I've been in this home before. If you can even call it a home. It's a cage really. The food is awful and dry but it's regular. It's the stench that's truly inhumane, rising up from the floors, like dead bodies from a grave. It's what brings the reality crashing back. That reminds us this isn't how life is meant to be lived. It's especially unbearable when the sun hits the stains on the cement where others soiled themselves in their own rooms.

I was brought here because I broke the cardinal sin of our kind. I bit someone. They deserved it, though, the tiny beastly thing. I regret nothing. My punishment is being sent to this place for others like me, brought here to be humbled into submission.

Simon starts jumping in place like he's a broken jack-in-the box and shouts at the top of his lungs. It's how the rest of us know someone's come in to gawk at us. He's directly in front of the door.

The answering sounds of my comrades around me are deafening. Even worse than the smell, their roars and taunting make my ears tingle. I lower my head instead of joining them. Provoking doesn't accomplish anything. You either get picked or you don't. If you're lucky you'll get a break from the prison stench but that's all. The sooner Simon learns that the better. But Simon's as dumb as they come.

I smell them before I see them. Without moving my head I breath in the fruity minty scent of the person nearing my cell. Any fragrence would stand out in this place but something about the combination does funny things with my head. Brings back memories. Feelings. Fleeting and blurry, but happy. I wasn't always forgotten about, I was loved once. The reminder is just as painful as it is wonderful.

The person kneels in front of me. I'm squatting in the corner of my cell, back against the wall, and I raise my head to look at them. They stare at me through the holes of the chain link fence that protects them from me. Their face is red and shiny.

"Hi, there." they say surprised, as if they assumed my cell to be empty. They look up at a sign above my cell. "Oscar?"

I know better than to be hopeful. Just because I'm where they stop means nothing. Even when they open my cage and reach in for me I know it'll be frutiless.

I know the drill: walk around the facility with them, be evaluated, be good. But what's the point? I never leave. Maybe someday I'll be put by the door like Simon. The first sight of those entering. Springing and shouting because I've lost my mind hoping someone will care about me again.

Stepping outside the air seems to have fingers that reach into me and pull me forward. Fragrant fresh air. My nose leads me, sniffing rapidly to store as much of it as I can before going back in. So many smells I'd almost forgotten about. The grass and trees and things blowing in the wind from far away. Everything. I want to smell everything. To drown out the stench until I can't remember the cell.

We've made our rounds and I've no idea what the person's said as we make our way back to the building. I knew it wouldn't last long but still it stings to be lead through the front doors again. To be taken back, heading for my cell. It hurts a little worse each time.

The fresh air renewed me only to be crushed under the weight of filth again.

I turn the corner, making my way to the doors that have Simon on the other side. But I'm tugged gently in the opposite direction. I freeze in place staring blankly at the person that chose me.

They motion for me to follow them, encourage me to their side. We sit at a desk where I watch in astonishment as this person talks with the front desk, nods their head, and signs papers.

I study them differently now. How they smile at those around them making their ruddy cheeks bulge like shiny apples. How they reach out to me subconscienly as if I'm already ingrained into their memory. How they cross their feet and sit peacefully like there isn't a care in the world.

It's so apparent I can almost smell it. This person is good. They are kind and warm and affectionate. The realization has me on my feet. Moving closer to them. Feeling a hope like I haven't felt in a long time. I'm suddenly a youngin' bouncing and panting trying to get them to pick me even though it seems they already have.

We turn away from the desk. Beside this new person I'm walking again toward the front doors. I'm leaving. I will greet fresh air again like a long lost friend and embrace it, cling to it so it knows how much I've missed it. Only there's no way to tell it such things because it is bigger than what I remembered and drowns out the sounds of my own thoughts as it whips past me through the open window of this person's car.

I look at the person. My person. This lovely red faced thing that freed me and gave me another chance. I want to tell them I'll never bite them. That I'll be good and honest and trustworthy. I do so the only way I know how. I lick their face and wag my tail at their laughter.  I'm going to live life like it's suppossed to be lived. Be loved. I have a home.

