The first drug I ever did was heroin.

The rapper sat across from me. He was on the phone. He motioned to me not to do it.

Fernie lit it.

He worked for Wells Fargo.

That was a nickname.

He was the same one

that carried me to the couch.

Passed out.

Also anorexic.

When I went down

my very small

tits

were exposed

they could not call for help

but they were ready

for

sex

and he carried me to the couch

that man

that lit the fire

he saved me

and I wonder

to this day

if he is alive.

I take the dress out of the bag upstairs in the bathroom. He is downstairs getting himself together, shaving his face, never has to touch his hair because it is always so lovely-bountiful brown lush curls-he always looks like he stepped out of a Renaissance painting. I can smell his spicy cedar cologne dancing up the steps, creeping under the door as an invitation for me to come down and play. I cannot wait to float on down. The color of my dress is blush pink-just like in the pictures. The shoulders are sheer and puffy and the sleeves are sleek, silk and lace with gems of pearls glued throughout. The dress is ball gown style, flowing with layers of more pink lace from my cinched waist. I am so in love with it, and it slides over my head easily. Fits like a charm. I curl my hair so I look a little like Shirly Temple, and I powder my face, redden my lips and cheeks. I curl my lashes and spritz myself with vanilla. I am his sweet cake tonight. I hear him call my name, and I walk out of the bathroom and towards the stairs. There he awaits, at the bottom holding his hand out for me to take. He looks stunning. Like an old time movie star-Charlton Heston, is it you? I chuckle to myself. I can tell he loves the way I am dressed as well by his smile. His eyelids lower a bit too, like when the back of a dogs ears are being scratched. I take his hand and into the kitchen we glide. He pushes a button on the CD player that is sitting on the counter, and "This Magic Moment" by Jay and the Americans starts playing. He puts his hand on my back and pulls me into him tightly, our chests pressing against each other. We slowly dance in circles, sometimes clumsily stepping onto each others toes, and laughing, but all the while never breaking eye contact. This is a magic moment, because a couple of months prior I was bedridden and could not walk. A couple of months ago, he cried on top of me, while my body seized, and I thought I would never dance with him again. And here we were, dancing like a king and queen in the middle of our kitchen as if it were our grand ballroom.....during a quarantined Valentines day.

" This magic moment

So different and so new

Was like any other

Until I kissed you"-This Magic Moment

When I came across this particular challenge it took me a while when searching in the bowels of my brain for, ‘a most joyful memory.’ I have a plentiful of memories that is joyful. But a most joyful one? No, I can’t seem to pick one out as the happiest I’ve ever been. Let me admit I have used drugs and drank a lot, let me also admit that maybe more than half of my happy times in life are when I was under the influence. I now find myself asking, am I an unhappy person, often looking to drugs and alcohol for happiness? I know for sure that I am not an angry one, bitter or depressed, but still this one writing challenge I guess inadvertently has challenged me to find a most joyful memory instead of having the best writing of my most joyful memory.

I’m ok this hasn’t shaken me off balance, I’m just reminded of the power of writing, how it can get one thinking deep. It’s why I have trouble writing a horror piece or one of lust and sex! With me, I almost always think things through in such great depth and detail when putting pen to paper it's like putting myself right in it, live and in-person.

Writing sure is mystical I find, and for me, it has a mystique about it. I never really did write as much as I should but since joining Prose I have been writing more and it feels like boarding the Cyclone at Coney Island! I’m having fun here and it might be a while before I get off this coaster.

If life is to be a road full of eggshells. I would much rather dance with you, my dear, than crush the shells alone. For either way, the shells will be broken no matter where I step, but with you in hand, with a spring in our step, maybe something can come from our journey along this shard strewn road; if not from the shells themselves, then perhaps between you and I.

Shall we...?

Elon Musk paused, and downed another swig. "Currency," gulp, "is the practical essence of value, a mathematical nomination attributed to the fair market worth of something."

"Coin?"

"Yes, and no. The ancient world knew currency as coin, until paper money, until digital money. Currency is the means by which one acquires value, or capital, and 'UBI' is Universal Basic Income, or a guaranteed recurring income of currency for all."

"And what would that encompass?" asked Alexander the Great.

"It would encompass a guaranteed amount of shelter, medicine, food, and education," replied Musk. "It would encompass a slice of the pie we call society."

Pythagoras chortled. "And what if there are too many more particpants than there is pie?"

"I doubt that is the case, especially with our expected technological output."

"What is that figure?" Plato asked.