Lost

October is more like the action of injection than a transition in Florida. We don't see the leaves change and we don't really put on our jackets until late November. When the cold hits, it's a sudden bone chill feeling that the holidays are here and the year is about to end. Inside me though, it feels like magic is brewing. A cauldron of costumes, goose eggs, voodoo dolls, sweet potatoes, and glitter. I Stir-stir-stir with a thick white bone of a fairy's back.

Why is it that everything starts to feel like it's coming to life, right when it's dying away?

A sudden rush of stories come washing over my notebooks and computer screen. Split-splat, split-splat, the words

dribble into the white ocean, feeding the fishy ideas that maybe this story will be good. It's more than just writing a story

though. Around November my family makes frequent trips north to Georgia and New York to visit relatives for the holidays.

I indulge my mind in World of Warcraft, Neil Gaiman books, old Sci-Fi movies like Blade Runner, the woods, Starbucks,

and cozy nooks of my mind along the way:

In the forest a lion rampages through, burrowing down the pine trees with a warrior's soul on his back. In the

warrior's left hand he holds a light-saber to help light the way and keep the snarling beasts at bay. The cackle of a witch

echoes from the stars, a signal that has the lion and warrior on edge. Can they get through the woods in time?

The trees rattle together when the wind-chills tumble through from the North. The witch will stop at nothing to

keep the soldiers from approaching the Star-Child. It was said to the warrior that the child was once human until

the witch had ripped her body from every limb and sowed her soul into a doll's knapsack skin. The lion's roar shakes

the vultures from their perch at the very thought of this.

Just ahead the warrior can see a landscape of stars, which means that the wood is coming to an end. He grips

his light-saber in ready for whatever danger comes their way. And a danger is coming.