A mythology is a series of stories about extraordinary beings with human like consciousness and qualities.

These beings represent certain aspects that a society recognizes within itself but cannot define by mere words or even concepts. Whole stories need to be written and collected to be fully comprehended, if at all possible.

A society is a group of persons that have a like-minded consciousness towards the group as a whole.

A culture is the highest and lowest achievements that a certain society has attained that adds or distracts from it's search for self-refinement and self-acknowledgment that it strives to achieve on a regular and timely basis.

A religion is a society and it's culture, combined, in it's search for attaining the former achievements that it's peoples has ascertained while, at the same time, searching for questions left unanswered or questions that a particular society failed to recognize.

A mythology is a society's equation of it's own inner workings and it's search in which to find it. The equation are the stories that explain a society, it's culture and it's search for refinement.

The collection of stories that make up a mythology reveals a society's detailed blueprint in how it perceives itself, how it received it's answers, and it's journey in finding those answers.

"Heads up, Jack! Heads up! Jack?"

"Oh, Charles, I didn't hear you approaching."

"You Philistine. You sped up on purpose."

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me right. Harsh words I know, but they needed to be said."

"I'm somewhat taken aback Charles. I didn't know you were capable of such hostility."

"I'm capable of much you're not aware of. Surprise is my gift."

"I thought your gift was for gab."

"I do excel at l'art de conversation, I cannot lie. And thank you for noticing. I consider it a compliment."

"You shouldn't."

"You're bullish tactics are like lead to me, fine sir. They fall off the edge and sink to the bottom."

"What?"

"Don't play naive with me Jack, beneath that boorish, brutish exterior lies a heart of gold."

"Is that so?"

"I've seen you cry."

"Only when you sing."

"Harrumph, that's what I say to you. Harrumph."

"Spoken like the lawyer you were always meant to be. Come with me, Charles, no time to lose."

"Go where Jack? What's the rush?"

"To the barracks Charles and as for the rush? There's no reason not to. Watch for horse dung. Don't want to get your shiny slippers all mucked up."

"They're not slippers! They're fine Italian leather is what they are."

"Only the very best for you Charles."

"And why not? I worked my way to where I am. Hard work too, I'm telling you Jack…"

"Relax, I was just yanking your chain."

"What? Jack, why do you do that to me? Torture me so?"

"I enjoy watching your reaction."

"I could never understand your smile."

"Come with me Charles, to the barracks. We have much to catch up and no time."

"But you always knew how to sooth me Jack. Yes. Yes, I'll go with you. To the barracks."

"Relax Charles. I just wanted company on my walk."

"You love my company, admit it Jack."

"You know, it's nice out. Maybe a solo journey is more…"

"Jack."

"Yes?"

"Let me step in before you have a chance to makes an ass out of yourself…"

"I'd be most grateful."

"…by allowing you a way out of your already, impossibly surly demeanor…"

"Always the diplomat."

"…and hopefully, approach you from an angle more to your pleasing."

"All ears."

"The word going around is brass is quite taken by you. The wunderkind indeed."

"This way Charles. All they care about is who can make them look good to their bosses, the politicians."

"Jack, you provide a great disservice to yourself. The brass look for the cream that rises to the top. So what if it helps their careers as long as yours follows suit?"

"A glowing sentiment."

"It's true."

"Is it? I don't know what's true anymore. I've led my life this long to get to where I am but it doesn't feel right. I'm still not satisfied."

"Regret maybe?"

"Earlier, I would have said no but now I'm not so sure. I used to have set plans. I knew where I was going but now I'm here I'm still not there. Does that make sense?"

"It's does Jack. I think it all depends on what you're expecting. What exactly are you looking for is the question that needs to be answered. You should know why you need to
be somewhere before you can really reach it."

"Before you even see it."

"Exactly."

"It sounds nice Charles but it strikes me as so much babble as well."

"It's up to us to decide what's what, that's the hard part. Negating the bluff from the buff as I like to say."

"You just make that up?"

"It's a family thing.

"You know Charles, before arriving here in Nebraska, I felt like I was planning. I was going somewhere. Didn't know where but I knew I'd find it. No doubts. Then West Pointe came and my goals shifted. Slowly but they did. By the time I managed to New Mexico, my life had changed in ways I never thought possible. My goals were now my dreams. They've slipped away from me and I'm not sure how to get them back."

"You're going through a crisis Jack."

"Perhaps I am. A little young to being having one I fear."

"You shouldn't fear Jack. We all have crisis's that we have to deal with and we usually make it."

"What if we don't make it? Then what?"

"That's something we don't talk about."

"I think that someone should."

"What good would that do? Doom and gloom? What good would staying in a depressed state do anyone?"

"It's not for myself. It's for others. Others who cannot help themselves."

"You can't dream too big Jack. No one can be everything to everyone. You'll drive yourself insane."

"Would I? I don't even know what that means, everything to everyone. I have a purpose but I don't know what it is."

"Keep searching Jack. Dreams, goals, whatever never chase away. They drift back and forth. Coming and going like the rain. You can't grasp it but once it's gone, you know
it'll come back. You just need faith."

"It's funny talking about faith when you're in the military. But it's really build on faith isn't it? Faith in each other, in yourself."

"In your country."

"Yes but not as large a factor."

"Really?"

"I don't believe so. Yourself and your family come first, then all else."

"I'm surprised hearing that come from you Jack. An upstanding military man like yourself."

"I have to know what I'm upholding. My family is what I hold dear so that's most important to me. It stays on the top of my mind."

"I can't argue Jack. I hope your boys learn from you."

"The more that enlist, the more I learn from them."

"What in heaven's name could you learn from a pimpled faced teen?"

" A lot about myself. What it takes to become a man."

"Life lessons, eh?"

"My father was a farmer, a good man. He was stern like me, but he was strong. Strong enough to share his love with people he cared for, including myself."

"You're fortunate. Most have no such figure in their lives."

"I became aware of such things when I taught before entering West Pointe."

"Ah yes, and this is where you found yourself falling in love with the Negroes and coloreds."

"I don't believe you mean that as an insult so I won't react as such but if given the chance to work and learn besides Negroes again at some point in my life, I would not hesitate at the opportunity."

"I did not mean to ruffle your feathers, my dear Jack."

"You did not. I'll continue, the vast number of boys passing through are in desperate need of guidance. It's as if there were no assurance or to discipline in their upbringing."

"They are an unruly bunch. My father would have had my head if I had acted up as some of these recruits that start up."

"Your head and many others but that's of generations past. This new breed has no tamer."

"You seem to do well with these boys. Your Company A is a crown jewel for the university."

"Company A is comprised of the best from the very beginning. The cream as you say, but thank you Charles, I'm proud of the lads."

"You should be Jack, they named themselves after you. No matter the quality or background of the boys you deal with, you're still a reverent role-model. A father figure,
finally, for the ones that need it. None of this explains why you were out of your neck of the woods."

"My neck of the woods? Am I some woodland critter? As for my wanderings, my tenure here is coming to an end and talks are starting as to where I should be stationed next."

"You have any say in the matter?"

"Probably not, but I requested a transfer back to New Mexico."

"New Mexico? What did you leave there?"

"Nothing, it's familiar, that's all. I need to get back. I feel unsatisfied studying and teaching here. My internal self is being pushed by an unseen hand. Montana might be an option, as well as Texas. Down past the border perhaps."

"You would fit in well down in Mexico Jack. Still plenty of frontier left in the south."

"It's not frontier I'm looking for. If anything, I'm ready for a change."

"New Mexico is a change?"

"A change from here. A change in my life. I'm hoping something there will rattle my cage."

"Lots of changes happening Jack. All sorts of invisible sciences are being discovered. Electromagnetism float through the air. X-rays, gamma rays, all sorts of rays course through us. Viruses spread disease. We're just now starting to understand this, come to grips with it. The world is changing, hidden from our eyes."

"An invisible layer is starting to expose itself."

"And we're sitting on the cusp of it all Jack. That's exciting don't you think?"

"I might be more so if I was personally vested and had something at stake. Speaking of, how is your little gas project going?"

"Splendidly, thank you for asking. No one asks but yes, it's doing well. The fine citizens of both! LaCrosse and Evanston now have me to thank for providing their gas and heating needs."

"Modest and giving. It suits you well Charles."

"That smile of yours. It mocks me."

"No Charles, I do."

"What about you Jack? What are you doing to prepare yourself for the future?"

"Well, right now, not knowing exactly what to do, I'm just trying to live life. My life."

"Isn't that obvious?"

"It's all I know right now. Live a life and maybe the experience I gain will tell me what to do."

"Does the experience you have now tell you what to do? Up to this point?"

"I don't have enough to answer your question I'm afraid. I haven't lived enough of a life to look back upon it and gather any information. None that I can make any sense."

"Surely you must have some idea."

"My experience right now tells me to keep gathering experience. And prepare."

"Prepare? For what?"

"That remains to be seen but being aware that something may happen is the most important thing."

"It sounds like living your life by the seat of your pants."

"It's something akin to that."

"What if nothing happens Jack? What if you spend your entire life waiting for something to happen that never does? Haven't you let life pass you by?"

"I hope to have the sense to know to get off when the time is right. I just know that the time hasn't yet arrived."

"I hope for your sake, you do know when that time arrives. If it ever does."

"I've always wanted to write. Maybe a memoir after I retire."

"A writer? You? Yes, I can see that. You're a learned, scholarly man, one with much spirituality I'm starting to find out. A real renaissance man."

"Calm down Charles. Even if I live that long, I might never have the talent. You however would make for a great politician. President perhaps."

"If we're all lucky, Jack"

"Yes, and maybe we'll someday have a female president."

"Not in a hundred years Jack. You need to stick to saving one gender of your species at a time."

"Speaking of which, here we are. Come in Charles and look at this."

"How nice, a green piece of cloth."

"Britches actually. My britches. The boys created make-shift badges from them."

"It's quite an odd thing Jack. From your backside to their chests. And you're proud of this?"

"It's like you were saying Charles, I might be the only guidance these boys ever had and this is the only way they know how to show their appreciation."

"They're very lucky to have you Jack. I only hope they'll someday recognize that and try to follow your lead once they're capable."

"We'll see if it's worth following. If not, that only leaves people like you for them to look up to. God help us all."

"Your musings aren't, but your relationship with your boys reminds me of the one Greek philosophers had with their students and you know where that led."

"They recognized adolescent males need for a sort of coming of age of but approached it from an ill-conceived angle, at least by modern day standards."

"That's a polite way to put it."

"But you're not far off. Not at all. Certain African tribes would take their boys, when of age, into a dark cave, lit only by torch light. Sitting in the midsts of the cave, the boys
don't know what to expect. Secluded to a deep part of the cave, alone, away from their tribe, the boys sit quietly. Then a drum can be heard in the distance. As it gets closer, it becomes harder to distinguish their heartbeats from the approaching clamor. The vein in their necks tighten as blood courses and provided an open channel to feed excess oxygen to the brain, to keep it from overloading with fright."

"Then what?"

"About what you'd expect. The elder tribesmen in full makeup and gear jump out of the darkness once the drums get close enough. They wait for the right moment, jump in and scare the bejesus out of the boys. It's the start of their journey into manhood."

"Talk about ill-conceived notions. Do that around here and you'd be handed a lawsuit."

"That's how you'd handle it. I, myself, think it's not too far off. We need to do something so young males can start preparing for a coming of age."

"A gauntlet of shorts. A set of trials for a young man to prove his worth. You may be on to something Jack. Perhaps all young men should serve a call of duty once capable."

"Maybe but that assumes all males will be capable of combat duties. Just because we chose the military life doesn't mean it should be enforced on others. The reason I joined the ranks was to make sure every young person will have the opportunity to live whatever life they hope to lead."

"If everyone felt that way, who knows, it'll could very well be worth having a child someday. You should consider Mexico, Jack. Sounds like you could lose yourself in the desert for awhile. Could do you some good."

"I might not have a choice. Something happened in a Northern Mexican state not far from the border. Some sort of disturbance. Just heard it on the wire. Brass is sending a couple of scouts to look into it."

"More likely it's some more strange weather conditions. I've never seen it so sweltering so late in the year. Wearing a jacket and tie is trying on the best of days."

"Charles, you never looked dapper."

"Well, thank you sir. I'm sure if it is the weather, the military will find a way to retaliate to ensure control is established."

