The Story

It was not that large a piece.

Not an obnoxiously large piece. That was the upside. And her father had always taught her to find the upside.

Now she wished her father had also taught her how to sanitize a foot with a piece of glass in it while halfway up a secluded mountain. But no, he’d been more the emotional-security-blanket type rather than the Boy Scout.

Which Maddie had actually been very thankful for her entire life up until the last 48 seconds.

Since she did not have either boy or girl scout knowledge though, she had to inspect the issue with the knowledge she did have: a part-time baker studying to be a bartender with a passion for writing and a half-finished course in flower arrangement. She was overly aware that none of this would help her with the current situation.

However, her inspection did yield that the shard was too far up her shoe (and foot) for her to pull it out without first painfully removing the shoe. She wondered if perhaps it being larger would have been good, so that she could get a better handle on it? But then it may have gotten farther up her foot. Or she would have seen it and missed it completely?

She decided the useless questions were panic setting in and sat back on the chilled earth to think let them run their course. It was no use plugging them up, they’d just be sitting there later, so come on then.

Why didn’t I see it? How did it get all the way through my shoe? I liked these shoes. If I can get it out will I be able to walk back down? When was my last tetanus shot? Like twelve? Kevin had to take one when he went to college. So if I’d gone to college I’d have a tetanus shot- can’t tell mom this happened then. Why do tetanus shots run out? But that’s metal, is there one for glass? What germs are on glass? Or will I bleed out before any germs can get to me? How do they find hikers up here? That’ll be so boring. “Dead Writer on Mountain” Oh God they’ll find my unfinished story. Wait what if they don’t, then I won’t even be a writer, just “Dead Girl on Mountain” or WORSE “Dead Waitress on Mountain.” Surely Preston will make sure they at least call me a baker? Will Preston be able to find another baker by next wedding season?

After her anxiety finally began to tire itself out, she rationalized that a piece of glass not big enough for her to see on the path was also not big enough to force her to bleed out. So she just had to decide whether to pull it out up here, or limp back down the mountain and deal with it from the comfort of her car.

She sighed and looked around her. The trees were gorgeous this time of year, spring had not quite sprung- just whispers of buds and the occasional trill of an excited Northern Cardinal. There were still echos of winter in the piles of dead leaves and lack of other hikers. These were the type of observations Maddie enjoyed making while on a hike.

Unfortunately, to be a smart hiker, they were not the only ones she could make. When Maddie had taken off this morning with a backpack of minor supplies, her favorite podcast pre-downloaded to her phone, and a prayer that her writer’s block could be broken with fresh air, she’d done her best to time smartly. Young single women should not have to fear the dark, but they also didn’t need to place themselves out in it unnecessarily. So at 2pm exactly, six hours after she’d settled on a large rock in the sun to write and snack, her alarm went off to the tune of Meghan Trainer’s No Excuses. Thus she began the one and half hour journey back down the small mountain road. About a third of the way down, she and the piece of glass collided.

Which meant there were some choices to be made, fractions to be done, and quickly. Maddie was not in a great mood to make guesstimations, but she really had no choice. Plus, writing things down soothed her. Out came the journal:

Option A: Stay here, fix foot

• How long?
  • Take off later
  • Will be darker
  • Bad people, werewolves
• With what?
  • It’s def gone through the sock
• Will probs still limp back down path
  • This will make path down take longer
  • Will be darker
  • Bad people, werewolves

Option B: Leave, fix foot in car

• Could get worse walking on it
  • Ow
  • Probs still need to wrap something around it?
• Will probs still limp back down path
  • This will make the path down take longer
  • Will be darker
  • Bad people, werewolves

Maddie was no math wizard, but one “bad people, werewolves” was fewer than two. Limping it is. She did have some duct tape in her bag. It was a hold-over hobbit from an ex-boyfriend that thought the world could be fixed if you always had duct tape with you. And although ultimately he’d been useless, she’d found many a good use for the duct tape.

She snorted, imagining that ex did not expect her world-saving tape to be purple with leopard spots, but dang it that’s what she had!

Pulling a long strip from the roll, she gingerly wrapped the tape around the outside of her shoe. When she passed over the shard itself, she yelped at the pain of the glass moving inside her foot. For a second, her confidence in Option B was shaken.

But, like, moving backwards to Option A might hurt again and then be not as good. Should the journal come back out? Maddie took a deep breath, acknowledged that this was probably a little bit of shock kicking in, and decided to get going before the light changed again.

Allowing herself one more sigh, she stood up-

Damn!JebusChristywowthatisamightypaingoodnessGRACIOUS

-and everything was fine. Back down the mountain, gingerly but surely, as the light is going down, with her plan.

The Word

KINTSUKUROI (noun): “Golden Mend” is the Japanese art of mending broken pottery using lacquer resin laced with gold or silver.

Recognize Maddie’s name? You’ve seen her before! She’s popped up in Today I am Simplicity and Today I am Metanoia, as well as a tiny cameo in Today I am Reconcile 🙂

—

I haven’t written in a while. Between my own personal history and the recent history of the world itself, it seemed there was little I could pull together that could sound more fictional than what was actually happening. But I think that was my own personal excuse for “block” and after a nice several-months chat with myself, I’m here. Hi. I’ve missed you!

Not to be too dramatic (HA!) but, I think we can all agree, that when it comes to our personal passion- whether it’s writing or engineering, teaching, research, what have you, a block is a lot like heartbreak. It’s a chasm between where you are, and the you that feels comfortable and successful.

And in that chasm, in that break, we find out this terrible secret that what we’re doing hasn’t been working. But good news: We have this chance to be remade, and remolded. As a Christian, I cannot help but see God’s hand in this, but I don’t think someone of any spirituality, science, or combination there of can deny- we are mended with something far stronger than what broke.

I mean, the break is going to happen. It simply is! We are like rules: made to be broken. Whether you’re looking at shattered hearts or ripped skin, we know how to knit ourselves and each other back together. And yes, it hurts and it sucks, and it takes sooo much time! There’s all this scraping and figuring out where the pieces fit back together and PANIC and oh-goodness-a-piece-is-missing-now-we-have-to-make-a-new-one and cursing and arguments and great-it-reopened-over-there and ow and forgiveness and more cursing and it doesn’t make any sense until we see a strange little glimmer, the hell is that? And-

and then. A deep, filling breath. Because that person in the mirror looks familiar again. Even a little better.

Yes, you do look a little better, a little more golden, to me.

I didn’t want to get Maddie down the mountain today. Because it’s not that easy. We don’t always get down the mountain in one day. Sometimes, we just get started. That’s all I did today: I just got started again, after a long time staring at that piece of glass I got stuck up my foot, wondering what to do. I’ll see you all on the way down 🙂

Goodnight, dear reader!

The Story

“Whaddya making?”

“I don’t really know.”

“What’s it for?”

“Nothing.”

“Then who’s gonna buy the feckin thing?”

“…everyone.”

“Oh…”

Calliope finally looked up from the strange carving on her workbench to carefully observe the man in front of her. Todd was slightly more than his usual disheveled. He had the standard indented rings around his eyes, proving he was taking a break from his soldering tasks and accompanying goggles. He was one of the older artists in the shop, had joined back when the housed artists could be counted on one hand. She actually liked the slow talker, with his growing streak of gray among his black beard, but she didn’t like how often he enjoyed a chat between work.

“What can I do for ya, Todd?”

“Oh you know, just strutting through the shop. Just seeing if any kiddos like you need any help. Which it looks like you might- you get that thing approved?”

She sighed inwardly, trying not to purse her lips. She would like to mutter something snarky, force him away from her corner haven. But then she noticed he’d taken off his gloves, was fiddling with his wedding ring. His wife was about to leave him. She set down her hook-knife.

Forcing her eyes to brighten, she smiled up at him.

