Creativity, passion, pure spirituality, the intensity of which purifies all it touches - these are the elements of a successful life to Alison Foster, graphic designer for a Chicago design firm. Unfortunately, they're rarely required or rewarded on the job, so she pursues her own painting career relentlessly after work and on weekends, trying to evade the frustrations that churn inside, threatening to destroy her life . . .By most measures, Nevan Pierce, lead singer of a London-based band, The Ancients, is successful. The band has a cult following around the world, and the love and admiration he gets from fans satiates his thirst for acceptance. Although he revels in this admiration, Nevan's search for substance in a world filled with masks and empty facades forces him to turn to his dreams for friendship, inspiration, and a spirited romance . . .In those dreams, the two come together to explore the vibrancy of a world without boundaries or obstacles, a world where one's inner landscape is as accessible and beautiful as the notes to a song. But those dreams are just the beginning in a book filled with art, music, and the complications they create. Enter a world where falling raindrops form the sound of future songs, where dreams and reality blend like oils on canvas, where Nevan and Alison explore the nature of creativity and desire with near-fatal results. Experience The Flavor of Orchids: rich with images, lyrics, the difficulties and beauty of life. "What took you so long?" he asks, taking a swig of the dark liquid. His eyes flick over the slender body, the gentle curves just evident beneath the loose clothes; linger on the mocking intensity of her gaze. "Quality is worth the wait." "I wasn't certain you heard me," he says, smiling. He feels relieved and a little surprised. "I always hear you," she says, her tone mock indignation. "Even above the din of my music?" "Especially in the intensity your music invokes." "Why did you come tonight?" "I want to give you a night you'll remember." He takes another sip of his beer, admiring the pale blue of her eyes. He is surprised at the softness of the dark hair tucked behind her ear and framing her thin pixie-like face. The color of her cheeks is radiant, and, with the light in her eyes, belies her excitement. "Where?" "Come on, I'll lead the way." She extends her hand and, as he takes it, the walls around them slowly dissolve. They are soon standing on an asphalt walkway near Lake Michigan. Directly in front of them the water leaps onto the shore, crashing against the boulders lying between them and the lake, sending mountains of spray cascading into the nighttime sky. "Not like that," she reproaches him, laughing, as he stands watching. "Here, I'll show you." So she balances on the slippery rocks, her breath making tiny patches of fog capturing the glow of the moon as she works her way to the edge of the boulders. She looks back, smiling triumphantly. Then she lies down on the farthest rock, her head above the water. A wave comes in, hitting the rocks below and sending spray into her face before receding. "Aren't you cold?" he asks. She looks back at him, her cheeks gilded by the moon. "What does being cold have to do with watching water ballerinas? Come here." Intrigued, he walks over and stretches out beside her. A wave comes and for a moment the static dazzles as it separates from the water below, then grows, and like a 3-D picture floods his eyes. The drops spatter him like pebbles, freezing as they reach for him. "Isn't it great?" She asks, her eyes on fire. He would like to kiss them. Not the eyes, the fire in them. But it is great, and another wave comes, absorbing him in tidal action, the growth and shower of tiny particles of matter. By the time it s gone, he s soaked and shivering. "Let's walk," she says, apparently cold as well. They stumble over the rocks, slippery with frozen spray, and return to the path. She skips ahead. "It's warmer," she says, coming back to him and skipping backward while talking. She is not really graceful, but her excitement is contagious, and transforms her body. "Try it." She extends her hand and he takes it. He feels a little silly, but realizes there is nobody around to see him. Her hand shoots flames through his, chilly as it is. "This is one of my favorite places," she says, leading him, walking now, underneath a bridge where they sit protected from the wind, and watch the silver wave crests race across the water. Her hand still in his, she turns and looks at him. He turns too, seeking an embrace, but she breaks away before he can kiss her. "A night to remember, I said. I think that would be ordinary for you." Then she disappears. "But what's your name and how will I find you again?" he whispers to the racing waves. Moon-drenched foam, forming the only answer, sprays against the shore.