"I have doubts that even the higher ups are that misguided but some pretty asinine decisions have made it my way. But you're right, just sending men down gives them a presence. That they have a handle on any given situation, even areas where none are needed or desired."

"It's more like the illusion of control."

"At that point, there is no difference."

"At least in the brasses eyes."

"And everyone else? The civilians?"

"They either don't know or don't care."

"Harsh words indeed Jack."

"I don't expect them to care. Life's too hard as it is to care about politics or what the military is up to but that shouldn't allow the military to run slipshod all over the place. It's up to the government to maintain a check and balance. That's what we're here for. If we don't, then it's all for nothing."

"Civilians have no responsibilities?"

"They have plenty. We just need to know where the responsibilities lie. Everyone needs to know what their jobs are and they need to know how important it is to do it right."

"Everyone needs to know their place. Just like you, Jack?"

"Everyone needs the opportunity to find their place."

"It's a balance to a scale that most people can't see."

"Then it's up to us, the ones that can see the scale that needs to lead the way. We need to help as many as possible to see it."

"You can see this thing?

"Not see it. Feel it. It's what I'm trying to find."

"How can you see a concept? How can you prove you have something with nothing?"

"There's always something Charles. And if that doesn't work, then on to the next."

"You're trying too hard Jack. This something that you feel might just be the thing that passes you by if you're not careful."

"I, at least, have to try."

"Starting with the boys in your unit, no doubt."

"No doubt at all. The world swivels on it's axis and I feel like it's about to stop just to start back up."

"It could be the apocalypse. Judgement day."

"Could be the second coming of Christ."

"You believe that Jack? I never took you for a hellfire and damnation sort of man."

"I'm not. At least I wasn't. It's just a tool. A tool to find myself. I don't know Charles. I'm growing foolish with old age. I'm growing into a foolish old man."

"Au contraire mon lieutenant. I believe you to be on the right track Jack. Once you find yourself, you'll be able to take care of your precious A Company."

"It's a little late for that. We'll see where life takes me but for now, I'm uncertain which path I will follow."

"Maybe you should ask your female president to point the way."

Her name is Isabel. Izzy to the people that know her. She is six years-old.

Their shadows stretch long as Doroteo and the men drive towards the approaching sun.

She sits, as she does every day, alone, staring out her bedroom window towards the open courtyard.

Imperfections and irregularities in the road's surface cause the four traveling men's shadows to elongate and splash a hard, dirty puddle across its pock ridden face.

Izzy suffers from an infliction not yet invented. This disinhibition affects all areas of her being down to her very psyche. It pushes her awareness towards levels that would shatter most being's thresholds if exposed for prolonged periods.

Many jagged edges and broken crevices snag the willowy but spiky black fabric. It's the hard edges of the not quite billowing capes of the young rescuers that allow the road's many tiny claws to tear and dig their way into the impenetrable darkness. They grab hold of the sharp creases of the shadows' filled in outline. If not for that bit of help, the shadows flowing spread's constant to and fro, much less its rapid accumulation of acceleration would never allow for anything to capture its breathless soul. The road's minuscule shards and its in-numerous pits attach themselves into the space created by the black thread's inner stitching that make up the men's shadows.

That explanation is in fact a fabrication. Anyone with any sense of logic knows that shadows are not woven with many strings of raw black thread.

The gaps within a shadow's folds, that the sun fails to connect, imperceptible to the human eye, are a direct result of the earth's magnetic field.

For example, the day Izzy was born, she retained perfect diction and a complete ability to recite and communicate with her people in their own voice. In order to do this, while still in her mother's womb, Isabel pushed past her mother's internal harmonies and guttering by using her mother's own body as a kind of natural internal audio amplifier to listen in, lurk, study and learn her culture's secret ways.

Izzy's awareness also lends itself towards a natural inclination towards the studies of the mystic arts, that of science and mathematics. Her comprehension of these studies is unparalleled up to this point in recorded time. But her real passion is the creative arts; painting, drawing, storytelling and music. Getting very little from her surroundings,

Isabel decides to configure her own.

Sitting in her wooden chair, seat slicked back after years of constant planning, the same chair that her family needs to remind their only child three times a day to expel herself from in order to help rejuvenate the circulation in her lower bodily regions so as not to allow blood to have a chance to accumulate and congregate long enough to appear as sores on her back and legs, which decidedly coincides with her daily feedings so there's no real cause for consternation, Izzy designs her stories.

She works them back and forth across her mind, over and over, scrubbing them, trying to produce the perfect story, the perfect collection of tales in preparation for the introduction of herself to her family, her village, her world. Isabel waits for the proper time, the right moment, the correct age in which she would be allowed to speak in a manner of her choosing while not frightening the people of her village.

Speaking after years of non-speech would be bad enough, Izzy realized even at this tender age, but she figures, if her age matches her words, the people of her village will not find them problematic and will find a pathway leading towards accepting her, be proud of her and maybe, some day, even listen to her words. In order to do this, all she needed to do was to provide them a key to the gate's entrance.

As unique and wonderful as Isabel is, as beautiful as her stories are and the beauty that arises from her desire to share her creations made from loneliness, she is not without failings. The first stems from her lack of control of how words flow from her mouth, meaning, she speaks the way the people around her speak, that of an adult. That might fly as a young teenager but Izzy knew that she still had several years yet to go.

While knowing all this, Isabel isn't able to interact with people as a person of her own age, that of an adolescent. Concentrating so much on her future causes Izzy to forget or not even realize that a child's early formable years are the most crucial and critical towards its development as a grounded individual. An appearance of stability needs to be established and preserved in order to complete the illusion of normalcy.

This early, postnatal development would provide the means in which the other, less aware folks could accept Isabel as one of their own rather than something else entirely.

It would also facilitate her ascent towards adulthood as she blossoms into a fully mature flower with all her majestic, radiant bloom on display. Healthy petals grown from seeds quarantined in the progression towards self-gratification can only stem from perusal of a person's passions and desires.

With familiarity as Isabel's family guide stone, her impermeable barrier might someday produce a crack and provide enough space in order for a rose to grow.

This leads to Izzy's second and arguably her major fault, an incomprehensibility that she attaches to the understanding on how her community works. From arrogance branching from awareness and not by pride, Isabel segregates herself through non-involvement which causes the girl to be isolated and feel alone. Feelings and emotions are something of a weakness of Izzy's. Even though she believes she knows what it is that makes people tick, human psychology is not her strong suite.

The magnetic field is created by the earth's rotation and the moon's gravitational force. Its powerful downward draw affects the very iron and metal particles that lives within every object, even our shadows. This powerful, all inclusive attractive towards the ground absorbs the very heavy metal from the skies and plants them firmly onto the earth's surface. Anything that is in direct contact or underneath these metallic particles will be trapped and thus, share a fate similar to that of its airborne cousins. This is how invisible gaps are created within the hearts of shadows.

Subtracting these floating, ethereal particles from the air and depositing them along the road also allows for dust replenishment that has been blasted away from many years of traveling footsteps as well as compensating for the lost of its dry epidermis due to the harsh effects of the wind's aging bluster.

These gaps then allow for the road's many claws to dig into the shadow's dark membrane. Tiny hooks pierce its quiet flesh and stretch it along the ground or whichever surface the shadow and the object that's attached to it happen to be adjacent.

These claws, while seemingly destructive are actually science's way of maintaining order in our universe of disorder. They help preserve the integrity of the shadows form.

While shadows seem dense and have the appearance of rigidity, they are actual quite vulnerable and require a great deal of succor. Any light that wanders near their sharp edges will instantly cause the dark matter to fade away. But before dematerialization can ensue, these invisible, innumerable counts of hands calculate and then compensate for the reduction in mass by affixing whatever is needed to maintain the shadows natural ebb and flow, usually towards the opposite, parallel side.

Adhesion is also created during this scientifically produced symbiosis. Rather than slow forward mobility, this bonding agent cements humans to this practical world. It provides stability for any individual that clings to it. A perpetuity that the earth's magnetic fields arrange for humans gives them a floor in which to cast a shadow and a post to tether by.

This attachment to reality is something Isabel is having a hard time coming to grips with. It isn't that she's selfish or aloof, she just doesn't comprehend. Her hyper-awareness ensures her enclosure from society. Her picturesque living window frame is her only exposure to nature's finery.

Were it up to Isabel, she'd roam the fine outdoors until nightfall and then snuggle up within the leaves and dried moss she collected during the day's earlier gatherings, but life intervenes, as always, and Izzy has to deal with her reality.

Every time a bird flies by, as each gust tosses fluttering wings across it's etch board, Izzy's daydreams collapse upon themselves before they have a chance to materialize and burn their image onto her mental front. Each flap represents another day without hope. Every singing bird reminds her how sad life is and how she may never have a reason
to speak.

Her mental deterioration has not yet been noticed. Amongst her many but hard to distinguish ailments, it's just another misunderstood symptom of an already troubled youth.

It's this same attraction that grounds humans to earth's rugged crust that guides our natural inclinations towards order and unity rather than chaos and disruption. Doroteo's nature is intrinsically developed towards recognizing and following his own internal inclinations. He learned early on that if something felt right, it probably was and common sense dictates that it should be followed. The common in common sense was sorely lacking in his society Doroteo was starting to realize as he approached adulthood.

It wasn't common sense, however, that gave him pause as a bend littered with trees appeared in the fast approaching horizon. Whatever the cause, it was so overpowering that Doroteo came to a complete stop just as the bend straightened itself, spilling out back towards the heightening sun, in the direction where hope for finding the missing boy rests.

To someone as aware as Isabel, it would be hard to convince them of much of anything if they believed to have already reached a firm conclusion. Once of these conclusions that Izzy suffers from is that of premonition. She believes that after just a moment's gander towards an individual she can see all of their life's possible outcomes with the prominent one popping to the fore of her mind. This is the future that will lead to that particular individual's death that Izzy happens to be reading. For instance, Isabel knew the day in which Doroteo's father would disappear and never come back. She even woke up early to watch him span his final trail as his family rested blissfully unaware that their lives would forever be changed. She watched how Doroteo and his family became frantic for over two weeks before the body was discovered Doroteo's mother in particular was in straits as she was seven months pregnant with her fifth child. Doroteo was the oldest at thirteen at that point. Izzy never saw Doroteo cry. This made an impression on her for he was the only one not to shed tears during the entire ordeal or ever since for that matter. He was the only on that didn't cry, that is, except of one.

That other was Isabel herself.

Doroteo's apprehension surprises him as it courses down and settles around the base of his spine. He nudges his horse off the dirt road towards the trees outskirts. The other men travel a distance before they realize Doroteo had discontinued his part in their shared journey. The 35 year-old man, the one who had engaged in that lively debate with Doroteo's mother this morning and one of the younger men remain on the road as a third figure heads back to see what had garnered his childhood friend's attention.

Doroteo hear the hoofs plodding of his friends approach as he peered deep past the tree's clearing into the forest's wooden web work. He looked over his left shoulder to acknowledge his friend and raised his hand as to warn him to slow his descent.

His friend slides his horse next to Doroteo's "What do you see? Is it Sergio?"

"No, nothing. I feel a presence though. Don't you?" Doroteo's senses strike him at fundamental level. It is his survival instincts kicking in. He's sure that they're not alone.

"I don't feel anything." Doroteo's friend gives his honest answer. He trusts his long time friend's instincts.

His friend, while more apt to display his excitability, is also prone to frequent, and at times, violent outbursts. This leads to the suffering of his community as he tries to appease his insatiable hunger for attention. He miraculously manages to escape repercussions for mean-spirited and often times vengeful behavior that he directs towards people, creatures or even objects in which he feels have slighted him in some manner.

He dissipates the bad air by spreading a contagious agent of joyousness that infects rather than feeds the people surrounding him. Viral impulses shock his communities' immune system and replaces good sense with good will. This impairs their ability to strive and shake off his polarizing charge of disharmony and allows for acclimation of discontent to subside so as to provide status quo an opportunity to stabilize its equilibrium before his next outburst has a chance to spark and ignite the air around him.

Simply stated, his family and friends put up with his insolence and trash talking machismo because he makes them laugh as well it being the best for the community. His keen sense of humor has kept him out of trouble up until this point in time but his hair trigger approach towards life will more than likely prove to be his downfall as he continues a lifetime of shooting off his mouth.

However, none of this was on display as he answered his friend. There was nothing to be seen or felt emitting from the forest. Even the horses sensed nothing; it was Doroteo himself that forced his eyes to stare past the woods in a vain attempt to detect what it was that was troubling him.