“Leo said I could give it a go, see how it turned out. Since my little side tables did so well, I’ve got a bit more leash to try something new. What do ya think of it?”

“That’s exciting!” Todd smiled, circling the piece. Calliope couldn’t help but be pleased with the obvious pride he had for her. “I’m assuming something so complex- you’ll give it a basic color?”

“Yeah,” Calliope answered, standing to circle with him, “I was thinking black.”

“Black?”

“Think I should go brown?”

“No no,” Todd leaned in to study the side she’d begun to detail, “I think black will be great.”

Then he fell into a weighted quiet.

The ever-present buzz of the warehouse continued around them: Saws on redwood for benches, glassworkers tapping on blowpipes, an undistinguishable metal-on-metal clink, the occasional string of curses. Calliope loved the sounds of Sunrise Workshop. It quieted the ones in her head. This large space had become her home away from home- where she could bring the shapes in her sketchbooks to life, and people actually bought them! No more hunting commissions for her; the people of L.A. knew where to get their fancy wares (and so did anyone willing to pay a limb for shipping). The companionship of fellow big-piece artists was a huge plus. Though she’d been wary to befriend them, there was simply an involuntary kinship built when you occasionally had to help lift a twenty-foot fountain, or tighten a hinge while three people hold a cabinet aloft.

But she could tell, these sounds were not soothing her friend today.

“What do you really want to talk about, Todd?”

He began to fidget with his ring again.

“Well, I uh, I don’t want to bother you, hun.”

You’ve already kinda bothered me. But instead, “It’s alright, tell me what’s up.”

“Well…”

Well. It was always this way. They couldn’t ever get it out of their mouths with the first try. When she first started her work, she would finish the sentence for them. But through experience and a bit of mentorship, Calliope now knew better.

“Well?” she echoed.

“I’ve heard some… some rumors.”

Calliope nodded, but a little bit of ice rode with her tone. “Rumors can be either good or bad. I’ve heard lots of both. Which ones are you referring to?”

“The, um.. the good ones. All the ones I’ve heard are good ones…” His eyes darted towards her odd construction. But when he met her eyes again, they were full of confidence, completely  absent of doubt or fear.

Then it all came pouring out of him. “I know you can do things, Cali. I know you’ve seen outside our little… scope I guess. The others talk all the time about your mini-miracles, your saving graces. Now I’m a good Christian- church every Sunday, faith supper every Wednesday. But I also know the Lord let Lilith go- and He had His reasons. So if the Lord can risk it, so can I. I know we’re friends, and so it’s rude to put you on the spot, but at this point… any help I can get is more than plenty.”

Calliope was quiet for a long moment, considering. She never took even the smallest tasking on lightly, which was in honor to her sister.

Because of course, Calliope was born a twin. Twins were naturally gifted in odd ways. Pair that with a female’s natural connection to Mother Earth, and one can hardly blame the stereotypes.

And for good reason- most female twins, are born witches.

Not all were practicing. In fact, Calliope’s own sister had given up the study to pursue other careers. She did offer for Calliope to draw power from their connection whenever it was needed, as she would not be using it herself. All she’d asked in return was a warning before anything too draining.

Which was all well in good, but did leave Calliope on her own for the deeper research. And it left her here, with lost sinners drawn towards her for desperate answers.

She sighed. Todd was a good friend. He’d helped her lots of times. She should honor that, too.

“Do you… do you want you wife to feel the pain you’re feeling?”

“No!” Todd shook his head, violently upset by the inclination, “no Shelly’s a good woman! I didn’t mean to-”

“Alright, alright,” Caroline took off her gloves, hiding a satisfied smile as she set them down. She’d need bare hands to better navigate the field around her and to comfort Todd with true touch.

“I just,” Todd started, “I just want a few answers. Like why. What do I do now. Could I have done any better.”

A good friend indeed, a good man.

It was any easy brew for her. The only part that was difficult, was who she handed it to. There was a short stab of cold in her throat telling her this was just the beginning of Todd’s worries.

It was her job to lesson such a blow. The age-old cursing the earth while begging it for more.

She searched her bag’s hidden pockets for lavender, chamomile, and a dried lemon. Then she pulled a small thin candle from her bag, already painted silver with markings of hope and guidance around the wick.

“You’ve got a outdoor grill, Todd?”

“Yes ma’am. What’s that do with-”

“Charcoal or gas?”

“Well I did love my little charcoal one, but you know for my birthday last year the kids got me one of those big fancy things with the-”

“With the gas.”

“Yeah, yeah, just flip a switch.”

“Alright, tea with these, drink a cup tonight” she shook the herbs, “And cook y’all’s next family dinner on the grill. Turn the gas on, DON’T flip the switch, use this,” she held up the candle, “to light the burners. Be careful.”

He nodded vigorously. She reached to her regular work bench for a wool tie, and pulled the pieces together.

“This will not heal your wounds,” she muttered to her friend, brushing her palm against his as she gave him the bundle, “but it will provide a bit of direction, and ease your passing along the next leg in your journey.”

She held him still for just a moment, let the reverence seep into her breath. The tools were useful, but just as in her other trade, it was more the wielder that created. In the shifting of the spell from her hand to his, she felt her sister. Thanked her. Prayed for her. Promised to call again soon. Then she pulled back, blinking away the glittering lights in her vision.

“Th-thank you,” Todd stuttered, “how much do I owe you?”

Calliope could not bear to put payments on her calling. Her other, more practical, creations covered all her expenses, and then some. So if Moses could part the Red Sea for free, she felt she could do a few favors at-cost.

“Just… just tell me what you think about this,” she gestured to the work bench. The piece they’d discussed earlier still waiting for her returned attention.

“No, really, hun I want to-”

“It feels like I’m missing something. What is it?” She offered, “perhaps some ornamentation for the top, or more color?”

Finally, Todd mumbled.

“What was that?” Calliope grinned.

“Seems like you’d want a small contrast somewhere.”

“Sure, sure. Maybe the feet? Or the tusks?”

“The tusks,” he nodded, shifting from the laid back father of four to the artist, “white, true white like real tusks.”

Calliope liked the idea, had considered it herself, but “do you think there will be any pushback from the animal-rights people?”

“Nope- not if you do it right. If you can make it as close to looking like real ivory as possible, you’ll help prove the aesthetic can be done without the damn hunting.”

“I like that idea, Todd. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, doll!” and the father figure was back, “Back to my station- making those custom light fixtures Leo talked the hotel into.”

He trundled away, and Calliope hoped his coming woes wouldn’t dent his spirit too much.

Then she made a note to herself. When she got home, she’d light another candle. This one for her sweet sister, all the way on the other coast. Then she’d call, see how The Swan was treating her, if there were any new fun bar stories.

And with that, the strange woodworker went back to her tools.

The Word

Create (verb): 1. Bring (something) into existence. 2. Cause (something) to happen as a result of one’s actions. 3. (of an actor) originate (a role) by playing a character for the first time.

Create. It’s a scary word. It seems simple enough- just 6 letters, and mostly phonetic. But it can get lots of people up in arms, real quick.

I like playing with it. Most artist do, really. Creating is not only what we produce on a page or canvas, but the birth of what has inspired us.

But it doesn’t have to be so heavy! Sometimes it’s just a simple spell! Or a simple shelf!* I recently was listening to a podcast that was discussing an interesting idea: we are losing our hobbies, because as a society we are attempting to monetize our passions. Do you make awesome stew? Drop that 9-to-5, be a chef! Awesome origami? To Etsy with you! And this can be awesome and perfect for so many people. But for others, it’s okay to create to just… do it, you know?

That’s the thought I started with. And I wondered who the most unlikely type of person to do just for the sake of doing would be. What if a witch gave up the sacrificial payment? What if, instead of a first born, or your soul, or a two-faced trade, she was something else by trade, and a witch by hobby?

