The sun sweltered as Rick and Elpinoino trudged through the dry beige grass, that rippled like waves in the wind, to the top of the hill. They paused in the shade of a loan oak. Rick slipped off his heavy pack, dropping it to the ground. He pulled his canteen from his belt and took a swig.

"There is the Miw." Elpinoino nodded toward the blue river that snaked through the valley below.

"Then, Marketland's not far," said Rick. He replaced his canteen and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. "Listen, Elp, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but..." He paused, and looked down at his leather boots scuffing at the dry grey dirt.

Elpinoino tipped his head. "What troubles you, Richard?"

Rick avoided his friend's dark eyes. "Ya know, I've got this reputation, see." He swallowed uncomfortably. "If folks were to see me coming into the city with you... That is... They might get the wrong idea about me."

"Are you saying, Richard Manderly, that you don't want to enter Marketland by the side of the friend who roamed the vast wastes with you? Who fought the minotaur by your side? Who braved Diablo Canyon to find you when anyone else would have given you up for lost? Are you saying that you are afraid if others see you with me, they will think you less of a man?"

Rick grimaced at the bluntness of his friend's words, then ventured to glance at his face. He quickly looked down and shrugged. "Well, yeah. That's the gist of it. Don't take it personally. It's just 'cause of me and my reputation, which I gotta uphold, and you being, you know, what you are."

Elpinoino sighed. "Richard," he began slowly, looking at Rick as one looks at a slow child who needs more patience than the rest, "I have my own business in Marketland. Whether I enter before you, behind you, or by your side, it makes no difference to me." 

Rick turned to Elpinoino, and man and pink unicorn regarded each other.


Amanda Borenstadt lives and writes in California with her husband and the two youngest of their five daughters. You can visit her here:
http://afortnightofmustard.blogspot.com/

My father came home sour from work this morning. Six squares of glass rattled in their panes as the backdoor shut a little harder than normal.

He’d been this way ever since they put him on the night beat.

He grabbed a bottle of beer from the icebox, letting itsdoor close on its own.  Normally Ma would throw a fit for drinking in the morning, but since it was the end of his day she let him go without saying a word.

He pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table where I was eating breakfast.

“Ya tired Da?”

“Guess so Paddy. Guess so.” Then he reached across and scratched the top of my head with a smile.  We sat quietly for a long time. Then he stood up ready for bed and began to leave but not before stopping in the hall and looking back at us. 

“I love you both.” He said.

Ma looked proud and I felt safe as he turned and walked up the stairs.

They were not the same: the boy I kissed and the boy I missed. Not that summer when life revolved around staying out past city curfew. Stupid restrictions.

The boy I kissed didn’t matter. Boredom owned that summer night, and his lips were put to better use kissing than talking. He had nothing to say, yet said a lot of it. When he kissed me goodbye, I told him not to call. When he called anyway, I hung up on him. He was just a kiss. Not even that. Entertainment, distraction, a display of indifference.

The boy I missed did matter, meant more than curfew and its phony limitations. I wanted his restrictions, the rules that come with commitment: Kiss only me, and, I will say what I mean, and, Don’t hang up on me.

Brilliance possessed that sun-warmed afternoon, and when our words stuck in our throats – too big for the kids we were – he said them anyway, stumbling, refusing to fall, holding on tight. Faces close, hearts closer, souls quaking with awe, and we couldn’t. Because it would mean something bigger than we two who loved, but knew not yet how to accomplish it.

I remember the insignificant because the kisses were merely a game of pitch-and-catch with a conveniently present stranger possessing the same empty inclination to pass the time.

Yet, I gave nothing in that quiet exchange with the boy who would have kept the reverence, treasured the sacred; the boy who became the man who became the world; who, standing by the lake after curfew ended, I thought of as the sun rose ending the meaningless summer night. I grew to realize the kiss I didn’t have was timeless. Unforgettable.

Alayne Fenasci lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Originally from New Orleans, she finds words to be much like her city: raw and beautiful. Alayne writes only when breathing.