For Izzy never cried. She lacked the fundamentals for understanding and displaying normal human emotions. Isabel believed that emotions were just words to help describe and to notate certain feelings that reside within all humans, but she was unable to attach the names to the feelings that she experiences. It's not for a lack of wanting; the relationship just doesn't present itself to young Izzy.

Her father, who plays traditional folk music on his accordion for Isabel's comfort twice a week, is caring but does not display much emotion. Her mother is much the same when it comes to displaying her own emotions. After surviving two miscarriages, Isabel's parents, especially her mother, had given up hope towards having their own child.

Even though she was six weeks early, Izzy proved not to be a difficult delivery nor was she a problem child during her early upbringing. Isabel was a bundle of joy as first reception. Her presence was a priceless gem, a prayer thought unanswered. At first, her constant smiles formed a blinding tundra that provided a clean slate in which all pervious struggles were erased. But then the smiles turned icy with concern which snowballed into consternation and then triggered an avalanche of fatal resolve to disengage and slide down the slope of discontent over Isabel's mental well being.

It was Izzy's stillness that frightened her parents. Not a single utterance once under her parents constant supervision. This undesired and negative call of attention was not something Isabel had anticipated while considering her introduction to her new and final home. She felt her presence was enough to satisfy her parents need for a family unit.

Izzy would explain when the time was right, to her family and neighbors why she stayed still for such a long course of time.

What Isabel couldn't understand was when a dream gets shattered one time too many, the pieces become scattered and nearly impossible to collect and arrange back to a whole that in any way resembles its former self. No single one thing can mend where scars have already marred.

"The sun cuts through the trees and the light reveals nothing. While the forest is dense with tress, the trunks themselves are too narrow to allow anything to hind behind them." Doroteo's friend had an uncanny knack of cutting to the chase, forgoing all other conclusions when the obvious one presents itself. Doroteo knew this and immediately felt the pressure in the base of his spine disappear when hearing his friend's wisdom.

Smiling at his friend's frankness, "You're right, but someone is watching us, watching me right now. Right there." Doroteo points towards the forest and nothing else. Other people would consider him a fool but not his friend. He knows that his people are of the land and when the land offers you an answer without meaning, oftentimes the question can only be found within yourself.

"If it's not Sergio, it's not important. We should go. Maybe we'll be lucky and find the boy asleep after panhandling for a free meal. Then you can share your mother's treats with me instead of wasting it on him." Always looking out for himself, always looking for an angle, Doroteo's friend was always more serious than not in his half hearted jokes and his crooked smile allowed his charms to outshine his undesirable attributes. Doroteo looked upon those extroverted attributes as an asset rather than a liability. His friend always let his intentions be known, no bones were made, and his proclivity towards speaking first and consideration second, if at all, made him a sound board to bounce ideas across. Sometimes wise words can be surmised from rash mumblings brought by unprocessed thought.

Deciding a smile best expresses his feelings towards his friend's selfish comment, a smile if verbalized would more than likely be taken as insult rather than good natured ribbing, for his friend's constitution was of a delicate nature in matters concerning himself and wasn't apt for handling criticism in any form, Doroteo gives his horse's reins a tug and swings back towards the road.

Izzy's mother, nearly driven to despair by her second miscarriage, only wants the best for her husband and daughter. She can't understand why her healthy child displays only silence. At first, it wasn't disconcerting, a quiet child is a happy child, until one day her father happened to pass by her crib and found Isabel choking on a wooden toy. A small piece had broken off and lodged itself in the girl's windpipe. Isabel's face was turning dark as her brain was grasping for oxygen when her father grabbed her by the legs and held her upside down. After a few mighty shakes, Izzy managed to cough up the offending intrusion but was left uncertain as to whether the cure was better or worse in comparison with the ailment.

Ever since then, Isabel looked up to her father in ways she never thought possible. When Izzy, there in her crib, nearly out of air, realized she wasn't in complete control of herself and outside forces could and would ply its ugly influence towards her well being and exploit her delicate condition whenever it seemed fit, gave up. An overwhelming sense of total helplessness was immediately replaced by a complete sensation of feeling free. It was as if nothing mattered or won't soon enough.
Once her father prevents Isabel from choking on the offending piece, Izzy's spirit of freedom dissipates and melds and melts into sensorial relief as an afferent vessel opens wide and allows life to flood back into her system.

Isabel's new and sudden sense of life quashes any fear of death because this moment represents a major forward progression towards Izzy's mode of thinking. This near fatal miss causes Izzy to include herself whenever she evaluates a quandary. Acknowledgment of death allows her to look at her life and the others around her anew and instead of seeing herself separate from the others, she now includes herself within her group and relishes the feeling of belonging.

She revels in this new sense of self expression so much so that she almost reveals to her parents that she can speak with them. Isabel's want for inclusion was overbearing and she wasn't far along in the formulations of her new plans that her reality was shattered once and for good. Isabel had discovered the path that leads to her death. The premonitions of herself have begun.

Before Doroteo could make much headway towards the two men still waiting on the dusty road his friend reached him, "Whatever it was, I'm glad it wasn't the boy. I almost hope we don't find him." Doroteo kept his pace to just a trot, "That's not proper." He knew that his friend was serious.

"You didn't see Gato this morning, you were still passed out. Once he found Sergio missing, he flew into a rage and tore his home apart. Your mother was right, he's too controlling." Doroteo's friend's sincerity was the reason he accepted his friend's occasional outbursts, "I can't see how being lost and alone is good for anyone's well being most of all Sergio's." Doroteo felt this to be true but had a hard time coming up with an argument that could refute his friend's logic.

"It's the wrong thing to wish I know, but maybe the gypsies could provide a home more fit for the boy than his parent's can." Doroteo smiled at his friend's sentiment. If everyone thought the way his friend did and express themselves to the others around them, maybe there wouldn't be a need for the boy to run in the first place.

What Isabel doesn't realize is that these premonitions of hers, the visions of peoples' deaths, including her own, are only the worst possible outcome that she could let herself imagine. They represent just one fate amongst many countless others.

A person's destiny is like a deck of playing cards fanned across a felt table. Pick a card from an unshuffled deck, any card, and you'll pick a card not much different for the one directly touching it on either side. This happens from the two to the Ace and then repeats itself in the same fashion but with a new suite.

In Isabel's hands, she forgoes all cards but the Ace and all suites except spades and this leaves Izzy with nothing but a deck of 52 cards of death. Since she believes that death inevitable, Izzy feels that her fatal, final vision must always be the winning hand. What she doesn't know is every card in every deck leads to death and each card represents a reality from good to worst that any individual can follow. The ace of spades represents the worst possible of all outcomes and should be avoided at all costs as opposed to being something to form a winning hand.

Speaking of expressing themselves,

"What happened? A possum chase you off as you were shaking yourself off?"

It never changes, more insults, more laughter, Doroteo was expecting this and was prepared,

"No, I thought I saw your wife with some pig and then I remembered you were with me."

Talking about the man's wife was not a safe place to tread. Doroteo continues,

"When I approached this loathsome creature, I could see it clearly and it would have been main spirited to call it your wife. For what I thought was your wife was in fact a pig itself and the thing attached to it was its suckling. It could not have been your wife no matter the similarities for we all know that your wife is incapable of providing for her offspring."

This rolled off Doroteo's tongue in a surprisingly satisfying manner. He was most pleased but the 35 year-old man was not, but Doroteo didn't care, it was payback for harassing his mother earlier in the day. The man knew this but Doroteo's unpredictable aggression always caught him off guard. He enjoyed pushing the boy's buttons but did not appreciate his brashness towards displaying his thoughts about his elders. His mother allowed this and in their small village, that was all that mattered.

What made it worse for the man was that no one would come to his defense when someone lashed out at him. They had the gall to place blame on him for inviting such maltreatment into his life. The man's community no longer valued men such as him. Only boys like Doroteo would be left and the village would find itself without a real guardian to look over.

What froze Isabel in her progression was a vision of someone else in her future. A single vision featuring two participants, herself and a boy her age, appeared to Izzy not long after her mishap with the broken toy. She knows this boy and immediately comes to understand that she loves him, always have and always will. This premonition blind-sides Izzy with happiness, a sensation felt only partially and very rarely in her short but lonely life.

This warm and all encompassing feeling is fleeting for it doesn't take long for Isabel to start peering deeper towards their future together. As always, she fails to see that she already holds the winning hand and trades in her cards until she finds the hand with her favorite card, the ace of spades.

"Perhaps it was a unicorn for you to stud with."

Doroteo couldn't tell if the man was raging or not. His poker face proved to be a hard read, but the boy felt good, his mother taught him how to bite back.

"Old man,

Putting tight on his reins,

"It's time to go."

Doroteo takes off down the road to make up for lost time. His horse pummels the others with dirt as they try and catch up.

The boy that Izzy is in love with is Sergio. She watches as he takes care of some unknown object that he keeps hidden away in a weaved basket. The girl's heart grows fond at the boy's tender nurturing. If Isabel could only have one wish, she would be the secret object that gains all his attention.

She knows the measures in which the boy goes through in order to maintain his secret; the beatings by his father's hands, his mother's constant insults, the days without food, all serve to punish the boy's malcontent. Sergio's parents, as a matter of course, treat their son as if he were already an adult. Much expectations and a delinquency of leniency leads to their child to rebel without much cause other than Sergio just doesn't like to be hampered without justification.

Isabel's heart nearly breaks each time she sees the boy running to his room and crying as he's being punished another day without food. This is accentuated by Izzy imagination of the bits of food that the boy risks sneaking away in order to feed the object of his affection.

Isabel has waited her entire life for the proper time to speak up. When she saw the Sergio sneak off in the middle of the night and enter one of the caravans, she knew it was the right moment to declare her love for the boy and show the world what see was capable of doing. Instead, she did nothing. Nothing was said and nothing was proven.

Nothing happened other than the maintaining of the status quo, which only sought to wrap its hands around Izzy's neck and strangle her in its indefinite grip.

Isabel will forever wonder why she never spoke up.

The traveling shadows shrink in shape and size as blue curtains unfold and reveal the sun splashed across its backdrop. Hoisted by invisible pulleys controlled by steady hands, our sun travels upwards toward the northern sky, through billows of clouds, up pass rafters of beams, sun and moon alike, to perform its daily pious recital.

The shell of the turtle is composed of two parts. An upper, outer component called the carapace which interlocks with a lower, secondary shell called the plastron.

"Doroteo. Dear boy, wake up." Sweetly spoken with a man's sun-soaked voice.

This second, inner component is physically attached to the creature's spine. To remove either part of its shell ensures the longevity of the turtle's life is shortened.

"Get up, little centauro!" Laughter comes from behind the man. Grunts from the 16 year-old boy, asleep next to a now withered out fire pit.

A turtle shell's inner casing can almost be looked upon a single, enlarged vertebra that has only it's upper tiled covering to protect the expanded, exterior ribcage.

A pit that just the evening before provided comfort for the village and their guests. The fortune teller and her caravan, the same one that arrives every fifteenth full moon, the one that had taken off in the middle of the night, traveling down the road to their next destination.

If a crack presents itself on the surface of the shell's exterior, measures should be spent towards repairing the upper casing as if it were the turtle's body itself that was affected instead, for it provides direct means in which outside and undesired forces might apply its will in which the turtle has no hope in combating. That certain thing that threatens to endanger the turtle's livelihood is a constant, moving element that once noticed, might have inflicted enough damage that nothing can be done to save the creature.

"Come on, little centauro, time to get up." No matter how you look at it, being kicked in the groin, however slight, is not a pleasant way for anyone to start their day. Several kicks, however, can only ensure that the rest of the day has nowhere to go but up.

One of the turtle's best-known traits is its defensive ability to sheathe its head and appendages within the confines of its shell. This happens when the creature feels threatened and vulnerable to attacks.

"Stop! What's wrong with you!" Doroteo growls as he pushes the man's leg away and sits up. He doesn't appreciate being woken up in any manner but especially not like this, not by this man.

When a turtle or any of its reptilian counterparts, the tortoise or the terrapin, fail to receive the proper daily allowance of nutrients that it needs in order to survive, if an imbalance is met, the turtle's outer casing can deform into a spiky crown.

