From the top of the mountain, you can’t really see the people or the animals in the valley unless you have a magnifying glass or telescope or something.  Little brown or yellow dots floating in the sea of green and houses.  The houses get more crowded the further down the mountain you go.  The streets are wider in the valley, but they’re so far away, you can’t really tell.  Most houses have shingle roofs.  A few have terracotta on top, some have tar only.  Preserve the old farm house, maybe a barn or two, but the rest are all new, modern constructions.  Spare no expense building those “neighborhoods.”  At the edge of one such place, there’s a small orchard.  Apples, apricots, cherries.  They have a small brown building where they sell their fruit.  The people next to the orchard have an enormous garden with a swimming pool in the center.  Little cabanas are at each corner of the pool deck.

            Right inside the garden gate, white flowers are on the tree.  They’re going to turn into red berries not too long from now.  There are some fruit buds forming already.  The birds are going to be happy.  Where did the butterfly go?  I know it’s around here somewhere.  Almost too many colors here in the garden.  That’s why I can’t see the bug.  I recognize the daisies, and the violets.  There’s leaves from the daffodils, but the flowers are all gone.  The branches from the oak tree are getting too low.  Someone ought to cut them back.  Someone ought to mow the grass past the courtyard, too.  It’s getting too tall.

            Erase the lowest branch of the oak tree.  That opens the sky up more.  And erase the tips of the grass.  A little more blue where they used to be.  No remnants to mulch, just wipe the paper clear of used eraser pieces.  I need to keep drawing in case someone changes their mind and takes the pencils away again.  I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t draw.  There are crayons in the art room, but that’s not the same thing as being able to draw when you want to instead of during a “planned activity.”  Kerry understands.  She’s the night nurse.  She gets that sometimes we need to do stuff for ourselves to keep calm.

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            I don’t want to be in art therapy.  The pink colored room is too small for the twelve tables, and everything on the page has to have a deep psychological meaning, according to Doctor Fluffyhead.  I hate to break it to her, but sometimes grass on the field is just grass on the field.  A dandelion is just a stupid dandelion.  Her real name is Doctor Jill Something, but if she won’t call me Jaz, I won’t call her Jill.  Peter’s kind of cool.  One day, Doctor Fluffyhead told us to paint or draw what makes us angry.  Peter painted all the pages in the book black – every single page, front and back.  I wonder what she told the other doctors about that.  I drew bars on the windows.

            Despite the bars, there’s a nice view of the hills.  They get darker as they get farther away.  Greens, dark blue, even black.  Mist covers a lot of the black ones.  I wonder if there’s a stream in the valley.  Indeed there is.  Light blue, keep some rapids white with the rocks shiny brown.  There’s a bear fishing at one of the turns.  A brown bear.  And two cubs, also fishing.  The grass is tall for spring.  Maybe it’s summer, so the sky should have more blue.  Rats - I left the other pencils in the art room.  That’s one nice thing about Doctor Fluffyhead - she doesn’t always count the pencils or crayons the way she’s supposed to do after each session.  Light blue and dark blue, nothing in between.  Make do with what you have.

            Security doesn’t like us hanging things in the window except the puke green shade that comes with our room.  That’s why my scenes are next to the window.  My room used to be a double until someone from management came and decided each of us needed more space.  They didn’t say it needed new paint over the scuff marks the other bed and dresser left on the floor and walls, though.  Now I have room for a desk and a small set of shelves.  I have a few books on drawing, but they’re mostly for portraits or about some famous artist.  Kerry told me that if I behave, I can keep more drawing supplies in my room.

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            A wood bridge over a creek bed.  The outside of it is still painted red, but the slats people walk or ride on are worn down to gray bare wood.  Some of the planks are splintering and need replacing before someone falls through.  The water is low, the rocks underneath look smooth except on the banks.  Jagged edges near the shore are almost completely hidden by tall tufts of yellow and green grass.  It’s too shallow for big fish to survive in this stream.

            Five minutes ‘til my one-on-one session begins.  It looks almost empty here in the rec room.  We’re not allowed in our rooms yet, so something good must be on TV.  Sections of the week’s newspapers are at all the tables.  There’s nothing new, nothing interesting for me to read.

            “Chickie, watch my stuff?” I ask, in case people want to take my pencils and notebook.

            “You bet, Jaz.”  She puts my stuff under the paper she’s pretending to read.  Thursdays are usually Miss Geneva.  She likes to use one of the small offices that has a computer on the desk.  Today doesn’t disappoint.

            “So, how’s it going?”  Miss Geneva asks.  She has to – it’s her job as counseling coordinator for the floor.  Why she’s picked me to be her subject, I’ll never know.

            “We’re still here,” I respond.

            “Indeed we are.  Is art therapy still going well for you?”

            “Sure.”

            “Is there a problem, Jaz?  If there is, we can revisit your schedule,”

            “It’s fine.”

            “What do you want to talk about then?”  She waits.  She does a lot of that with me.  “There’s nothing you’d like to discuss?”

            “No.”

            “There’s nothing you need?”

            “I need blue pencils.”

            “You can ask Doctor Jill if you could borrow one or two of her pencils.  I don’t see that as a problem.”

            “They need to be mine.”

            “Now, Jaz, you know the rules here don’t allow things that could be used as weapons in the resident’s room.”  Shutup, Jaz, before she takes the rest of them away.  “I know you haven’t had an outburst in a very long time, and that’s great, but rules are rules.”  Just look away, don’t say or do anything provocative.  “You do understand, Jaz, don’t you?”

            “Fine.”

            “Is there anything else we should discuss?”  How about needing a break from this place?  Maybe going to school or something?

            “No.”  Please don’t let her take the pencils I do have away.

