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He stood on the ladder, brush in one hand, palette of paint in the other. His canvas was an exterior wall of a decrepit building near the center of town. He worked quickly, covering the brick in thick saturated strokes. The streetlamp on the corner illuminating the outer details, the bulk of the composition still masked by the night. If he was lucky, the piece would last the weekend. If he was lucky, she would see it and she would know.

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His long sleeves cuffed to his elbows exposed handwritten notes that ran up the skin of his forearms. He scanned the room, his brown-eyed stare half concealed by the tilted brim of his hat. The tip of his pen followed the curl of his mustache as he searched his mind, trying in vain to make sense of the ramblings that had just flooded his page. He was a maker of stories, and himself a story in the making.

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He had told her where to find it, second floor, left wall. In front of her hung a framed painting, one she recognized immediately. The slanted rooftops, the vibrant blooms, the manicured grounds, a young girl on the crest of the hill. It was the landscape of her youth, she was the girl. The small card beside the frame listed the artist by initials only, per her request, her mother never desired such recognition or acclaim.

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She felt secure under the weight of the covers, avoiding the brisk morning air that swept through the window she forgot to close the previous evening. The alarm clock persisted. With a sigh, she reluctantly swung her legs out from beneath the sheets, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. Beneath her bare feet, the tile was cold and uninviting, just like the day she was about to begin.

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He worked meticulously into the early hours of the morning, checking springs, replacing gears, tightening screws. The clock hanging on the wall, a duplicate of the one in pieces that lay in front of him, ticked away the precious seconds. Each tick reminded him. Each tick propelled him. Each tick a guide to the precise mechanism he sought, a means lost that only he could recover.

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They had planted the tree on the day he was born. It grew as he grew, struggled as he struggled, thrived as he thrived. He learned from this tall companion, sitting in its shade, watching it wave in the wind, listening to it speak as its bark expanded and crackled in the sun. Their roots entangled, he fed off the tree as it fed off the land, and there he remained, the soil his foundation, the branches his framework, the leaves his home.

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They sat listening intently to the instrumental track. The child questioned the absence of lyrics, pondering the music's purpose without words. The mother watched as slowly her child's eyes brightened, her mind transcending the melody, imagining and discerning the instruments, composing stories created by the distinct sounds of those instruments. The child, now grown, credits this moment as the beginning of everything.

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She explained the episode as a result of sitting haphazardly on her bed for over an hour. Her mind overriding her body had hindered her circulation. When she stood to walk, her legs were sore but nothing out of the ordinary. As she took a few steps, her skin began to burn from the inside out. She managed to cross the room before losing sensation, her joints shut down, and all she could do was lift her hips to shuffle her feet across the floor.

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He usually avoided these types of parties. He knew few of the guests, all of whom were more adept at socializing in a crowd. He was left standing alone, obscured slightly by the emerald green mask, an accessory for the theme that settled his nerves. His pale blue eyes scanned the room, looking for a gaze of familiarity. Then he saw her, behind a disguise of red velvet and feathers, walking toward him.

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His backpack was heavier than he had anticipated, but the thrill of exploring by foot seemed to lighten his load. He was glad to be without the other tourist chatter that previously flanked his seat on the bus, and was looking forward to true immersion in the local culture. Never mind his inept skills for speaking the language or his failure to ask the driver exactly where he was when he left the security of the bus to venture out on his own.

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When the colors started to turn, they would meet at the park bench to watch the trees shed their leaves and share details of their lives from the past year. They had met like this once a year for the past five years. It was time again. From his apartment window, he spotted the first sign of yellow in the large maple across the way. He grabbed his jacket and made his way to their bench to wait.

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She sat drinking her tepid tea and watched the tourists pass by. Again, the waiter asked if she would like to order, but again, she insisted she wait. He had said noon, but as the church bells on the corner rang out once, she realized her foolishness. She debated on whether to call his cell or his office, and then decided on neither. She knew what he would say, he was running late or something came up, and she knew he would be lying.

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He knew how to test the stability of a rock midstream, to leave his weight on his back foot, to gradually press it with the other, and then to give himself entirely to the stone with certainty it would aid his crossing. He never prepared for what to do when the rock gave way beneath his step, despite all his efforts to maintain his footing, despite all his efforts to stay dry and safe and on solid ground.

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The water was up to her waist and rising, the origin of the current hidden by the thick debris. Her grip on the thin walking stick, its point secure in the mud with each step, was the only thing keeping her from being swept away, pulled beneath the piles, tossed, tumbled and held captive in a pocket of suction until the simple act of breathing became an inaccessible dream. She was the only one left of her group who was still living this dream.

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She had misplaced the memory until the spoonful of hand-churned, creamy vanilla bean ice cream touched her tongue. All at once, the room fell away, the walls, the counter, even the teenager in the red striped apron who served her the cone. She was back in the cafe, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the red leather booth, surrounded by youth and laughter and few cares in her quiet and quaint world. Life certainly had changed.

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The rank meat had turned a dull brown overnight. Although not a rare commodity in this state, he knew he had to sell it soon or not even the most starved would buy his load. He sat on the street curb beside a cooler with the lid propped open, flies buzzing the opening. When he coughed, he blamed the dust stirred by the passing taxi. When his head ached, he blamed the midday sun. He would be dead within the hour, with nothing to blame but himself.

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The park had been abandoned after the storm had swept away most of the pier and left the rollercoaster half submerged in the tide. He frequented the boardwalk in the morning, weaving between the collapsed facades of carnival games and cotton candy booths. Often, he would swim out to the mass of twisted steel and bob in the swells as they rose and fell beneath the loop de loop.

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The curtains to her bedroom window were glowing from the bedside lamp. She was reading, a nightly routine before falling asleep. He pictured her sitting in bed, her knitted blanket drawn up to her waist, a book resting on her lap, her mind lost in another's world. He contemplated calling first but was unsure that she would answer. Then he found the courage, walked to her front door, and knocked.

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All she remembered of that morning were the sounds. The drumming of the raindrops on the steel chimney. The incessant bark of the neighbors' dog. The cry of the baby down the hall. The voice of a news anchor on the television. The whistle of the tea kettle on the stove. Now just to silence the memory of those sounds, she would boil water in that very kettle and leave it whistling until every last drop of liquid inside had evaporated.

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She arrived a half hour early to her appointment. Sitting anxiously in the lobby, she thumbed through her manuscript, giving it one last review. She had spent the last year striking passages, trashing entire pages, revising and reworking nearly every word, all at the advice of her editor. Taking account of all the suggested changes, she was shocked her initial pages had enough substance to earn her the contract in the first place.