Devonne Brown

“These are fortune tellers, natures bloodhounds,” Uncle Paul said. His

eyes were bright, even glowed.

  He held the white fuzzy globe between in his fingers growling with seed.

Two white wisps caught on the edge of the breeze, blew away.

The sphere still held its shape, it was still perfect enough that it could tell

the future was still plausible, Like a crystal ball it held secrets, but another puff

took another tuft.

Better hurry. 

“Hide this” Uncle Paul gave Buddy a match stick for Buddy to hide, and he did.

He hid it in his waist band.

“Now watch,” said Uncle Paul.

Uncle Paul asked the dandelion to find the match stick. He moved the

dandelion around and around the boy’s head.

Buddy’s eyes never left the flower gone to seed.

Uncle Paul closed his eyes and prayed to it. He closed those steel gray eyes,

those eyes the same color of the quarter sized curls that covered his head,

those eyes.

Fishtailed lines grinned around the eyes about the joke he played.

He loved this joke. This cruel joke.

“Follow this flower with your eyes,” said Uncle Paul, the beloved, the trusted. 

Buddy followed the flower as directed. 

“It’s in your mouth isn’t it?”

“No”

“Show me.”

Buddy opened his mouth, and Uncle Paul

stuffed the fluff down his

throat. Uncle Paul laughed and laughed. 

While Buddy choked and spit.

Rite. Of. Passage.