The day the elves found a child in their midst will never be forgotten. It was a babe really; Tiny, pink, and foreign. The wrinkly chubby infant didn’t cry when Morgana, Queen of Shishtar, picked him up with her cold white hands.

Whispers bled through the castle about the recklessness of the Queen who brought the thing home with her like a stray jinga pup she found in the woods. Many shook their heads and agreed that the human was dangerous, not to be trusted or left to live, and they were right.

But Morgana, third wife of King Lattaire, never bore elflings of her own. The helpless naked babe pricked at her lonely heart when it cooed at her razor toothed smile.

“Look at him, Lattie. He’s just a baby. What could he do to us?” She knew how the nickname affected her husband but the shaded wrinkles on his white face never moved.

The king’s long grey hair shimmered down his back like a waterfall and poured over each of his shoulders like a headdress. “It’s when he’s not a baby, Morgana, that I worry about. Where did he come from? How did a human end up in our land? All our work to keep humans ignorant of the part of land they share with us could be ruined. What if someone came looking for him? What then?”

“You’ve said so yourself what we lack in numbers we make up for in power. There’s no human soul in possession of magic like ours.”

“You forget the indian tribes that moved south when their chief deemed the land cursed. They seemed affected enough by our crystals.”

Morgana looked at the walls of their chamber. She held the infant close to her bosom as if she could protect the child from the interference of their tinkling rocks that grew from the ground. The purple tinted crystals were the source of their abilities. It’s true that humans seemed to take on certain talents when living near the invisible elf metropolis.

“Nothing was proven,” she said without looking at her husband. “Only sightings of small unexplainable tricks, that’s all.”

“And so when they come tearing down our walls you would have us fight the human race over a child that belongs to them? He’s not like us, Morgana, and if we don’t get rid of him now he may get rid of us.”

“Oh shush.” It was unclear if she shushed her husband or the babe as she bounced him and twirled his brown curly hair on her long spindly fingers. “You suggest we leave him out in the forest then, to be eaten by the snagboars or freeze to death in the night? Or would you rather just toss him over the border and say good riddance?”

The king sighed and rubbed at his gray forehead. “Of course not.”

“Then let me care for him while your guards search for a village to place him in. They can report to me and when a suitable place is found we will drop him in their care.”

Lattaire stepped closer to his wife. Pulling her to him by her elbows he forced her to look into his yellow burning eyes. “And what until then? What of the village of elves who seek to kill this baby tonight? They will see me as a weak king who cannot control his queen. This thing will never be accepted here.” He shook her as he looked at the sleeping baby in her arms with fear. Morgana wrenched herself from his grasp as Lattaire continued.  “It will never be safe here. If you care about this human life at all I suggest you get rid of it quickly.”

Her Golden eyes bore into her tortured husbands soul as she mulled over his words. “Of course,” she whispered.

In her mind she had every intention to follow her husbands orders. He was right after all. He was always right. It’s why he was chosen to be King, because he was of sound mind and judgement. He could keep the people safe no matter the problems brewing at home.

Morgana did care for this child and did see that it was not safe for it within the walls of Shishtar. But in her heart there was a chamber of hope that her people would, over time, see what she saw. She could keep this strange babe safe just as her King kept the people safe, couldn’t she?

Without acknowledging that sliver of hope even to herself she nodded to her king and agreed. “You have my word, Lattiare. He won’t be a burden for long.”

The king had no reason to hear the careful promise or to examine the hidden meaning in her words. He simply spun on his heel and left her to tend to the human angel baby.

                                                                 ***

“Look Ama! Look what I can do!” The boy with strange blue eyes clapped his hands and made beautiful rocks spout out of them like bubbles. His brown curls cascaded down hisl pink back instead of the stiff straight hair of an elf. His arms were no longer soft and pliable but rounded with budding muscles. Though he had grown much he had never reached the height of the elves and never would.