            “Are you sure, Jaz?”  Keep my eyes down.  Whatever she does, I can’t get so mad I start crying.  “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Jaz.”

            “It’s fine,” comes out of my mouth.  And that’s all she’s getting out of me now.

            “That was fast,” Chickie comments.  She has a bunch of checkers pieces set up on the table like she’s in the middle of a game.  I take my things back from her.

            “Not much to say.”

            “Two more people, and it’s my turn.  You want to play?”

            “No, thanks.”  It doesn’t look as if people were looking in my book.

            “Relax, Jaz,” Chickie smiles.  “Nobody saw anything of yours.”

            “Great.  Thanks.”  She goes back to her game.

            A black and brown anteater feasting at an ant hill.  His tongue slurping out as many critters as he can hold in his mouth.  This ant hill is just the tip of the colony that extends forever in all directions.  Other ant hills appear in the grass.  No mountains here, just green grass, black ants, and a hungry insectivore.  The more he eats, the softer the ground gets.  If he’s not careful, he’ll get swarmed by the ants below.  At least they’re not fire ants.  I wonder what happens when he eats fire ants.

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            Sit in a circle in the overstuffed “multipurpose room,” listen to everyone else’s problems.  Fifteen people in a room built for ten.  All of us except our leader are in our scrubs.  Some people need to take a shower with soap or maybe have their clothes washed more than once a month.  You’d think they could’ve found some other color besides two-toned brown to paint the walls.  I’m supposed to share at least once a week, but there’s nothing to say.  Except we should be able to keep pencils and more books in our rooms.  Or I need blue pencils.  If I were in Building Y, I bet I could even keep a sharpener in my room.  I don’t know how much longer I can stay here.  The old people are in a different building.  But Chickie has been here more than ten years, she says.  If I can work my way over to Building Y at least, then I bet I could draw outside every day if I wanted.

            “Jaz?”  Focus on our leader.  “Anything to add?”

            “Nope.  Thanks.”

            “Would anyone else like to say a few words?”  Not even Chickie volunteers.  “All right then.  See everyone tomorrow.”  Ten minutes ‘til Doctor Fluffyhead part two.

            Now art therapy involves watercolors.  Peter still paints in black and browns, but he’s not as angry as before.  I always use too much water so my paper crinkles up and looks more like a bad collage.  It could be neat, making a 3-D landscape.  Maybe a volcano or the Himalayas.  I’d have to get permission first, though.  We’re not allowed to have glue or tape dispensers outside the art room.  You can cut somebody with a broken tape dispenser, and Chickie says someone almost died one time after eating a whole box of glue sticks.  I’m not sure I believe her.  She likes to make stuff up, try to make the staff look bad.  Yoyo will eat just about anything you give her.  Her real name’s Yolanda, but we’re not supposed to know that, and this is her fifth home.  We’re not supposed to know that, either, privacy or some stuff like that, but she told us about all the other places.

            Stupid brush won’t get small enough to make it look like a road.  I could ask for a smaller brush, if she’d listen to me.  Never mind.  I’ll make do with this hairy thing.  Maybe I could use my fingers,

            “Finger paints are on the shelf, Jessica,” she says with a smile.  How many times do I have to tell her it’s Jaz?  It doesn’t matter, nobody cares what people call the residents.  It’s a “low priority.”

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            The river is wider here, probably a little deeper, too.  Not too many waves, just a couple rapids along the near side.  There’s a meadow on the far side before the hills rise to the mountains.  Just the one mountain blocks the others out from this angle.  Red and white flowers dot the field and part way up the hill.  Is that a lion in the grass?  No, a wolf.  There aren’t any lions here.  Well, okay, mountain lions, but this is definitely a wolf.  She’s eating something dead on the ground.  Don’t know what it is, except it’s brown.  And now it’s going to be black because the brown pencil broke.  From this distance, it won’t matter anyway, brown, black, whatever.  Black tips on the wolf’s ears, blue eyes.  I still don’t have the right color blue, but I don’t think anyone here really cares.

            The nurse’s station is close to the front door.  They control who comes in and out that door.  I just need someone to sharpen my brown and orange pencils.

            “It’s past curfew,” the new night security guard says.  Even sitting down, she’s bigger than me.

            “I just need to see Kerry.”

            Behemoth stands up, ready for a fight.  Her arms are as thick as my legs, and I have no doubt she knows how to use them against us.  “You’ll see her tomorrow.  You need to get in your room, change out of your clothes, and go to bed.”  Fortunately, Kerry steps away from the nurse’s station into the hall.

            “Oh, hi, Jaz.”  To the security guard, “It’s okay.  I’ll take care of her.”

            “Curfew is at 10:00.”

            “Yes, thank you.”  Kerry brings me back to my room.  “Just wait here, okay?  Is it only two tonight?”

            “My red could stand to be sharpened.”  She looks at the red pencil.  Too much lead showing, I guess, because she gives it back to me.

            “Maybe in the morning, okay?  It still looks good to me.  Do you want to trade any colors tonight?”

            “No, I don’t think so.  Thanks.”  I give her the broken ones.

            “Be right back.”  She marches right beyond Behemoth, sharpens the pencils, and comes back.  “Are you working on anything in particular?” she asks.

            “Just some animals.”

            “Okay.  Remember you need to sleep some tonight, too.”

            “Thanks.”  She goes to her station, I go into my room.  Back to my brown not black carcass and the hungry wolf eating it.  Where’s the rest of the pack?  Have they eaten already?  No, they’re just a little downstream.  They’re working on another dead animal in the tall grass.  People don’t need to know what it really is the wolves are eating.  Throw some red in there, show some meat and blood.  The bigger wolf has yellow eyes.  Smaller cubs wait their turn for dinner.