Boys, unlike men, like to fiddle around. They never have a certain direction, they prefer slightly retarded cover girls and will fear anything superior. They also fear the unknown and often thinking about a break-up before kissing the girl. For that reason alone, boys, unlike men, fail to live their youth to the max.

It takes years and plenty of lost things for them to realize that if they see something they want, they should simply go out and get it. I’ve heard some of the funniest things over the past couple of days. It’s not an insult, it’s not even a critique, but men can be considered fully mature somewhere over the age of 32. I don’t know why but everything else under that age line seems to fail at constructive thinking.

Those under 32 will never date the girl they like if the girl is a mate’s ex-girlfriend, even if the aforementioned mate is now happy and in love with a new girl, even if that ex-girlfriend shows interest. They think it would be weird. I think not, but maybe I’m just too far out of this planet to see things the way they do. Maybe I’m the twisted one.

Oh, another one I liked. They can’t date a girl that occasionally hangs out in their group. They can’t because they think that in case they break up, it’ll all be weird and they’ll avoid each other and other such nonsense. They haven’t even gotten to know the girl properly yet they think of the end. They haven’t even turned to page two on the fairytale yet they think of the unhappy ending. Who says it has to be unhappy? Who says that the princess turns into the possessive crazy ass witch by chapter three? Who say it has to go in that direction?

The fear of the unknown makes us reclusive and downright idiotic sometimes. And yes, it takes years of growing up to understand that one should take it one day at a time. If the shit hits the fan, well, the shit just hits the fan. It just happens. It’s really that easy and not complicated. We choose to complicate it. We choose to miss out on some of the best things because we fear the potentially harmful outcome. Our main feature shouldn’t be fear. Like somebody once said (a Disney movie…), courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to overcome it.

Summer is coming and there are plenty of stories to be written then. I’d like to write them with someone who’s not afraid to take what he wants, to fight for what he needs, to go over the social boundaries and to forget the entourage when it comes to his own personal life. The entourage should never determine who or what you want. The individual power should still be the primary force within. Not the groupies, for fuck’s sake.

Anyway, let’s consider this a challenge. I love a good challenge.

Do you know what ticks me off the most? Two faces. They come in with a smile, but as soon as you turn your back, their tongues stick out, like serpents sniffing on my prints. They hiss their crap in order to seek attention.

It usually occurs with those who lack the intelligence of seeking diversity in their lives. When you get bored, you pick out a hobby, right? Fishing, gardening, origami, fuck it, anything that requires some form of activity from your brain. It’s essential that we keep our brain active, otherwise we get too preoccupied with the lives of others and we fail to concentrate on our own. We miss out on our potential and get busy nosing in on other people’s business.

It’s really easy to start and hold a conversation about others. How they do things wrong, how bad their habits are, how weird they get when they don’t eat or when they drink too much. The dirtier the details, the richer the useless conversation. I don’t think that everyone else around the two-faces are interested in such information. Some actually have better things to do with their time and with their memory space. We are too busy talking about everybody else and we fail on making ourselves better people – most of these two-faces can’t spend too much time in front of a mirror, anyway. They constantly complain about certain negative aspects in their lives yet they do nothing to improve it – instead, they make it worse.

It’s ironic, if you come to think about it. If you have a fat ass and you complain about the pounds you’ve put on over the last week, it’s best to either do something about it or shut the hell up about it, not stuff your face with chocolates, chips and fast food. And I don’t think I’m wrong, I’m simply not interested in hearing “Oh my gosh, look at my belly, I’ve got a belly, I’m a fatty, pass me the Twinkies, will ya’?”. I’ll rather listen to “Oh my gosh, look at my belly, it’s pretty big but I do hope it gets back to normal, I’ve switched to chicken and vegetables!”. Really.

Anyway, this is the same kind of people that get too busy discussing other people’s lives. Will the world stop turning if they don’t talk about who shagged who or about who did what – with no direct effect on their own lives. It puzzles me.

And what puzzles me the most is how they have so much courage in discussing such issues behind our backs. What’s the point in spitting that venom if I’m not there to listen. Come on, hit me in my face or get the fuck out – it’s that simple, actually.

I’ll rather listen to it myself if it involves me and I’m sure that everyone else who agrees to this feels the same. Or better yet, I’ve got too much on my hands anyway. Maybe they should just start talking about their own nasty habits. Some are more disgusting than the labels they put on everybody else. But what’s the point in being self-critical? What’s the use?

