I found it on my way to the mailbox.

It was one of those perfect summer days, not too hot, not too cold, with a nice breeze kissing my face. The tree branches swayed gently overhead in a quiet summer song, allowing the sunlight to dance through. A big gust parted the leaves a little more and let the bright rays play on a shiny surface.

Like most people, I couldn’t resist the lure of gleaming metal. I stepped into the street to investigate.

The sparkle that caught my eye was from a key. Nothing fancy, it was a standard duplicate key like the kind you can have made at any hardware store. It looked new, without a single scratch marring its surface.

Curious, I picked it up. I don’t know why. But I picked it up, dropped it in my pocket and forgot about it.

A few days later, I opened the dryer and the key fell out. After going through an entire wash cycle and then tumbling around with my jeans, it was still pristine. I fingered the cutouts, then ran my nail up and down the ridges. I wondered what kind of lock it fit, what kind of secrets it would reveal. Maybe it opened the back door of the house three doors down, where the blonde with the impressive assets lived. Or maybe it was to somebody’s storage locker where they’d hidden a lifetime of treasures. I slipped it back into my pocket.

But this time, I couldn’t seem to forget about it. It was there, teasing me with the possibilities. Yesterday, it was the missing piece of evidence that could solve the crime of the century. Today, it symbolized the trust of young lovers who had taken their relationship to a new level by sharing their keys as well as their hearts.

My curiosity grew. I found myself looking at all kinds of locks, comparing them to my key, looking for invisible clues that would indicate a match. This key was important; I could feel it.

When the local charity asked me to canvass the neighborhood for donations, I knew I had the perfect opportunity. Donation can in hand, I approached the first door.

I rang the doorbell and waited. I was in luck; nobody answered. Pulling out one of my “Sorry We Missed You” cards, I hung it around the doorknob – and tried my key in the lock. It slid sweetly into place. I gently applied pressure, holding my breath. But it stayed immobile, moving neither to the right nor the left. Disappointment mingled with elation. This lock wasn’t a match – but it supported my theory that this key was too important to fit Mrs. O’Malley’s front door. The right lock was out there, and it was going to be special.

One by one, I ruled out the houses in the neighborhood. The charity was amazed at how much money I raised; unfortunately, sometimes people were actually at home. When that happened, I took their money and watched their house until they left. Then I “tried” again, skipping the doorknob sign. Soon, nobody even paid attention to me.

I was ecstatic by the time I was through; my key was still homeless! I ran through the possibilities again, trying to decide where my next focus would be. I weighed the odds and decided that storage lockers were my best bet. The charity cover didn’t seem like a good fit, so I went to Plan B. I rented a locker.

Oh, the hours of fun I had! At first, I was a little nervous. After all, when I’d signed up they had touted their security - live and recorded video monitoring and 24-hour staffing. I’d been careful, trying a lock and pretending to be surprised that it didn’t fit. I’d make a big show out of looking at the number on the door, then pulling my contract out and comparing it. Discovering my mistake, I’d shake my head and find the right locker. Soon I realized that the only security around the place was the guarantee printed in the contract. Sunday evenings were the best, since everybody was home enjoying the last of their weekend. I had the place to myself and could take my time checking each lock.

Locker 775. I’ll never forget that number. My unlucky number.

I guess I’d become a little overconfident. I didn’t hear the couple enter the building. I was busy looking at the lock, wondering if this would be The One. Guessing what kind of wonders I’d find inside. I didn’t want to take anything – just knowing would be enough.

When the door opened, I was too excited to even notice what was inside. I savored the moment.

Then the woman screamed.

Nobody believes that I found the key. After I was arrested, the neighbors came forward with stories of how I loitered. Of how I seemed fascinated with their doors. Rumors started, vicious rumors about my alleged obsession with locks.

The charity took away my award. Of course, they kept the donations I’d raised.

