On Jay Gurley

Between the silvered trunks of a mighty, alien forest, I came upon a wounded man. He sat next to a small campfire, one he had built himself. Pensiveness filled his eyes. A heavy, lead-lined cloak dragged at his shoulders, the red and gold hem crusted with mud. He had one hand pressed to his side and a puddle of crimson surrounded him, too much for him to still live.

When I gasped, he looked up at me. “I’m fine,” he said, flashing me a cocky grin.

“You’re not,” I retorted.

But when he pulled his hand away from his side, there was no blood. He showed his clean palm to me. “See? Nothing wrong.”

More blood seeped up from the ground, the puddle growing larger until it lapped at my bare toes. I went away from that place, feeling that I had let the world down somehow. I think he must have been a magician. A tricksy one, who pulled a blindfold down over my eyes.

On Joshua Edwards

His was a voice that often followed mine. I could drop a snappy comment and he would snatch it up, shift the trick sideways, and lob it back at me. You had to be quick on your toes around him, because you found that you didn’t want to disappoint him by dropping the ball.

Conversely, if he believed in you, you could do anything.

In his words was the wistfulness of a dreamer. He gave much and asked for little in return. But if you watched closely enough, you could see how, when he believed no one was looking, his gaze would drift toward the stars, the ache in his heart for something more becoming the ache in your own. I think he thought himself unnoticeable, invisible, and if you’re shifty enough, you can be. But I saw him. He’s real. If you’re quick enough to catch him, cup him gently in your palm, because starlight cannot be imprisoned.

On Adam Zielinski

Forever in my mind, he relaxed at a table surrounded by friends, the neck of a beer bottle held loosely between long fingers, his other hand gesturing a narrative point to support his story. He had an intensity about him, the electromagnetic capacity to hold his audience spellbound in a way I never could. But no matter the gravity of a topic, he couldn’t remain serious for long, often dissolving into laughter, along with the rest of us. When he listened, he listened. When he spoke, he spoke. But, I thought, when someone could make him laugh, that person gifted us with something small, yet wonderful.

On Lyle Hall

I came upon a solitary scarecrow in the middle of an empty field. At first, he wasn’t there, and then he was, just in the corner of my vision. He hunched against the elements, head bowed in the red evening sunlight. When I approached him, he seemed nearly translucent, so faded with the sun and the wind. But in his very human eyes I found a glint of mischief; humor was tucked into the corners of his smiling mouth.

I asked him which way to go and he pointed me in the right direction, keen to help. As he did, he became tangible again, not from my acknowledgement of his existence, but from his direct impact on reality. He had made change. Before I went on my way, he slipped a witty quip into my pocket. I keep it folded there even now, in case of nosey crows.