Candice’s relationship with dancing was much like the relationship some have with alcohol. She loves it.

Embracing the sounds, she lets the beat consume her and then, when full, when closes her eyes and lets the music sweep her away. She moves and turns as the music swirls. She bends and swoops and hops and turns, not so much inline with the words, for lyrics are subjective, but more to the root rhythms that reveal the soul of the piece.

Fast or slow makes no difference, for to music she was eternally indentured. At least for as long as the music continues or until someone like Agnes comes along. And in Candice’s world of dance there always seemed to be an Agnes. Someone bold enough to approach her in the middle of her deluge of self expression to say, “You look like you’re in agony dear. The restrooms are over there.”

Bertrum had no idea what he could have done to draw the ire of the rain, or whom, or whatever was responsible for making the rain, but it was clear that he did something.

When he got into his car everything was dry. Cloudy, sure, but dry.

It was dry for the 15 miles he drove to the Valley Bridge Medical Center.

It was dry the entire time he searched for a spot to park amidst the sea of cars that carried the afflicted to this place.

It was only when his foot hit the hot pavement did the first drop fall. The one turned to many quickly and as he bent to sprint toward the building, the deluge came, blinding and heavy. The roar of the water hitting the cars surrounding him was much like the applause of an audience well entertained by his predicament. The faster he tried to go, the harder the rain came. Finally, he pushed through the door, breathing heavy and soaking wet.

Inside everyone looked at him, a brief distraction from their current woes. Standing there posed like a wet cat in shock.

Bertrum silently tried to gain some common understanding, if not sympathy, by turning his head and pointed a thumb toward the onslaught that befell him. A double take jarred his head when he realized the rain had stopped. The sun was beaming and already the walkways and tarmac were starting to dry.

How many times had he told himself, nay, vehemently warned himself not to go ‘there?’ Millions? Billions? And yet, he goes…there.

Almost always.

There.

Despite some of his very best arguments, there he goes.

Each time it defies his own logic, very frequently leaving him dumbstruck at the moment of departure. For while the immediate payoff of ‘going there’ was often a meaty, if not mildy guilt laden gratification, he often discounted the memories of others and their ability to rehash his frequent trips to ‘there’ at times when it is less than convenient.

It’s not their fault. He goes ‘there’ a lot. It’s as if, at the critical moment when he has firmly decided NOT to go there, a tiny Leroy Jenkins pops into his head and slops the agenda. He is then left to clean up the mess, with the words of tiny Alice echoing in his head, “But that’s just the trouble with me. I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”

Rixx held down the paper cup with pride and pleasure, directing his hatred and disgust for all houseflies at the single example of this winged vermin that buzzed and tapped it’s way around the inside.

Had it been capable, the fly might have been flattered that Rixx considered him such a worthy foe, at least up until the time of the capture.

During the chase, Rixx had commented – while swiping at the insect with the kitchen towel or the handful of mail – that he had been tricky, and clever, and a bastard. And while Rixx was convinced the fly was in the apartment to taunt him, to…torture him, the fly’s motivations and ‘feelings’ on the matter…if there were any…were more base.

Rixx aimed to kill that fly for all the horrible things it was and he nearly broke his mother’s antique Rosemont lamp to do it. All the fly thought of was food.

Max wrote the words with great intent and feeling. Still the concept of clarity bothered him.

There was no consistent point of connection for the reader, whomever that may be, therefore there was no way to ensure that his message would get through as he intended it. At least not without clunking them over the head with it.

Each bias of the reader would taint his message according to their own experiences. He could write the words and each reader would read the same exact words in the same exact order he put them and still…each word would likely conjure a different vision, emotion, and acceptance or denial of meaning, be it love, hate, anger, underwear, heat, burn, taste, color, food, rich and so on.

It made writing dangerous.

It made writing glorious.

Ratagast was an unfortunate name for a dog, but when you looked him in the eye, it was clear that it was the only name that could fit. He would never be a Snoopy or a Clive, or Skipper or any other inane moniker humans seem to bestow upon their pets. Ratagast had his name and his eyes told you that if you ever called him something other than what he truly was, he would remember…and one day…he would hurt you for it.