In a town that lay somewhere between the world of waking and the realm of forgotten dreams, there was a man who sold sunsets. His shop perched on the edge of a jagged cliff, where the sea sighed against the rocks far below, and the sky burned with the fading hues of day. The shop had no sign, no lights, and yet every evening, just as the first stars dared to shimmer in the twilight, people would arrive, drawn by a longing they couldn’t quite name.

Aurelius, the shopkeeper, moved like a whisper through his dimly lit shop, his silver hair glowing faintly in the dusk. He was not just a merchant but a craftsman of moments, an alchemist of light and shadow. Each bottle on his shelves held a piece of the sky—amber glass shimmering with the fire of a desert sunset, midnight-blue vials deep as the endless ocean, and rose-gold flasks that captured the tender blush of dawn just as it kissed the night away. To gaze into one of his bottles was to lose oneself in a beauty that felt almost familiar, like a half-remembered dream.

But those who came did not merely seek pretty things. They were drawn by a deeper need—an ache to capture a moment that had slipped through their fingers, a hope to relive something beautiful that had once seemed eternal. For a price, Aurelius would take the dying light of the day and weave it into something tangible. But the cost was not measured in gold or silver. His sunsets came at a price more precious than money—a memory, an emotion, a piece of the soul.

The exchange was always the same: a fading recollection in return for a fragment of the sky. An old woman surrendered the memory of her first kiss, long forgotten but still sweet; a young man traded the laughter of a friend lost to time. They would hold the bottles in trembling hands, a light that flickered just out of reach, and walk away with a glimmer in their eyes, never quite aware of what had been taken from them.

For Aurelius knew that nothing was truly free, and the heart’s deepest desires always came with a cost. He himself had once paid dearly, though he no longer remembered what it was he had given away.

One evening, as the sky bled into shades of crimson and violet, a woman entered his shop. Her steps were hesitant, and her gaze wandered, as though she was not entirely sure where she was. She wore sorrow like a second skin, and her eyes held the weight of untold stories and dreams that had slipped through her fingers. She approached the counter with a slow, quiet grace, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“I’d like to buy a sunset,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the evening breeze. “But I have nothing left to give.”

Aurelius looked at her, truly looked, as though for the first time in ages he was seeing beyond the surface of the world. Her eyes, though weary, still flickered with the faintest ember of hope—a light so fragile it could have been mistaken for a shadow. His hand faltered as he reached for a bottle, and he felt a pang of something he had long since forgotten—compassion, or perhaps it was recognition.

“You have already given more than enough,” he replied, his voice trembling like the last notes of a lullaby. Without another word, he selected a bottle of the clearest crystal, a vessel that held not a hint of color. He carried it to the edge of the cliff, where the sky seemed to dissolve into the sea, and uncorked the bottle with a reverence reserved for lost things.

The sunset spilled forth, not as light but as something more—an indescribable warmth that seeped into the very fabric of her being. It filled the hollows within her, the spaces carved out by grief and longing, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she breathed. The air tasted like stardust and saltwater, like a lullaby sung in a language she almost remembered.

As the light faded from the sky, leaving only the indigo embrace of night, the woman turned to Aurelius with tears glistening like dew. “Thank you,” she whispered, though the words seemed impossibly small for the enormity of the gift she had received.

Aurelius only nodded, his gaze lingering on the horizon as though searching for something beyond it. He watched as she walked away, her silhouette melting into the night, and felt a quiet emptiness where the light had once been. For as long as he could remember, he had traded beauty for memories, moments for the pieces of people's lives they could not bear to keep. But this time, he had given away more than a sunset; he had given a part of himself.

That night, Aurelius closed the shop earlier than usual. As the stars began to glow above the darkened sea, he took down a bottle that had gathered dust on the highest shelf—a bottle that held a sunset long forgotten, wrapped in a memory he could not name. He uncorked it slowly, letting the light fill the shop one last time.

And as he watched the sunset dance within the glass, Aurelius wondered if, perhaps, there was a way to mend what was lost—to find again the beauty in simply watching the day slip into night, without needing to hold on to it.

In the end, what would you trade for a piece of the sky?

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Dear God,

I pray to you in whispers

And tired, weary sighs

My days are empty echoes

Of restless, night time cries

But I think on how You do collect

Each tear spilt from my eye

You keep them in a vessel

Because for me, You chose to die

—————————————

You keep track of all my sorrows.