The boy looks comical sitting on the ground with hair patched to the side of his face. A dazed look remains even as anger takes over. This man, twice Doroteo's age but with a maturity of one half, delights in giving the boy a hard time.

An honorable being, the turtle is, and as such, we humans try to find ways to associate ourselves with the creature, to nab it's better-held qualities, to help define certain traits that we believe ourselves to have. In folklore, tall tales, and stories of morality, the turtle exhibits a particular penchant for patience. Whether deliberate or a limitation of the animal's basic motor skills, this lumbering pace allows the creature to evaluate its environment readily as well as the objects within.

A troublemaker, filled with taunts and ill wishes. An agitator, that's how Doroteo views the man standing before him. Not an elder of the village, but older than the 16 year-old, the man feels as if he deserves respect. The boy only gives lip.

If humans can place so much of themselves in that of a little turtle, why do they have so much resistance applying that same faith towards themselves?

When we see a creature as noble as the turtle; a being we like to attach certain aspects of ourselves, a consciousness that reminds of the calmness and deliberation that resides within all of us, with a warped and distorted shell, it reminds us of our human condition and the frailty that is the basis for its framework. Not its building blocks but the ideals in which our foundation is created, our core in which anything can grow from and be built upon. Frailty is the human condition that is our foundation. Hope, trust and sharing are the ideals that built that foundation. Love, compassion, and forgiveness are the temples in which we display with glory atop that same foundation.

When our foundation's representative, the turtle, can be but doesn't need to be, warped and unsightly to gaze upon, the image shakes our foundation and threatens to produce cracks into our well-being in hopes of displacing harmony in which we applied so much effort to ascertain, but don't mourn the turtle for it knows its place in life. Shell smooth or spiky matters as much to the creature as if it were colored green or brown. The turtle knows not of these things. It just does what it needs to do in order to survive.

"Doroteo, let me help you." A woman's voice, his mother's. She comes to gather her child, the eldest of five. As a widow, she counts on her offspring to give her reason. She displays deep affection towards them and they, in return, will someday leave. She's surrounded and alone at the same time. Never the less, she protects and nurtures them as best she can. Brushing dead, dry soil from her son's face, she sends the man a hard glare.

Nature intrinsically knows to nurture an environment given to her as a gift, not the children themselves but it is the symbiosis with her children that is most precious. This symbiosis floats between giving and receiving and this give and take needs to be acknowledged as to allow nature's progression towards sustaining a living and thriving environment.

The man dealt the harsh look by Doroteo's mother smiles as he receives his reward for waking her son. The village they all belong to, adjacent to this clearing in which they now stood, was home to just a handful of nature's children. Just enough to till her soil and to feed her nutrients. They do this in order to receive. Nature gives so her children will be maintained and well-fed. This allows her children to flourish and grow and in return, they can continue to tend her wares.

Nature's children, the ones that belong to this land are composed of sharecroppers. Humble folk, who, much like the turtles that live in the creeks that runs through the trees that encompass the small village, recognize their relationship with their environment if not fully comprehending the impact that they bring.

The fire pit, now lit only by the morning's slicing rays, is filled with grey ash that blends in the dirt that settles as its neighbor. Still upset at being woken up, especially the fashion in which it was invoked. It wasn't the kicking, it was the mocking, the little centauro that irked him. The man still knew how to push his buttons. The 16 year-old allows his mother to escort him home, much to the delight of the older man and the two boys that laugh with him. Doroteo knows this image, a mother leading her boy away, would only lead to more consternation down the road, but he didn't care, he was hungry and glad to be home.

Harvest has passed and it was bountiful like the seasons previous, but now, the land is dry, as if the sun's giving rays were soaking moisture straight from the ground, reneging on its part of the plan with nature. The scorched land displays worry by distorting the air that radiates from deep within its crust.

Doroteo appears drunk rather than tired. Clawing chickens that pave his path hardly register. Not a drinker, it was the fortune teller's words that hang heavy on his mental frame even if he hasn't yet recalled their encounter. Nearing their home, Doroteo, led by his mother, is spotted by a female neighbor. A mother herself, she recognizes the dynamics being displayed as it whisks by. This connection that she sees between the doting mother and her son raises the woman's awareness of her attachment with her own children.

Turtles, like all of nature's creatures, has its own equilibrium to maintain. It's one of a higher lifeform. The creature's relationship with its environment is unfathomable to lesser beings such as man.

The woman absorbs the heat bouncing off the dirt and its warmth intoxicates her being. A swift and powerful downward thrust of her left wrist snaps the neck of a chicken, cleanly and quite coolly. This woman understands the cycle of life, its give and take. You do as you must in order to survive.

However, the turtle knows, and quite by instinct, that the cycle of life has no end nor beginning, no start, no conclusion. Life sways to a constant ebb and flow. Knowing this allows the little creature to perceive life as it needs to, diverting attention towards a vision that masks other, perhaps less important truths. The only vision that it sees is the only one that matters. The only thing that it sees is the only truth that it knows.

It may have died alone but now it can rest in comfort, knowing that it others just like it, went as well. After, killing the animal as humanely as she could, the woman lays the newly departed next to other birds whose necks are surely just as broken. Once in awhile, one tries to stand, as if to get far away, as away as possible, but it never goes far.

The poor creature can't seem to get the hint that it's dead.

"Are you hungry?" The mother asks her child, now in their home, shaded away from the dry, morning heat. With callused thumb, the boy combs sweat and dirt through his black hair. He sits at the kitchen table; she hovers from behind.

"I think so." He says, still not very much awake.

"You think so?" The mother smiles and wants to pinch her boy's dimple but doesn't want to embarrass him, his ego's so easily bruised. But the synapse from her brain to her hand fails to connect and she pinches away. This son of hers, barely a boy and hardly a man, brought out the best in her. Ever since her husband's death, Doroteo, her eldest, was the man of the house.

He gives her the look, it's expected of him. It's good for her and sometimes, that's all that matters. She laughs and gives him a big old hug from behind. Before, Doroteo would have rejected such affection from his mother but since he's been gone for so long, he lets it go. It does feel good, he had to admit that. Once he did, he found himself hugging back.

"Well, little centauro." Dal is the man's name, the one who woke Doroteo this fine morning. 35 years of age, give or take. He stopped counting the years that has past and instead counted down his final ones. Now that he's married and with daughter.

On a metaphysical tip, if a person were to meld with the turtle, become one with the turtle, one would not embark upon a physical journey expecting to reach wisdom on a material level. No, one must stroll down a spiritual path, following an inner course where no sure destination lies.

Drifts of baked dough waft and then scatter as the three men enter but food isn't on their minds. Dal and two teenage boys around Doroteo's age, stand in the doorway. All three boys grew up in this tight little community together and while Doroteo considers the one closest his age a good friend, he cares not for the company of the other, older boy. They stand peering as the sun bears down on their necks and twists their smiles into something more ominous than affable.

To reach this point, you must travel the only realm that allows you. Consider your mind to be your pathway there, let it guide you on your journey. Let it be known, that every mind is a prism and each one contains many, numerous aspects that define who we are and how we handle life. Aspects that, combined together, form various areas of thought. These areas of the mind, three in number; consciousness, unconsciousness, and the subconscious become focal points, and these focal points turn into energy. Energy that feeds and filters through the mind so to allow a rainbow of beliefs from deep within to be unleashed.

"Leave me alone." Doroteo wasn't going to let him start. He never cared for the man and after this morning, he wanted nothing to do with him. Nothing he could say would make a difference.

"Just wanted to let you know that Sergio's gone. Since late last night. We think he ran off with the gypsies."

To start your journey, look upon your subconscious as your inner shell. Then, in relation, the exposed upper crust could be considered your unconscious state and the turtle itself could represent your consciousness.

"He did?" Surprise turns to realization as Doroteo thoughts train. He saw the boy just last night, the first time since arriving home. He thought the boy looked happy and was having fun. Maybe too much fun.

Most expect the conscious to represent states of rest or unrest. If you can, think of consciousness to express multiple states of awareness, not just ones of sound and slumber.

Not being a singular thing in and of itself, our consciousness binds us to our physical world through our mental one. It's our awareness to our existence. It allows us to look at life as well as make comment. It establishes moral and ethical grounds for a society as well as its citizens. As our civilization grows, so does each person's awareness.

"Yes. That's what we've been trying to tell you." All three men were serious now, but like most men, they usually are. The male, those particular to the human species, look at life in what could be considered a jovial, joking manner. For a good deal of the time, their counterparts, the female, find this behavior to be regressed and unbecoming.

As our awareness grows, so does our consciousness expand. To include others. To consider ourselves in ways never thought before. It is our attachment to our world and everything within it, even ourselves.

"I'm not surprised. The way his father treats him." This came from Doroteo's mother.

This humorous outlook towards life serves as a coping mechanism for things men find unfathomable and have no allusions towards understanding.

Such as women.

"A man can treat his child anyway he likes." Some men like to push and prod if they feel their ego's being threatened. Some, such as Dal, just like to push and prod. He enjoyed a certain degree of control when he did. This is how he dealt with others in his life.

It is easy to get lost while considering such a large concept. When you lose hope, let the very thing you're considering right now, be your guide. Rely on your conscious to provide the answers you seek. They will be as truthful as what you ask. Remember, the turtle's body represents your conscious, if it did not exist, you would not exist. A turtle without a body is just a shell.

"Treating a boy like he's a piece of property is not a decision for a man to make." Doroteo's mother walks towards the doorway, towards the men. She knows what Dal's doing. He expects her to seeth, but she, like her son, isn't in the mood for his games.

As one can see, the consciousness holds many aspects of its own and can be considered in different ways, but it is only one area of the mind in which we return to again and again.

"The boy is his property. It is his name that is most important." The 35 year-old felt stronger, wiser. He took a step into the home, towards the approaching mother.

The outer shell, our unconscious, could be considered the opposite of counsciousness. Where our counscious asks us to think about something in particular, our uncounscious asks only to disregard. It does this in order to protect. More than just a place of rest, though rest, in and of itself is a form of protection, the unconscious part of our mind allows us to tune out the harsh realities in our day-to-day lives. When we see someone suffering or when something happens that's beyond our control, we tend to flush out the thoughts as soon as we can. It may seem incredulous that people would purposely allow others to suffer, but in these harsh times, you have to know that somewhere, someone is always in pain and there's not much you can do about it. It's human nature to have to let go. To not think about it.

"You've always felt that way and look at your daughter." Never one to back down from a spirited discussion, Doroteo's mother had no problem using whatever she had at her disposal to prove her point.

So there we have the two major areas of the mind: the conscious and the unconscious. Two areas that can be looked at as broadly as asleep and astir, they can be looked upon as awareness or disregard.

"You keep my daughter out of this. How I treat her is up to me. This is about your children." Stepping forward, the man felt as if an actual physical force was preventing his forward progression but Dal didn't care. He no longer cared how the woman felt or for the course the conversation had taken.

One isn't necessarily above or below the other. Just as one can regard someone in a bad way, one can also ignore with ignorance, with no malise intented.

"And what about them?" Doroteo's mother asks as she puts her hands on Doroteo's shoulder. She can feel tension radiate from between its blades.

Our conscious dictates our morals while our unconscious state helps us to overlook any that may offend. Together they work in tandem being two parts of a whole. They allow one to concentrate on what's important while shutting out what's not.

"You cottle them, they run ramped and misbehave. Your daughter, hardly old enough, sleeps around. And this thing." Dal slaps the boy upside the head, more degrading than damaging.

Like the plastron joins the turtle with it's shell, so too does the subconscious attach the conscious to our unconscious self. Being exactly what it's called, the subsconscious is part of the conscious, but is of such an important aspect to our minds, it must be considered an area all its own.

Doroteo jumps up at this final insult. His chair almost gets tossed across the room in the process. He was always sick of Dal's cocksure attitude and bullying tactics and now it was time to do something about it. He stands there staring down the man, and Dal, arms crossed against his chest, smiles back. The mother's hand sweeps across the boy's back as she walks from behind him and towards the man.

Known as metaphysics, the study of the subconscious can lead to many interesting areas of thought if one can allow oneself to open up and let one's mind to float free, tethered only by the love that they family brings with them.

"You of all people telling me how to raise my children. I watched you grow from a naive, dull-headed, brat of a child into a stupid man and you're going to tell me what I'm doing wrong?" Doroteo's mother didn't raise her voice as she walked through the sunlight streaming in, she didn't have to. Remaining very stern when extremely upset, she always kept her temper, and, to Doroteo, that was worse than anything her yelling could accomplish. The boy sighs a bit of relief whenever her ire's been raised and he wasn't the one hoisting it, such in this case.