When people complain about their shitty lives yet they do nothing about it, how can they stop yapping about other people? It’s easier to concentrate on everybody else when your life is so full of… IT.

I’m not even complaining. I’m just sickened. And if I were to complain, I’d also add that my solution to this problem is easy: SMILE and WAVE. Talk all you want, my nausea heals faster than your pathetic lives. I’ve got Schweppes Bitter Lemon to wash it down.

I’ve spent too much time worrying about everybody else. Too much time spent consuming over trivial facts. Some people are lucky enough to keep their legs or their health. Others are just lucky enough to have a place to stay. Or lucky enough to have some food to put on a table.

I’m lucky to be alive. I’m lucky to have a handful of friends who stick by me in spite of the circumstances. And I’m lucky enough to see the bright side of life. What point is there to living if you don’t enjoy it, with all its bad and its good parts?

It’s so easy to frown and complain and suffer. It’s actually much easier to get over it and just be. Tiesto had a song about it, I’m ashamed because I forgot about it – I do give great value to my soundtrack. Each of us gets a soundtrack – just make sure yours is the one you enjoy listening to at any moment of the day.

If it’s only sad songs or heavy black metal, you’ve clearly got a problem. Start mixing, throw in some good stuff, play with the sounds of life and be the DJ at your own party.

Here’s a piece of my soundtrack. It works well now, in spite of all the storms.

Imagine the world as one big harp, and the universes as its strings. I’m just the finger passing over and right now I’m changing the notes. I won’t be coming home too soon. But then again, home is where you make it. So I’m going home now, in the end. It’s where I was supposed to go before but never had the courage to do it.

So now I do, I’ve got it. And I know I’ll enjoy this ride. I also know that I’m finally following my own true path.

I found the desktop but I also found the image below. Two pot-heads went inside a house to rob it and get more money for pot (P.S. that’s mere proof of idiots in possession of Marie-Jeanette; only those with some education and appreciation for this plant should be allowed to use it, I’d recommend testing the buyer before giving him a bud or two). One actually waited outside, while the other stoned idiot went inside and put a gun to children’s heads (one was five, one was one year old). A third kid, aged four, sneaked into his bedroom, put on his Power Ranger suit and came out swishing his sword around Mighty Morphin’ style.

Apparently, the pot-head idiot experienced a scary trip and fled the house. I still can’t believe this kind of stuff can happen, I’m honestly baffled and beyond amused.

Go go Power Rangers!!!

(P.S. Click image for details.)

Olmeca Gold for that matter. I dedicate this to my beloved sister, my partner in crime. And to the customers who just won’t let me have my fun… I dedicate this.

To the many nights I’ve spent looking after everyone else. Tonight, well, it’s my turn!

This isn’t the ordinary ‘new life, new people’ story. When Clara moved into this little town by the ocean line, she wasn’t expecting it to be so different. She did expect changes – moving from a big city into a town that has three bars, one theater and one bookstore was indeed a change, a big one for that matter. But the people here seemed different.

Moving in took her less than a day, by the end of the night she had already unpacked everything and she was browsing channels on her tv. She couldn’t even understand what she was watching, all she could think of was the new life in store. The new routines, the new job at one of the three bars, the regular visits to the bookstore and maybe a movie once in a while. It was going to be easy living there, nevermind the ‘less complicated’ aspect. Coffee in the morning, a cigarette to get the day started – everyone was quitting, she was one of the few who refused to separate that coffee from that cigarette, she just couldn’t do that to her taste buds. It wasn’t humane. Then dress up and off to work. On her way to work she’d stop by a small bakery where she’d stock up on bagels and then straight into the cafe, less than a mile down the main boulevard.

There would be a second coffee and the bagel breakfast, then work until the late evening. She’d meet plenty of people there, so her social life wouldn’t be completely dead. Then she’d go home, watch a movie, draw up several comic book pages and then a long hot shower, ending it majestically with a deep sleep. She was going to spend the days off reading at the bookstore – one of the few who came with a reading space and a small coffee machine to get the reading started. It sounded too sweet to be real.