So meet Calliope. She’s been around a while, so I thought it was finally time to introduce her 😉

*I’m trying to build a shelf, it is not actually simple, but you get my point

The Story

Ding dooong ding dong, ding doong ding dong

“Honey, I think it’s them again.”

“I know, I know. Just let it go to voicemail.”

She laid a worn hand on her husband’s shoulder, “I think you made the right choice.”

He leaned into her arm, nodding, “Thank you, love. It was time.”

She laughed and kissed his forehead, “It was time ten years ago! But my boys never know when to quit.”

“Oh love,” he chortled, “you know we can’t help it.”

Ding doong ding dong, ding doong ding dong

“Gertie, just take that damn thing off the hook.”

She did as her husband requested, flipping the switch on the back of the receiver. She allowed a small giggle as she did it. This night was a dream come true! He was home with her tonight, for the first time in ages.

“Now that I’ve done you a favor, come do me one!”

She listened to her husband’s slow shuffling into the kitchen, felt his warm arms wrap around her waist, and his white mustache tickle her neck.

“Do you one, you say?” he snickered.

“Oh you dirty old man!” She laughed, “I meant help with the cooking!”

“I’ll cook something up for you, good looking,” He spun her around and dipped her down before pulling her back up again.

“That’s not how the song goes,” she said with a smooch, “and now I’m all dizzy. How am I supposed to bake for the little ones while all dizzy?”

He kissed her again, “We’ll get some from the store, no need to worry about baking at all!”

She brushed off his tantalizing touches, “You know I can’t stand a bought cookie. Now take a seat and start rolling out dough.”

He gave an exaggerated huff before planting himself at the head of the oval table. She buzzed around him, setting up a flour-covered rolling pin, a collection of shaped cutters, and a bowl of cinnamon sugar.

His gaze peaked over the table at the dozens of already cooling batches. There were snickerdoodles and kringles, gingerbreads and rumballs. Iced shortbread and pinwheels.  Sugared biscotti and date-squares. Macaroons, Polvorones de Canele, cannoli, Anzac biscuits, kolaches…

“How do you get these all done in one night?!” He exclaimed.

“I’d think you of all people would know,” she laughed again, pulling hot Kourabiedes from the oven.

Ding doong ding dong, ding doong ding dong

They both paused.

“I thought you turned the phone off?”

“I did,” she stared at the receiver.

Ding doong ding dong, ding doong ding dong

“Oh, oh the damn cell. It’s here in my apron.” She pulled the small device from her laced pocket.

“Just turn it off,” he rolled his eyes while he rolled more dough.

“How about you just answer them?” She held the phone out to him, “That way they’ll stop trying to call.”

His blue eyes stared determined into her hazel ones.

Ding doong ding dong, ding doong ding dong

…

Ding doong ding dong, ding doong ding dong

“Fine,” He mumbled, taking the phone, “dang you and your gorgeous unblinking eyes.”

She smiled and kissed him on the forehead, taking her hot tray to the other side of the table.

He took a deep breath, then pressed the button.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Major K! I finally caught you. What, Gertie have to convince you to answer my calls?”

“Yes general, she did,” He shot a playful glare at his wife, who was notably avoiding eye contact.

“You know I can’t help but check in, Major.”

“You certainly could help it, General. You just chose not to.” His words were harsh, but his voice was light.

“Ha! Sounds like I’ve made your naughty list. Look, I’m sorry for bothering you tonight. It’s just your replacement-”

“-is doing excellently.”

“Is he? We haven’t heard from him, and that’s concerning.”

The retired Major let himself pluck a pinwheel and began munching, “I don’t remember checking in with you regularly while I was on the job.”

“Well,” sighed the caller, “you’d been at it a while, we knew to trust your judgement.”

“Well then trust it now. I trained the boy myself.”

“I understand, Sir, it’s just-”

“It’s just that you’re a bunch of nervous nellies. I know, Todd. But I’m telling you, he’s doing great. He’s a natural, I can feel it.”

Gertie gestured from her mixing bowl.

“Yes, yes dear. Alright, Gertie is saying to promise you I’ll take over tonight if I sense anything wrong. But I’m telling you I won’t.”

“I appreciate that, Major.”

“It’s just Nick, Todd. I’m retired now- go ahead and call me Nick.”

“Ha, thanks Nick. Alright, I’ll run that up the ladder. You thank Gertie for me, that’s an order.”

“Will do, General. Will do.”

Nick set the phone down on the table, not noticing that it was into a pile of flour.

Gertie turned her mixer off, came and knelt at his chair. “You’re worried too, aren’t you, dear?”

He nodded to her, feeling each wrinkle and every white hair he’d gained over the years, “worried, but not concerned. He’ll do fine.”

“He will, dear. You trained him well. And he’s got the girls with him, they know the way.”

Nick nodded again, shaking off any lasting worry. “You’re right as always, love. Our boy is going to be just fine.”

“Yes he is,” Gertie smiled, “And you big boy, better get back to shaping that dough if you want to stay on my nice list.”

He smirked into her twinkling eyes, “Well my love, we can’t have that.”

The Word

Wish

(Verb): Feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; want something that cannot or probably will not happen.

There are lots of lore around the names of Christmas’s most jolly couple*. However, I just think “Gertrude and Nicholas” sounds the most correct in terms of a couple that has been around for centuries, which heavily Scandanavian roots.

If anyone can tell me what Santa’s ringtone is, I’ll send them a cookie!

Oh and ALSO, male reindeer lose their horns over the winter, soooo that means Dasher and Dancer? Prance and Vixen? Yep- all gals! There’s a fun fact for you to take to Christmas dinner 🙂

Please enjoy the linked recipes in the story. I made sure to only link ones I have successfully tried myself, or were highly rated by chefs I trust.

Merry Whatever, dear readers! May your holiday celebrations be merry and bright, and to all- a good night!

 

 

*Not excluding Mary & Joseph, but if we consider the research that states Jesus was most likely born closer to June than December and his birth celebration moved closer to the pagan holiday of Winter due to all sort of political nonsense and blah blah blah, as well as knowing personally several women who have given birth and none of them describing the event as ‘jolly’ I have chosen my above phrasing with purpose and hope no one is too upset about it.

The Story

The ash on the end of his cigarette was an inch long. He’d been sucking down the chosen poison fast and hard. He knew it was the unhealthiest of unhealthy hobbies, but this day called for such recklessness.

No one else was being responsible, so why the heck should he?

Lee snorted to himself. Why the heck. He could burn half a pack in the space of an hour but he still didn’t like saying, or even thinking, the hell word.

The tips of his fingers burned. Damn he’d stripped that one down fast. He flicked the useless butt into a nearby trashcan. Time to get back to work.

“You FUCKED her? You fucked another woman while I was taking YOUR goddamn great-aunt to tea?! You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”

Lee loved his job.

He’d taken the position without hesitation. He had indeed noted the unusually circumstances and resources when he read through the agreement. And as he’d assured his superiors, Lee liked the unusual. His bread and butter was a bit more high-government gig, but this wasn’t his first private matter at all. He’d done a few upper-class setups, made a few dabs in the big timeline. That’s what made this assignment so very interesting though, so very fascinating. He knew if this offer had been presented to a colleague they would have scoffed, brushed it away with their breakfast crumbs. That’s why it was given to him, they knew he’d see the potential- the possibility.

This assignment was in itself, ordinary. So irritatingly ordinary. And yet, it was the most engaged he’d been in years. Because, as few know, it is the most ordinary which breeds the most extraordinary: The breathtaking, The impossible.

And Lee was getting to mold that potential, however he damn well pleased.

“No, no listen, they’re lying to you. I wasn’t even with her, I was working. Why would you believe them over me? That’s stupid! You’re freaking out over nothing, again!”