“Not at the table Orom,” Morgana chided with a smile.

“Yes, Ama.”

To hear the name Ama, Mother, on the lips of the boy made Morgana’s heart soar everytime.

The door to their dinner chamber swung open like shattered glass and it pained Morgana to see the transformation on her son’s face. He feared the king and oh how she longed for her husband to accept this life she loved so much.

“Good evening, Afa,” Orom said politely.

Morgana could tell he knew how much Lattiare hated to be called Father, but also knew she insisted upon it. Orom made the title quiter every time he spoke it.

The king grunted. “What’s this?” he said, pointing to the jeweled rocks on the table and along the floor.

Knowing the king forbade it, Orom’s eyes widened making the white in them more visible as he stared down at his new magic trick.

Morgana jumped to his rescue. “I found them in the river today,” she said quickly. “Aren’t they beautiful? Orom and I were just picking our favorites.”

On que, Orom picked up a golden yellow pebble and held it up to Morgana. “This one matches your eyes, Ama.”

She took the stone and then grasped the hand of the young boy. She bent her head forward and Orom who already knew the traditions of the elves closed his eyes and let their foreheads touch.

Lattaire cleared his throat with a grumbling in his chest and a snarl on his lip. “Another group was lost today.”

Morgana lifted her head to the words.

“I still don’t know if they’re just out of range or gone for good but we can no longer hear their reports through the crystals.”

“And still no sign of human life?”

“None. It’s as if they disappeared and this babe is the last of it’s kind.” He looked at Orom then but not in a loving or even worried sort of way. He looked at Orom with a sense of dread and obligation as if the kid were a parasite he couldn’t get rid of.

“He’s not a babe anymore,” Morgana said as she stroked the boy’s cheek with a soft hand. “He’s growing to be a fine young man.”

Orom smiled at the words.

“Yes, a man,” Lattaire clipped the top edge of his empty glass chair with his hand and a shard flew through the air. He walked across the room to the open window. “What are we to do with a man?”

“These soldiers have families,” Morgana said, ignoring his outburst. “Could we not stop the hunt for now?”

He turned a hard face to Morgana. “You would wait for danger to find us then? Whatever took the humans could come for us too. It’s about more than just finding his family now. It’s about being ready for what’s out there.”

“How is sending elf after elf out into the unknown, never to return, preparing us?”

Lattaire stomped forward, “How is holding onto this thing,” he swung his arm out to Orom but glared at Morgana, “not the contributing to the problem? Perhaps he is their King and there are wars being fought for this lost heir. Or he was a curse they threw into our territory to rid themselves of.”

Lattaire took several more stomping steps. Orom hid behind Morgana as she bared her teeth and hissed.

Lattaire stood in place his eyes blazing.

Morgana stood her ground and shouted back holding Orom close with one arm behind her. “You may be failing your people but you will not take your anger out on this innocent fiu.” She noticed her slip as soon as it left her lips. The elf word for boy. She called him her elfling in front of Lattaire.

The king straightened taller and taller until he towered over her with his blue cape billowing around them. The air stirred stronger through the room and lifted the kings hair off his shoulders. His booming voice made the crystals in the room tinkle and sing. “He is not an elf! You forget yourself, wife.”

The cold words and wind made Morgana shrink.

“You are too attached. You would really rather see our people’s lives in jeopardy than have this one human released into the world he belongs to? I’ve let this go on for too long.” He stepped forward but as soon as his hand touched her arms he was thrown across the room.

Morgana looked down to see Orom peaking out from behind her skirts. Could he be the power behind the attack?

“Don’t touch her,” the boy said. His voice was confident and clear not an ounce of hesitation wavering across his flushed human lips.

Lattaire took command of the force that pushed him and descended calmly on the floor just before hitting the window.

“You’ve been teaching him the elements,” Lattaire shouted in disgust.”You’ve been showing him the very tools that will aide him in defeating us?”