I heard that they’ve linked the stuff in the locker to 17 missing people and eight dead bodies. But they can’t find a single fingerprint in the locker.

I found the missing piece of evidence that could solve the crime of the century.

Too bad it only points to me.

"It's gone," said Mary.

She walked past the window and saw in her reflection her long, dark brown hair flowing behind her.

"What?" asked Linda.

"IT'S GONE!"

"What's gone?"

"You know what."

"No, I don't know," Linda calmly replied in her strong British accent.

"Yes, you do. You have it, and I want it back...NOW!"

"Whatever. I don't have it. I don't even know what it is."

"YES, YOU DO!"

"You're crazy.”

"I'm not crazy. I know exactly what I'm talkin' about," Mary insisted through her Puerto Rican-driven words. "Give it to me. Now."

"Whatever."

"GIVE IT TO ME!"

"Look, I don't have whatever it is you're looking for, so I don't know what to tell you. We always go through this."

Mary looked puzzled.

"You're always accusing me of everything!" Linda screamed, now as flustered as Mary. "If it isn't one thing, it's another. When you were six and lost your favorite doll, you thought I hid it in my closet---"

"You were the last one who had it," Mary exclaimed. "Everybody knew that!"

"When you were 12, you made a big show in front of everyone because you were so sure I had eaten your piece of apple pie," said Linda.

"You kept talkin' about how good it looked and complained when I didn't give you any!" Mary retorted.

"And how about when you were 19?" Linda shouted. "You accused me of trying to steal that blue blouse you loved so much, and oh my goodness, a few years later, you actually thought I was trying to steal your boyfriend! As if anyone besides you would even want that loser. I've had enough!"

"First of all," Mary started, "I know you loved that blouse and, what's more, would've done anything to make sure I couldn't ever wear it again. Oh, and as for Tim, he was hot, I know you liked him, and you've just always wanted everything I've had!"

"So, are you trying to say I'm..." Linda paused in amusement, "...jealous...of you?"

"You said it, not me."

"Wow...Get over yourself," Linda said, carefully playing with her short, dirty-blond locks.

"It's TRUE! You've always wanted everything I've had. I couldn't have ANYthing to myself without you tryin' to somehow find a way to steal it from me or keep me from havin' it!"

"Look, could you please just calm down. Now, let's try to find whatever it is you're looking for. When and where did you last have it?"

"Who CARES! You have it NOW!"

"Okay, whatever, Mary. I'm just trying to help you out."

Several minutes of deafening silence inhabited the room. Mary was the first to slice it.

"You're a traitor," she coldly sniped.

"Excuse me?" Linda asked, a bit thrown off.

"You heard me! A TRAITOR!" Mary repeated. "I can't trust you. You can't be trusted."

"What are you talking about now?"

"You were plottin' with those people. I heard you. You...and the president. You all want me deported."

"Deported?! Mary, you're American. You were born here; your parents were born here."

"QUIT PLAYIN' DUMB!" Mary screamed, tears dwelling in her eyes. "You guys are plottin' to have me deported, stuffed with cotton balls and then drowned in the lake!"

Linda tried to contain her laughter. This made Mary even angrier.

"Are you really laughin' at me right now?!?" she snapped.

"It's just...this is all so ridiculous. I have no idea what's wrong with you. What in the world is your problem?" Linda again asked.

"You're my problem. I hate you. And you can't be trusted."

Just then, a woman dressed in a nurse's uniform and carrying a cup of water entered the room. She looked down at her watch.

"Hello, honey. I think it's about that time," she said.

"Time for what?"

"Come on, Susan," the nurse sighed. "Let's not do this again. You know what."

"I'm sorry? My name isn't Susan. My name is Linda."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Linda. Now, here, take your pill."

"NO! I'M NOT TAKING IT!"

"Linda!"

"STOP CALLIN' ME LINDA!! Me llamo Mary!" she screamed, her Puerto Rican accent even thicker than earlier.

