that! He'd trick the sky, he'd defy the fate that was wrung upon him from the perverseness of the universe, to which he had no doubt, conspired to dull his senses, trap him in this sphere of despair and loneliness. He'd remember them. He'd honor them. He was no longer content with filling his days doing useless and vacuous trifling things. His youth was not worth it. Yes, he'd write it down, and up he went. Skipping inside the house, searching the cabinets for paper and pencils or colors. The window displayed the smiling faces of his family, in the yard by the magnolia tree. A haunting thought occurred to him: would he want to remember what had happened? Remorse was more of his companion and guilt was his confidant: What if this was for a reason? What if, he wasn't meant to remember what happened? What if it was fate and to disturb it would somehow disturb the shield of comfort he seemed to be in? Would he dare risk it all only to remember it all everyday?

He wasn't sure. He couldn't be. He went outside on the porch steps. The lights were the only thing he was sure of. Day and night, that was the one thing he remembered. The lights were his friends. Why would they want to hurt him like this? He was safer where he was he decided. Safer here than there, out there, where I don't know the world. I'm here with everybody, every night. The lights are my shelter. I want to stay here. To venture into the unknown, is no guarantee of success or even comfort. I'm not sure I could even find Mama and Pap there or anyone. The brightness in the sky sometimes showed moments of peace, discontent, fights, and sadness. He could not stand those. He would leave immediately. He couldn't stand to see Mama crying telling Pap there was no cure for Timothy's condition. That doctor's had told them there was little time left for their child to live. Mama's anguish and Pap's solemn figure gave him nightmares, then like the dawn, it would evanescence into a shadow that could not enter the daylight. It was reserved for the night. He had once seen how Annie and Charles held his hand and could see the pain they'd endured and could not remember what that felt like. Was he suffering? He didn't feel anything now. He did want to see them he thought days later. He wanted to see them. He'd leave for sure. He had vowed to stay, but he couldn't live like this. He'd check on them once, and invite them back here. He'd bring them all to Memory Lane. He was sure he could do that. He started packing that night. He started to gather few of his belongings, and just to make sure he wouldn't forget the next day he set off that night. He'd make sure to find them, to find out what happened to them. He wasn't sure what he'd discover. Oh, but to have new memories was worth the time.

There was no one here.

I wish I had been.

It's the vortex of time.

The momentum of memory.

The core of the story.

The images they all seem to cloud.

The words they get stuck in my mouth.

The smell never could really get out.

It's what I was left with.

It's all I could see.

I learned to adapt to it.

Never did quite set it free.

It became a part of me.

Can a worthy analogy suffice?

You're as a raging storm calming the sea.

The winds, they howl calling to entice,

And the ocean's depths cannot contain thee.

Sometimes too much does pain ignore advice,

And often sanity threatens to leave.

And all we knew washes down with the tides

By choice do we hold onto our beliefs.

But in this voyage, there's nothing to hide.

Nor are we blind to what we choose to see

Nor can the sun deny the strong moonlight

When thunder and mist make peace, two exist

So long as darkness dies for dawn each night,

So will the depths of promises, each time.

There was time, and we were friends.

After a long while, we had learned to make amends.

We'd made a pact long ago:

Honor the dead and let go of the things that shifted to and fro.

The things that neither had command over.

The plans that never got made and only grew colder.

Still, the hollowness and the abyss soon followed.

Leaving us both old and tired.

Neither abandoned the other.

We held fast and knew the answer of time:

Patience and chance, went hand in hand.

Until age did arrive, did we question it briefly.

How the decades had passed peacefully,

Many a times, did we feel the strain of holding on

Of indecision and endless collisions.

The bitter-sweetness and continuous fearfulness.

We could look each other in the eye.

We could call each other friends and allies.

        Even when the sky is dark gray and the moon cannot be seen, the faint light can be seen at night in the middle of the forest. It looks like a star far from where I’m sitting, and I can remember where it comes from. Folks from around here’ll say it’s bad luck to even wonder about it, let alone approach it. Visitors and strangers will think it’s witches or druids, but never have I seen any of those things—not around here; not in my lifetime.