Morgana shook her head between husband and son. Her white hair hitting her in the face as she spoke. “I showed him nothing. He lives here among us peacefully why shouldn’t he be able to practice our ways? He’s done nothing to earn our mistrust. Nothing to hurt us.”

For a moment the room was still. The air calmed and the walls were silent. The eyes of the King and Queen battled a silent match, neither one of them willing to give in.

“You’ve chosen who you serve.” The king's voice was nothing but a whisper. “With this misplaced love, you’ve already destroyed us. He goes before a council in the morning.”

Lattaire left on a cloud of ice wind that pushed the crystal door open as he approached.

The room shook when the door closed behind him and so did Morgana. Had she really chosen to serve this human boy above her people? How had she let things excelate to this? She was so certain that the elves would learn to love him as she did. But now she saw her love differently. It tore people apart instead of bring them together. Not only had she brought hardship to her land and divided the people but she held back this human boy as well. What opportunities did he miss by being with them instead of his kind? What horrors does the rest of his world now face and could her son have changed their fate? Could he save them now?

Before she could change her mind, she spun and knelt in front of the young boy and took his hands in hers.

“You’ve learned much while with us, Orom.” she couldn’t look at his strange eyes, the color of the sky. She couldn’t look upon the confusion that was surely there.

“I’m sorry, Ama. I shouldn’t have-”

She put her fingers on his warm mouth and shushed him. “You will always be my fiu, my little elfling.”

“You’re sending me away? No, Ama. I’ll be good. I promise I won’t-”

Morgana took the boy in her arms and pressed him to her bosom as she did on that first day so long ago. “I would never send you away. You will always be with me as I am with you.” She leaned over and stretched out an arm toward the wall. Wrapping her long white hands around a large purple crystal she broke one off with a loud snap. A tear rolled down her cold cheek. “But I feel it in my heart just as I felt it when I found you that you are needed elsewhere. I needed you then. Someone else needs you now.”

Morgana pulled back from Orom and looked at him. She placed the crystal in his hands. “Your people need you, Orom. With the magic you’ve learned here you can help find them. You can save them." She pushed the brown curls off his shoulder. "I'm so happy fate sent you to me to love for just a little while. But Lattaire is right. I must serve my people. And you must serve yours.”

Was there time for Orom to save his people or was it too late? Morgana didn’t want to admit how much she hoped the humans were all gone and someday her son would come back to her with no where else to go.

Would her people accept him then? Was there time before then to make amends with her husband and her kingdom as well?

She wiped at his wet cheeks one last time and memorized the contours of his angelic pink face.

“Someday I’ll bring our people together, Ama. Someday I’ll make even Afa proud.”

Morgana’s heart bubbled and she hoped to the crystals that he would succeed.

But as she watched the retreating back of the human boy she raised, dread wrapped around her neck like a strangling wire. It intensified and burned. It was more than dread it was a poison. Instantaneous. Firm. Real. As invisible as the wind.

Morgana scratched and scraped at her throat and fell to her knees. She reached out a silent unnoticed hand to her fiu, her boy, before falling lifeless to the ground.

The day the elves found a child in their midst will never be forgotten. The boy left death in his wake and held magic in his hands.

Some would say that a feeling doesn’t have a smell. But the fortune tellers would have to disagree. At least those of us who are of true descent. The spirits and magicks that pulse through the wind--the fates and futures that rise and fall like the tides of the very air we breath--can be so chokingly distinct to a Romani, a keeper of destinies.

Still, one must be trained in the ways. To recognize how certain strains of serendipity have a familiar, welcoming spice that tickles the nostrils, while others bring with it a cloud of musky-scented mourning that clings to the lungs and lingers in the clothes.

People bring with them their own kismet, meandering off them like incense. Their moods, hopes, and fears become their own fortune teller that need merely be read by those with a nose to sense it.

I've never liked my nose really--too pointy and small. It's a wonder the insignificant thing can sense anything at all. But it does. More than I want to, that's for sure.