Our subconscious is the area where all our deep rooted dreams and ideas come out and play. Together with your hopes and memories. All on display, for all to see.

This brought the brunt of her ire to Dal, which was fortunate, for he, and only he, welcomed it. Perhaps what had started out as a bit of fun and games had escalated, as it often does with Dal, well past the breaking point, but he enjoyed the chaos that going to far brings, even if it did make him flinch at times.

Our inner shell, the subconscious, serves the same propose as the turtle's, it provides a rigid connection between our beings. Not being a physical force, it's easy to disregard the subconscious as unimportant. It should not be viewed in this way. The subconscious is our most valuable area, for it binds us to what we find most precious, ourselves and each other.The shell of the turtle is composed of two parts. An upper, outer component called the carapace which interlocks with a lower, secondary shell called the plastron.

"Doroteo. Dear boy, wake up." Sweetly spoken with a man's sun-soaked voice.

This second, inner component is physically attached to the creature's spine. To remove either part of its shell ensures the longevity of the turtle's life is shortened.

"Get up, little centauro!" Laughter comes from behind the man. Grunts from the 16 year-old boy, asleep next to a now withered out fire pit.

A turtle shell's inner casing can almost be looked upon a single, enlarged vertebra that has only it's upper tiled covering to protect the expanded, exterior ribcage.

A pit that just the evening before provided comfort for the village and their guests. The fortune teller and her caravan, the same one that arrives every fifteenth full moon, the one that had taken off in the middle of the night, traveling down the road to their next destination.

If a crack presents itself on the surface of the shell's exterior, measures should be spent towards repairing the upper casing as if it were the turtle's body itself that was affected instead, for it provides direct means in which outside and undesired forces might apply its will in which the turtle has no hope in combating. That certain thing that threatens to endanger the turtle's livelihood is a constant, moving element that once noticed, might have inflicted enough damage that nothing can be done to save the creature.

"Come on, little centauro, time to get up." No matter how you look at it, being kicked in the groin, however slight, is not a pleasant way for anyone to start their day. Several kicks, however, can only ensure that the rest of the day has nowhere to go but up.

One of the turtle's best-known traits is its defensive ability to sheathe its head and appendages within the confines of its shell. This happens when the creature feels threatened and vulnerable to attacks.

"Stop! What's wrong with you!" Doroteo growls as he pushes the man's leg away and sits up. He doesn't appreciate being woken up in any manner but especially not like this, not by this man.

When a turtle or any of its reptilian counterparts, the tortoise or the terrapin, fail to receive the proper daily allowance of nutrients that it needs in order to survive, if an imbalance is met, the turtle's outer casing can deform into a spiky crown.

The boy looks comical sitting on the ground with hair patched to the side of his face. A dazed look remains even as anger takes over. This man, twice Doroteo's age but with a maturity of one half, delights in giving the boy a hard time.

An honorable being, the turtle is, and as such, we humans try to find ways to associate ourselves with the creature, to nab it's better-held qualities, to help define certain traits that we believe ourselves to have. In folklore, tall tales, and stories of morality, the turtle exhibits a particular penchant for patience. Whether deliberate or a limitation of the animal's basic motor skills, this lumbering pace allows the creature to evaluate its environment readily as well as the objects within.

A troublemaker, filled with taunts and ill wishes. An agitator, that's how Doroteo views the man standing before him. Not an elder of the village, but older than the 16 year-old, the man feels as if he deserves respect. The boy only gives lip.

If humans can place so much of themselves in that of a little turtle, why do they have so much resistance applying that same faith towards themselves?

When we see a creature as noble as the turtle; a being we like to attach certain aspects of ourselves, a consciousness that reminds of the calmness and deliberation that resides within all of us, with a warped and distorted shell, it reminds us of our human condition and the frailty that is the basis for its framework. Not its building blocks but the ideals in which our foundation is created, our core in which anything can grow from and be built upon. Frailty is the human condition that is our foundation. Hope, trust and sharing are the ideals that built that foundation. Love, compassion, and forgiveness are the temples in which we display with glory atop that same foundation.

When our foundation's representative, the turtle, can be but doesn't need to be, warped and unsightly to gaze upon, the image shakes our foundation and threatens to produce cracks into our well-being in hopes of displacing harmony in which we applied so much effort to ascertain, but don't mourn the turtle for it knows its place in life. Shell smooth or spiky matters as much to the creature as if it were colored green or brown. The turtle knows not of these things. It just does what it needs to do in order to survive.

"Doroteo, let me help you." A woman's voice, his mother's. She comes to gather her child, the eldest of five. As a widow, she counts on her offspring to give her reason. She displays deep affection towards them and they, in return, will someday leave. She's surrounded and alone at the same time. Never the less, she protects and nurtures them as best she can. Brushing dead, dry soil from her son's face, she sends the man a hard glare.

Nature intrinsically knows to nurture an environment given to her as a gift, not the children themselves but it is the symbiosis with her children that is most precious. This symbiosis floats between giving and receiving and this give and take needs to be acknowledged as to allow nature's progression towards sustaining a living and thriving environment.

The man dealt the harsh look by Doroteo's mother smiles as he receives his reward for waking her son. The village they all belong to, adjacent to this clearing in which they now stood, was home to just a handful of nature's children. Just enough to till her soil and to feed her nutrients. They do this in order to receive. Nature gives so her children will be maintained and well-fed. This allows her children to flourish and grow and in return, they can continue to tend her wares.

Nature's children, the ones that belong to this land are composed of sharecroppers. Humble folk, who, much like the turtles that live in the creeks that runs through the trees that encompass the small village, recognize their relationship with their environment if not fully comprehending the impact that they bring.

The fire pit, now lit only by the morning's slicing rays, is filled with grey ash that blends in the dirt that settles as its neighbor. Still upset at being woken up, especially the fashion in which it was invoked. It wasn't the kicking, it was the mocking, the little centauro that irked him. The man still knew how to push his buttons. The 16 year-old allows his mother to escort him home, much to the delight of the older man and the two boys that laugh with him. Doroteo knows this image, a mother leading her boy away, would only lead to more consternation down the road, but he didn't care, he was hungry and glad to be home.

Harvest has passed and it was bountiful like the seasons previous, but now, the land is dry, as if the sun's giving rays were soaking moisture straight from the ground, reneging on its part of the plan with nature. The scorched land displays worry by distorting the air that radiates from deep within its crust.

Doroteo appears drunk rather than tired. Clawing chickens that pave his path hardly register. Not a drinker, it was the fortune teller's words that hang heavy on his mental frame even if he hasn't yet recalled their encounter. Nearing their home, Doroteo, led by his mother, is spotted by a female neighbor. A mother herself, she recognizes the dynamics being displayed as it whisks by. This connection that she sees between the doting mother and her son raises the woman's awareness of her attachment with her own children.

Turtles, like all of nature's creatures, has its own equilibrium to maintain. It's one of a higher lifeform. The creature's relationship with its environment is unfathomable to lesser beings such as man.

The woman absorbs the heat bouncing off the dirt and its warmth intoxicates her being. A swift and powerful downward thrust of her left wrist snaps the neck of a chicken, cleanly and quite coolly. This woman understands the cycle of life, its give and take. You do as you must in order to survive.

However, the turtle knows, and quite by instinct, that the cycle of life has no end nor beginning, no start, no conclusion. Life sways to a constant ebb and flow. Knowing this allows the little creature to perceive life as it needs to, diverting attention towards a vision that masks other, perhaps less important truths. The only vision that it sees is the only one that matters. The only thing that it sees is the only truth that it knows.

It may have died alone but now it can rest in comfort, knowing that it others just like it, went as well. After, killing the animal as humanely as she could, the woman lays the newly departed next to other birds whose necks are surely just as broken. Once in awhile, one tries to stand, as if to get far away, as away as possible, but it never goes far.

The poor creature can't seem to get the hint that it's dead.

"Are you hungry?" The mother asks her child, now in their home, shaded away from the dry, morning heat. With callused thumb, the boy combs sweat and dirt through his black hair. He sits at the kitchen table; she hovers from behind.

"I think so." He says, still not very much awake.

"You think so?" The mother smiles and wants to pinch her boy's dimple but doesn't want to embarrass him, his ego's so easily bruised. But the synapse from her brain to her hand fails to connect and she pinches away. This son of hers, barely a boy and hardly a man, brought out the best in her. Ever since her husband's death, Doroteo, her eldest, was the man of the house.

He gives her the look, it's expected of him. It's good for her and sometimes, that's all that matters. She laughs and gives him a big old hug from behind. Before, Doroteo would have rejected such affection from his mother but since he's been gone for so long, he lets it go. It does feel good, he had to admit that. Once he did, he found himself hugging back.

"Well, little centauro." Dal is the man's name, the one who woke Doroteo this fine morning. 35 years of age, give or take. He stopped counting the years that has past and instead counted down his final ones. Now that he's married and with daughter.

On a metaphysical tip, if a person were to meld with the turtle, become one with the turtle, one would not embark upon a physical journey expecting to reach wisdom on a material level. No, one must stroll down a spiritual path, following an inner course where no sure destination lies.

Drifts of baked dough waft and then scatter as the three men enter but food isn't on their minds. Dal and two teenage boys around Doroteo's age, stand in the doorway. All three boys grew up in this tight little community together and while Doroteo considers the one closest his age a good friend, he cares not for the company of the other, older boy. They stand peering as the sun bears down on their necks and twists their smiles into something more ominous than affable.

To reach this point, you must travel the only realm that allows you. Consider your mind to be your pathway there, let it guide you on your journey. Let it be known, that every mind is a prism and each one contains many, numerous aspects that define who we are and how we handle life. Aspects that, combined together, form various areas of thought. These areas of the mind, three in number; consciousness, unconsciousness, and the subconscious become focal points, and these focal points turn into energy. Energy that feeds and filters through the mind so to allow a rainbow of beliefs from deep within to be unleashed.

"Leave me alone." Doroteo wasn't going to let him start. He never cared for the man and after this morning, he wanted nothing to do with him. Nothing he could say would make a difference.

"Just wanted to let you know that Sergio's gone. Since late last night. We think he ran off with the gypsies."

To start your journey, look upon your subconscious as your inner shell. Then, in relation, the exposed upper crust could be considered your unconscious state and the turtle itself could represent your consciousness.

"He did?" Surprise turns to realization as Doroteo thoughts train. He saw the boy just last night, the first time since arriving home. He thought the boy looked happy and was having fun. Maybe too much fun.

Most expect the conscious to represent states of rest or unrest. If you can, think of consciousness to express multiple states of awareness, not just ones of sound and slumber.

Not being a singular thing in and of itself, our consciousness binds us to our physical world through our mental one. It's our awareness to our existence. It allows us to look at life as well as make comment. It establishes moral and ethical grounds for a society as well as its citizens. As our civilization grows, so does each person's awareness.

"Yes. That's what we've been trying to tell you." All three men were serious now, but like most men, they usually are. The male, those particular to the human species, look at life in what could be considered a jovial, joking manner. For a good deal of the time, their counterparts, the female, find this behavior to be regressed and unbecoming.

As our awareness grows, so does our consciousness expand. To include others. To consider ourselves in ways never thought before. It is our attachment to our world and everything within it, even ourselves.

"I'm not surprised. The way his father treats him." This came from Doroteo's mother.

This humorous outlook towards life serves as a coping mechanism for things men find unfathomable and have no allusions towards understanding.

Such as women.

"A man can treat his child anyway he likes." Some men like to push and prod if they feel their ego's being threatened. Some, such as Dal, just like to push and prod. He enjoyed a certain degree of control when he did. This is how he dealt with others in his life.

It is easy to get lost while considering such a large concept. When you lose hope, let the very thing you're considering right now, be your guide. Rely on your conscious to provide the answers you seek. They will be as truthful as what you ask. Remember, the turtle's body represents your conscious, if it did not exist, you would not exist. A turtle without a body is just a shell.

"Treating a boy like he's a piece of property is not a decision for a man to make." Doroteo's mother walks towards the doorway, towards the men. She knows what Dal's doing. He expects her to seethe, but she, like her son, isn't in the mood for his games.

As one can see, the consciousness holds many aspects of its own and can be considered in different ways, but it is only one area of the mind in which we return to again and again.