"Okay, Mary...Linda...Susan," said the nurse. "Fine. If that's how you want it..."

The nurse then walked over to the intercom and pressed a button.

"I'm gonna need some help," she said.

A minute later, two men dressed in plain white pants and white long-sleeved shirts entered the padded room. With the nurse's help, they strapped Susan down with restraints to the chair and forced the pill into her mouth and the water to wash it down. The three of them then left the room.

A man and an elderly woman were waiting outside the door. The woman looked as if she had been crying.

"I just don't understand," she managed to squeeze through sobs, grasping tightly onto tissues from her purse. "My poor, precious little Susan. My baby. My only child. She was so sweet and normal as a young girl, but somewhere in her teenage years, she just... We lost her. She lost it...and just hasn't been the same since. What did they do? What did they do to my poor, precious little Susan?"

The man who stood with her - a doctor at the facility - said, "I'm so sorry, ma'am. At this point, I don't know if we'll ever see Susan again. It seems that it's just this 'Mary' and 'Linda' now."

Jerry guided the yacht out into the blue ocean. He sat down on the warm beach-sand and kept watch, waiting for the ship to be caught in the offshore stream that would steer it over the blue horizon.
-------

Twelve years earlier, Jerry and his family were shipwrecked on a deserted Island. They had been on a family cruise, in a rented sailboat. During a freak storm, the Captain and ship succumbed to the brutal sea, only minutes after the family had taken to the life raft.

The modest raft had miraculously made it to shore. The family had survived, but was trapped on a deserted tropical Island.

They searched in vain for signs of human life and came to the conclusion that, apart from themselves, the island was only inhabited by animals that hopefully, only fed on the lush vegetation.

The family adapted to their new environment. Jerry, who had been a keen follower of reality shows on survival, found that he could employ some of the techniques he had witnessed on TV. He made fire, and showed his family how to build a shelter.

The Island slowly transformed from being a prison into being a home. The family grew close. Around the camp fire they would share each day’s experiences or remember acquaintances.

Depending on each other so much, had proven to strengthen the family bonds to a level, far superior than what they had ever known. Despite this, each of them sometimes secretly wished for the day of their recue, that is except for Jerry.

Jerry often recalled being teased and ridiculed for his interest in survival skills.
“Do you sleep in a tree?” or “Get Jerry a pizza with sea-weed and slugs”.
On the Island, Jerry was in his element. TV games and Pizza were far out-weighed by fishing and coconuts. Sometimes he wished that he had his collection of survival tools, lying useless, in a box under his bed.

Over the years the family learnt where the best fishing spots were, where the finest fruit grew and which animals ate more than just vegetation. Once, a wild hog attacked Jerry’s younger sister who would have been killed if Jerry hadn’t speared it just in time.

One hot summer’s day, Jerry went to the far side of the Island. He needed to gather some rock salt, as this side of the Island almost solely consisted of a dry salt lake.
As he reached the summit of a high sand dune, he looked over the ocean and he saw something that made his jaw drop. There, in a little cove, sat a blazingly white ship.

A couple approached him over the powdery beach.

“Ahoy there!” The man was middle-aged, the girl on his side, clearly much younger. The man put out his hand and smiled. “I didn’t realize that there was anybody else on this island, it isn’t even mapped on my sat-nav system”

“Hi.” Jerry’s had to clear his throat. “Hello, I am Jerry Robins. I’ve been stranded on this Island for more than ten years with the rest of my family.”

Jerry started telling his story.

“Wait. We want to hear all the details, but let’s go aboard and get some refreshments. Have you ever even tasted beer?” The man was over-friendly. The Blonde hooked in with Jerry, escorting him back to their ship. They were rich, semi-celebrities, circumnavigating the globe in their high-tech vessel. They had seen the Island and had decided to explore.

Jerry sat for a while, taking in the luxury of the ship. The beer was very cold and it was indeed his first.