I hold my long hair back with a scarf, tieing it around my head with a knot against the back of my neck. A woman lifts the flap of my tent and enters bringing with her a sweet scent.

As I shuffle the cards the bangles on my wrist clang together like wind chimes singing of the impending storm. Their cold metal against my skin helps ground me. It helps focus my attention on the task at hand instead of the strong sweet odor of deceit that fills my tent and makes my stomach cramp. Deceit tricks me every time. It has an overpowering, sugary aroma that mimics the scent of love and is similar to innocence, yet without the hint of mint.

The woman before me has tight curls that barely meet her bony shoulders. Her gaunt face pulses on the sides like she’s clenching her teeth in time with her wringing hands.

I swallow.

One last attempt to cleanse my aching throat as I finally take my eyes off my client and give all my attention to the cards.

The tips of my fingers confirm the stack is ready and with eyes closed I retrieve the top card.

A metallic zing runs up my hand and I know the reading before I see it. “Reverse nine of wands,” I say.

My voice is huskier from the fire burning in my open mouth. It blazes more raw with each breath.

This card doesn’t tell me anything my sense of smell hasn’t already. “You have a secret you don’t wish to be found out.” We are merely setting boundaries for what is to come. “You are wanting to know if it's too late.”

Even I cannot sense if her husband knows of her actions. The cards must do the rest. They speak to me like the wind whispers to the trees. Like my Mother and Grandmother raised me to smell those around me, they also taught me to listen to the wands-the magic in the cards.

My fingers dance on top of the deck and the top card is harder to read through my touch but I’m certain it’s the right reading. On the table I exhale as I read it. “Upright. Six of wands.”

The air twists from sweet to sour, like milk that has spoiled. I speak swiftly to ease this woman’s dooming fear. “You’re successful in your quest and have overcome the burden of publicity you fear. See how the six of wands has a man with a wreath riding a white horse. The white horse of course represents strength," and purity, but I leave that bit out. "You have shown much strength in this situation and will surely be publicly rewarded for your efforts."

The woman smiles and her hands are finally still. I inhale deeply at the welcoming refreshing scent of ease. Like rain after a fire it soothes my lungs and throat.

A painful shock is sent through my fingers as I brush the top of the deck. The top card is not right. Closing my eyes, I hum without thinking, and my fingers are lead to the card somewhere in the deck that finishes this woman's destiny.

Down toward the end of the pile I retrieve the one card that vibrates through my fingers. I only stop humming when the Queen of wands is upside down on the table, facing me instead of the woman.

"You must beware of selfishness and jealousy."

The woman and I make eye contact and I both see and smell the worry in her face. "The queen of wands, in either position, represents fertility and the feelings emotions and hardships it brings."

The womans dirty brown eyes have lost all the shine of youth. Without looking away from my face they fill with tears.

"This could mean an obstacle will stand in the way of your success. In order to have what you desire you will have to push through this thing, or person, that stands in your way," I cringe at my own words wondering what this woman is planning and what I am leading her to do. With a shake of my head I continue. I don't need to know the detials of her life. It's none of my business. "Just as one pushes through the hardship of labor and delivery."

My smile turns to grimace as the air in the room spoils like rotten fruit. Another tricky emotion, though I’ve had more experience with lust in my tent than deceit.

I don’t process the woman’s thanks, I only hold my breath as best I can to keep from retching. She pays a grateful tip and runs off to make a mess of whatever fate I interpretted for her. I grab at my stomach as soon as she’s left, falling forward onto the table with one fluid sigh of relief.

My head clears with each fresh breath and I remove the scarf from around my head to dab at my sweating brow. The waves in my stomach calm. The flask under my table is half full and I sit up, then tilt my head back to wash it down quickly.

I blame the attacks of scents that woman put me through for why I don’t notice my next client approaching. My senses are burned numb from use and without warning a large man throws open the door flap and enters.

