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Let me capture a still life.

I choose a light-pink rose petal with yellow at its roots. It glistens with a million microscopic sparkles, which take a practiced eye to see. The petal is soft, but only as a flower petal can be. And it smells sweet, but not in a fake way. I smile, then begin my craft.

Always busy hands, my hands cannot stop moving, my pen can never stop, my mind never halts. Even in sleeping I have vivid dreams. But I can never dream of roses or stillness, usually I am off on an adventure; another world, another time, another place.

My thumb sinks into the petal, a deep rosy hue leaves its mark and there is a hint of liquid perfume on my thumbnail. Purposeful shreds of pink rose drift away to the ground below.

Left behind is a heart-shaped petal. A miniature masterpiece, a habit of art from the time I was a little girl. I have no memory of how this craft first came to be. I do remember another still life though: Dandelions in hair–thick yellow pollen dust on amber streaks of sunlight caught in mortal form. I am no mortal though, perhaps one day that will be figured out. I like to imagine that I’m a fairy from another world, another place, another time.

I laugh, I smile; I write, I draw. I craft flower petals tossed aside. I leave rose hearts on railings, on windowsills, on tree branches. But few people can see them; I’ve cast enchantment in their eyes, enchanted by my pen.

A fairy smiles, laughs, then vanishes, leaving behind bits of rose petals for no one to find.

That is a still life.

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