The first week passed in slow motion and she enjoyed every second of it. She slowly parted from the dark parts she’d left behind and she began to study the people around her. Simple creatures, warm and welcoming, lovely to hang out with. The boss was incredibly cool and quite a kid stuck in a grown man’s body, and she found that absolutely adorable. Her colleague was chatty and always wore a smile on her face and the house customers were mostly in their 40′s and 50′s and each came with a pack of really interesting stories.

It was going good. On her day off she got up, drank her coffee really slow, had a lazy breakfast and went out. She circled the neighborhood with music playing in her ears and she found the bookstore she’d first seen when the truck brought her in town. She went in and automatically smiled at the sound of a bell hung by the door, reminding her of old movies. The man owning that place was Sam, born and raised in that town. For no reason they began chatting over books and Clara realized that it was around eight in the evening when she actually wanted to start reading something from the store. It was already dark and she’d already had four coffees while talking to Sam. She knew most of his life story by that moment, she’d learned that he was a Cambridge graduate who chose to come back home because he loved the people here. She knew that Sam had a loving wife and two kids who were in preschool.

She suddenly felt the need to go home and watch a romance, one of those soapy flicks that brought her to instant tears over a big bowl of ice cream and two liters of Sunny D. Sam smiled at her as she walked out of the store and said:

‘Watch out for the shadows.’

She looked at him and couldn’t understand much of that statement. She smiled and took it as a “watch yourself, it’s dark outside” warning, which she’d heard before since her stay there. There was no point in telling her that, she thought, she’d come from a big city and she’d lived in a pretty nasty neighborhood – most of the local drug dealers had been her best friends in school, none of them touched her. She was actually well protected there. She waved a goodbye and walked out into the evening.

It was pretty dark but the moon was lingering somewhere at the end of the long alley. She could smell the night-queen in the air and there was a flickering street lamp on the right side of the road. She took her time as she walked home.

She heard foot steps behind. She turned around but there wasn’t anyone there. She pulled the jacket zipper up and continued walking, constantly thinking about the things she was going to do there and about the upcoming work days. More steps behind her. She looked around and still there was nothing, not a soul out in the street.

She looked at the house on the right and she noticed an elderly lady watching her from inside while sipping from a cup of tea. She looked around again and noticed that there was nothing moving. No people, not even a cat or a dog. The wind wasn’t blowing but the night-queen smelled wonderful. And complete silence.

She passed by another house and heard steps around her. Still, no one. She looked at another house. A man was watching from inside, slowly shaking his head in some kind of disappointment. His chest rose and descended in what appeared to be a long sigh.

‘What the hell…’ she mumbled and started walking a bit faster. The steps again. It was getting irritating as she approached the flickering street lamp.

‘Who’s there?’ she thought of asking. No answer, just more steps. She began turning around more often but she couldn’t see anyone. Panic was slowly budding inside her but the realistic part in her kept screaming that she should just mind the road and get home safe.

The moment she reached the flickering light, the sound of steps approached her from behind. She suddenly turned around but there was nothing, just shades around a defective street lamp. She turned back to her direction and froze. A scream would’ve come in handy, but it got stuck in her throat. All she could see was a pair of big yellow eyes and a frown. She heard a heavy breath and felt a cold hand grasp her throat. The fingers felt long and the strength they held was intimidating. It stood there, tall and dark with yellow eyes, it stared her in the face, breathing heavily. The voice came out distorted as she tried to catch her breath, because the long cold fingers had quite a grip on her throat.

‘What are you doing outside at this time?’

She tried to release herself from the grasp but the hand refused to even twitch in her attempts.  The voice increased its tone, revealing anger – the kinder of anger no one would ever want to face, especially when being held by the throat, several inches off the ground. She knew that screaming wasn’t going to help and her mind had blanked out completely while looking for viable solutions.

‘What are you doing outside?! Haven’t they told you anything?!’

She suddenly became slightly curious. Maybe conversation could keep her alive. Just maybe.

‘Wha… What do you mean?’

The voice regained its human sound, deep and masculine. The yellow eyes stared deep inside of her, it felt like intense scanning. But the grip wasn’t loosening one bit. He was in control, she had to play nice.

‘You’re out here, all alone, at night. Didn’t anyone tell you to stay home during the night and never go out alone at this hour?’ the voice replied.

‘Um, no… they said I should watch out when it gets dark, I thought they were talking about purse snatchers. And that was my worst case scenario here!’ she tried to explain, while breathing slowly, regaining her spirit in spite of the circumstances.