Pathetic. Lee taught her better than to believe bullshit of such a low level.

“That’s BULLSHIT!”

Atta girl.

“I’m telling you the truth!”

“No, you’re not, and you NEVER HAVE, YOU SQUIRRELLY ASSHOLE!”

Oh, oh nope, he had not taught her to start throwing chairs. Off script, alert, she’s gone off script. Time to pull her out of there.

“I’m leaving!” There we go. “And if I ever see you again,” Come on sweetie, land it and run, “I’ll not only skin you, I’ll have all my so-called ‘loser nerd friends’ make a trail so everyone thinks you ran off to Tibet and died from shame when the Dalai Lama kicked you out!”

…alright. Alright, not the best, not our best. But fixable. That was some creative improv, and there is still a LOT of potential in that.

He got her to the car. Her eyes were blurry from tears, her heart thumping from a combination of adrenaline and release. Icy regret slid down the back of her neck while angry fire burned her temples. There was no way she could drive in this condition. Yet, she had to go. He knew the timing down to a breath. Everything hinged on her movement in this moment. She had to leave. Right. Now.

So Lee took the wheel. Gripping tightly, he rounded her car around each bend, merged gracefully onto the highway. Her exit waited on the busy end of a loud town, forcing him to weave between high-polished Hummers and dirty Lamborghinis.

Her sobs didn’t shake him. He’d heard sobs before, from far more talented creatures. It was the gasps between each cry that gave him pause.

“Oh God- oh GOD.”

She tried to take in enough shattered breath to find peace, as if air might knit her pieces back together. He knew they wouldn’t, but at the same time he wished they would. Each one tore through him as he heard them tear over her throat. It was the sound of knowing the pain wasn’t over, that this was the beginning.

Shhhh, little one. Shhh, it cannot be fixed now. But it will be fixed. It has to be. There’s much to do. You will see. This will end, it will end I promise.

“No, no it won’t.”

Her quite whimper speared him in a way he no longer thought was possible.

A decision to make. A rule to break. And yet, he knew it had to be done. It’d been a long while since he’d interfered so boldly, but she needed him to do it. And he needed her back from the brink.

The moment slowed around them. Cars slowed without breaking. Lights didn’t dare flicker, and away in a field, a dew drop took a whole minute to form.

Lee loosened his grip on the wheel.

“Listen,” he whispered.

Another gasp for air, for reason.

“No, listen,” he demanded.

She sniffled, quieted slioghtly. Enough. She nodded.

“You’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got great things, awesome things, set up for you. But this had to happen. It’s going to get worse. WAY worse, baby. But then better, the best. You’re the ticket, kiddo. I’m telling you the truth- you’re the ticket. You’re gonna make something amazing. But not tonight. This isn’t even a step, I’m sorry but it’s not. Not a step, just a lesson. Hold on, babygirl, okay? The system needs this, needs you, to do this tonight. You did it. And now you rest. Alright? You get to rest. Imma take you home, and you get to rest. Then BOOM big shit, big damn holy-moly awesome in your future. But you gotta breathe, okay? You gotta breathe, that’s the deal.”

The sobs subdued, with only the occasional hitch. Lee saw her eyes still blurred, dark shadowed bags now echoed with red lines. That was okay, he could deal with that. This was his job. She did. He dealt with.

And time move onward one more.

Finally parked, he made her move up the steps. He pulled the key from her pocket, guided her in the door. A path of shoes, earrings, and hair pins followed her to the bedroom.

Lee settled her on the bed, slowly pulling his arms from her weighted soul.

“But that’s our secret, okay?” He whispered to her worn, scarred form. “You don’t know yet, and that’s the best part.”

He couldn’t help but pause, placing one cooling hand on her cheek. With her tangled hair scattered across the pillow, she was more gorgeous than anything he’d been able to inspire before. He kissed her forehead, noted it was a bit clammy, and pulled the covers up a little further.

Lee spotted the calico kitten curled at the end of the bed. It stared at him with intense, wide eyes. He smiled and held out his hand for the creature to sniff.

“You’ll take care of her until I return?”

The kitten began to purr. Satisfied with the answer, Lee winked at the feline, and sped off into the night.

His sweet protege had so much ahead of her, so much to do and see and experience.

But unlike his task, Lee wasn’t purely pure. Wings didn’t mean perfection. And he loved his fragile protege. So first, before setting the next few steps… he’d make sure the past was taken care of.

Tibet or not, a certain someone wasn’t coming back.

The Word

Sometimes, I feel like I should leave a shot of tequila out for my guardian angel. I can’t imagine what that poor creature goes through. I drive in a very busy city, my family is very adventurous, and despite my claims at the annual work party- I’m a lightweight. My sweet G.A. is probably exhausted.

If you don’t believe in guardian angels, that’s alright. They’re not Tinker Bell or the Tooth Fairy; they don’t need your faith to do their jobs. Sometimes I don’t think they’re angels, maybe just past beings that take an interest in us. Or ancestors exasperated with our little tangents, trying to keep us on target. So I kinda combined those thoughts with the lore of angel Lelahel, rumored to be one of the Seraphim. His back story kinda makes him sound like a Greek muse. Y’all know how I love a good Greek muse.

And just as my typical little disclaimer, though I do own a calico kitten, no I’m not the her/she in this story. For one, I’m not arrogant enough to think I’d make it to Seraphim-level guardianship. And for two, not during a single breakup in my life did I have enough brain function for that hilarious Tibet line.

On the writing: I don’t often explain my reasoning behind font and such, but here I feel I should, partially for feedback and partially for my own peace-of-mind. I switched between italics and quotation to show the difference between direct and indirect speaking of our G.A./gut feelings. What do we think, team? Did that come across, or did it just look like I’d gone crazy with the type tool? Let me know!

We’re getting close to big travel times of the year, dear reader. Make it easy on your G.A. and behave, take it slow and safe. And as always, rest well 🙂

 

PS: This is one of my favorite sentences I’ve ever written (partially because it’s so very true) I’ve got to put it here again:

Because, as few know, it is the most ordinary which breeds the most extraordinary: The breathtaking, The impossible.

Hello lovely reader! If you're new to the blog, welcome! I try to make all the stories here stand-alone-capable, BUT you would enjoy this one more if you read Today I am Atonement :)

The Story

Every story told her this would work. Nora Roberts, Dorthea Benton Frank, even Hemingway really, wrote gaudy chapters describing the answers lying in the space between the sand and the ocean.

Her feet were wet, yet she had no answers.

“You know better than most the truth about stories.”

“Shut up, Dan. I’m trying to listen to the waves talk, not you grumbling.”

Anise closed her eyes, allowing the salted breeze to push and pull on her loosened hair. It felt good to allow the curls escape their bun-shaped prison for a while.

She let her mind slip back over the pages she’d read. There were old tests of ancient language, modern newspapers, hieroglyphs, curses, blessings, but for some reason it was those $7.25 grocery store books that had given her a path to follow. They each featured a woman, lonely for one reason or another, finding her freedom either in a man or a career change, sometimes with a child- but always always by the sea. She’d wondered on occasion if the settings were chosen because of all the easy ocean metaphors. But since the metaphors in murder-mystery-rom-coms were so terrible, she figured there had to be another reason.

“Maybe authors just want an excuse to write at the beach.”

She opened her eyes to glare at the tall frame of Dan Elmer.

“I didn’t ask you to come with me.”

He nodded, “But a friend always needs a partner when they’re about to do something stupid.”

She didn’t know whether to object to the ‘friend’ part or the ‘stupid’ part, so she said nothing.

“He died, Ani. You’re allowed to be sad when someone you care about dies.”

Ani shook her head, scrunched her toes in and out until she made two pools in the sand, “We don’t have time for grief. We have work to do, lives to save.”

“You’re not the first person I’ve heard say that.”

“Oh?”