       They started disappearing about thirty years ago, when I was younger then, a boy—just like them. It started with Johnny Mitchell, my best friend, from the neighboring ranch. We were inseparable and naive about the darkness of the night, of the forest, of the things that lurked too deep if you got too close. We were told repeatedly to stay away from the woods, to no avail. Off we’d go running, away from the routine and chores of the household once they’d been completed. Johnny’s little sister, Estee, would tag along, her Mama always insisted we’d had to bring her with us if Johnny was to play. We didn’t mind too much, we’d let her follow us and after a while, learned to catch up and play the villain in our games. If we were the cowboys, she’d be the Indian. If we were the cops, she’d be the robber. As I was an only child, my afternoons were dull when I didn’t get to play with them. Grandma would insist I practice my arithmetic, as I was horrible at it, or bade me to read her from the Holy Bible as her eyesight was poor, and my voice was “youthful” that she could understand what I was saying versus her own croaky one. I didn’t like those days and fell asleep reading more than I meant to, so Mama always let me go off instead. However, I was not to go past Farmer Jenkins’ fence, our neighbor. I was absolutely forbidden as beyond it, the forest was denser and contained “all types of mysterious sins no youngsters should ever be looking for.” We had no problem with it, as we only played within my backyard that was vast enough for us all. The only time we got past the fence was the last time I got to see Johnny Mitchell.

        It appears as midnight blue and just below it, in shades of purple and orange and light yellow does the sky hint the darkness to come when the sun goes down. I remember hide and seek. Estee was hiding by the tall cedar tree that hovered over the fence. Father had previously had an argument with Farmer Jenkins as our neighbor thought it was trespassing into his area of the land, and their dispute had to be settled with the city council, until it was ruled harmless and would instead be utilized as a division whereupon it would belong to both farms. After a while, tensions subsided and was now used exclusively for hide and seek games, important club meetings, and a place we could hide away from it all. Estee’s brown hair was trailing down the branch which is what I spied initially. Instead of calling out her name, I thought to scare her first and creeped slowly towards it, and as I got near, I could hear her singing softly, almost like a whisper, “Sleep little one, Sleep already. Close your eyes, Close them softly. Sleep little one. Sleep already. Don’t look at the window. Don’t look at their faces. Close your eyes. Close them softly. They’ll be gone by morning. They’ll all be in mourning.”

    “Found you!” I yell in hopes she’ll be caught off guard.

Instead, she gives me an icy glare, “I knew you were there.”

    “Liar. I know I startled you.” I say tauntingly to which she just stares. “Now all I’ve got to do is find Johnny.”

    “You’ll not find him.”

    “How’d you know?”

    “He’s crossed the fence.”

    “Are you sure?” I say alarmed.We'd never crossed the fence before. Knowing fully the retribution we'd face at home and the superstitions surrounding the area. It was odd.

    “Hmm. Said you couldn’t catch him in there.”

In panic, I leave her behind, hearing her sing her song, “Sleep little one. Sleep already. Don’t look at the window. Don’t look at their faces…” I reach the fence and shout his name, in vain. Peering through the fence, I shout once more and look at the sky, it’s already more purple than blue and our time to head home has already expired. Momma will have my head for not getting home in time for supper, and Johnny and Estee’s own parents would come calling to my house soon.

"Don't you go, Ellis. You'll not come back either." Estee says carefully. "Momma says that forest is cursed. We're told hundreds of times. I tried to tell that to Johnny but he just laughed and went anyway."

"I'll be back before it turns dark," I say hurriedly, with one leg already over the fence.

"It's dark already, Ellis. Try to come back  before it swallows you up," she whispers as the shadow envelop me. 

I walk slowly and call out for Johnny, when I hear a giggle. "Damn you Johnny! You better show your face!" More giggles and swaying of leaves.  I run towards the sound, confident he's got me going in circles intent on scaring me.

"It's late Johnny! The sun's set, and Estee is waiting for us back by the fence!" More swaying on the ground and echoes now. Sounds I've not heard before, but they sound human, and they sound mighty close.  I must be getting near, and I've been walking for a while.

It is then I see a bright light that illuminates the area, still a ways from where I am.  The giggles and echoes are stronger now, and I can discern Johnny's voice. "Ellis! I'm here! Ellis!" I don't want to be seen, but I'm sure they know I'm here. Whoever's got Johnny.  I fall the ground. I crawl instead. Moving like an iguana, careful of being detected when I feel a hand on my wrist, and another grabbing my legs. 