Its head bent over on one side and the yellow eyes shrunk, as if closely studying her.

‘You’re new here.’ the voice said.

‘Yes, yes I am.’

‘What are you doing outside?’

‘I went to buy a book.’

‘What book?’

That sounded weird.

‘Good Omens’ she answered, slightly puzzled.

Then silence. A sigh.

‘Do you have it with you?’ the voice asked.

Clara couldn’t help but lift an eyebrow, slightly insulted by the constant pointless questions. The voice repeated with a louder tone.

‘Do you have it with you?!’

‘Yeah, it’s in my bag.’

‘Let me see.’

Silence. It felt like high school inspections, when Mr. Pain would always question her for drugs and making her empty her bag in front of the whole class, to always show anything but drugs. She did grow up in a sleazy area but that never meant that she’d grown into the shady business as well. All in all, it always felt humiliating. The hand shook her a bit, just to remind her who was in control.

‘LET ME SEE!’ the voice thundered.

With trembling hands she took the book out. It was a limited edition copy of Good Omens, with the authors’ autographs on the first pages. It had taken her forever to find it and to her surprise, she’d found one in that little town.

The book was snatched from her hand and she suddenly fell to the ground, on the cold pavement stone. The footsteps cleared away and she was left alone there, under the flickering street lamp. She instantly got up and ran home, not stopping until she didn’t reach the foyer of her home. She put on all safety locks and fell on her knees.

She was trembling from every joint and her neck was in pain. She was gasping for air. She would’ve wanted to cry and she tried to, but no tear managed to come out. The rest of the night was compromised. She spent it in front of the tv, switching channels like crazy, not watching anything really. At some point, at around three in the morning, she grabbed her sketchbook and the colored pencils and started drawing what she had seen.

She couldn’t find a yellow strong enough to show the yellow that had stared her down, but the accentuated it with thick black lines. She couldn’t reproduce the cold skin, nor the tone of voice. Her fingers trembled as she struggled to reproduce the image that refused to leave her head.

‘What the fuck is going on…’ she muttered with a trembling voice as she continued to draw until the sun came up. When her alarm clock rang, she’d fallen asleep on the sketches, cheek stuck on the yellow eyes.

She hoped it had all been a nightmare, but the sketches reminded her of every single second of the past night. She was trembling once again.

The new life she hoped would be a peaceful one suddenly turned into a potential nightmare. That thought lingered by her through the entire day, as she focused on understanding that event.

A fost odată ca niciodată un regat superb întins peste munţii tineri din Jamaica. Muntele Albastru domnea peste toţi mai frumos ca oricând, căci el găzduia celebrele boabe de cafea care încântau simţurile cafegiilor de pretutindeni. Nu ştim exact de ce i s-a pus numele de Munte Albastru, însă există scrieri vechi despre vizionari care au fumat ierburile magice şi au văzut vârful Muntelui Albastru ridicându-se dintre nori, cu un albastru strălucitor, incandescent – a fost seren, scriau ei.

La poalele Muntelui Albastru se întindea superbul regat al lui MariJuan al 5lea, ocupând câţiva acri buni. Oamenii respectau regatul şi îl tratau cu blândeţe. Ba chiar încheiaseră un pact – Omul ajuta zânele verzi ale lui MariJuan să se înmulţească şi să-şi împrăştie seminţele magice, iar Omul venea o dată pe an să culeagă frunzele verzi, femeile regatului, mai precis, pentru scopuri… um… farmaceutice. Şi toată lumea era al dracului de “fericită”.

Regele MariJuan al 5lea era o plantă frumoasă şi verde, întinzându-şi frunzele peste un întreg câmp. Strămoşii săi au venit la Muntele Albastru în anii dinainte, aduşi din pământurile centrale ale Asiei pe o corabie. Colonizarea tărâmurilor virgine era necesară într-o epocă în care Omul interzicea existenţa plantelor verzi cu THC.  Locuitorii de pe Muntele Albastru i-au primit cu braţele deschise, cunoscând efectele magice ale zânelor verzi.

Acest MariJuan al 5lea avea un fiu. Un mugurel adorabil, crescut chiar din rădăcinile tatălui său, verde precum un smarald şi al naibii de vorbăreţ. Toată ziua îşi căpia tatăl cu întrebări de genul “Tati, dar de ce vor oamenii să ne fumeze?” sau “Tati, dar de ce ne urăsc oamenii în restul lumii?” ori “Tati, o să ajung vreodată în cuiul vreunui Om?”.

