Quarter

Consider how a life can be altered by a quarter. A high school senior, near the top of his class, can't decide between the two universities he's been accepted to. He weighs pros against cons, and in the end, flips a quarter to make the decision for him. Fall comes, and he leaves his parents and his bedroom behind him. The winning campus is a mass of confusion, people milling in groups, or sprinting from one place to another. Until that day, that very moment, he hadn't believed in love at first site, until he saw the site of her. Deeply, passionately in love, in just an instant. He follows her, doesn't know where, doesn't even know her name, but still he follows, and finds himself in a lecture hall sitting behind her. As the professor begins, words and phrases invade his subconscious and he finds himself torn between the lecture and the sleek hair of the woman in front of him. Slowly the talk wins him over, and he finds himself enthralled by the word of the law. An hour later, with the lecture over, he has two new passions, the woman and the law. He changes majors, learns the woman's name and begins to pursue each with fervor he'd never felt before. He discovers ins and outs of tort reform and which flowers are her favorites. Several years later, he has won each. A law degree in one hand, a wedding ring on the other. A few more years and he has a good job, a family and a life he adores. All because of a quarter.

Relaxation

A cruelly cold day. A broken down subway and traffic gridlock. Uncooperative witness', hostile suspects, pissy deceives. He opens his front door to a strangely silent house. A note on the table tells him his wife and daughters are off shopping, his dinner is in the oven. The first smile of the day reaches his lips and grows wider as he heads to the master bedroom and the hot shower that he's been craving since he first stepped outside the front door that morning. Steam sinks into his skin, his muscles surrender. After, he builds a fire, pulls his dinner out of the oven and sinks into his Lazy-boy with his feet up.

Summer

She likes it when it's hot. She likes the heat sinking into her, likes it when her skin is hot to the touch, the sensation of steam between her body and her clothes. She likes the imagery of the heat rising off the pavement, giving everything a magical look, and people mingle in the streets, where it's mildly cooler than their stuffy apartments; she likes the crowds and the interaction of the cultures and styles. She watches the children running through an open fire hydrant, the screams of laughter and relief are music to her.

Truth

It's such a simple thing, and the hardest to attain. It is what that everyone says they want, and no one wants to hear. Sometimes he has to drag it out, as if it were a living thing, as if it were a fetus, and he the doctor, jerking it out into the world amid shrieks of torture. Sometimes he has to trick it out, like dangling a carrot, coaxing it out into the light of day. Always, it has to be held up, shown off; have a spotlight shone on it. Always it has to be thrust into the face of the one who won't believe it. It has been his lifetime prey, and he is a master hunter.

Unicorns

She still has a box full of them. Remnants of childhood, reminders of a simpler life. From time to time, she'll pull the box down from the top of her closet, opening the cardboard flaps, the scent of them reaching her first, musty, in need of sunshine and air, tinged with the scent of a heady perfume worn years ago. Taking a stuffed one in her arms, she reaches out to trace the horn of another with a finger. A music box, a present from her father. She twists the base and closes her eyes, humming the tune quietly to herself. She fills her mind with a world where all possibilities still exist. A world, not only where magic is the norm and unicorns are possible, but a world where murder is undefined.

Vices

Crumpled cigarettes lay bent and broken in the ashtray. Wine bottles, empty and half empty rest where they landed on the carpet after being kicked over by rushing feet. He feels her move beside him, the bed sags beneath her weight, then pops back up again as she stands. Her bare feet shuffle against the carpet and he can feel her shadow pass over him. He opens his eyes to look at her, at the same time she pulls back the thick drapes and early sunlight rushes into the room and into his eyes, he shuts them quickly with a groan. She giggles at him and he tries to remember what her name is.

War

He's participated in them before, on foreign shores, in his childhood home, within himself. He sees wars between neighbors, strangers, families. He's studied wars of history, can narrate battles and their effects, from every era of human kind. He knows the reasons, the facts and figures. But with all his knowledge, he can never understand the why.

Xanadu

To each his own road to heaven. No matter the attributes, the ornaments no matter the features, or paraphernalia. Each has his own road, but the heaven is the same. Peace. Simply peace.

Yearn

It's at the core of him. A base buried so deep he doesn't even know it's there. He goes on his daily existence, striving for the needs he knows. And so he goes, never understanding the empty place in his stomach, the corner of his heart that does not rejoice. It is a never-ending quest, a thirst that cannot be quenched without the knowledge of the craving.

Zealot

Fanatic. Aficionado. The subject doesn't matter. At any one point in his life, he has been fascinated by one thing or another. Fairy stories and their hidden meanings, King Henry the II and Eleanor of Aquatine. Special effects of movies, species of roses. Dinosaurs, politics, art history, gourmet cooking. Each gets his full attention until he's wrung it dry of every last trickle of knowledge. And then he moves on.