    "No point in yelling. You must be Ellis," a hideous deformed mask stares back.  "We'll be taking you back with us, now." Another figure steps forward with an equally revolting mask and clothes that are tattered and dirty, not adults, but children.

    "Tell me where you've got my friend! Tell me!"

    "No need. You'll soon be joining him, and we'll let Wolf decide."

    They bind my hands and many more children emerge from the darkness, from the trees, from the leaves, with their masks and help each other carry me while the others chant, whistle, and yell.  I'm dropped harshly to the ground where the fire blazes and I can see Johnny a few feet away, terrified and relieved at the same time to see me. 

     "I didn't come here, Ellis. I didn't. They snatched me. They did."

     "What about Estee?" I manage to say.

      "She was high up in the tree. She saw me, I'm sure. She saw."

     "Segolia Hayada, Oh, alatoya, Goya Goya Yalatay. Segolia, Hayada, Oh, Nodi, Hayada. Goya Goya Yalatay." The chant is loud now and many more dance around the fire, and my screams are drowned by their roars.  Until, all goes silent when among them the crowd parts and the Wolf walks in.  It's the tallest child, and he wears the head of a Wolf and its skin as clothes.  All bow to their leader. He looks around spotting Johnny and I and approaches.

     "The Wolf is hungry. Who shall we offer up in honor of him?" His voice is deeper than the rest, but still not yet an adult.

The children all clap and yell in unison, "Segolia Hayada. Oh, Nodi, Hayada."

 The Wolf child extends his hands and all quiet down.

      "The Wolf Spirit does not need two. One will do the job."

Disappointment is heard around the crowd and some start to whisper.

      "Only one will do." He repeats louder until everyone is quiet again.

      "Let's settle this then," he says holding up a knife in the air.  The shiny metal that will spell out our doom and despair.

       "The Wolf wants a spirit. He called out to me, and I speak for him. Only one of you can stay. The other must go."

      "Go where?" I whisper the tears streaming down my cheek and another child smacks my head down to the ground, for speaking out of place I gather.

       The Wolf looks at me. "Back to the lies you live in. Back to the rotten life you crawled away from. It is not my choice. Be grateful and thank the Wolf, for it is he who commands this."

       Johnny shakes his head. And someone unbinds my hands and feet, just as Johnny is too.  The Wolf child throws the knife in the middle of the ground and says, "Let's begin."

       Hours later. Days later. Months later. Momma is long past worrying and only relies on prayer. Grandma is sure my mental breakdown has robbed me of speech and thought. They searched for Johnny endlessly while I was hospitalized and never could find him, neither could they find my blood stained shirt that was drenched and torn and burned in that sacrificial fire. Still to this day, when the night comes, and I am outside like I am right now, I can hear Estee's voice, "Sleep little one, Sleep already. Close your eyes, Close them softly. Sleep little one. Sleep already. Don’t look at the window. Don’t look at their faces. Close your eyes. Close them softly. They’ll be gone by morning. They’ll all be in mourning."

Let it flow down the river

Let the wind take care of it now.

Let the dice fall where they may,

Let the game go where it lays.

Let the universe conspire to make it happen

Let the fortunes decide if it should be abandoned.

Let the reigns disappear in an instant

Let the mind stop its constant whispers and listen.

Let the road go on its own course,

Let the journey strengthen your soul.

Let the answer come on its own, wait and see

When you let things go, and let them be.

There are signs we cannot ignore when spoken to us. I believe we are not what we continuously speak. We are not what we continuously think. We are what we continuously hide.

For the most part of my life, I had been told I was different from the rest of my family. The only one with unruly red hair, the only one who was left handed, the only one who had freckles and was always tall for my age. None of it bothered me, until a black envelope arrived one day in the mail, addressed to me. Unnoticed by anyone, I hid it in the folds of my coat, ran upstairs, and carefully hid it in my dresser. The weight of it felt odd, and the soft material was so pristine, I was sure it was an accident.

After much hesitation, I read the following:

                        Join us to celebrate the life of our esteemed Ringmaster:

                                                        FORTUNATO

                      The funeral procession will depart at midnight at Althoff Trail

                                            “To be gone is a mystery,

                                           To be found is to have liberty.”

The rest of the day went by in a haze while I deliberated and talked myself out of going, for naught. When darkness fell, my feet led me to the edge of the trees where the forest began across the street from my house. I did not have to wait long, someone was waiting for me already.

