STOLON SPRING

"You can die from a fish bone." I've held this ominous certainty to memory as far back as I can recall.

One could die from a fish bone as well as a broken heart. How could delicate cartilage and sadness have the same authority as violent crime and cancer to snuff out life?

These disturbing beliefs caused me to walk through childhood by way of caution - combing for tiny bones, and making a point to let no one hear too much hunger or heartache in the way I stated my needs.

* These are the opening lines to a short story I wrote last May called STOLON SPRING. "Stolon" refers to the root systems of the Trout Lilies I was admiring when I discovered the body of a man lying dead in the park where I walk my dog everyday; it was a "stolon" spring and a "stolen" spring. 

MANY OYSTERS - FEW PEARLS

"MANY OYSTERS - FEW PEARLS"  by Toni Wolf

Snowflakes fell in dime size pieces of frozen lace; a million sparkly filigreed coins blanketed and muffled everything under bolts of winter tatting. There were few footprints for a city sidewalk. It was hours past the time most folks had gone to bed, and minutes before most bars would be letting out - that still time of night when evening seems to be holding its breath.

I had just gotten off work from washing dishes at a downtown bar and restaurant, and hadn't wanted my shift drink. The air was crisp but comfortable, and though my ears glowed pink, there was no real need for a hat. I had fashioned my scarf in a few loose loops around my neck; drawing breaths of frosted air through wool soon formed a moist pocket at my chin - cupping and curling the smells of stale food grease and cigarette smoke up my nose.

Snowflakes swirled - playing tricks on me by rising up as well as falling down. These small refracted crystals, dancing against street lamps decorated in twinkling Christmas lights, made me question where quantum left off and relativity began. It had been a year since I graduated from art school, and wouldn't be much longer before I'd make a pact with myself to never work a standard job again; I hadn't gone to art school to wash dishes.

*The opening three paragraphs to "Many Oysters - Few Pearls."