"The boy is his property. It is his name that is most important." The 35 year-old felt stronger, wiser. He took a step into the home, towards the approaching mother.

The outer shell, our unconscious, could be considered the opposite of consciousness. Where our conscious asks us to think about something in particular, our unconscious asks only to disregard. It does this in order to protect. More than just a place of rest, though rest, in and of itself is a form of protection, the unconscious part of our mind allows us to tune out the harsh realities in our day-to-day lives. When we see someone suffering or when something happens that's beyond our control, we tend to flush out the thoughts as soon as we can. It may seem incredulous that people would purposely allow others to suffer, but in these harsh times, you have to know that somewhere, someone is always in pain and there's not much you can do about it. It's human nature to have to let go. To not think about it.

"You've always felt that way and look at your daughter." Never one to back down from a spirited discussion, Doroteo's mother had no problem using whatever she had at her disposal to prove her point.

So there we have the two major areas of the mind: the conscious and the unconscious. Two areas that can be looked at as broadly as asleep and astir, they can be looked upon as awareness or disregard.

"You keep my daughter out of this. How I treat her is up to me. This is about your children." Stepping forward, the man felt as if an actual physical force was preventing his forward progression but Dal didn't care. He no longer cared how the woman felt or for the course the conversation had taken.

One isn't necessarily above or below the other. Just as one can regard someone in a bad way, one can also ignore with ignorance, with no malice intended.

"And what about them?" Doroteo's mother asks as she puts her hands on Doroteo's shoulder. She can feel tension radiate from between its blades.

Our conscious dictates our morals while our unconscious state helps us to overlook any that may offend. Together they work in tandem being two parts of a whole. They allow one to concentrate on what's important while shutting out what's not.

"You cottle them, they run ramped and misbehave. Your daughter, hardly old enough, sleeps around. And this thing." Dal slaps the boy upside the head, more degrading than damaging.

Like the plastron joins the turtle with it's shell, so too does the subconscious attach the conscious to our unconscious self. Being exactly what it's called, the subconscious is part of the conscious, but is of such an important aspect to our minds, it must be considered an area all its own.

Doroteo jumps up at this final insult. His chair almost gets tossed across the room in the process. He was always sick of Dal's cocksure attitude and bullying tactics and now it was time to do something about it. He stands there staring down the man, and Dal, arms crossed against his chest, smiles back. The mother's hand sweeps across the boy's back as she walks from behind him and towards the man.

Known as metaphysics, the study of the subconscious can lead to many interesting areas of thought if one can allow oneself to open up and let one's mind to float free, tethered only by the love that they family brings with them.

"You of all people telling me how to raise my children. I watched you grow from a naive, dull-headed, brat of a child into a stupid man and you're going to tell me what I'm doing wrong?" Doroteo's mother didn't raise her voice as she walked through the sunlight streaming in, she didn't have to. Remaining very stern when extremely upset, she always kept her temper, and, to Doroteo, that was worse than anything her yelling could accomplish. The boy sighs a bit of relief whenever her ires been raised and he wasn't the one hoisting it, such in this case.

Our subconscious is the area where all our deep rooted dreams and ideas come out and play. Together with your hopes and memories. All on display, for all to see.

This brought the brunt of her ire to Dal, which was fortunate, for he, and only he, welcomed it. Perhaps what had started out as a bit of fun and games had escalated, as it often does with Dal, well past the breaking point, but he enjoyed the chaos that going to far brings, even if it did make him flinch at times.

Our inner shell, the subconscious, serves the same propose as the turtle's, it provides a rigid connection between our beings. Not being a physical force, it's easy to disregard the subconscious as unimportant. It should not be viewed in this way. The subconscious is our most valuable area, for it binds us to what we find most precious, ourselves and each other.

"Look at him, you call this a man? It's not a man. It's barely a boy. A child who'll never amount to anything. And that's your fault." Dal picked at the boy's clothes while in her face, like an irate customer pointing out damaged goods to an inexperienced, hapless store clerk.

While the conscious mind reacts, the subconscious one experiences. While the unconscious folds and collapses, the subconscious collects and categorizes. It is the deep drivers seat of your mind. The more finely tuned your awareness, the more it fuels your subconscious, the easier you'll find it to navigate the many roads that our unconscious mind paves while overcoming the ones that our conscious world decides to mark our way.

"At least she didn't turn us into freaks." If Dal wants a fight, then by all means; let's go, decides Doroteo in between the man's taunts. Time to show the man that he can't continue to speak to his mother that way.

Both our conscious and unconscious mind taps into this area of our mind. There's different ways of reaching the subconscious with dreams being the most common. Whether sitting there daydreaming, or dreaming a dream that only slumber can bring, you're tapping into your subconscious.

"Maybe not but I face my responsibilities. Not like your old man, who decided he'd be better off without you rather than with you and look where that got 'em. Everyone knows what happened." It's an vicious and unforgiving land. One shouldn't enter if uncertain or inexperienced.

When it comes right down to it, dreams are our only reliable route towards finding our wandering mind's eye.

Words can be forgiven but not forgotten, Dal knows and uses this to his advantage. He wants to give something to the boy to think about. Think about for a good long time.

Right now, the only thing Doroteo thinks is bringing the man down. He rushes the man full on and goes for his head.

A being needs an outlet to counter the daunting task of providing and surviving for themselves and their love ones on a wholly, daily basis while knowing the entire time that this hard work will only be for naught once their days come to an end.

"You want some, runt?" The man was ready, it was only a matter of time. He grabs the boy's hair and pulls his head back.

Our subconscious is that outlet. It is the place in between life's jagged cracks that we return to for comfort and to strive off boredom.

Doroteo struggles to wrap his arm around the man's head as his mother comes to her senses and tries to break up the fight before it gets out of hand.

It is the one area in which the reign of self is total, authoritarian and of a dictatorial nature.

"Help me!" She directs the two boys that came in with Dal, who up to this point, had been alternately enjoying and cringing at the display. The wrestling men lock horns and their legs splay behind them, making it hard to grab a handhold long enough to pry them apart without getting hurt in the mix.

So much so, that it allows humans to disconnect, float free and explore whichever flights in need of fancying.

Dust gets kicked up and sunlight shoots a cascade of circling, spinning specks up into the air, melding out of eyesight into the nooks and corners of the home.

"Show me how you fight." Dal laughs as he wraps his arm around the boy's head and tucks it squarely into the pit of his arm and gives a good squeeze. Good enough to restrict airflow and cause the boy to choke. Doroteo's own arm was draped around the man's head and he was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a healthy grip.

Just as removing the turtle from its protective casing would spell disaster for the creature's survival; a person cannot be separated from its subconscious. It would bring death, for it is the area that we escape to. It is the location in which we preserve our memories and proceed with our fantasies and dreams.

Dal was in the dominate spot, all he had to do was wait for the boy to tire out. He knew if the boy really wanted to, he'd be able to put on a real fight and then, the man might have something to worry about, but as it was, he wasn't concerned.

Not the dreams of slumber, but our daydreams. The dreams that stay with us no matter which horizon life points us. These dreams are the ones that really matter, for they are our hopes for the future.

Bullies are good at one thing, wearing people down. Dal makes for a very good bully. He manages to keep Doroteo at bay until the boy peters out. Once he does, the man relaxes his hold and lets the boy's head go, giving him a chance to breath. Doroteo's own arm slides off the man's neck down to his knee, which he grasps while catching his breath.

Dal stands up straight with his hands on his hips, the sunlight streams behind him and through his arms, making him a talking silhouette. He bends down to look Doroteo in the eye.

"You want to be a man? You want to know what it means to be a man?" He throws a grin off his face.

"Then come with us. Help us find the boy. Find some self-worthwhile you're at it." He stands back up, looking down at the boy, a smile hides in his shadow.

Every dream is a reality worth aspiring towards and if humans allowed themselves,

Still catching his breath, the boy stands upright to face the man. "I was going to."

They'll soon discover that their dreams are not silly and foolish but are the same ones that others share,

"Good." He slaps the boy's face again and Doroteo swats it away. Staring at Dal, he finds the man's audacity incredulous.

Only approached from a different angle.

"I'll let you get some peace before we head out. But make it quick, I want to be home before lunchtime." Dal turns to head out the doorway, towards the courtyard. The two boys that accompany him are already there, waiting to see if anyone would emerge alive from the small adobe home. Just a few moments earlier, they wouldn't have been surprised to find themselves witness to a bloody show down. But things have a way of working themselves out, the boys soon discover.

A prism has infinite points in which to shed the light within. Each individual color that these points project represents a dream that a particular being has.

The sun bares down on Dal as he makes his way outdoors. The boys wait for him outside as he pauses at the doorway and turns. He watches the mother dote over her child, making sure he wasn't hurt in the scuffle. Dal can't resist interrupting.

Collect these colors and the rainbow becomes much more than a collection of hues. A rich, tangible image appears and while not easy to grab a hold, it can be looked upon and shared in a real matter. Just like your dreams.

"You know, if keep sticking up for yourself like you did today, you might become something worthwhile. Who knows? You might even find yourself turning into a man." Dal, like the good neighbor he is, knows not to overstay his welcome and turns to leave before being asked.

Forget not these dreams, nor the dreams of others, for every being that can dream should be able to realize it without squabble. Even a turtle.

"Dear little Centauro." Went his departure."Look at him, you call this a man? It's not a man. It's barely a boy. A child who'll never amount to anything. And that's your fault."

Dal picked at the boy's clothes while in her face, like an irate customer pointing out damaged goods to an inexperienced, hapless storeclerk.

While the conscious mind reacts, the subconscious one experiences. While the unconscious folds and collapses, the subconscious collects and categorizes. It is the deep drivers seat of your mind. The more finely tuned your awareness, the more it fuels your subconscious, the easier you'll find it to navigate the many roads that our unconscious mind paves while overcoming the ones that our conscious world decides to mark our way.

"At least she didn't turn us into freaks." If Dal wants a fight, then by all means; let's go, decides Doroteo in between the man's taunts. Time to show the man that he can't continue to speak to his mother that way.

Both our conscious and unconscious mind taps into this area of our mind. There's different ways of reaching the subconscious with dreams being the most common. Whether sitting there daydreaming, or dreaming a dream that only slumber can bring, you're tapping into your subconscious.

"Maybe not but I face my responiblities. Not like your old man, who decided he'd be better off without you rather than with you and look where that got 'em. Everyone knows what happened." It's an vicious and unforgiving land. One shouldn't enter if uncertain or inexperienced.

When it comes right down to it, dreams are our only reliable route towards finding our wandering mind's eye.

Words can be forgiven but not forgotten, Dal knows and uses this to his advantage. He wants to give something to the boy to think about. Think about for a good long time.

Right now, the only thing Doroteo thinks is bringing the man down. He rushes the man full on and goes for his head.

A being needs an outlet to counter the daunting task of providing and surviving for themselves and their love ones on a wholly, daily basis while knowing the entire time that this hard work will only be for naught once their days come to an end.

"You want some, runt?" The man was ready, it was only a matter of time. He grabs the boy's hair and pulls his head back.

Our subconscious is that outlet. It is the place in between life's jagged cracks that we return to for comfort and to strive off boredom.

Doroteo struggles to wrap his arm around the man's head as his mother comes to her senses and tries to break up the fight before it gets out of hand.

It is the one area in which the reign of self is total, authoritarian and of a dictatorial nature.

"Help me!" She directs the two boys that came in with Dal, who up to this point, had been alternately enjoying and cringing at the display. The wrestling men lock horns and their legs splay behind them, making it hard to grab a handhold long enough to pry them apart without getting hurt in the mix.

So much so, that it allows humans to disconnect, float free and explore whichever flights in need of fancying.

Dust gets kicked up and sunlight shoots a cascade of circling, spinning specks up into the air, melding out of eyesight into the nooks and corners of the home.

"Show me how you fight." Dal laughs as he wraps his arm around the boy's head and tucks it squarely into the pit of his arm and gives a good squeeze. Good enough to restrict airflow and cause the boy to choke. Doroteo's own arm was draped around the man's head and he was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a healthy grip.

Just as removing the turtle from its protective casing would spell distaster for the creature's survival; a person cannot be separated from its subconscious. It would bring death, for it is the area that we escape to. It is the location in which we perserve our memories and proceed with our fantasies and dreams.

