186

The smallest events can change your whole life.  Not that you could point back to the event itself because it becomes lost in seemingly more important events along the way, but is was, nonetheless, the snowflake that began the avalanche.

In Cecil's case, it was smaller than the Orange Julius at which he grudgingly worked.  It was smaller than the particular day on which he was at work.  It was smaller than the Mango Pineapple Julius, size medium, on which he was working.  It was, in fact, a pen.

183

Long ago and far away there was a land that is no more.  Its location is not marked on maps.  Its name is not written in the history books.  The bloodlines of its people is scattered and thin.  But every so often, there is a thought.  A tiny thought bubbles up in the mind of a person whose blood contains those thin markers of the people of that land, and that thought is a breeze on his skin, or a color in her eye, or a name on the tips of their tongues.

168

Cara couldn't believe that anyone would want to kill her secret friend, but she heard the travelers talking and knew from the description of the lanky boy they meant none other than Jon.  It was two hours before she could get away from the inn to warn him, and by then it was too late.

The strange trio of men were staying at Old Fell Inn where Cara's grandfather, Old Fell himself, ran the family business.  Cara was young and was only allowed menial chores, but her grandfather was adamant that all were done and inspected before allowing her leave.  Normally, this was an arrangement that suited Cara quite well because Old Fell did not concern himself with her once work was satisfactorily complete, but today, waiting for the inspection took too long.  "Why do you have worms in your shoes, Cara?" Old Fell asked, noticing her dancing feet.  She could not say because she was not supposed to have friends her grandfather did not yet meet.

When she was finally free, Cara ran for the oak tree under which she regularly found Jon, but her steps slowed and became weighted when she saw the three men approaching, mud and something darker than mud on their rich clothes and soft hands.

103

It was a hot, bright day and it was noisy with cicadas and lawn mowers. The occasional car roared down the side street, a popular cut-through in the down-turning neighborhood, thumping bass and rattling plastic. An old man groaned to his rat terrier as he shuffled out to his porch across the street, and he sat carefully in one of the molded plastic chairs.

Martin was sipping iced tea on his porch, watching. It felt like a day that something would happen, and although he had felt that way before, he was sure that this was the day. He was right.

71

He was sitting in the window of a Starbucks holding a huge, hot beverage. This Starbucks had a long table tucked into the window nook so people could look out. Inevitably, they were also looked at. There was a bookstore across the street with a few black ironwork tables and chairs out front under an awning. A small rack of books they didn't mind anyone stealing were for sale outside. It was a beautiful fall day.

A long, earth-toned coat was hanging on the back of his chair. He was wearing earth-toned cargo pants and a blue shirt that matched his eyes. His hair was silver. He had a book open, but was only glancing at it while he people-watched.

She had been planning to go to the bookstore that day, but kept getting sidetracked by projects, dishes, the phone. The Universe turned and waited for them to finally meet.