           “Didn’t think you’d come,” he said, wearing a long black coat, and top hat that hid his white hair.

           "Didn’t think so either,” I replied and unsure of what to do, I followed him, knowing it was someone I had never met or seen before. Trusting this stranger would have to suffice.

           “Why did I get an invitation?” I asked after walking in silence.

           “Why not?” he replied.

           “I don’t even know who this—man was.”

           “That’s not important, is it? We are here to celebrate life.”

           “Yes, but…who was he?”

           “A man of importance, a man of honor.”

           “Is that all?”

           He paused surveying me, “You are a peculiarity.”

           “That’s not so bad,” I say, shrugging it off, used to it.

The edge of the trees became denser, and suddenly, he paused, his voice clear in the darkness, “They’ll be no turning back here. What you are about to see is of extreme privacy and magic. What do you say?”

A million things I thought to say, and one only one escaped, “To be found is to have liberty…that was on the invitation…”

            “And, what are you hoping to find?”

I can hardly hear what I say but understand its intensity, “Me.”

He smiled and said, “Oh yes. We can surely fit that in our schedule.”

                                           *****************************

          “Here comes the boy,” someone whispers. “Yes, I see him, he’s here. We can begin.”

The figure that I followed in the distance was gone. Odd faces and bright-colored costumes took its place. There are smiles, claps, and whistles along with whispers that travel with the wind and the torches that some carry in their gloved hands.

           “To the heir,” an older woman said dressed in a golden trapeze costume. She stood at the center next to a carriage on a trail in the middle of the forest, holding a torch.

           “Let us begin now,” she addressed the crowd. The procession began, and the large carriage moved along with everyone trailing behind it, chanting a song. I moved along, entranced by the lights, colors, and masks, when someone told me, “Welcome, we’ve been expecting you.”

          “What do you mean?” I paused and the song came to a halt, and all eyes are on me.

          “My dear boy,” the older woman approached me, “you’re to inherit this circus.”

          “What? I…I had no idea. No one told me. Why, the man who brought me here...he’s…”

          “Not to be found, is he?” My head swirled, and I nervously tried to spot the black top hat and glimmering white hair, that was nowhere in sight.

           “Who…is he?”

           “That was our Ringmaster, Fortunato.” Everyone bowed their heads in respect.

           “Now, it’s your turn to find liberty, eh?” She holds the torch out to me, bidding me to take it. “Will you join us?”

Time stops for the dead constantly. Yet, it’s a comfort to know we’re not alone in the universe because maybe all we really want is to be understood.

My Aunt Lyla would take us walking through the woods behind her home. The trees would move with the wind and slowly the leaves on the ground would rustle.

“Sh. Listen, they’re talking,” she’d say, kneeling on the ground. “The trees are speaking to one another, and if you wait, will you listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” my younger sister, Elise, whispered, scanning for something, waiting to hear them speak.

“They’re language is not like ours,” my aunt said, her hair flowing in the wind. “Words are not the only thing one needs to make a language.”

“Who understands them, Aunt?” I whispered. She smiled at me, while glancing up. “Is there anyone out there who can?”

“Oh, there is one. He understands all languages, even the ones that are not spoken.”

“Where is he then?” Elise looked around, as if he might appear too, from among the trees.

“There are legends, but the one I believe is he’s trapped—deep in the forests, somewhere; he’s not been seen in ages. Since then, everything has not been right, almost…forgotten.” She grabbed our hands to return home.

    “And what did he do, Aunt? Why is he of great importance?”

I remember her smile, her stare, as she walked. “My dear, he’s the reason why there’s anything at all to stand for. The natural world exists because of him, many creatures great and small thank him for all of it, and not to mention, stories—well, he invented them, of course.”

We were small then, young enough to believe fairy-tales, and old enough to know she spoke truth.

“What is he called?” Elise said softly.

“The Engineer. The Engineer of Storytelling.”

The trees moved in agreement, and the wind glistened in the fading sunlight, as we walked home, before darkness consumed the forest.

It comes and goes.

It rarely stays;

It disappears, if you've got nothing to say.

It never bothers much;

It learned to stay down,

hidden away from routine and such.

It stands alone,

It waits to be summoned,

feeling lost and forlorn.

It dwells forgotten,

It knows you might be scared to entertain it.

Knowing what you'd find if you'd only contemplate it.