Delicate things are pretty - cute, even,
but you are not delicate.
You are wild and lewd and unpredictable.
You are breathtaking.
You are beautiful.

An invitation. My, oh my, how thrilling. I have never before been to a birthday party, so this could be interesting. It takes me a moment to comprehend what a birthday party might be, but when I do - oh, the excitement!

The whole thought is just a bit confusing though, the what’s and how’s, the details of it all. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.

Somehow though, it seems to have all been taken care of, because on the big day, suddenly I am there. I’m not really too sure how, but I try not to think too hard on it. Beqanna has her mysterious ways, and I am certainly not one to question or judge them.

So, the big day, here and bold and exciting. And there I am, dressed in incredible finery fit for a… horse? That’s right, clothing for a horse. Just picture it. It is as lovely as you’re thinking. Flowing gowns and flowery headdresses and jingling bells tied into manes and tails. It’s perfect. I feel like a princess. A magical fairy princess.

But this is a party for a fairy after all, isn’t it?

Unfortunately things do not turn out quite all that. You see, there is something I failed to mention. I’m a bit of an oddity. I mean, there are many, many unique creatures out there, so, really, I’m just a bit unusual. Perhaps in a less, er, conventional way though. You see, I have a third eye. An eye, bold as you please, right there in the middle of my forehead.

This is a party! Everyone is supposed to be nice and have fun. But oh the names they call me. Freak. Monster. Cyclops. Cruel and hurtful things I can’t even bear to mention.

Why had I even come at all? I thought it would fun, the greatest time of my life. Instead I find myself tucked into an out of the way corner. Behind a row of tables bearing apple punch and delightful little carrot cakes. All delicious and lovely and perfect. All reminders of how this incredible day had turned out to be the worst experience of my life. Instead I cower, pretending not to notice the world, pretending not to notice the music that drifts by, bright and cheerful and far too happy for my mood. Instead I squeeze my three eyes shut, trying my best to hold the tears at bay and failing miserably.

And then, as I huddle there in the corner, lost in my misery, a new song begins a play. It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, I nearly laugh. How incredibly fitting. “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to. You would cry to if it happened to you.”

If only it had been my party. I would have kicked all those horrid bullies out.

Giohde

life unfolds in pools of gold
I am only owed this shape if I make a line to hold

He wakes to a twin-framed view of the world.

Everyone is wearing masks.  Bright, vibrant things that conceal the identity of the wearer.  A party, he thinks, looking around at the cloth-covered tables and streamers cascading down the stairwells. There are presents stacked high on one of the tables.  Boxes in every shape and size form a precarious monument of adoration for whoever’s birthday it is.  The masks aren’t the only adornment worn by the party-goers.  Everyone seems to be smiling, young and old, and it is easy enough for Buckthorn to join them.

He slides into conversations with his effortless charm, realizing quickly just who he is celebrating with.  Two grey-haired, stern-faced men stand with folded arms chatting with one another, accessing the room.  Buck sees that one’s suit coat is literally flowing like a waterfall, the water pooling at his feet.  The other reaches out to shake his hand firmly, his face as chiseled as a mountain.  “Dale, pleasure.”  He skirts by the two men and narrowly avoids a hit from a noisemaker blown by a girl dressed as a meadow.  Two rabbits wave at him with toothy grins from her shoulders as he passes.  An old lady beams at him from the dessert table and beckons him over.  Her face glows like the sun, and as he moves even closer, he finds himself getting hotter and hotter.  When the Neapolitan ice cream he scoops instantly melts, Buck heads for new company.  

The young crowd is fun and energetic, eager and happy.  But he finds he prefers the older attendees - their stories are endless and their drinking even more so, as if they have nothing to lose.

He is about to mosey over to a pretty lady wearing only vines and a mask made out of banana leaves when he is pulled out of his trajectory.  A firm grip keeps him pinned to the wall.  He feels his feet flailing without footing, piney breath washes over him.  “We’re gonna crash this party, ya hear?  Me and my crew – and you.”   Buck shakes his head, sure the last thing he will see is the sea of primary-colored party hats.  A younger woman comes up behind the older man.  Her eyes burn a fiery red even through her lava shade mask.  She kicks his pine breath captor in the shin and the ground shakes, freeing him.  “Careful you don’t start a war.  At least not on Mother’s birthday.”

“Thank you,” Buck smiles then grimaces as sulfur replaces the pleasant pine in his nostrils.  Seeing the change on his face, Tephra flips him off and stalks away.  He sees her first in line at the present table, eager to pass along her gift before anyone else.  A bugle plays the call to races and Buck has the strangest urge to trot over to the gathering’s center.  “3, 2, 1 – Happy birthday Beqanna!”  They scream as a white light tracks downward.  Masks fly off. All will be revealed -

He wakes. 

   

buckthorn