In April, the callow lilies came back. They stretched their baby angel wings out and reached for the world. Gently, their tendrils caressed the sullen fence posts until even they lilted lovelier.
 
From her bedroom window, Lara watched the lilies exude their staunch femininity. She slipped the tassels of a fresh, carpathian, embroidered scarf into her mouth and ate slowly. The long cloth slid down her throat and tickled as it snaked along her esophagus. She giggled and burped.
 
Oh, how the flora drew her in. Looking at flowers went so well with being a teenage girl. She wanted to paint them, so she opened a new Flash template. A blank movie this time.
 
She set her cursor loose in the garden of her movie’s viewable area. Vector white lines below shorter vector yellow lines. She selected the white lines and grouped them together. She even moved them to a new layer entitled “Cry, Baby Angel, Cry.” Then she converted them into a graphic object and moved them to the library.
 
She felt a warm chill as she moved the long, white petals to her movie’s library. It felt so official. I choose you. I name you. Dwell in the comfort of my palace forevermore.
 
Heh. She laughed. Colorado Springs was hardly a “palace.”
 
Since they had moved, Dad had only been home once. He had barged through the front door in full uniform and had given quite a start to both Lara and her mother. Her mother had even dropped a head of lettuce—which head she had just finished washing—in a pitcher of Lick-M-Aid.
 
The pitcher was just wide enough for the lettuce and it lodged in there pretty good. Dad came over and yanked at the moist head for sometime until declaring it FUBAR, in a voice both bemused and then crestfallen. He tossed the clotted spout in the trash bin.
 
It was only later that day that Lara’s mother realized that she could have simply halved the lettuce with an electric knife. Dad laughed and slapped his forehead. He then went around and slapped Lara’s forehead, and her mother’s too, affectionately.
 
“We just weren’t thinking, were we?” is what he said. “And who dares blame us? We’re a real family today. And we shouldn’t have to do anything else on the day we got our family back.”
 
Lara’s smiled reflected across the glass of her monitor. She chose the text tool and in 42 point serif typed: “Dad.” She created a path for it and let it tween off the right side of the screen. She cried long after it was gone.

“Never say my name again!” screamed Chester, and with the same gusto, he turned back to the File > Publish Settings… dialog to further optimize his movie down to a measley 15k.

“I know you,” said Brent. “And I know your timelines. You couldn’t have done this Flash piece.”
 
“So, you’re saying I’m predictable?” said Deborah. She opened her hands and the diced potatoes stumbled like little, drunk sea otters happily into the open crockpot.
 
“You’re very linear,” said Brent. He took up a mechanical pencil, held it straight before his eyes, gazing tightly at it before replacing it in the pencil holder on the counter. “Do you even know how to load a scene? How to jump frames? This movie I saw was all over the place, Deb.”
 
She heaped five knit scarves and a single bandana into the slow cooker and set it on high. She closed the lid, leaving her hand resting upon it.
 
“What is it about this movie?” Deborah asked. “You go to Flash sites all the time. You played the Elf Snowball game for two seconds, it didn’t interest you. You didn’t care for Elf Bowling games even. And you weren’t even phased by that Hit The Penguin flash game. Elf versus Penguin? Don’t even ask!
 
“Now this movie comes along and you can’t get a grip.” She walked over and siddled up next to him. “Yo, bro, it’s me. Deborah. What happened when you saw that movie?”
 
“Everything,” said Brent, his eyes reflecting a million worlds. “And: nothing. It opened with a young girl riding upon a wild boar. She was playing harmonica. The harmonica music washed in and out, uneasy, unsure. But she rode naturally, as if it wasn’t anything of a big deal to ride a wild boar. And with Flash, riding a wild boar really isn’t a big deal.”
 
Deborah unclasped her bracelet and set it on the counter by the crockpot.
 
“The bottom of the movie started to break up, an ink puddle formed. The boar reared up, but his legs gave way to the all the dark, sputtering ink.”
 
“Dark clouds converged. Hardcore music started to play. Secret agents came out of the clouds. CIA guys and stuff. The animation simply rocked.
 
“And then, at the very end of the movie, these words fade upon the screen. In white, bold letters.”
 
“Sky high,” said Deborah.
 
“How did you know?” Brent’s lip quivered. Could she be trusted?
 
“There is no room left in the world,” she said. “No room for Scarf Eaters, no room for you and I. Here, take my hand.”