Sounds of laughter from the carnival and screams from the rides make a chill run up my arms. Or perhaps it’s this gentleman’s appearance that puts me on nerve. Or the fact that I can’t smell him at all.

His shape is like an upside down triangle, with wide thick shoulders and a lean waist. His black hair is unkempt, his eyebrows too shaggy to reveal any eyes, and his beard so mangy it screams laziness more than style preference.

I grab a hanky from my belt and blow my nose trying to clear my senses before we begin. “Your fortune awaits, Sir. Please have a seat in my office.”

I wrap my head dress around my head again bringing the length of the scarf down to drape over my shoulder.

Deceit and lust were tricky, but this next scent has me completely baffled. It floats out to me with an edge of warning but of what? I detect the scent of leaves and grass clippings. Anxiety? It's missing the putrid roadkill scent of fear, though it's definitely earthy. It’s nothing like the pleasant sort of dirt smells that accompany carefree moods such as mellow and relaxed. If smells could have images attached to them this one would definitely be that of a worm wriggling in the darkest of soils.

I can't put my finger on it yet there is something familiar about this man's smell. I've encountered it before. The man smiles a toothy grin and many of his remaining teeth are lopsided with brown decay.

I list again the smells I detect. Leaves, grass, earth, and the last is a nutty sort of aroma that could possibly just be something he ate while enjoying the fair.

The man says nothing, only smiles his disgusting smile and breathes a ragged breath that makes him sound like a smoker. Could that be the nuttyness I smell?

“Can I read your fortune for you, Sir? Or perhaps a palm reading?" My voice shakes at the blindness of this conversation. I still have no clue what his intentions or desires are.

“You look too young to be a fortune teller." His voice is more earthy than his scent. "And definitely too pretty to be one."

"You doubt my abilities then? How I'd love to prove them to you. Please, take a seat." My voice rises higher with each word.

A new scent of roses blends with the earthy smell. Confidence. He does not doubt my abilities at all. Rather he is counting on them. What does he want?

The tent flap is opened again and a crow comes swooping in deftly. With the sight of that bird and the smell of this man I, in an instant, realize two things. One, I know exactly where I've smelt this before and two, I am in big trouble. It all clicks. This man is one of Jarku's men, come to kill off the race of fate-readers, and this bird is with them. I was only six years old the last time I saw this bird help Jarku murder my mother. That nutty aroma I remember now is the intent to kill.

Another man steps in as the bird continues to fly at me.

Standing, I knock my chair over and grab a tarot card from the table in one fluid motion. Instead of allowing the ache to creep up my fingers I push it back into the card and it glows a dim wavering blue.

With a flick of the wrist the card goes flying through the air toward the bird and slices into its neck just as it opens its beak to squawk. The bird call is cut short as it falls with a thud to the ground. From the cards lodged position in the dead bird I can make out the five of wands and the blue light goes out.

Both men just stare at the bird while I grab all the cards from the table.

"I actually liked that bird," the new intruder says. He is taller, but just as full around the shoulders. He wears a simple once-white tunic and a leather strap across his body. The men's mouths are alike in every way, except this one is clean shaven and has white thinning hair.

Stuffing the deck into the folds of silk around my belt I grab two cards for each hand. With a step backward I crouch low and fan the cards-one pair of weapons in front of my face and another high behind my head.

“Now, now." Says the second man. "No need to make this difficult, Gypsy.”

I curl my lip at the term. People associate “Gypsy” with thief, someone they can’t trust. The moods in the air swirl around me and I focus on them trying to decipher which ones come from whom. Anticipation from the first man. Impatience, determination, and doubt from the second one before me.

“What does Jarku want?” I say, not moving from my ready stance.

“He merely needs you to do a reading for him”

I sniff. “Liar!” I spin a card toward him, missing his face by only inches.

The first, stockier man whistles then chuckles.

The fruity smell of agitation hits me in the gut and I pull another card from my sash.

“Just come quietly and we promise not to hurt you.”