You have collected all my tears in your bottle.

You have recorded each one in your book.

Psalm 56:8

I look at myself

In the shard of a mirror

Feel so sick of myself

Feel the end getting nearer

My love, you should hate me

I'm so sorry you don't

For all the times I made you happy

I've hurt you tenfold

My love, if only I could

Give you the rest of my time

You would have it all

It's better spent on you than I

I was hoping my heartfelt apology, cooking your favorite dinner and letting you have ultimate control of the t.v. remote for the rest of the month would make amends. But upon opening the pantry and seeing you bought Unfrosted Strawberry Pop Tarts, it sent a clear, passive-aggressive message that you’re still mad at me.

If you saw a shattered plate, you would not glue it.

But here I am- tape, wire, wrap, string and glue all over.

Because I tried to fix something that only drew blood when I picked it up.

And I am horribly empty, despite knowing it would happen.

Perhaps it's exhaustion in my bones, or poison from adhesives steeping from where I'm all wound up.

I keep trying. I am so tired. So sticky and so interweaved with myself that I've lost which limb is meant to go where.

I try, I try, I try. I get jagged edges in my side for thanks.

I wonder if I'll stop purchasing bindings before or after I unbind myself.

To all the survivors

Being born as we speak

I can't promise you much

But I know you're not weak

You've fought a whole war

Where no one could see

But you're not really alone

And that shits the key

When you're lost in the darkness

And can't find you way back

Remember these words

You can weather any attack

You're a survivor

It's what we do

An emotional Macgyver

Who can carry through

I know that shits tough

And I'm right there with you

But that's how you know

You can see this shit through

So the next time you're lost

In a neverending nightmare

Just close your eyes

And know that we're right there

Papasan Chair

October 05, 2024

Discovered for free

On Craig’s List

Obtained by convincing another

I should be the rightful owner

She explained she

Already owned the cushion

I explained

I already had the space

The previous owner

Suggested a game of

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Two out of three

She shot with paper

I countered with scissors

Advantage moi

She counterattacked with rock

I faulted with scissors

Deuce

For the finale

She suggested a change of locale

Perhaps my deck

I suggested she bring the beverage

And the cushion

Perhaps a Merlot

A date lasting into the night

Covering the duration of two movies

Finishing the bottle

We never

Partook

In the last shot

Human footprints which date back 23,000 years have surfaced in White Sands National Park. Might the prints belong to a man spearfishing on the shores of some now extinct ocean? Or to a woman collecting shells there for a bauble? Or even to a child running at play, or from some ancient danger? Who is to say, except that a human was here, and once passed this way?

23,000 years? There are footprints found in Greece which scientists claim are +5m years old. “El Graeco” they call the owner of the foot who made them, though they cannot know his name, or even she had one. This is, of course, even older than the prints of “Lucy” found in Tanzania… twice as old, in fact.

Neil Armstrong’s footprints are not nearly that old, but they are still up there. With a strong enough telescope you could see them. It could be that Musk will send someone up who wipes them away in the soft dust, whether purposefully or accidentally. It will not really matter that they are destroyed, I supposed, as their significance will have been lost anyway, at that time. And maybe they already are insignificant, as NASA conspiracy theories abound.

Still, they are there. I know they are.

Well, “who are you,” some of you might be asking, and “how can you know”? Excellent questions these. I applaud you for asking them. They are questions I might have ventured myself, once upon a time, though they are also ones with no good answers, for my footprints (if any can still be found) are as irrelevant now as are those discovered in White Sands.

For you see, I am laid out. My body probed, picked clean, and wiped over; vanity’s and insecurities notwithstanding. With any luck my suit is gray (as I abhor black and blue) and my tie red. Other than that I do not care, nor do such trivialities matter anymore… not now, as the lid is being closed, leaving me safe inside my own capsule. Safe to wait 23,000 years. Safe to wait +5m years. Safe to wait an eternity until unearthed and opened, whence I can be marveled over by those who will cease to exist themselves, in their own good time.

But should that footprint of mine be found someday, it will be a clean print and honest, left by a man who passed this way with the intelligence to question what was told, and the courage to believe what was true.