Sister Mary Holstrom takes a ministry break out back by the freethinking rejects. Sister Holstrom sucks a cigerrette, smooth flavored moments of reflection. Servants lose their energy. “Holy Spirit come to me.” Mary doesn’t inhale or exhale, but lets the embered stick dangle from her parted lips. She stokes her habit in her habit. Passer-bys feel compelled to watch the smoking nun. She looks right through them to their empty streets. "Father, teaching monsters to love is exhausting," she prays as she takes a drag. "Comforting dragons fatigues me." She doesn’t move her face for several minutes. A chunk of ash flutters off her chest and flutters down to her empty street.

-Espera, ¿a dónde vas?
-Creo que es tiempo de irme, tu sigues pensando que todo esto es pasajero, sólo un juego y no te das cuenta que para mí lo es todo, mi vida, mis sueños, mis metas. No te das cuenta que contigo a mi lado puedo contra el mundo entero.
-No digas eso, sabes que no puedo ofrecerte lo que pides, sabes que soy tóxico para ti, ¿por qué, entonces, querrías darme tu vida si sabes que sólo te espera sufrimiento?
E intentó tomarme de las manos pero golpée las suyas y me levanté de la cama.
-Cada quien tiene derecho a elegir el veneno con el que desea morir, tu eres ese veneno para mi, yo quiero que tu seas lo que me mate, lo que me quite todo, quiero morir a tus manos.
-¿Sin importar nada? ¿Sin importar cuántas veces rompa tu corazón en el proceso?
-Nada me importa más que estar a tu lado, nada me importa más que tu amor...
-Que así sea... Te amo.

It's funny how just a few short years can change the way you feel about all of the people you used to know. The whole process of them becoming "someone you used to know," without you even noticing is a bizarre ride. It's funny that a few years after graduation, when people are home to visit their parents, taking a minute long break from their new lives, you see all these strangers who used to be somebody to you. And you make small talk, with a beer in your hand as a security blanket. Keeping the prop so you can blame it on being drunk if the conversation derails the next time you meet them along the road. And it's funny that when those somebodies become people you don't know, how little their thoughts about you seem to matter. How little the opinion of someone you cared to impress means to you anymore. And you swallow down the moment in a last awkward gulp of your beer and then you take your opportunity to bail, "I need a refill."

To the boy who sits in front of me in history.
You've become a beautiful mystery to me. Whether I'll ever get to know you past the date of our final, I do not know. But for these fleeting moments, I appreciate the things you have to say.
I like that you give no fucks about saying exactly what you think.
I like that you let it all come from the heart.
I like that when I see your big brown eyes, they don't make me sad.
I like that all of the things that stand out about you are not just because they're a mirror image of the last person I loved.
Maybe one day, I'll bump into you and say something smooth. Or maybe I won't.
But until the last time we both walk out of our history room, I promise to appreciate the moments we share.
Love,
the girl who sits behind you.

...and then he jumped on his horse, not just any old way, but like cowboy heroes in old movies jumped on their horses—running then leapfrogging into the saddle with his fast horse near full gallop, the hero grabbing the flying reins, taking a last look back, smiling goodbye ,galloping, galloping, horse and rider in a cloud of dust moving in the wind, out across the empty plains heading for the blue mountains in the distance...urging his horse onward, the horse sensing this was the time, this was the time they'd be gone and gone for good, gone in a cloud of dust finally leaving nothing to see but the plains and blue mountains so far away.