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Elsa
In a forest at the edge of night time, a girl sat crying.
“Where am I? Where am I?” she asked in a soft voice. “I want to go home.”
The forest was old. Its trees reached up to the darkening sky with black branches. There were no leaves on any of them.
There was a lot of open space in this forest, but all of it seemed immune from light.
A path went to the left and the right of where the girl sat and in the distance stood a tall, dark hill. She could hear nothing except the sounds of her crying.
She didn’t know what to do, so she sat for a long time. Then when she could cry no more, she stood up. “Where are you going?” a soft and sad little voice asked.
The girl said nothing. She was afraid to move. A little man slowly stepped out from behind a tree. He was shorter than the girl, with a round little belly, but his arms and legs were long and thin. He wore an old black suit and a top hat and she could see a necklace around his neck.
“You don’t want to go left,” he continued. “I think you want to go right.”
“Who are you?” the girl finally asked him.
No Signs in Space
As quiet as a breeze, Finley left Earth for the first time in his life. He looked out the window of a little room in the back of the spaceship and saw the planet getting smaller and smaller. After a while, he was afraid to look away, because he knew that the next time he looked through the window, Earth would be too small to see.
Finley lived on a big old farm that once belonged to his grandparents. It wasn’t his plan at all to leave Earth that day. Earlier in the evening, Finley started the autumn harvest. He was halfway finished with the first row of corn when he saw something strange.
A crop circle! Finley heard people around town talking about crop circles sometimes. They said alien spaceships made the designs in fields, but Finley didn’t believe in aliens. He checked one of the paths of damaged corn and wondered what made it. Odd. He didn’t see any vehicle tracks. It was almost dark and Finley was tired, so he walked back to the house and went to bed. But he awoke
suddenly in the middle of the night. Something outside was making a bizarre noise – a noise that he could feel vibrating right behind his ears. He went to investigate.
White
Tequila
At a crammed bar in La Condesa, Mexico City’s established cosmopolitan precinct of late-night excitement, sipping, and libido, waiters weave in inscrutable patterns among tables of cheerful, buttoned up customers. Warm dark woods give respite from the nipping December outside and against the back wall a kaleidoscopic regiment of bottles awaits the mirth that will bind it to these clients. Among these, tequila is chief; no fewer than fifteen diverse bottles jockey using their shapes and their complexions for the attentions of those gathered. The spectrum ranges from the murky amber tones of an extra añejo to the earthy coloration of the majority—reposados—to the brilliant clarity of a few blanco tequilas. They call to the adventurous and the familiar who line the bar and call for them in return, sirens all.
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