Prinţul Ierbuţă, aşa cum fusese numit mugurelul, era subţirel şi de un verde crud,  o tentaţie dureroasă pentru oamenii lacomi care nu se puteau abţine de la a da iama ocazional în regat pentru a fura mugurii tineri – în ciuda acordului încheiat între cele două specii.

Mulţi încercaseră să îl fure pe Ierbuţă, motiv pentru care Regele MariJuan întărise Gărzile Roiale THC cu extra… THC. Gărzile erau plante extrem de puternice, suficient de concentrate pentru a doborî o întreagă armată cu un singur fum. Oamenii erau intimidaţi de plantele înalte şi puţini aveau curajul să se aventureze pe-acolo, căci tentaţia avea să-i lovească surd, făcându-i să fumeze tulpinile colosale, acţiune ce avea să ducă la adevărate pene cerebrale de… curent.

Aşa că Prinţul Ierbuţă crescu frumos şi verde crud, întrebându-şi mereu tatăl despre Oameni şi despre pactul cu creaturile bipede. Curând află că Omul venea numai după femeile lor verzi, pentru a le consuma în ritualuri de sacrificiu, pentru a fi mai aproape de Zeii lor. Mulţi spuneau că-şi văd Dumnezeul şi că vorbesc cu el atunci când fumează plantele respective. Regele MariJuan conducea regatul verde cu un braţ de fier, se poate spune. Toţi ascultau de el şi întotdeauna lua deciziile corecte – până în ziua în care a hotărât să-l încrucişeze pe Prinţul Ierbuţă cu Prinţesa Ganja. Nu era deloc frumoasă, frunzele ei erau mult prea lungi şi frate, cum puţea! Nu-i plăcea deloc de ea!

În ziua nunţii lor, zâne verzi de pretutindeni veniră de peste toate poalele Muntelui Albastru pentru a sărbători uniunea. Toţi păreau fericiţi, Regele MariJuan era mândru ca un stejar să-şi vadă fiul parte din a Cincea Încrucişare, ce avea să producă următoarea generaţie de femei fertile pentru Omul dornic să fumeze. Prinţul Ierbuţă, pe de altă parte, era trist. Verdele lui crud pălise, nu era pregătit pentru asemenea soartă. Nu vroia să dea naştere la un alt rând de frunze şi flori care să ajungă fumul unor oameni străini. Vroia mai multe de la viaţa lui scurtă.

În acea zi, însă, un Om avu suficient curaj să treacă de Gărzi. Ştia că toată marfa bună era pe lângă tulpina Rege. Se strecură mârşav printre tulpini, silenţios precum un şarpe, până ajunse la Prinţul Ierbuţă. Rămase uimit de graţia lui, aşa că hotărî să ia Prinţul cu el şi să-şi întemeieze propriul regat undeva departe de Munţii Albaştri.

Dezgropă rădăcinile, în timp ce Prinţul Ierbuţă îl privea uluit. Nu ştia dacă să strige după ajutor sau să lase omul să îl ia. Era curios totuşi de soarta lui în mâinile omului. Până să se sperie suficient şi să strige după tatăl lui, Omul părăsise deja câmpul verde, urcându-se într-o corabie cu destinaţia Anglia, un tărâm vechi şi ciudat dincolo de ocean.

Regele MariJuan şi-a căutat fiul timp de zile întregi, plângând la zânele lui. Prinţesa Ganja fusese atât de dezamăgită încât s-a aruncat în braţele primului venit, un comun oarecare, dând naştere unei a Cincea linii de slabă calitate. Omul fusese chiar înmărmurit în timp ce fuma descendenţii lui MariJuan, specificând că nu era totuşi cea mai bună recoltă. Regatul deveni rapid unul comun pentru Om, cererile venind tot mai rar. Sărăcia şi tristeţea se abătură asupra regatului, în timp ce Prinţul Ierbuţă se îmbarca pe vasul cu destinaţia Anglia.

