Solid black lines were moving across the surface of the paper. There was a consistency with the movements, though the lines thickened and thinned down with each curve. Moe tried to read the writing once more, but the concept was beyond her reach. There it was, in her own(more) handwriting. But she thought she had burned it into a wish. There was remains of the burns: the smoky dust that coated the paper, the charred edges, but now it was solid again. Another piece of paper had come with her burnt wish. A different handwriting, yet the same consistency. The words seem to flow smooth and fluent, and she could almost hear a voice reading it out to her as she read the short note. The letters were written in a more artful fashion, with tiny sharp curves and dramatic flairs at the end of each word. The ink was merely stained on the parchment, the instrument not leaving a single indentation on the note. It was still beyond her understanding but she had no doubt that the note's message was to be fulfilled.
It was right there: her wish, in handwriting. Beside it, in handwriting as well, was the note that came with it. "Your wish has come true," Moe whispered as she read the letter once more.
If only wishes came without a price. (less)
Living in the city in a trashy, or in his mind - "artsy", studio was chic. Even at thirty-six. He liked his new grundge lifestyle. He was trying too hard to look like Eddie Veddor, she thought.
He never picked up the children on his visitation weekends. An(more)d she always made an excuse for him.
One day her children waited with their bags packed on the stoop of their apartment for hours. They sat silently waiting for him. She watched them from her kitchen window. Two tiny backs with eager hands on miniature suitcases. What could she do or say to comfort them after another disappointment?
Her son came in to her. His five year old face looked up at her. He seemed genuinely dismayed, "Why doesn't Dad love me?"
She scooped her children up and drove her beat up old car the seventy-five miles to his punk rock villa.
Smoky patchouli incense hit her when he opened his door. The look of surprise on his face fascinated her. "Its your visitation."
"I know. But my band is playing a gig tonight."
She stepped aside to show him their young children, with suitcases in hand. Both were smiling huge for their father.
"Tell them that." She commanded.
He stammered his excuse. The smiles left their innocent faces, as their father explained his prior engagement.
She walked closer to him. And in his ear she whispered, "Shame on you."
Did she do the right thing? She could not defend him any longer. It had to be in his own handwriting. Her tears fell as she drove.
From the backseat her seven year old daughter's voice, "Its okay, Mom. All we need is you." In the rear view mirror she saw her children holding hands and smiling at her.(less)