The air shifts to the scent of brisk spring rivers- they’re ready to pounce and grab. Barely moving my arms I flick all four cards out in front of me. The ache leaves my fingers as the cards soar and I reload. Two of the cards hit their target, the first man’s throat, one right after another they slice his airway and he falls grasping and spluttering.

The bigger taller barrel of a man dodges and I spin all four new tarot cards out at him again. His sword is drawn and he deflects them but the last glowing tarot card knicks him on the cheek and he grunts.

Dabbing at his cheek he looks at the blood on his hands. Vanilla and warm spices fill the air. He’s enjoying this. It’s the challenge he was hoping it would be.

My hands are reloaded and I crouch again speaking back to the cards. The ache is pushed out of my fingers onto them and they glow a brighter blue than before.

He smiles and takes his stance as well. “Jarku won’t mind a small delay. Never said to deliver you alive.”

I try to give a confident smirk of my own but I know the smell of road kill in the air is from my own fear. “I don’t hand out free fortunes,” I say. “I will expect my regular payment for this reading.”

With that I spin my hands in front of me, letting go of the cards faster than I’ve ever released them. He dodges them and flips a small knife from his shoe. I lean just in time to hear it whiz through the scarf on my shoulder.

Reloaded I send two toward his feet and one at his face. His dodging steps are like a dance the way he hops and skips and moves his head away from them. He is drawing closer to me from the movements. His sword cuts through the air so swiftly that he slices the last card in half mid air.

As I’m grappling for more cards his sword comes at me. Now I’m dancing my part, a sideways frantic shuffle, but my arm isn’t quick enough and his blade makes contact. Pain in my arm makes the ache of the cards feel dull. I barely notice though when he comes at me again. I jump backward missing his second blow and have cards in my hand again.

He steps back as he sees my hand full of cards raise. One, two, three cards fly and the second one zips across his ear making blood rain on his neck.

The memory of the card is still on my fingers “King of wands,” I shout. Quickly I reload and crouch. “You're too cocky and impulsive to be a good fighter.” The shake is out of my voice but I reign in my own pride. Lower myself further to the ground like Grandmother taught me.

He growls as he rushes me with sword in both hands overhead. At the last minute I duck and weave out of his way. Just as he rushes by me I take a card and slice it across his back ripping his shirt and slicing skin with the end of the stroke.

The card falls to the ground. “Knight of Wands,” I say. I’m breathing heavy but smile at the appropriateness. “You must watch your temper. The knight of wands relays the loss of power. Turning to anger is the straightest path to weakness.”

He's hunched over after my blow but with a grunt he leads up with his shoulder, swinging his arm which hits me in the chest. I fall backwards from his blow and my cards spill across the dirt floor. I'm scrambling, crawling backwards like a crab as he rises and towers over me.

"Me Mother was a rotten gypsy like you." He wipes at the blood on his face as it drips into his mouth. "Always telling me about my temper."

One more crawl backward and my fingers ache against a card.

"Always telling me what I was feelin' ’fore I said anything."

The card heats, it's in my hand and I hope the glow cannot be seen from his angle.

"I'll be glad when Jarku finishes off your-"

Leading with the top of my hand my movement cuts him short as I swing from behind. The card is wedged between my fingers. With a flick it's sent off, glowing so blue it lights up the entire tent.

At first I sense his relief as he realizes I missed his throat--the death of his comrade moments ago. There isn't a hint of fear in the air as the card cuts through the fabric of his tunic and lodges deep in his chest. The heat of the glowing card makes the flesh it touches burn and the room stinks for different reasons than emotions or destiny. The only mood to be sensed is shock permeating like fresh cut lemons bold and strong.

He falls to his knees as I scramble to my feet.

The card sticking out of him has a man on top of a castle holding a globe. "The two of wands," I whisper. "Your fate looks grim. You've ignored important details in planning your future, making your downfall," he falls forward flat on top of the cards and I jump out of his way. "Inevitable."