“Nope, when I was hopping around getting some crime scene experience, I connected with a couple of cops. You and I, we’re used to a bad aftermath, but I wanted to learn how they dealt with it, when you’re not trained for decades, you know?”

“Sure, sure.”

“This broad dude, short but built like an ox, they all loved him. He was the one to bring in muffins from his wife, remember everyone’s birthday, tackle the bad guy- the usual white hat cowboy shit. But when we saw a gang hit, I was sure he’d crumble. Too soft. But he just looked up at me, ‘their work is done son, ours has just started. We gotta get out there and save the next one’.”

The pools at Ani’s feet weren’t filling as quickly anymore, the ebb had begun. She reached out for Dan’s hand and he squeezed hers.

“I made Clark a promise, before he died.”

Dan nodded, “That you did.”

“To protect his wife.”

“Yes.”

“And we still have a lot of work to do. A Champion to find.”

“Also true.”

She pulled her feet free of the sand, stared out to the ocean’s horizon. It was graying to match her eyes. It would be time to leave soon, to get back to work.

“How do you save someone when you can’t offer them any help?”

Dan snorted, “Is that a riddle or an actual question?”

She looked up at him. Instead of the ocean, it was clear he’d been watching her the whole time.

“How do you love someone you know will never love you back?”

“That one I know. You just take care of them. You do what you can, when you can. Love doesn’t expect things in return, Ani. Clark knew that, so do you.”

“And so do you.”

Dan finally looked away from her and to the waves, “So do I, yes.”

“I could teach her. Teach her to take care of herself. So no one can hurt her.”

“And I’ll be right there when you inevitably blow your cover.”

Ani watched a smirk form on Dan’s dark face, and she wiped the saltwater from her cheeks.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Great.” Dan squeezed her hand once more, and then let go as they turned to walk back up the beach.

“After that though,” he offered, “can we go haunt all these authors you talked about? We could have talked about this anywhere.”

Ani laughed for the first time in several weeks, “Authors enjoy being haunted, Dan- it’s good story kindle. And besides,”

She theatrically turned to face the sea again, arms out stretched and voice loud and full of drama, “We are either a wave in the ocean, or the ocean itself!”

“…don’t quote Oprah at me.”

The Word

Absorbed (adjective): 1. (of energy or a liquid or other substance) taken in or soaked up. 2. Having one’s attention fully engaged; greatly interested.

SO we all know I work hard to make these stand-alone-capable, as mentioned above. This is the first one I feel like I have fully failed on with that, and yet I can’t make myself delete it. I may work on it, tighten a few screws here, rearrange there, but I like this. It’s a small moment in a story that changes a character. It’s that moment when your heart is pulsing through your fingers and you know everything is about to change- it’s the toes on the diving board, step down the aisle, breath before plunge kinda moment we have internally when the world gets rocked- and we finally find our footing.

Ani lost someone. With that I can connect. She had more to say, more she thought she could do, and I think we can ALL connect with that. With that chance gone and the next before her, it’s hard to know if movement is even possible. But as we see here, your feet start moving in the right direction before you’ve realized you’ve made your choice. Our hearts are stronger than our heads, and will sometimes just jump before we even know we’ve climbed the ladder.

“The cure for anything is salt water- sweat, tears, or the sea.”  Isak Dinesen

Climb the ladder, dear reader. Stare out into the sea. There are answers inside you, and you just have to find the right place for you to hear them. Rest well, and goodnight.

 

Oh, and if these names/events seem familiar, refresh yourself with Today I am Fidelity!

The Story

This is the year she would die. And really, she was okay with that. Not like okay okay, but she had settled with it some time ago.

It was a realization she had come to as a child. She couldn’t remember if it had started as a dream or if it came while she was lost in thought. Either way, the knowledge solidified itself in her brain to be carried at all times for the next many years: she would not live past age 27.

Lots of rockstars met their fate at the same age, so at least that was cool! Maybe it mean she would a rockstar too? Something to hold on to, at least.

Eventually though, she traded her hometown for a college campus, and it is just really hard to live a rock and roll lifestyle when homework takes all night, and your roommate is a Bio-Nutrition Major. Garfunkel managed to pull it off, but Mathematical degrees did not require 6am labs, and her Entomology one did. Plus, she was more confident in her ability to get into a good graduate school than her chances at hitting the right note in front of thousands of people.

She made sure to have lots of adventures though! Tried to take advantage of the little more than a quarter century she had.  An evening out on the town instead of a movie night in? Yes! Tag along with professional hikers for part of the Appalachian trail? Sure. Study the migration of the hummingbird-hawkmoth migration in southern France? Of course!

The strange thing she found about knowing her end was nearer than most, was this resolution to go out and do. For her, there simply wasn’t going to be a later.

When she came home from a study on crustaceans through the Barrier Reef, she was twenty-seven years and eight months old. Perhaps it was time to get some affairs settled, check in with those good friends she was sure would be disheartened by her loss.

There were long drives between her parents’ house, where she was currently staying to spend quiet time with them, and her friends spread across the states. During these drives, she mildly wished she had a pet companion. A small happy dog, or a lazy old cat to ride with her would be nice. But when she was finally old enough to get her own, she was worried such a pet would out live her, and there was no way to explain to a small creature that they had not been abandoned.

So she was alone with her podcasts and her thoughts. The podcasts told her the political world was terrible, but the artistic world was thriving. Her thoughts told her she’d done a plenty, lived a good life. For the first time ever, she pondered how it would happen. Would it be a freak accident, a popped tire on black ice this coming winter? Or maybe she’ll stand under a piano being cranked to an upper balcony- it’ll spring from its ropes and she’ll go out like many a cartoon character. Or maybe she’d just quietly go in her sleep, as if her heart had aged far beyond the rest of her, and finally decided to give in.

Those last four months were her favorites. The weather cooled, and she did look best in a nice sweater. Several of her friends got married on those last warm weekends, and she was happy she was able to see them start this next chapter. The tiny pang of wishfulness for her own was nothing in comparison with her shared joy for them.

Four months became three, and she hid letters for each of her loved ones in her jewelry box. So far she felt fine, but with this little time left- it was finally better to be safe instead of risky.

Three months dwindled to two, and she attended the first Halloween of her only niece. The small one entered the world just six weeks prior, so her itty bitty bee costume went along nice with the buzz of her small snores.

“It’s very tiring being a part of the outside world!” Her brother laughed, curling the baby into his arms.

“Yes,” she agreed, “it certainly is.”

Two months before her birthday. Her best friend, the only one she’d whispered this curse to, visited her.

“I’m going to Spain with Liam for a few weeks. Survive until I get back, ya hear?”

“I can’t promise that, and you know it. But I love you, and I hope you have a great time.”

Her friend left her with an eye roll and a quick, “you’re ridiculous, but I love you too. So you at twenty-eight!”

One month. She enjoyed her job, but it was hard to take on new projects she was sure she could not finish. But how could one explain that to their boss? “Sorry chief, but I won’t live past Thanksgiving so you’ll have to give this to someone else.”

A day, then hours, then minutes. Was fate really so cruel as to wait until the last minute? Or was it mercy that kept her fate at bay?

She’d kept a sort of vigil that night, and began to worry that it was something catastrophic coming- something that would take the whole house. Surely not, surely destiny would not take her home and family down with her own?

These terrifying thoughts spent her adrenaline, and she was only awakened by a knock on her bedroom door.

“Happy birthday!”

She peeped out from under a pile of pillows, saw the suns first rays through the window slats. “Haha thank you, but it’s not for another hour or so.”

“No, sweetie, you’ve been older for an hour now!” her dad tapped his watch, “You were born at 6:02am and it’s 7:04. You slept right through your alarm!”

“Yeah it was a hard choice between a shot of coffee or the epidural that night. But we thought you were allowed to sleep in on your birthday, like when you were a kid,” her mother laughed and kissed her forehead.