“Have another one.” The blonde, having become very talkative, handed Jerry another beer, she stroked his muscled leg with her fake nails. “So you say it is just you and your family on this Island?”

Jerry was getting a bit light-headed. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he got up and walked over to where the man was grilling some hot-dogs on a gas grill. The smell was sickening. “Unfortunately our radio went out yesterday, but there is a small island community to the East, where we will be able to contact the authorities. I hope you’ll sell me the rights to your story. We’ll make a killing in Hollywood.”

The woman got up and stood very close to Jerry. She gently squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sure they could wait another couple of days… and nights.”

Jerry felt the beer push up into his throat when the Blonde winked at him. His hands looked for something steady as the boat moved in the waves.

He felt the cold metal of the storm-anchor in his grip. A strange, floating feeling came over Jerry and, as if seeing it in a movie, he suddenly found himself swinging the metal club, crushing the older man’s scull in one blow. The woman stood frozen as the lifeless body fell at her feet.

Jerry swung again. The heavy anchor distorted the Blonde's surgically-perfected face. She fell next to her companion, their blood mixing, spilling over the stark-white deck.

Jerry came out of his trance-like state. He dropped the anchor and swallowed hard at the bile in his throat.

......

As the ship disappeared over the horizon, Jerry got up, and took the bag of rock salt he had gathered with the help of his newly acquired diving knife.

His Island was safe again.

Jack noticed the paper bag on the seat next to him in the bus. There weren’t many commuters this early, so the seat stayed empty. On the way he imagined the contents being, from someone’s lunch to the gory trophy of a serial killer. When he reached his stop, he got out and rushed to work, all but forgetting about package.

That afternoon, weary from a long day’s labor, Jack got into the bus and flopped down in his regular seat. At first he just stared as usual, but soon, to his surprise, he saw the brown bag on the seat next to him. He hadn’t even thought that it was the same bus as in the morning, let alone that the mysterious package could survive the ins-and-outs of a busy city day.

After some self-deliberation, Jack decided to leave the suspect package alone.

A while later the bus came to a stop; more people bundled into the already crowded bus. Jack silently hoped that nobody would notice the open seat at the back.

As Murphy would have it, the last guy, a sturdy fellow, headed straight for the back. Just before he sat down, the portly man picked up the paper bag.
“This yours buddy?” Not waiting for an answer, he handed the bag to Jack as he plunked down.

Jack sat motionless, the bag neatly on top of his lunch tin.

“Last call for Epping Street!” The bus driver’s voice plucked Jack out of his dreamy state, he grabbed his stuff, including the paper bag and rushed to the front of the bus.

Later, having offloaded his baggage on the kitchen table of his small apartment, Jack got a beer from the fridge. He sat down, the bag in front of him. He gently started opening it, relieved not to be greeted by the smell of stale egg-salad or worse.

Jack peered into bag, he didn’t know quite what to expect, but was somewhat disappointed when he saw the contents. Inside was, not a big wad of money, or a murder weapon, but only, a remote control. Somewhere, some poor sod was cursing because he had to get up to change channels. Jack inspected the remote, thinking that if maybe it had been repaired, it could have a tag with the shop’s info on it.

Jack didn’t find any identifying marks, or even what make it was. Instead, he found that the remote had, apart from the expected digits, also a number of buttons with the logo’s of some familiar and some not so familiar institutions. Without thinking, he pressed the button of a soft-drink company. The red led on the remote registered, but nothing else happened, he pressed it a couple of times more.

“What, was it gonna start raining coke?” Jacked smiled at himself and got up from the table. He stuffed the remote into his pocket and grabbed his wallet to get a burger from the take-out across the road.

Two kids were coming down the passage just as Jack was locking his front door.
“Dude, I can’t believe the thing just started spewing out cans.”
The kids were each carrying a couple of cokes.

Jack’s imagination suddenly kicked into gear. The vending machine was at the top of the stairs, about twenty feet from his apartment. He retrieved the remote from his pocket and walked over to the machine.

