Slivers From a Life Less Lived
by
Nathanael Smith


On the greasy intersection, under the lamp he affectionately called "home", he slowly and laboriously called forth the memories of life past on the keys of the trumpet. The wall behind him had all the cruel scrawlings of a life more ordinary; graffiti, the dross of art and creation, filling the street, dross in it's own way. The melody he carefully had crafted came to an end, and he placed the trumpet gingerly in it's case and shuffled on to the next streetcorner. As he passed out from the halo of light that surrounded the lamp, his eye spotted a sliver of heaven in this refuse-strewn hell; a flower in the sidewalk.