Omul îi vorbi lui Ierbuţă în drum spre tărâmul ploios al Angliei. Îi spuse: “Vei crea o recoltă bune, tinere verzui. Am o a patra linie de fete dornice să te primească. Vei face mari lucruri printre noi, îţi pot simţi vibraţia. Îţi miros deja magia…”

Prinţul Ierbuţă era înmărmurit, mii de gânduri săgetându-i creierul crud şi verde.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful kingdom spread wide over the young mountains of Jamaica. Above all reigned the beautiful Blue Mountain, where the legendary coffee beans of Blue Mountain grow every year in order to bewitch the senses of coffee connoiseurs worldwide. We don’t know exactly why they call it the Blue Mountain, but there are old records of visionary who smoked the magic herbs and saw the mountain peak from the clouds with a glowy blue tip – it was serene, so they wrote.

At the skirts of the Blue Mountain was the splendid reign of King MariJuan the 5th, spreading over a couple of acres. Mankind respected the kingdom and treated it gently. They even made a pact – mankind would help the green fairies of MariJuan multiply and spread their magical seeds, and once a year Man would come and claim several hundreds of green fairy leaves for… erm … farmaceutical purposes. And everybody would be smokin’ happy.

King MariJuan the 5th was a beautiful green plant, spreading his leaves across an entire field. His forefathers came to Blue Mountain in the years before, brought from the Central lands of Asia on a sailing ship. Colonization was required in a time when Mankind had banned their existence. The people of Blue Mountain had welcomed them with arms wide open, knowing of their blessed green fairies magical effects.

He had a son, this King MariJuan the 5th. A little bud, growing straight from his fatherly root, green as an emerald and chatty as hell. All day long he’d ask his father all sorts of questions, such as “Daddy, why do people want to smoke us?” or “Daddy, why do they hate us so much in other parts of the world?” and “Daddy, will I ever end up in one of Man’s blunts?”.

Prince Weedy, as the little bud had been named, was slim and crude green, a painful temptation for those of Man’s kind who were greedy and couldn’t help themselves from barging into their kingdom once in a while, to steal young buds – in spite of the formerly officialized agreement.

Many had tried to steal him away, reason for which King MariJuan decided to reinforce the Royal THC Guards with extra… THC. The guards were powerful plants, concentrated enough to knock down and entire army out of one smoke. People were intimidated by the tall plants and few dared to adventure themselves among the Guards, for temptation would hit them right there and they’d attempt to consume the collosal stalks, which would lead to literally mind-blowing blackouts.

So Prince Weedy grew beautiful and crude green, constantly asking his father questions about Mankind and their pact with the bipede creatures. He soon learned that Man only came for their women, to consume them in ritual sacrifices in order to get closer to their Gods. King MariJuan led the kingdom with an iron fist, per say. All obeyed and his decisions were always the right ones. Until the day he decided to cross Prince Weedy with Princess Ganja. She wasn’t pretty at all, her leaves were too long and boy, did she SMELL! He didn’t like her one bit!

On the day of their wedding, green fairies from all over the skirts of Blue Mountain came to celebrate the union. Everyone looked happy, King MariJuan was as proud as an oak tree to see his son as part of the fifth crossing that would produce the next generation of fertile females to deliver to Mankind. Prince Weedy, on the other hand, was sad. His crude green was faded, he wasn’t ready for such a fate. He didn’t want to just give birth to leaves and blossoms that would end up in the smoke of strange men. He wanted more from his short life.

On that day, though, one Man was bold enough to go beyond the Guards. He knew that all the good stuff was close to the King stalk. He sneaked through, silent as a snake, and came close to the Prince. He was amazed by his grace, so he decided to take Prince Weedy and start his own little kingdom somewhere far from the Blue Mountains.

He dug out the roots, as Prince Weedy watched in complete awe. He didn’t know whether to scream or to let the man take him. He was rather curious of his predicament in the strange man’s hands. By the time he got scared enough to shout after his father, the man had already fled the green crops, boarding a sailing ship to England, a strange old land across the ocean.

King MariJuan searched for his son for days, crying to his fairies. Princess Ganja was so disappointed that she married a commoner, giving birth to a fifth line of low quality. Man was actually baffled as he smoked the descendants of King MariJuan, specifying that it wasn’t really their best batch. The Kingdom quickly became common to Man, and requests came less and less. Poverty and sadness took over the land, while Prince Weedy was boarded on the ship to England.