Jack felt like someone putting money into a slot machine in Vegas, he knew it couldn’t be, but he had to try. He pressed the button. Nothing happened. He pressed again. Nothing.
I should start writing science-fiction.

He turned to walk away. The familiar sound of a can dropping into the receptacle made him spin around. He was just in time to see the second can drop.
Impossible.

Although he had seen it happen, Jack couldn’t believe it. It must have been a fluke. The machine was probably malfunctioning, and that’s what also happened with the boys.

He took the stairs down to street level, feeling a bit quirky. He still had the remote in his hand. There was an ATM at the end of the street; Jack had recognized the specific bank’s logo on one of the buttons. He knew how to prove to himself that he was imagining things.

“ENTER AMOUNT : ”

The green curser blinked on the screen. Jack typed with trembling fingers: one, zero, zero, zero. He pressed the OK button on the remote.
The ATM rolled out a stack of fifties.
“Oh my……” Jack put his hand over his mouth.

“S’cuse me, sir, uhm, are you done?” The scared looking teenager gestured to the machine. Jack kept his cool and started walking off.
“Sir .” Jack glanced back at the teen. He was standing with the cash in his hand, looking somewhat confused.

“Crap! Thanks.” Jack took the money, peeled of two fifties and gave them to the kid.

“Thank you, but...”

Before the kid had a chance to finish, Jack had turned and was rushing back to his apartment. He had found a proverbial battery-operated Magic Lamp. He couldn't wait to get on the net, to find out just how much power he wielded.

Across the street, in a black car with tinted windows, agent Spencer contacted his command center.

“The bird is in the cage. Initiate stage Bravo.”

Keerah flicked her cigarette butt on the dusty pavement and with shaking hands lit another. Pacing in front of the fish and chip shop on aching legs she watched the town slowly wake from its sleep, something she herself had barely had for three nights. It was still dark when she arrived, the sound of the town’s dogs and the trucks on the bypass in the distance her only company, and she watched the sun rise over the main street as she waited for the police station to open.

And now cars past her as the town came to life, and she felt people staring at her, knowing, accusing . . . Keerah hugged her swollen belly, trying to take comfort from the child within as she tried to find the nerve to cross the street and walk through those doors with the blue and white checked strip and that all too familiar insignia.

Lost in the blur of anxiety, Keerah didn’t notice the woman walking up behind her.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know. You could lose your child.”

“What d’you say?” Keerah spun around

“I said, you shouldn’t be smoking. I mean, people like you shouldn’t be allowed to have kids . . .”

“You saying I’m a bad mum, huh? Well that's what you're all thinking, yeah?" Keerah was close enough to hit the other woman and fighting the urge not to. “Yeah, well I'm gunna find you and when I do . . . ” The woman raised her eyebrows and coolly walked off. “You’re dead, lady!” Keerah screamed after her. “I know where you live!” She watched the woman cross the road and disappear down the street, wishing she still had enough energy inside her to cry.

She smoked another cigarette and crossed the street to the police station.

---------------------

“I want to speak to Julia!” Keerah kicked her foot against the table leg in the interview room, causing it shudder.

“Detective Senior Constable Di Mattina is on maternity leave, Ms. Jones.”

“Well, when’s she back?”

The detective shook his head and sighed. “Not for a long, long time.”

“Well then, I’m not telling youse nothing. I’ll talk to Julia but if youse are all gunna accuse me and say I done something to my little boy then you can get stuffed . . .”

“Look, I’m not accusing you of doing anything to Zak, but we need to clarify some of the things from your statement. And threatening to kill a police employee on the way into the station this morning isn’t exactly helping your cause.”

“I don’t care! I’ve told youse everything, so why aren’t you out there finding him instead of wasting time with me? I thought you called me in ‘cause you had some news, not to bloody grill me like I gone and killed him or something.”

