"Prepare for barriers to be broken down," said the garden snail. "Work to rid yourself of them or what I will show you will be very uncomfortable. These barriers house deceit that corrupts your thoughts and deeds. You are responsible for their existence and they are unhealthy."

Peter the squirrel lost his special box, or it was stolen.

Peter never moved the box, it always sat in the middle of his small, round table. How could he have lost it?

His box held his notes and stories -- endless scraps of paper scribbled on front and back, erased and edited, re-erased and re-edited. The box held nothing that would be considered valuable to anyone else. Who would steal a box, made from a nibbled and discarded acorn, stuffed with scribbles of paper?

Peter laid down on his bed, positioned himself in a squirrelish curl and cried himself to sleep. At first Peter had terrible nightmares, monsters both real and imagined appeared to him. Peter soothed each monster in turn. Gradually, Peter began to fall into more colorful worlds -- pleasant dreams filled with family and loved ones, happy memories and fairy tales.

Rested, Peter eventually woke up. He was confused, but pleasantly surprised to find that his cherished acorn box was sitting in the center of his small round table, where he always kept it. Peter could not explain where the box went or why it was now returned. He decided not to think about it at this time, just have some breakfast and scribble a note or two.

Marybeth came down the hallway of the trailer, cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. She positioned herself in front of Jason and slid up and onto the washing machine. She leaned back and spread her legs slightly to accommodate the incidental new life growing in her lanky, restless body. After a sip of room temp Budweiser and a slow contemplative drag off a Marlboro, "I need to get out of here. I don't care where. Anywhere but here."

Marybeth turned from Jason and blushed at her confidence in someone she hardly knew. She glanced out the window at some imagined noise in the driveway, satisfied it was nothing, she turned her attention back to Jason. Forgetting her problems for a moment she used the flat of her foot to playfully impale him against the opposite wall. She giggled, then remembered her serious mood, "You have to promise to take me if you leave. Billy went over to his ex's house again yesterday. I know he is thinking about going back to her."

She brushed her hand absentmindedly over her belly. Awkward, both from the alcohol and new, unaccustomed bulk she leaned forward sternly, "You have to promise me. And mean it!" Softening, "Please." She took another shaky drag off the nearly-spent cigarette. Looking away, tears welled up in her tired eyes.

sometimes the whole thing
all at once
every memory
every flower-strewn riverbank
every precious lover you took for granted
every moment that we all thought would last forever
and the scent of being alive
and every single dance in the warm sunshine
it all comes back in sweet, horrible, beautiful waves
and you just have to hold on to something till it passes

"I have to go now," said the snail, "the long shadows suggest I am in another's space and I am very tired. We will speak again in the spring."

"How will I recognize you?" I asked.

"You won't. Just remember to listen, my voice will be there."