The Knight

     He was a singer of songs and a teller of tales, a connoisseur of roads and a follower of trails.  He dabbled in magic although he didn't know he did so for his knowledge of the art was inborn, never studied nor even read.  It came as naturally to him as riding his horse and flowed as freely as his thoughts.  He was a lover of books and a juggler of views, always seeing something different in the repetitious details of life.  For him every cloud had a silver lining and every rainbow ended in a pot of gold and because of this he was always finding the gold and silver of life and so was  rich beyond compare.  He had only one sadness.  He felt incomplete.  He was missing the woman who could share his life.  He knew he'd know her when he found her, but where could she be?  He'd traveled many roads looking for her but to no avail and now as he felt age creep up on him, he felt a wisp of fear enter his mind.  What if she didn't exist?  Or worse yet, what if she existed and he never found her.  A sob caught in his throat and because he only k new one thing to do with things caught in his throat he  sang it out.  This song was so different from any he'd sung before that his horse turned his head to look at our knight.
      The birds took this sad song and sang variations on it.  So around the world it flew until it met its object.

Saving the Runaway Bride

     Theresa slowed down to avoid the woman in a bridal gown, complete with train and veil running down the road.  She was carrying her shoes in one hand and holding up the front of the dress with the other, but other than these small measures she didn't seem too concerned with either the state of her clothes or her safety.  The train was already light tan with grey splotches from the road dirt and running in the middle of the street didn't argue much for her self-preservation.  Theresa rolled her eyes but she also slowed to a crawl as she approached the bride.
     "Do you have a death wish?  Get in!  Wherever you're going I can take you."  She yelled as she pulled alongside her runner.
     The bride slowed and looked at Theresa.  "Why?"
     Theresa rolled her eyes again.  "You're asking me why?  My why is because I want to know your why.  Oh, and I also don't want ti on my conscience when I read in tomorrow's paper 'Unknown bride killed running across a busy intersection'.  You know that intersection is coming up.  Oh and you can go faster in a car than on foot.  And if you're running away from someone,well, Honey, you're pretty conspicuous in that dress.  A car makes a pretty good hiding place."
     "But I don't know you."
     "What the heck.  Do you think you'll know the truck that flattens you?  Get in and we can introduce ourselves."  Just then a big garbage truck  approached.
     "Okay, I'm getting in."  She started for the passenger door.
     "No, get in the back!  I'll never be able to shift gears with that dress in the front."
    Seeing the bride struggling to get in Theresa put her hazards on and hopped out of the car muttering, "If you get us both killed, I'll kill you!  Take off the slips!"  She ordered.
    "But..."
    "Just take them off.  If anyone sees you he'll dine out on the story for years.  If not it's their loss.  And don't put those thing in the car, throw them at the side of the road and GET IN!"  She ran to her side of the car, slid behind the wheel and took off.
    "Wait my train, it's caught in the door."
    "See that black attache case next to you.  There are scissors in it, cut the damn train!"  Theresa took a deep breath and asked, "Now what's your story?"    

A Good Cry

     The leaves hung like damp yellow and orange rags on the trees.  The wet cold air crawled inside layers of clothing, sneaking through skin, fat and muscle to attack the bones and joints.  The red and yellow streamers in the puddles on the road made by the lights from the cars didn't even interest Joan today.  She longed for her bed's warm, soft comfort.  A nest where she could curl up into herself and shut out the outside world.  Of course she knew she wouldn't.  Once in the house, things would call.  All the "oughta dos", the dishes in the sink, the house plants in need of water, the cat's pan in need of cleaning and of course, the cat himself, wanting food.  She shook her head.  "Still," she thought. "I can dream!"
     A tear crawled down her cheek.  A tear that said, "I'm sorry for you, but you really don't deserve a life yet."
     She sniffed.  "When did I become this nobody?"  She asked aloud.  "Why can't I just sleep?  Why can everyone else play and I have to work?"
     "Shut up!"  She told herself.  "You got to play.  It's just lately that you feel overworked."
     "Not overworked," she answered herself. "Underappreciated.  No one cares what I do unless I stop doing it!"  She began to cry in earnest now as she unlocked her front door.  As the tears coursed down her face, she felt some of the tension  and sadness leave her body.  "A good cry almost always works," she thought.  "Welcome home."  And as soon as the front door closed behind her the silent tears gave way to loud hiccupping.