“Ok, Ms. Jones, calm down . . .”

“And stop calling me that!”

“Ok, Keerah, calm down. We are doing everything to find your boy but the more information I get from you the better we can do our job.” The detective shuffled some pages around on the table. “Alright, you said you were at the mall between 2pm and 2:30pm on Tuesday. Do you have anyone who can say you were there at that time?”

“What?”

“Do you know anyone who knew you were at the mall when Zak went missing? ”

“Well, half the friggin’ town was there . . .”

“Yes, but we need specific witnesses.”

“Why? Half the town must’ve seen us, they all saw me looking for him! Why’d you need witnesses? Isn’t there, you know, security cameras and stuff? Aren’t youse looking at that?”

The detective sighed. “The security cameras were defective that day . . .”

“What?”

“The entire mall’s system was down. No witness have come forward so we need something else to vouch for your whereabouts.”

“Hang on,” Keerah lifted her bag onto her lap and rummaged through the contents. “Here. That’s my receipt for the supermarket, and one for the chemist. Got the dates and times on there. You go ask that cow in the chemist. She’ll remember me.”

She passed the receipts across the table. “Nothing to say Zak was with you?”

“Well where else would he be? ‘course he was with me!”

“Ok, and where abouts were you when you lost him?”

“I told youse already! We was heading towards the carpark past the pizza place and I turned around and he’d gone.”

The detective made more notes in his book. “And why didn’t you call the police until five hours later?”

“’cause I thought I’d find him! And I was scared youse would arrest me or youse wouldn’t believe me and stuff. But then I couldn’t find him and I didn’t know what to do . . .” Keera’s face crumpled along with her defences. “I just want you to find my little baby, my little mate. I know nobody likes me here but I’m a good mum and since his dad died Zakkie’s all I’ve got. Please . . .”

She sobbed as the detective rose to answer a knock on the door. Keerah heard a voice say “got a witness at the front counter, saw what happened to the boy” and her heart was filled with equal parts hope and dread . . .

After another sleepless night Ophelia's mind turned to food once again. Too tired to cook; just enough energy to drive 2 blocks for a breakfast sandwich.

"5, 10, 15, 20.." counted Ophelia as she placed nickels from her rainy day fund into a plastic sandwich bag.

Looking at her cat, Ophelia stated, "$3.00 should get me a sausage egg and cheese biscuit and maybe an orange juice. I'll share the sausage part with you, my sweet friend, when I return."

Ophelia grabbed her purse and her car keys and headed out the door. Two blocks from her house and no need for makeup or even a change from sweats and her T-shirt. "Thank goodness for drive-thrus", she thought.

She turned into the parking lot and made the same unrelenting full circle around the building to enter the drive-thru face to face ordering window. After sitting there for about a minute, Ophelia finally gave a good "Honk, Honk" until an employee came to the window. She boldly looked at Ophelia and explained "The drive-thru is closed, please come inside to order". Ophelia was shocked and snickered until she realized that the employee was totally serious and she better hurry to get inside because breakfast was only served until 10a.m.

Ophelia pulled her car around in another half circle of the building and parked in the nearest spot she could find. She briefly looked at herself in the rear view mirror and wisped the stray hairs back behind her ears and made sure all the crusties were out of the corner of her eyes. With one sigh and a groan, Ophelia got herself out of the car and on her way inside to order.

There seemed to be 100 people in front of her as she checked her watch impatiently. She already knew what was going to happen when she saw the 4 children fighting over the last 3 chocolate milks. None of them seemed to be keen with the white milk that stood alone on the family’s tray. This all took precious time away from her order.

Only 2 more people to go and Ophelia would have her turn. Thankfully these were the 'order, pay, out the door' types and it was her turn sooner than she expected. She noticed that the gentleman in front of her had ordered a sausage egg mcmuffin and smelled its buttery smell as he passed her in line. She was sure the whole place heard her stomach roar with demand.

