The Goblin Market

Who will believe me when I tell of sun swirls and cloud shifts, those purple shimmers that overwhelmed my car’s interior as I drove to the office early morning? I reached out to grasp the glow radiating, but the shimmers evaded my touch and disappeared. Access was purely impressionistic, like a do-lovely photograph or Mona Lisa’s smile.

Even-so, a sense of euphoria deflated as petals of inflation sprinkled the path leading to my office door.

Late evening, as a final hurrah, I went to Goblin Market, an avant-garde restaurant where book-lined shelves were home to naked little goblins. I sat in discomfort watching monsters and sipping mango ginger soup.

Imagined a slight shift in goblin stances. Transfixed on those agonized faces in rows, I was staring, wishing to free them from the pain of faux pas.

A faint glimmer of fear stirred within me as I requested a goblin.

“Not for sale,” said the maître d'. “But please accept a gift.” He selected the ugliest one and offered it to me with a steady hand and pretentious bow.

I traveled home with a goblin on my lap.

I was snuggled on the couch when those purple shimmers appeared in my parlor as they had that morning in my car. A coming horizon, reflections, a figure, a hand was reaching toward me. My arms tingled, and the image evanesced as I reached to connect.

A purple stream, ineffable and eternal. More than our physical channel, our strains are shimmers hidden in secret shadow folds poised to enlighten the clouds, and with this knowledge, more than what we see exits just out of reach, we rest with eternity in mind; my little goblin and I.