I catch my breath as I stare at the mess made from the fight. Escaping the hand of Jarku a second time has me rooted in place shaking at every limb. To think I could do so a third time is foolish. I need to run.

The bird lies with his beak open and stiff. The metallic smell of my revenge fills the room. I bend and retrieve the card sliced in half, the nine of wands with the sick man standing alone. The last one standing, ready for battle, the card speaks to me of resilience and grit. Stepping over the men I say without looking back, "You owe me a new deck of cards."

It’s supposed to be a way to celebrate. A sinister, tragic ritual turned solemn and reverent with the passing of time. The lack of reference makes this sacrifice less barbaric and more humane. What's one more cup of blood when so much has already been spilt?

We stand in silence and remember. Even a child, in a crying mothers arms, knows to be still. An elderly man clasps his weathered hands in front of him and silently weeps. Each of us has a story of our own. Someone they instinctively remember. Someone they watched bleed. Someone they miss. A hundred years can't wash away the memories, the stories, the imprint of a lost society.

Later there will be virtual balloons and fireworks as the space crafts fly over. There will soon be sparkler candies and new whistler toys, but for now the whole new world watches in silence as we reenact the beginning our race. We are the clone race, the second chance the earth never could have, the recreation of that blood that was lost. As our old blood cries up from the dust we hear it call: "Remember us."

When I was a child I thought there was only one kind of apple. My mother had dentures and could only eat the skins of the soft, gritty, disgusting red delicious. I grew up thinking simply, "I hate apples."

And then I moved away from home.

As a young college student I stood in the grocery store and stared at the rows of bins full of apples of every shape and shade. I chose a nice round one, that was mostly yellow, except for the red pinstripe lines that cascaded down the sides.

The name "Jazz" enticed me. The crisp bite surprised me. The flavors that sang through my mouth, like a sassy Dixieland band, freed me from my delusions. It woke me from a dazed, dull reality- for I had been lied to. Apples were not meant to feel like sandpaper disintegrating in your mouth, nor were they meant to leave remnants, little grains like little bits of gravel, stuck on your gums. Apples could be juice-drippingly tart or firmly sweet.

I discovered there are 75,000 different kinds of apples. That's almost how many words are in the first Harry Potter novel. And according to a study done by The Wall Street Journal $75,000 a year is the "Perfect salary for Happiness."* My mission to taste as many of those 75,000 kinds of apples was my perfect route to happiness. Apples were, and are, amazing. I love apples!

Sometimes we think a certain way because we know nothing else. From a negative encounter with a different race we may say simply, "I don't like Mexicans." Or from a hyped news report we may exclaim, "African Americans are unlawful." Perhaps someone hurt us, degraded us, or made us feel inferior because of our sex, appearance, or age and we say simply, "all white men are the same. None of them deserve our trust." Are these opinions based on reality? Are all 75,000 of these people the same based on one possible truth?

For me, I was always free to search out my own apples and find my own truth. Yet I continued to complain about the truth that was given to me instead. I accepted the truth that stared me down in my own kitchen every day of my life and formed an opinion. I created an assumption based on what I knew to be reality.

Freedom of speech is not a trifle thing. The ability to discern and create an opinion is one of the few things that sets us apart from other species. It's a freedom that many have rallied, marched, and fought to have. But should opinion, something based on mere belief or limited experiences, be how we utilize our precious free speech?  Or should we exercise our freedom further? Should we be more careful with how we exclaim? Should we perhaps go to the grocery store ourselves and search out the other bins and farmers markets? Anyone can have an opinion. But wisdom comes from many experiences, good judgements, and understanding. These are treasures that cannot be bought for ninty-nine cents a pound. They are gained without cost or payment. Experience and understanding can be free. And with that bushel you no longer have an opinion, you have crisp, juicy, wonderful knowledge.

*https://blogs.wsj.com/wealth/2010/09/07/the-perfect-salary-for-happiness-75000-a-year/