"I'd like one sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and a small orange juice to go please." Ophelia smiled and pleaded with her eyes.
"We stopped serving breakfast for the day, m'am. Pick somethin' else."

Time seemed to stand still and then started again in very slow motion as Ophelia tried to sort this information out. She checked her watch and the wall clock and they both said 10a.m. She could clearly see breakfast sandwiches still under the heat lamps and waiting for a useless death in the dumpster. Ophelia could feel everything start to speed up inside herself and knew she was on a crash course for disaster. She knew that feeling right before a black out phase; the kind that would land her in trouble once again. "Here goes nothing", she thought before realizing that the sandwich bag of nickels she so tediously counted out, was ripped open and heading straight towards the clerk's head like a barrage of hailing bullets. She heard the clerk scream as she placed her hand on her forehead where several silver tokens of Ophelia's frustration had clearly hit. The employee immediately ducked behind the counter and screamed "SECURITY!".

Ophelia stood still for less than a second before swirling around to see a very large, very upset looking manager type employee stomping from the back. Her purple and fuscia colored braids whipped this way and that as she waddled closer. Ophelia was grabbed by her stained T-shirt and was escorted out the door immediately. She couldn't help but to snicker the whole time realizing the breakfast ruckus that she had just caused and that many people had witnessed. She almost heard the other customers clapping for her bravery of standing up to such silly breakfast rules. Then she realized as she was pushed out the door that this was not cool at all. She had once again lost her mind and her $3.00. Ophelia stumbled to her car in an attempt to sit down before falling down. She scrambled for her purse and speed dialed #3.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Doctor Dubrava? It happened again......" Ophelia was balling at this point and the doctor agreed to see her later that day.

Ophelia drove home with almost no emotion left. This could only mean one thing. She was losing her battle with brain cancer. The doctor's had warned her of violent outbursts like this but she was not prepared at all.

The Day she died, her family all gathered at a diner that served breakfast 24/7. They all ate breakfast sandwiches while laughing and talking of their lost loved one, Ophelia.

This is my first text submission, I would love feedback positive and negative.

As I watch her sleeping, a drop of moisture forms at the corner of her lips. There was a time when I could look at her and feel love, affection, hate, disgust. Now all that’s left between our bodies is a safe lulling monotony: a posthumous routine of love between two people who no longer exist. I hoped naively that our love would evolve with us as we grew but it only decayed with time. Did my love for her gradually fade into nothingness, or is it still intact, a hidden volume somewhere inside the mind of this sleeping woman? If I find it again, will I still speak the language it was written in so long ago? How long can I live on love expired? She opens her eyes and lifts a finger to the drop forming at the corner of her mouth. Our gazes meet and I see on her the same soft brown eyes of the girl I was so much in love with. She looks back at me and we continue to wait for our soul mates, trying to forget that they died together in their sleep, in this very bed, a long time ago.

Five, four, three, two, one!
Counting down is really fun!
Watch the rocket go!

Gee, I lost my way. I thought this was the Haiku contest. Sometime I just seem to wander off, and then have to explore to find my way back.

I found this little poem on a scrap of paper in an old Japanese tea house down by the wharf. Who would have thought there would be an opening on Worth 1000?

So I rushed home and turned on the computer, nervously waiting for the machine to boot up. I wonder why I just don’t leave the thing on.
OK, here it comes…
Pretty soon…
Maybe I should check my e-mail first…
Hmm - I never realized that.
Maybe I have ADHD. Maybe CRS.

I sat there watching the screen, knowing there was something else to do. I was getting tired, so I turned off the computer and headed for the bedroom. As I was taking my shirt off, I noticed a scrap of paper in my pocket. I thought about going back to the computer, then thought better of it. I would get to it in the morning. I drifted off to sleep, wondering when the submit time would end.

Things started to get hazy, and then… I drifted off…… to sleep.

Lost again in my dreams with music I had heard that day filling the background.