The love a young child has for a flower, is unusual to what most consider “true love”. It's not brotherly love, or romantical love, but the love for something beautiful; the desire to pick it, and have it be your own forever. The sad truth is that no flower lasts; they barely survive a few weeks not to mention forever. As soon as the flower is plucked, it's beauty fades and the child loves it no more, tossing it out with yesterday's rubbish. There is something to be said about the life such a flower leads; killed out of love, only for the lover to realise its subject’s close demise and proceed onward without a second thought. I believe that the flower doesn't mind. I don't think I would mind. To be loved and then forgotten can be better then never being loved; living slightly longer just to die of natural causes all on your own. Out of the two, can there be a better choice?

There was once a man that had a beautiful library, filled to the point of bursting, with books. Just seeing him on the street in a blueish-white button down shirt and jeans, you wouldn't look twice. He wouldn't look special.

But he had other books, seven to be exact, that stood apart from his library. One was red, one was orange, one was yellow, one was green, one was blue, one was purple, and one was brown. Each giving off a beautiful shimmer. They were leather bound and sat on shelf right next to his bed. They were the most precious things he owned.

Sure he had tons of other books, millions in his library, but he chose to read these for a reason other than a good story.

He would come home from work, eat some bread, sandwich or toast or some other form, for he had not eaten all day. Then he would go to his room, stepping lightly on the hard wooden floors.

He stood directly in front of the shelf, the books at eye level. Then he would admire them, peer at each one carefully, before choosing one in particular (in this case the red book).

As pulled it from its stand, he could already feel it happening. The thing that all stories talked about, fiction or nonfiction. Magic.

He held the story in his arms and felt the sensation climbing his back like warm water. He looked down smiling expectantly, and saw nothing, not even his fancy shoes. It was working. He placed one hand of fingers in front of his face, and peered through their translucence.

He closed his eyes, then, just feeling it travel through him. And then feeling him travel.

When he would open his eyes, he would see a new world, for it was different every time. He would then spend hours, sometimes days, exploring the new place. He always knew it couldn't last, and he always wished it would, but inevitably he would close the book, and open his eyes, and no time will have passed at all.

Then he would place the book back reluctantly, and fall into a sleep.

The next morning he would wake up, brush his teeth, comb his hair, eat breakfast, and dress in business attire.

He would go to work, and nobody passing on the streets would think he was anything special. Nobody would do a double take. Maybe he wasn't all that incredible, but you don't have to be an incredible person, to go incredible places, and do incredible things.

She was his, and then she wasn't, and he didnʼt think he could ever get over this new fact. It had all been an accident but he couldnʼt help but be angry. At who, he didnʼt know, but he had become constantly nauseous, and headaches came more and more. What was worse was the pain to the left of his chest. That indescribable pain that he somehow couldnʼt cleanse, could destroy, could never be rid of. It traveled with him. He could no longer produce tears.

The grass stuck into his leg, but he didnʼt brush it away. Some flying thing buzzed around his head but he wouldnʼt swat at it. All he did, all he ever did, was sit, legs crossed on the grave, her grave, and stare at the headstone. He would read the engravings making sure they said what he thought they said.

Alicia Spint

1998–2016

Loved by many

He almost never left the marking, and by now the grace where he sat everyday had yellowed, from lack of sun. He was determined to never let her go. To mourn her forever, because that was the kind of attention she deserved.

Then he felt a pressure on his spine, one that he hadnʼt felt in months. A soft touching.

Shasta whipped his head around and could almost see… he thought he saw… Nevermind. He turned back to the headstone, his back hunched. Hallucinations; he had expected nothing less. Then a soft whispering in his ears. Shasta.

He fled to his feet, scrambling wildly. The voice sounded too familiar.

“Whoʼs there?"

He looked around expectantly. He wiped at his face, raw from crying.

"Where are you?"

Nothing but the wind bending the grasses, and the rubble of other headstones. Can you hear me Shasta?

She was nowhere. The whispers were in his head.mHis eyes tried to cry again but couldn't. He could feel them straining and it hurt.

"Ali?" He whimpered. He throat was closing up, he barely breath. It was too good to be true. It wasnʼt true. He had to convince himself of that. Believing would only lead to disappointment. Shasta. The voice cried. This couldnʼt be true, it couldn't. He crashed to his knees, and he cried out. Shasta, please do not cry for me. He couldnʼt help it. I canʼt bear it. Your sadness. His eyes continued to search for her everywhere. He could almost see her. Glimpse her in places, but every time it was nothing. It wasnʼt real. It couldnʼt be. Please forget me. She said. Please be happy again.

And then she was right in front of him. There faces were so close. She had tear stains the gleamed on her cheeks as the sun hit them. Pieces of her hair was falling out of her braid. Then she took his hand. Her fingers were cold and clammy. Never cry for me again. She said.

Then she closed her eyes and looked away. What was she doing? Why was she here? His mind was filled with questions, but none of it compared with his overwhelming desire to kiss her.

She cried as she raised her hand to his face, still not looking at him, crying even harder now. Never cry for me again, Shasta. She said, without moving her lips.

"Alicia-”

Her icy fingers touched to his temple and he forgot his desire, he forget his questions, he forgot his sadness. There was no girl. He looked down at the grave next to him, confused and tired.

What was he doing here? He hated graveyards, though he didnʼt know why. He stepped over the grave, glancing curiously at the single spot of yellow grass, then walked home. Maybe heʼd watch a film.

When you want something, like really want something; wanting it to the point where that's the only thing you think about; where all other thoughts are led directly to that one thing?

Lust, the emotion that makes us look like idiots, but makes us feel so in love. Never fully in control of yourself, but never fully want to be.

And the ecstasy of lust returned?Nothing can compare.

And I'm warm again.

Wrapped up in nothing but soft fabrics, and the bony arms of children. Nothing will ever feel this good.

The frosty winds of the outer world are barely remembered.

For now the children have wrapped me in warmth, and welcomed me home. Their laughter the tinkling of bells, their voices all small and high and innocent.

Filling me with warmth, rays against my skin. I'm warm again.