Dal was in the dominate spot, all he had to do was wait for the boy to tire out. He knew if the boy really wanted to, he'd be able to put on a real fight and then, the man might have something to worry about, but as it was, he wasn't concerned.

Not the dreams of slumber, but our daydreams. The dreams that stay with us no matter which horizon life points us. These dreams are the ones that really matter, for they are our hopes for the future.

Bullies are good at one thing, wearing people down. Dal makes for a very good bully. He manages to keep Doroteo at bay until the boy peters out. Once he does, the man relaxes his hold and lets the boy's head go, giving him a chance to breath. Doroteo's own arm slides off the man's neck down to his knee, which he grasps while catching his breath.

Dal stands up straight with his hands on his hips, the sunlight streams behind him and through his arms, making him a talking silhouette. He bends down to look Doroteo in the eye.

"You want to be a man? You want to know what it means to be a man?" He throws a grin off his face.

"Then come with us. Help us find the boy. Find some self-worth while you're at it." He stands back up, looking down at the boy, a smile hides in his shadow.

Every dream is a reality worth aspiring towards and if humans allowed themselves,

Still catching his breath, the boy stands upright to face the man. "I was going to."

They'll soon discover that their dreams are not silly and foolish but are the same ones that others share,

"Good." He slaps the boy's face again and Doroteo swats it away. Staring at Dal, he finds the man's audacity incredulous.
only approached from a different angle.

"I'll let you get some peace before we head out. But make it quick, I want to be home before lunchtime." Dal turns to head out the doorway, towards the courtyard. The two boys that accompany him are already there, waiting to see if anyone would emerge alive from the small adobe home. Just a few moments earlier, they wouldn't have been surprised to find themselves witness to a bloody show down. But things have a way of working themselves out, the boys soon discover.

A prism has infinite points in which to shed the light within. Each individual color that these points project represents a dream that a particular being has.

The sun bares down on Dal as he makes his way outdoors. The boys wait for him outside as he pauses at the doorway and turns. He watches the mother dote over her child, making sure he wasn't hurt in the scuffle. Dal can't resist interupting.

Collect these colors and the rainbow becomes much more than a collection of hues. A rich, tangible image appears and while not easy to grab a hold, it can be looked upon and shared in a real matter. Just like your dreams.

"You know, if keep sticking up for yourself like you did today, you might become something worthwhile. Who knows? You might even find yourself turning into a man." Dal, like the good neighbor he is, knows not to overstay his welcome and turns to leave before being asked.

Forget not these dreams, nor the dreams of others, for every being that can dream should be able to realize it without squabble. Even a turtle.

"Dear little Centauro." Went his departure.

"You need to speak with your own voice, child."

Children outside laughing.

"What do you mean?"

Crisp autumn air.

"To be heard."

Third week of October.

"People can hear me just fine old woman."

Said with a sharp smile.

"Scent of milk and perfume.

"I can't seem to hear you."


Replied the gleam.

"I thought you come to tell fortunes, not harass people."

"Indeed, just wanted to check your character. An old woman's whim."

"Should we start over?"

Gulp.

"Sit here?" The first of many questions.

The stars are out tonight. They come out of hiding once it's safe.

"Please. We shall both find ourselves more comfortable if you do." A woman's voice.

They're performing their nightly dance, to a song we cannot hear. Our minds tuned it out long ago.

The boy looks around his small surroundings as he sits in the wooden chair. It's the only one available, it's sibling occupied by the woman's voice. The voice of a gentle old woman. Her age would surprise you if you knew what it was. She's old no doubt, but her mannerisms are that of a younger lady.

Never having had his fortune told, the boy isn't sure what to do. He looks into the lady's face but she's no help. Unless a knowing smile is considered help. Not one for playing games, the boy can't help his next action. He flops his hand palm side up on the small wooden table that separates him from the woman. Her face turns serious and she looks into his open hand with concern. She then spits in it.

If you could stop time, the stars' slow choreography would pause as well. In that brief moment, you can reach up to caress the stars' tender underbelly. Better hurry, before the music starts back up.

Before the boy can jump up and show the old lady what for, she wipes the spit from his hand with a purple scarf.

"It was dirty." Now she can better see his hand.

"You have very pretty hands." Looking up, the old woman's serious side turns into a smile. Feeling duped, The boy retrieves his hand and places it in his lap, as if he were hiding a toy. The fortune teller's already laughing.

"Not a very good way to treat your paying customers." Said with no heart.

"Forgive me child. I was just testing your character. I have to be able to read you before I can read your fortune."

Under this layer of stars, another cluster formed. Children playing, running, laughing. This was the music the celestial bodies danced to. The voice of the universe.

"Now what?" asks the boy.

The fortune teller's caravan isn't very large. It's interior modest, decorated with red trappings, plush and silk. Soot from burning candles hide amongst the shadow's flickering. Traces of lavender and coriander winds around the curling candle smoke. A Turkish kilim hangs over the window, keeping light out and preserving the spirits within. Once a prayer mat, this kilim's center is threadbare, revealing the rug's skeleton, a crisscross canvas for which the woven wool can adhere itself. Its thick strands wept down by the footsteps of human tears.

"I am now ready but we have to make sure that you are ready."
It's hard to read her face, for many reasons.

"If you tell me that you are ready, I will believe. But you have to understand, it is the truth that I tell and if you are not yet ready, do not say that you are."

Her voice is soothing. The boy just arrived after being gone for so long. He is tired and this woman's words created anxiety within him. But her voice is soothing. It relaxes him so his anxiousness disappears before he can realize it exists. This brought him back full circle to just being tired. Or so it seemed. Just before he could speak, the baby behind his left shoulder made a peep. In its crib, during its adjusting and getting just so, the infant makes a little gurgle accentuated with spittle. The child's tiny voice startles the boy, he forgot it existed. The old lady had to smile. She never forgets that she is not alone.

Outside, the children laugh because the party had just arrived. Finally. It's been quiet for so long.

Now it's chaos, organized chaos. The person organizing this chaos belong to bright glowing eyes. The eyes belong to an old man of Romanian descent. This is all that is known of him, besides him being kind. He is the eye of this storm. It's center. The children laugh for him. They sing for him.

They dance because he gives. He gives for no reason other than he is kind. It is because of his glowing eyes that allow the children to see the dancing stars.

"Forgive my daughter, she isn't feeling well." The old woman looked past the boy, beyond the infant's cage, and straight at her child. This look of concern was genuine. As she peered past him, the boy squinted at the old woman, trying to catch another knowing smile. One that did not reveal itself to him.

"Your daughter? At your age? That's not possible." But he already believed.

"Anything's possible, child. You just have to have the desire." She was staring back with these words. The old woman was still reading him.

"Desiring a child at your age? I'm sorry, but you're crazy. Who will take care of her when you're gone?" Said with a certain amount of righteousness.

"Someone will always watch over her. If it's possible to welcome a new child to our home, why shouldn't I wish it?" A smile no longer on her face.

A wooden jewel case rests on a shelf next to the child's crib. Upon its rounded lid sits a star. A star made of cedar. The lid is roughly the size and shape of an open hand, cupped, face down. Inlaid on its surface, the star is but a thumbprint on that hand's middle knuckle. Slightly off center but not by much, this star has a design burned onto its surface. Locked deep within, those charred etchings cast a reflection of its maker's furrowed brow.

"It's your life, but it's her's as well. I can't tell you what to do." The boy dictates.

"But you feel as if you can judge me? That's how you feel?" The woman admonishes.

"I'm not. I, I don't know. I don't believe it's wise, that's all." The boy suddenly felt tired. His face goes flush as his temple tighten. Together, their words seemed like salt that sucked moisture from the air.

The old fortune teller's voice never spoke with judgment between its breath. The truth needs to be found and this boy has not found it. It isn't expected of him. Not yet.

The outside of the fortune teller's caravan matches the decor of its interior. Painted deep red, several coats fail to stop nature and time from allowing the bare wood to seep through its outer skin. Yellow lettering and blue detail accompanies their crimson cousin as so it will never travel alone.

Close by, cords made from dyed wool, with tassels made from plucked hair from camel ears, pull the flaps of a tent open. The flaps are welcoming arms, greeting all that care to venture forth.

Whiffs of cinnamon, plum and vanilla release themselves from the tent and bellow out into the open air. Inside, children with their parents bask in the glory of gift. Oil laced with allspice dribbles down the chin of a girl as she bites a finger made of seasoned rice and grape leaves. Her eyes light up as the lemon in her treat swells the taste buds on the tip of her tongue. From a small bowl, a little boy downs a concoction made of fermented milk and fresh berries while his father sips his own drink made of distilled grains and caramelized sugar. The little boy's drink is so tasty that he bumps his head against the tent post as he polishes off his bowl. His father and the others around him cannot help but to laugh. The little boy is so happy that he forgets to be embarrassed.

Inside the caravan, the boy stands from the table. He rises slowly, like fog drifting from the ground. Usually much more alert, a cloud covers his mind. It looms dark. He tries to shake it off, the candle smoke doesn't help. He turns to look at the little girl. She's tiny, barely newborn. It can't be possible, yet he believes. Tomorrow, the next day or the one after, he may not, but today, right now, at this very moment, he has no doubts.

His eye catches the star. It's tiny as well. Absent of mind, he picks up the jewel case and opens the lid. The case's interior is velvet lined, colored a soft purple-blue that seems to shift as he holds the box in his hands. Inside, the lid is lined with the same shifting velvet cloth. Embedded in the lid's inner center sits a mirror, directly on the flip side of the inlaid star. The mirror is oval and larger than its counterpoint, but not so large as to reflect both of the boy's eyes at once. Loose, in the belly of the jewel box lies only a small polished stone. It's the color of an emerald held up to the sun. Be speckled with darker spots that turn into bloodstains and lighter ones that enables the glossy surface to catch whatever light that passes by without letting go. Other than the stone, the jewel box is empty.

Once shut, the boy stares at the inlays burnt engraving. The design is made up of many tiny markings, each one made from a heated, sharpened point. Trying to focus on any one point causes the entire design to blur. The boy's focus shift from hard to soft, from here to there. Now he can see the design but not the marks. His eyes start to shift involuntarily and has to look away. His head suddenly starts to throb and he looks at the old woman. She watches back curiously, remaining silent. The boy turns to look at the baby girl. She's watching him as well. Not noticing that she was awake until now, the boy draws closer. Her skin is dark olive. Each eye a walnut shell. Every curly strand, pure midnight. Her nose, ever so young, is slender and pointed. He can't resist touching its tip. The baby giggles with more spittle. She puts her hand out to the boy. He takes it into his own.

It's starting to get dark outside. Some of the children lay by the open fire, snug and secure within the folds of their star-woven blanket. Other children, too excited to go back to their homes in their small village, wring every last drop from today's well. A trio of musicians, who never leave the party, weave a tapestry made from woodwinds and finger slides which creates a lullaby that cradles the children to sleep. Handcrafted from elderberry, poplar and horsehair, the music braids and untangles upon itself, trailing through the black corners that the nocturnal stars leave behind.

Wrinkles turn to knowledge and the passage of time brings both. Shadows that form when the old Romanian man smiles brings an intuitive knowing that others can only concur. With knowledge comes a want for sharing, so the old man does. He brings delights found from across the world. A little girl laughs at a stocky version of herself in a funhouse mirror. Another examines a boy's pores with a circular piece of glass attached to a handle. Other children rattle the bones of a skeleton whose decaying flash was stripped by beetles. The old man hands a brass tube to a little boy standing with his father. The father shows his son how to unstring the tube from its shell and hands the telescope to his child. Never having held one, the boy looks at the fire through its lens.

Smiling, the father puts his hand on his boy's shoulder. The boy looks up at him and the father points to the stars. His son's eyes follow and he raises the scope to his eye and smiles.

"It's a puzzle, that box." The old lady finally spoke. The boy looks at the jewel box in his one hand then at the tiny hand in his other. Not in the mood to tempt another headache, the boy sits back down to the small wooden table. He places the box on its surface.

"Do you feel ready?" Her voice ever so gentle. The question was not meant to prod; it was just the proper time for him to decide. The boy is in the right place but did he know that? He was going to say yes, he always was, but before he does, the star catches his eye once again. It stares at him at an angle. He picks it up and holds it to his face. Dancing shadows from cascading candlewick cause an image to unveil itself from within the star's center. Staring back, the boy's focus becomes soft and fixed at the same time. He stares and he sees.