Ah, so it wasn’t true. Just a silly thought of a child that she’d been stuck on all this time. Could that really be true? Could she so easily give up this lifelong trail she thought so built for her?

Actually, yeah. She probably could.

“Well, then.” All 27 years hit her at once, and she was suddenly very, very tired. But very excited, too. Maybe there was time to be a rockstar after all!

The Word

Predetermined (adjective): 1. Established or decided in advance. 2. (Of an outcome or course of events) determined in advance by divine will or fate; predestined.

I believe we all have these little things that get stuck in our minds and, good or bad, are not lodged free until we are proven wrong. Personally, I have yet to find proof I won’t be a mermaid, so I’m still holding on to mine.

We cannot let these little pieces define us, or define our lives. Sure, they can guide us, lend us a hand, or spread some determination. But we never know what paths we might cross, or which ones may interfere with our own, and change everything.

I’m trying to say, we can’t let our fate to be a mermaid keep us from flying.

 

And in case anyone is curious, I do have a friend that once had this little thought they will not make it past 27. Their birthday is in February, but I am hoping my little writing-curse I spoke of a few stories back will reroute that string of fate. This friend is the same one who I sat with many years ago and wrote Brew, or as it’s called here Today I am Brew. I am lucky to be surrounded by so many muses disguised as friends and family!

And yes I’ll be wrapping my friend in bubblewrap for the next few months, just in case 😉

The Story

I have been afraid of the dark since I was about eight years old.

Sometimes, it was the shadows in the dark. You see them now, in your mind’s eye, I’m sure. It’s that odd shade of gray, a reflection of non-light paired against dusk. Artists attempt to recreate this timeless vision, and yet paint nor film is able to truly capture the odd feeling that accompanies night shadows. I think it’s because they should be impossible. How can there be shade without light? Yet the night continues to create them.

Sometimes, it was the sound of footsteps in my ears. With my eyes closed, I imagined villains racing towards my room. I was sure the next sound I’d hear would be the crashing of my door before they reached me. No matter how many pillows I stacked over my head, the pace of the steps would quicken with my fear. It was years before one of my siblings suggested it was just my own heartbeat echoing off the pillow back to my ear.

And sometimes, it was the creepy old teddy bear someone passed down to someone else who passed it down to me. It had hay sticking out of its elbows, and a Victorian neck cuff like a vampire. She did not get along with my other stuffed animals, and so was secluded to her own chair in the corner of my room. I couldn’t even name her, because nothing seemed to suit. Wherever I placed her in my room, she stared at me. My sleepy-time-teddy did his best to protect me from her, but some nights even he shook from a glance towards her corner. I was to never NEVER stare directly at her in the middle of the night. She might replace her own worn out stuffing with mine.

But most of the time, it was the man in the grave.

This poor man. He himself was not scary at all. It was his situation that was scary, and I hope I can describe his plight properly to you.

When my young self would fall into that dreamy almost-asleep, the gray hill would rise in my mind. If I close my eyes I can still see it. It’s perfectly oval-topped, as a child’s mind will do with a hill. It’s unmarked, save a small stone path that led from my feet to the very top. There’s no lightening or cliche thunder in the background, just a few clouds. But these clouds are slowly circling together, as if to form a deadly tornado.

Right before the tornado’s arm reaches out to the earth, the rising hill reaches its peak. On that peak is a single grave. It is a tall slate, nothing special, with just a spray twigs and dying moss surrounding it. There is writing etched into it, but I can never read the words. They are in English, and I’m sure could have read them if I tried. But how can I? How can I tear my mind’s eye away from this man in agony?

The man. No, no- the man’s soul.

There were no discerning features, his shape was black in full. Other than the feeling that spirit was masculine, he was nothing but a silhouette. His torso emerged from the grave, long fingers pulling himself up from the earth. He would try to crawl further into the sky, to join the ghostly world of drifting into the night. Yet he never succeeds. Each time my mind took me to the hill he was still there: reaching, stretching, begging for liberation.

He never escaped.

The gray headstone would shiver with silver energy, anchoring his chest to the earth where his body lay.

In the dream, I never knew whether to reach for him, or run. If I were a good little Christian, I would extend my hand, take his dark mass in my strength and pull him to freedom.

But what if that were the trap? Was this Satan’s call? If I reached for a brother, would I find myself chained to the torture of a traitor?

So that would make me think I should run. Could I outrun a soul? A demon? How could I possible escape whatever had held him all this time?

Was I thrust before it as an unbeatable test? Was it my fate to lose?

I never found out. My young self stood in the middle ground between reaching and running. The beat of my poor, exhausted heart would undertake such a crescendo that all those lovely Darwin chemicals in my brain would wake me, thinking there was real danger.

To my parents and siblings? The real danger was loss of sleep.

The times I crawled into my parents’ bed is innumerable. My mother sleeps on the right side of the bed, so she was often my security target. To me, her placement is unnaturally brave. I, myself, have always slept on the left side of the bed, because this is often the farthest from the door. No, monsters are not real. But if they ARE real, I expect whatever partner I’ve chosen to face them first- to either fight for me or sacrifice themselves so I can get away. My mother apparently believes in both her ability to take on the supernatural, and her tolerance of human crazies. Of all the things I did NOT inherit, am I right?

There was the occasional night I tried to wake my father first, and on those nights, he would sleepily yawn, mumble something about it being okay, and tuck me in between them. The dark was still there, but so were they, and so was their warmth. On the even rarer occasion when I moved slowly, millimeter by millimeter, into the safety of my brothers’ beds? Those were just as safe, but not for as long. I would be kicked back to my own room long before sunlight.

These days it’s all okay though! A few years ago, there was a night when I was simply too tired to be scared. I went to sleep without doing my last guard walk of the room or double checking the door. Something magical happened to my psyche that tired night. Since then, I’ve never checked my closets, the dark corners, or even under the bed!

Then a couple years after that, I was able to give up my nightlight. During the day hours, I dared myself to walk into the basement or the garage without flipping the light switch. Even while late walks with the dog, I would purposely move closer to the trees, testing my new courage. It was exposure therapy, really. I could do this; I could grow into an actual adult woman who slept through the night. I was determined that by the time I moved out into my own home, I would be able to do so without fear, without doubt in my safety.

And I did. With just a few hiccups of reaching for the phone around 1am, debating who might be up to answer, I have done really well. My growing fortitude changed my waking hours as well, made me stronger in many ways. Not to mention how much good it did the whole family to get a little more sleep.

I owe a lot to my parents and siblings, for walking me through this hard time. I certainly owe plenty to my very expensive therapist- so thank God that check cleared.

I owed a lot to the man, too. I left him still stuck there all those nights ago, reaching from his deep eternity into the stormy purgatory. Sometimes I wonder, now that I’m older, if I would reach for him instead of run, and then we’d both be free.

I planned to visit him tonight, actually. To close my eyes, and let my mind drift into the past, awaking the fears and oddly familiar heartbeats. I’ll tuck myself into my bed, in my small city apartment, and whisper into the dark that it’s okay. That I’m not afraid. I can see what before I could not.

But I haven’t gone to bed yet, haven’t invited the dark in. There’s a few drops of tea still in my mug and a couple minutes in my TV show. So I’m still sitting on my couch when the room chills. The starlight moves away from my window. The wind picks up to upset the plants on my porch, yet the trees out in the yard are not moving. It’s as if I’m hosting my own little storm.

While I’ve yet to catch on, my body senses what’s coming. Cold sweat springs across the back of my neck. My mouth runs dry as the echoes of my heartbeat quicken. The ends of my fingers go numb, my whole being is stuck again between fight or flight. Reach or run.

Because he has finally succeeded. He has escaped. He’s achieved freedom.