Man spoke to Weedy on their way to the rainy lands of England. He said “You will make a fine batch, young green. I have a fourth line of girls eagerly waiting for your arrival. You will do great things among us, I can feel your vibe. I can smell your magic.”

The Prince was speechless, millions of thoughts racing through his crude little roots.

We all go by, day by day, never wondering if there’s anything else there apart from our little world, apart from the donut we hasten to eat on the way to work or apart from the dog we have to walk when we come back home in the evening.

We never think that maybe, just maybe there’s something more out there. Or something else besides what we already know. There is, I tell you.

This is a story you won’t find in fairytale books, you won’t find it in history books nor will you stumble upon it over the internet while browsing through Ebay. This is a tale stolen from another world, from another time and another place, where everything is like here, yet different.

It starts on a snowy night, just outside of Dreamville – the ever charming little town, right down the muddy side of a country road. Colin was driving his car, Rosie the ’57 Mustang, slowly down the road, in order not to disturb the streetlamps – those pesky characters made of forged black iron and arogant pale white light bulbs, whose behavior resembled that of evil Imps out to simply piss you off in case you’d ever cross their path.

They’d start flashing the lights if you’d irritate them, then even turn their lights down, if you persisted in not pleasing their grumpy nature. And a road leading straight into darkness was never a good thing, because few ever made it back alive from the night. And those few were never sane again, because Dreamville was a town of light, a little oasis in the middle of the country side, where the art of the perfect light distribution was in first place. Crafting the perfect lights was any man’s dream in Dreamville. So he proceeded in peace, careful not to push the streetlamps in the wrong way of behavior.

He had all the reasons to come back alive from the night, one of the major reasons being the delicious chestnut porridge that his nana baked every year, on Christmas. Her effort is always admirable because she always preffers to catch the chestnuts herself. They jump around the chestnut trees, like crazy Mexican beans, and one has to be really careful when catching them, because they tend to bite. The effort is actually worth it because they make the best porridge in seven counties, if baked properly.

It was Christmas Eve there in Dreamville, but only there. Each county celebrated Christmas in a different time of the year. He once spent Christmas at his aunt’s house in Blundchen, where Christmas was celebrated in the middle of July, with camp fires, barking hot dogs with honey mustard and colored globes hung in every palm tree. It was nice, the food was delicious and the barbecues were really fun, but to Colin Christmas was peculiar without the snow, the orange flames in the fireplace and the hot chestnut porridge.

He kept driving down the swirling country road, just to feel a flake or two on his face. He could hear the streetlamps mutter once in a while: ‘Easy on the lights there, boy!’, ‘Check the radiator before you shower us with that old bark of a car!’, ‘Put a leash on your four wheeled mutt!’. They were mean to everybody who passed by, so he’d learned not to take it personal, though at first it really ticked him off. Until he picked a fight with one, fell into darkness and thanked his parents for raising him to be cautious enough to carry a flashlight, just in case. Never pick a fight with a streetlamp, you will never win!

He looked around as he drove, noticing splendid Christmas lights hung about each house. Each year Christmas resembled a colored lights festival, where each family put major efforts into making their home the brightest and most colorful of them all. Twinkly blue and green lights glowing from underneath the heavy diamond snow.

It was all too beautiful not to be looked at, not to contemplate for just a few minutes, as snowflakes kept floating quietly down from the obsidian night sky. So he pulled Rosie over, just to get out and check the view for a minute. Or two. He pulled over right under a streetlamp. He got out and caressed her fender. The Mustang trembled out of sheer pleasure, like a friendly dog under its master’s hand. All it lacked was a tail, because it could also bark, but Rosie was already pretty old and barking was a bit of an effort for her.

The streetlamp just couldn’t help it: ‘It better not leak anything funny around me, or I might just black out, the smell is repulsive!’

Colin lifted a hand, as a peace sign, breath already taken by the beautiful and endless carpet of Christmas lights. ‘We won’t be long…’, he gasped and smiled as he admired the view.

He leaned against Rosie to take a longer look at the complicated ensemble of brick walls, dark tiles, small windows and colored lights simply blooming out like snowbells. Sheer purity and color. ‘Admit it, you’ve never seen anything this beautiful’, he said to Rosie.

The Mustang groaned, like a retriever lying by the fireplace, at its masters feet, to chew on the favorite bone. Then a twinkle caught his eye. A moving twinkle. His eyes suddenly got stuck on that.

…