Manzanilla de la Muerte
"Take this," the tree spoke, to the boy on the ground.
"You'll need it for when Life comes sauntering around."
"It's an apple, oh my, but why?" the boy sighed.
"Who's to say I even have a mind to comply?"
"Well fine, go ahead, ignore me I suppose. It's not as if I don't have plenty of those."
"Just hold on one second! It's pretty, I reckon. Can I take it and have it for myself since you beckoned?"
"Called you? Are you sure you have that correct? I offered the apple for you to collect."
The boy looked confused, and utterly defeated. "Alright, then it's mine," the boy conceded.
"Wonderful! Splendid! This is just how I planned! You'll be stronger against even what I can withstand!"
"What do you mean, you rotten ole' tree? Now I don't want it, please take it from me!"
"Are you deaf little one, or merely incredibly dumb? The apple is yours, and now we are done."
The boy looked around, but the tree had vanished. The spot where it stood was burned, ravaged, and damaged.
"Oh no! Oh dear! Where could it have gone? All I have is this apple, that tree was a con!"
The boy sat down on the cold earth to think, what would come next as the skies turned to ink.
"I'm really quite hungry. I've been here all night. The tree won't return, of this I am right."
So the boy relaxed, apple in hand. The juices were pleasant, if not slightly bland.
One bite, two bites, three to be sure. His appetite was in desperate need of a cure.
But once the boy stood to make his way back, the pit of his stomach felt like he needed to yack.
"Damn that tree! What did it do? I'm becoming so rigid, please, I don't want to be you!"
But before he could peep just one more word, it all went dark, as his eyesight blurred.
His arms turned to branches, his feet into roots. The tips of his fingers into delicate fruits.
Punctuationless Fear
The moonless night Unfolded Into tunnels across an extinguished Sky Smeared with Madness Life was concealed With dying Hope And tears that flooded It rained white acid from fallen angels And Embers Burned the dirty caskets And With despondency rising from its lava core The Earth was shattering for Whore desire The Blood-orange fire smelled like death It exhaled heavy over barren land The last star dropped and was lost to oblivion And As I sit here trembling my poison grows I drink brown rust to dull my Pain And birthed from you my Sorrow weeps
Artful Luck
Mellie hit the brakes for the thousandth time. If she missed this seminar, the company would never hire her. She let off the brakes to creep along with traffic.
And they stopped again.
"Excuse me, ma'am."
Mellie jolted. A man stood next to her car, crouching to look in at her.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, grinning despite his worn overalls and badly stained T-shirt. He carried an olive-toned knapsack on his back. "I was hoping you could spare some change?"
"Oh," Mellie said, "Yeah. Yeah, hang on."
With disappointment, she found only pennies in her cup holder. Mellie remembered the thirteen dollars in her pocket, the last of her money.
Hesitating briefly, she handed him eight bucks. "Here, I hope this helps."
"God bless you, ma'am."
"No problem," she said, and drove forward.
Traffic finally broke, but then a lady tripped as she crossed the street. Several large packages tumbled to the ground. Mellie glanced to the clock on her car's dash, sighing, and parked. She sprinted over and helped the woman collect the thin, rectangular parcels.
The brown packaging paper nearly ripped completely off of one.
"Is this a Cremble?" Mellie asked, admiring the fine detail of the oil painting. "I used to paint a little, as a hobby, you know."
"Not many recognize Cremble." The lady smiled, reaching in her purse and handing her a pamphlet. "Stop by the exhibit over here on First Street later."
Mellie thanked her and returned to her car. She loved to paint. She remembered in high school, how she dreamed of painting for the rest of her life.
She started backing her car out, glancing at the time.
A guy on a bicycle pounded on the trunk of her car, cursing at her. Mellie slammed on the brakes, watching the cyclist continue down the road.
She drove forward, put it back in park, and stepped out onto the street.
For as long as she remembered, she considered adulthood synonymous with money. Happiness, the same as money.
No.
Mellie strode down First Street, into the art exhibit. Cocktail dresses and suits filled the room.
"Excuse me, ma'am." The homeless man grinned. "I hear you enjoy painting?"
"Um, well..."
"This exhibit is a fundraiser to help those in need," the woman from the street explained, stepping into view from behind the man.
"Earlier, I was conducting a social experiment. I wanted a video to use for this evening," the homeless man said. "Would you care to say a few words?"
That was four years ago. Now, as she stands in a room of her own art, she reflects. If she denied the Assistant Dean of Hollister Arts Institute those eight dollars, or ignored his assistant when she tripped, Mellie's dreams may have withered.
Luck is not a mystical or random force; it is a return of that which you place into the world.