A shadow moves in the darkened hallway.

He’s here.

The Word

Creep (verb): 1. Move slowly and carefully in order to avoid being heard or noticed. 2. (of an unwanted and negative characteristic or fact) occur or develop gradually and almost imperceptibly.

(noun): 1. A detestable person. 2. Slow movement, especially at a steady but almost imperceptible pace.

More like CREEPED OUT, am I right?

I try to create different voices in my writing, but this one is blatantly me. 99% of this story comes from my own experience. However, I have yet to have the dude from my repeating nightmare pop up in my apartment (though I will be a bit wary this Hallow’s Eve now).

I hope you have a SPOOKTACULAR Halloween, readers!

Hello reader, and welcome! If you're new to the blog, you may want to read Today I am Steady before this entry. And if you're REALLY interested in the backstory, check out Today I am Carry and Today I am Susurrus too! Thank you, and happy reading!

The Story

It was difficult when her eyes began to change.

Everyone said they may darken, take on a darker hue. But Liza still prayed dearly that Pepper would keep the same bright eyes of her late husband.

Which she knew was silly. Pepper was hers by neither blood nor marriage, but she was more family than Liza had ever known. This babe she had warmed under her wing was more part of herself than anything she could imagine.

But she couldn’t help but prayer her eyes would stay blue.

Mourning a happy person was an odd pursuit. It was quite different than mourning one lost suddenly or shockingly tragic. True that any type of loss was overwhelming and powerful, but it struck Liza how many expected her to be okay. Not just okay, but…

“He would have wanted you to be happy.”

“There was so much joy in his last days, you must be thankful.”

“Do you think you’ll move on? He would surely would have hoped you would find the next person.”

“You worked so hard, you deserve to be happy.”

Happy? What part of her was supposed to be happy? Her entire life, more since she was eight years old playing with Barbie, she had dreamed of the perfect Ken. Unlike 99% of humans, she was lucky- she found him. She found her soul’s true mate.

And then he died.

In his memory, she adopted the baby they’d wished for since their first year of marriage. She had named the sweet wrinkly thing Pepper, after Peter’s favorite grandparent, and prayed the baby would somehow inherit Peter’s patience rather than her own anxiety.

Judging by the high-pitch crying, it was the unfortunate latter.

“Okay, aright, baby. Alright my sweet spicy Pepper, hush hush my love, mommy’s here.”

Mommy? Momma? Hmm. Mom? Mother? What on earth does one call oneself to their baby?

Normally the partner would decide. Sitting across from each other, pretending that the tiny being between them spitting up on itself is adorable, they would refer to each other naturally in the names that would stick with them for the next eighteen to sixty-four years.

Liza, however, was alone. So the theory of ridiculous names the child would adhere to fell on her shoulders alone.

Thank God the child was much more concerned about food and sleep than names for the next several months.

Names were hard in general, actually.

Her own, Liza, was short for Elizabeth. But when she’d taken Peter’s last name, she’d dropped all those extra letters. Her mother had plucked a regal-sounding name from the family tree, but no one ever used more than her four letters, so she she figured that’s all she needed to sign her checks.

Peter. When they met in the library, her new boss close by and giggling, Liza had been very disappointed to that those gorgeous blue eyes and jokester smile belonged to a ‘Peter’. Her aunt had always toted the theory of names, and in guesses for success of relationships, Aunt Susie had never been wrong. The young grad student imagined “Peter and Liza” did not roll off the tongue smooth enough for her aunt.

 

“That’s because you’d say ‘Liza and Peter’ instead. See how much better that sounds? You’ll marry him, honey. Just see.”

Another point for Aunt Susie.

Liza had almost called Aunt Susie for guidance the day she went to pick up baby Pepper. She needed a woman of both experience and sanity to tell her she was doing the right thing. Liza’s own mother was an excellent support system but was more a “whatever you do will be right, dear” kinda voice. She wanted to ask Aunt Susie if she would name the baby, if the hospital would, if the birth mother would. It had taken so long, and then been so sudden. She was supposed to have another week to make the drive North and prepare, but the baby had decide it was time.

But she chewed on the idea so long, the long drive was over and she was in the waiting room with the birth mother’s scared boyfriend.

“You’ll take care of her?”

“Of course. As best I possibly can.”

“I know, I know.” The boy shifted from foot to foot.

“You know,” Liza reached out, “you don’t have to do this. If you want to be her father, that’s your right. I don’t want to-“

“No!” The boy turned and grasped Liza’s arm, “No, no! Evie picked you. All the files we read, she saw your name, and said it’s you, you’re the mom. Not us. We talked. We’ve got scholarships, plans. I’m just worried about Evie. And kinda scared of her mom. She hasn’t been my biggest fan since Evie started screaming…”

On cue, a warrior’s screech had echoed to them from the hallway. 

 

She saw your name… you’re the mom.

Liza did not feel like the mom tonight. The baby was sobbing, and nothing was working. Food, diaper change, bum lotion, rocking, fresh blanket, more rocking, new toy, white noise machine- na da. Had young Evie really picked the right name?

“Come on Pepper, tell me, tell me baby. What do you need?” Liza bobbed around the room- swoop, rock rock, swoop rock rock, just like her Mommy & Me class had taught her to mimic womb and ocean at once. Pepper was not amused OR soothed.

 

“After his mother?!” The elder Mrs. Lindbogen had scolded Liza when she presented Pepper to her paternal grandparents. “She thought he was a play thing! Gave him alcohol before college! Helped him skip temple!”

Mr. Lindbogen had chortled, though. “He loved my mother, and my mother loved him. One time, when he was real small, he got these terrible nightmares from watching too many Halloween specials. The only thing that got him to sleep was her stories.”

He’d looked up at Liza then, “On the day of your wedding, when I asked if he was ready, he said the only thing better than Grandma’s story was your voice.”

 

Liza smiled down at Pepper. In a cheery voice she cooed, “Daddy was a little liar, wasn’t he? Yes he was, baby. ‘Cause my voice isn’t doing a thing for you, is it? No ma’am, na ah it’s not, honey.”

She swore the baby stopped mid-sob to giggle. Damn precocious little thing. Of course, then the sobbing continued.

“Okay, alright, let’s talk about Daddy then. Yes let’s talk about Daddy. Mmmhmm, Daddy was a good guy, wasn’t it? Terrible at oatmeal but loved us. Yes he did, baby.” She cooed and talked, talked and swayed.

“Grandma Pepper would tell you to stop crying because it upsets the owls. You heard about the owls baby? People think they’re just birds, but they’re so much more…”

“…They’re night guardians, you know. Think about it, wings like angels, can see all the way around. They’re lookouts.”

They’d been hiking in the dark, lost on the way home from a camping trip along the Appalachian Trail. Peter was trying to convince Liza not to just sit down and panic until daylight.

“Then why is there always hooting in the background of horror movies?

Peter smiled, reached to grab her hand, “Movies get it all wrong, love. Owls only hoot to say ‘I’m here, this is my spot, and all is clear! They’d fly off if they were uncomfortable. If you hear an owl hoot, means you’ve got a magic night guardian.”

 

“And that’s why you’ve got these cute little owls aaaaall around your room. See them, love?” Liza reached out, pushed the mobil above the crib, covered in pastel woodland creatures. “Let’s name them, here we go.”

The baby cried on.

“This little pink one? Hmm what do you think? Let’s say Mica, shimmery like the rock. Good name, baby, I like it. And this one? Ares! A deer named after the huntress? You’re so smart, sweetie! Great name!”

They went all around the mobil, named each stuffed creature and spoke them to life until they all had personality and purpose.

And somewhere between Benny the Beaver and Rumble the Squirrel, Pepper calmed. She tucked her small body into her mother, turning her head just enough to watch the mobil as it spun her new friends round and around.