"What is it that your eyes rest upon?" Hope was gaining within the old lady's heart. It was dangerous to wish so hard, but she couldn't help herself. They seemed so close.

The baby girl listens in and watches the air swirl around her. She grabs and fills nothing.

"I see a circle with markings in its middle. I can't make it out. A tree?"

"It's a name. From an old language. You don't need to be able to read it in order to see it." She could barely contain herself, the boy was ready.

A mother and her children pet strange animals called llamas while tired horses lay by children, all were protected by the campfire's glow. The night is warm, the mother takes in the heat and smiles. Deep creased hands belonging to the gentle old Romanian man caress the hair that belong to the children that belong to the mother. His eyes rest upon the children's faces. They look back with wide open eyes. Saucers that were wonders with a sense of joy that they filled. The mother reaches out as the children start to laugh. They drift out of her reach as the old man's flying carpet picks up speed.

Done with the box, the boy was ready to get on with the reading. The fortune teller's strange world was starting to effect him. He's starting to feel the night.

It didn't matter, there was nothing more to see. The fortune teller begins.

"You are sixteen years of age, am I mistaken?" The telling has begun.

"No, you are not mistaken." The boy answers without thinking.

"Your father was of this land, Mexico?"

"Yes, of this land."

"As is your mother?"

"Yes, she is of this land."

"As are your siblings?"

"We are all of this land."

The older sister holds her little brother for no reason other than it feels right. Their smiles form big and wide as the other children dash and wave. Tears come to their cheeks as dry air sweeps by and paints them a rosy blush. Sprigs of thread sprout from well-worm hems. They flit and flutter over and under as the children wisp by. Dreams of generations past keep the children afloat, hope propels while love cushions if they happen to fall.

"I said that I speak the truth, deciding which truth you need to hear is the difficult part, you are strong, you are young, yet your cycle is long, and its end is near,

She continues before the boy can reply. Once the reading begins, it cannot stop.

"you are blessed, your whole future can be read, what do you need to know?"

Her pause is long. His head starts to hang. His eyes pin on her movements but he finds it increasing difficult to keep his focus. The woman searches and finds the truth.

"your land is of you, that much you should know, your life will turn bad later in your life, but now you are young, you are strong, prepare for the very worse and you shall overcome, embrace yourself before others and you shall overcome, my words are like seeds and you may plant them any way you wish, but remember, everything can be viewed in different ways, return to this reading often and you will find new meanings, the more you return, the more meanings will reveal themselves, if you forget what I have said, then all meanings will be lost, you will be lost, but do not despair, never despair, do not become intimate with disparity, for it will cause you to go mad, remember my words and you shall overcome, embrace yourself and you shall overcome."

The boy closes his eyes as the old lady stands. His head too heavy to follow. It appears to be dangerously perched upon a stone that, without support, could topple over at anytime. His nostrils flare and jaws clinch as his teeth start to grind. His ears take in the fortune teller's every word but it is his mind that interprets what he is hearing. He absorbs rather than hears, but he is listening.

The fortune teller's words become the plucking of a string instrument. Her voice provides the melody and the resonance that the boy feels is the strum of her meaning. He hears the music that lies within and in-between the notes.

She reaches down, spools of smoke spiral, a hand touches a face. Tinged with shades of pearl, a certain smoothness soothes. He sighs as nutmeg pinches the air and tangles of tassels twirl.

Never taking her eyes from the boy's face,

"One more bit before we're finished, the hour is late and we must soon leave, but hear this one last bit, you are loved, you are never alone, your final journey starts at this moment, if any child, female or male, comes your way, treat them as if they were your own, skin cannot be colored and flesh should not be judged by its appearance nor by its words, only by its actions, always love any child as if it were starving and without shelter, treat them as such and while hardship might find its way into your future, do ensure that theirs will always include a bright light to look towards."

With that, it ends.

It begins.

This is America.

American Almanac
Fall, 1894
by Bradley Joseph Clouse

Where to start.
From the beginning I suppose.
So many to choose from, it's hard to pick.

I guess this will have to do.


One hundred years ago, a lonely man was born.
With nothing, not even the stars to keep him company,
he started to dream.
To create.
With only the barest of wood, he worked.
Given time, the world was created and an inspiration shared.
From that lumber comes not a branch nor a even a twig, but a splinter.
And from that tiny sliver,
it starts.



All because of a dream most powerful…

I am currently working on a novel titled American Almanac Fall, 1894.

I hope you like it.

W.I.P.
Bradley Joseph Clouse

I wear pantyhose on my head because this is a stick-up.

From the police.

Joke
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse

--
This the Amber Front
Welcome to the Green Apple Corps
I am the Mystic of the Amber Order
The time is Now

The Mirror
by Bradley Joseph Clouse
for Gunnel Blendin


As I sit and apply foundation to my cheeks and jawbone, I think back to when I was 13 years old. The summer that I spent with my cousins near the lakes of the Ozarks. My only female cousin, Gwen, taught me the fine art of applying makeup to my face. Just in case we ran into the boy she was infatuated with at the time. While she was two years older than I was and thoughts of boys ran through her mind and the discovery of sex right around the corner, my concerns laid more towards what the new school year was going to bring. My first year in high school seemed more than going to a new school. More than the next and final steps towards completing my prilimary years of education. The thoughts of college and leaving home were far enough away to be a concern. I knew that the next four years were the beginning of the next stage of my life. I just didn't know that I knew at that point.

I'm adding a light touch of powder before I start concentrating on my cheeks. I notice the soft pillows of powder that escapes the pad as I touch it to my face. I think of the harsh flurouent lights of the school hallway as I rush from one class to another. It's now the tenth grade and the reality of leaving home is becoming that much closer. My mother died when I was still a young girl. I have fond memories of her but they are just that, memories and I decide to leave them at that. After my mother's death, my father and I grew quite close. Not overly intellectual by schooling standards but he had a certain way of looking at things that he managed to apply to everything that came in contact with his life. For example: he could look at the construction of a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch in much the same way as he did towards raising me as a child. The bread had to be rye. Not just rye but a special rye bread from a special bakery from across town. And the bread had to be baked and bought that same day. Sliced and ready to receive the other ingrediates within 2 hours of purchase. I can go on about how the meat had to be from a certain butcher from outside of town, maple roasted and cured, the tomatoes and lettuce grown in a special greenhouse, organic of course. Mayonnaise - home made with free range eggs from happy chickens living happy lives on happy farms raised by happy farmers. I always wondered if those happy chickens missed those eggs. It seems strange to me that any species would allow their children to be taken away from them. I won't even go into the cheese.

The plum blush that I add to my cheeks matches my brown eyes and black, semi wavy hair. I find it nice touching the brush to the sides of my face. The light touch from the bristles softly tickles my face. The apple of my cheeks start to turn into a muted sunrise of bruised colored flesh. Had my father realized that instead of a sandwich, he had a daughter for a child. Had he realized that having such a ridged worldview was fine for matters of the palate and even for setting the guidelines of which rules of morels and values stem from, but they are no substitute for love. And they are just that, guidelines, not boundaries that we enclose around ourselves. A certain amount of freedom must be maintained. The rye bread was the foundation of my life. The beliefs on how I should live it, including religion, sexual preference, politics, work ethics and as I mentioned above, our morels and values. Not just for me as a person, but an extension of my family and it's name. This unwavering view of the world, makes for a good sandwich but when applied to life, it can be stagnating at worst, confusing at best. Since my mother died before giving birth to a sibling and no way of continuing our good name, my father was content with his heritage carrying on with me. He had no problem with me being female, in fact I know he treated me like he would have any other child of his, female or male, and that was never a factor in our relationship.

It's a light shade of brown that I engulf around my eyes. My brown eyes are one of the few qualities that I have always enjoyed looking at and decide at this point that they are my best features. Even better than my plumb breasts that still look nice in a blouse or sweater but are starting to feel the weight of gravity and time when I look at myself in the mirror. But I'm comfortable with that and the way that I look. It's taken me years to come to that small conclusion. The eye shadow that I add next consists of different shades of brown. Going against all the guidebooks, using brown eye shadow with brown eyes, the rebel in me delights in thumbing my nose at the system. My father died when I was in the eleventh grade and to say that it was an devastating experience isn't even a way to describe what I went through. Not just the pain of losing another parent, but now I'm alone. I have no brothers or sisters. Any other relative is too distance by time and space. I am fortunate that I am17 years old at this point and the matter of being shipped from one foster parent to another wasn't something I had to deal with. That didn't make the matters any better when I learned that my father had no life savings of any sort and life insurance was non existent. The house that I grew up in was put up for sale and the money that came from that paid off the existing debt to the house, other minor bills as well as my father's funeral. What little was left over went towards an used car and the rest into savings. Nowhere to go and no one for help, I finish off the school year and start to make plans for my senior year of high school, graduation, and going off to college. I decide on business as a major and English lit as a minor. I know in my heart that I want to be an artist. But hopes of that died with my father.

I like how the black of the mascara makes the white of my eyes pop out. I'm almost done and I can concentrate on my favorite part of this ritual, my lips. I finish high school and work my way into college. Luckily, my grades are high enough and my story sad enough, I get a partial scholarship and grant to a college of second choice. My savings gone, I have to work in a art store to make enough money to pay for schoolbooks and food. But I'm happy and it feels good to be around people that I wish I could be. I take in the smells of the paints and turpentine and I wonder how anyone is able to come up with such a deep rich color like Cobalt Blue, much less bottle it and give it a name. It's almost like packaging the air that we breathe and placing it on a grocery store shelf next to the bottled meats and perfumed toilet paper. A color that beautiful doesn't deserve a name. It's in this store that I meet the man that I will marry. I knew from the moment I looked at him that he was an important part of my life. It was not like in the stories, it was not love at first sight, nor was it an lustful attraction. For I love my husband, I don't consider him the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He's not even close to what I think of when I picture the perfect man in my head. The features that struck me when I first met him, the slightly crooked teeth than made his lower lip jut out, the skin that had scars of youthful acme, the slight paunch of a stomach and a funny walk made me see not necessarily a man but a person. A young child might have blurted out a criticism of these features, unknowingly pointing out a source of pain, but with age comes a certain maturation that children seem to lack and I'm adult enough to know not to judge a person by appearances. And it wasn't long, just a matter of minutes in fact, that the person within this body came out and instantly, the unsightly features vanished and I saw a beautiful human instead.

I decide on burgundy as the color for my lips. It's a deep, dark hue that goes well with my face. It brings out the richness and fullness of my lips. Altogether, it's a little much but tonight we're going out dancing. Something I haven't wanted to do since I was a little girl. I look at the finishing touches of my makeup and I no longer see the winkles of age that I try to hide with honey beige foundation. Nor do I see the cheekbones that I deem too shallow or the too high a forehead. Funny shaped ears or the dimple in my chin that I was never too comfortable with. Instead, I see a pretty face that's made of various elements of beauty. As I look over each part of my painted face, my cheeks, my lips, eyes and forehead, I start to think of my husband's features that stood out at me when I first met him. Just as quickly as those features disappeared when I first got to know the person in that body, they flood into my mind now and those displeasing features turn to be very beautiful when I think about them. Not just that they belong to someone that I love but how they actually look. The variations of his skin color. The blotches and red patches turn into a beautiful shade of humanity. The hair and eye colors that I decided that I didn't care for at first glance, make me want to study them even more to see why I find them so attractive now. I understand by looking at the overall beauty of his being, I can see the beauty in each and every detail of him, even, especially the parts I found unsightly at first. Then I equate his glorious skin to my high forehead and his crooked wonderful teeth to my funny ears. Then I see what he sees, not a beautiful woman because of blind love but a real person that made of various elements and details that become beautiful because they belong to me.

I look at myself in the mirror, making final preparations before we head out and I realize that I've come full circle, back to that little girl learning to apply makeup to her face from a cousin. I'm painting my face for the same reasons she did back then. Because I want to, Because I want to see someone in that mirror that deserves the attention and care that I'm providing. And now that I see that person, I know I no longer need to hide my face underneath layers of colors and hues and shades. I do it now because I want to. From the love of my husband, I found the love within myself and I can't think of anything more beautiful than that.

I walk down the hallway to be admired by my husband and I know that the love that I so desired from my father, who didn't know how to provide it, with whom I didn't how to ask, is here with me now. In me, around me. I decide its time to study art again. It's time to do what I want to do with my life. It's time to be a little girl again. For the first time.