Liza sighed into the beautiful quiet. It meant peace, it meant her baby was happy, meant momma had done well.

Momma.

Names. Names are important.

The Word

Maternal (adjective): 1. Relating to a mother, especially during pregnancy or shortly after childbirth. 2. Denoting feelings associated with or typical of a mother; motherly. 3. Related through the mother’s side of the family.

Names ARE important.

Naming characters is hard. Names have lots of meaning, lots of context. You can’t just name somebody Sherlock anymore- that comes along with Holmes. Even simple-sounding names like “Dustin” have reverberation. It means “fighter,” so if I give it to a pacifist, I’m either insinuating, predicting, or being ironic.

So a lot of the time, I do extensive research into names. Other times, I just go with what sounds right. Because I adhere to Aunt Susie’s theory, that some names just sound correct in a context, and others do not.

When my parents named me, they took lots into consideration. How does one honor the past generations while not creating a labor for the future ones? I love my name. And I’ll admit, I’m REALLY glad they didn’t follow the trend of a cousin branch- where the youngest son is named Woodrow, shortened to Woody, and then to Twig. I would not have done well with Twiggy (modeling isn’t really my thing).

But those title-names are important too. My parents’ names are Mom and Dad. Short, sure, strong- just the way we needed them to be when we called from the play set we’d fallen off, or the stove where we overflowed the rice cooker, or our college dorm where we panicked.

My oldest brother was the oldest of all the grandkids, so he got to name all the grandparents: Grandma, Grandpa, Nanna, Poppa- those were both names and titles, and they suited each individual perfectly.

Liza is learning to be a mom without the person she assumed would be the dad. Wait, let me rephrase that: Liza is learning she is Momma, and that baby Pepper needs just that. Some names we’re given, some names we earn, some we grow into.

What name are you growing into, reader?

The Story

I’m just writing to say I miss you, and that I’m glad I can’t forgive you, because then I’d miss you more.

May all our old love be with you,

Shannon.

He wasn’t sure which of his friends to believe: Mark said Shannon’s words meant she still held a flame for him. James said they meant she’d finally let go. And Jon said the letter meant Shannon was a crazy bitch.

But Matthew couldn’t be sure. Was this the moment to reach out? Or to keep running?

Running was how this all started. Matthew never imagined he’d be in this position, that he’d do such a thing, but that was now the slogan that followed every mention of his name in their town. Like the local eatery, “Tubbs: You’re tubby coming or going!” he was now “Matthew Keeper: that boy done ran off on his bride.” Or at least that’s what he heard from the guys. He himself was still hiding out in his grandparents’ mountain vacation home, several hundred feet past sea level from his gossiping home.

The evening of his escape the only one with an opportunity to catch him was his grandfather. He had snuck past his groomsmen popping champagne in the dressing room, then slipped behind the young preacher rehearsing his lines. Matthew thought he’d been caught out the back door where a great aunt was cleaning her glasses, but she just said “Luke dear, get your momma a peppermint” as she wiped thick lenses.

He’d almost made it to his Jeep, but Poppa Gerald had been outside having a last cigarette before the ceremony. The patriarch called Matthew over when their eyes met across the parking lot.

“Where ya headed, son? Taking a pre-vow stroll?” The man asked, but his eyes said he already knew the embarrassing answer.

Throat already swollen with heartbreak, Matthew could barely squawk out an explanation. His grandfather waited patient and silent, slowly burning the cigarette to its nub.

“Poppa, I can’t do this.”

The wrinkled head nodded, “Sure, sure,” then blew out a stream of silver smoke, “why not?”

Matthew chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn’t really know why. It was something in his stomach saying none of this was right. Everything seemed to have flown by without him- the planning, the waiting, life itself- and although he was unsure what he wanted, the migraine growing up the back of his neck was clear evidence that this was not it.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or don’t want to?”

Old people always asked strange questions. Their aged voices made the questions seem so heavy, so poignant. But sometimes it seemed such heaviness was more of an accident stemming from nonsense. In this case, not enough of Matthew’s brain was functioning well enough to even decide which.

“I said don’t know, Poppa. I just don’t.” He looked at his feet in their shined black loafers, “Maybe both.”

“Both it is then,” The old man nodded again as he threw the cigarette to the pavement, stomped its tiny embers to extinction. Then he reached in his inner suit pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

“I bring these to every wedding in our family, just in case.”

Matthew took them, recognizing the worn leather keychain. It was a simple circle with barely any ink left from a once proud logo: Sunset Lodge. It was the family home in the Blue Ridge mountains his grandparents flocked to every summer to escape the humidity settling into the southland.

Matthew took the keys, rubbed the soft leather thoughtfully. “Even Aunt Margie’s?”

Poppa Gerald scoffed, “Especially Aunt Margie’s. But if you tell Uncle Todd, I’ll deny it and then write you out of the will.”

There was an exchange of handshakes, a tight hug, and synced not-smiles. But when Matthew opened his car door to take off, he called turned back.

“Poppa?”

Strong shoulders and wise eyes turned to listen.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?”

“Because boy, you’ll stop when you’re ready and not before. No use in me slowing you down.”

–

Sometimes, Matthew wished he had. Things sure would be easier, wouldn’t they? There wouldn’t be so many angry voicemails from his parents on his phone. Less passive aggression would pepper the emails he received from his boss while hunched over his grandmother’s old stationary desk. He wouldn’t have gotten a speech in the driveway from his very angry sister, hair still stone-still from spray and a sweatshirt over her bridesmaid dress, about the carelessness of men and how their whole lives she’d hoped her little brother would be a good man and how absolutely could he do this. And he wouldn’t have this dark pit in his chest, a sweltering hole of hot pain where his heart knew his betrayal and screamed it back at him over and over.

And yet…

Some part of him knew he’d done the right thing. There was much regret on how he did it, and how many people he’d hurt (he thought it’d just be the one), but there was zero regret in the action itself. He’d needed to run. Marrying Shannon Stoleman, moving into her beloved townhouse, becoming the official father figure to her four-year-old Scottish terrier, and starting those lifelong plans of theirs, was just not what Matthew Keeper was supposed to do.

So after three and a half months, he was still up in the mountain house, putting in his work hours each morning remotely so that evenings could be spent walking in the woods and hoping either a sign would fall out of the sky or a huge branch would.

Instead he got a nice wallop in Shannon’s clean, clipped handwriting. He was stuck again, not knowing what this sign meant, but he knew it was a sign of some sort or another.

Stuck. He kept getting stuck. Stuck in a relationship he wasn’t as dedicated to as he wanted to be, stuck in a job he was good at but not passionate for, now stuck on this mountain because it was the only place he felt safe.

“You got sticky shoes, son.”

Poppa Gerald had arrived for their summer stay a week before Mo-ma, the matriarch of the Keepers clan, joined them. His text a few days earlier had said he was coming up early make sure the place was still suitable for his aging wife, but Matthew wasn’t fooled.

“Sticky shoes?” Was this more of that aged wisdom? “You want me to head west and buy some flipflops, or go barefoot for a while?”

“Maybe,” another cigarette was dancing between wrinkled lips, “You ever try it?”

Matthew was pretty sure this was some of that nonsense.

“I don’t know.”

Poppa Gerald nodded, as if he’d been given the correct answer instead of a mumbled attempt to leave the conversation.

“There’s a lot you seem to not know.” The sting was sharp, but a little wink followed it to soften the blow. “I could tell you that if you go barefoot, you have a higher chance of stepping on something sharp, but you also have the chance to build up some calluses. To feel the real earth under your feet, feel some movement- to get unstuck. But what I really mean boy, is that if you don’t start taking your boots off at the door instead of getting mud across my floor, your welcome is gonna wear out.”

“Oh Poppa, I’m sorry, I-”

“Nah, nah,” the old man coughed or laughed, it was unclear, “You’re alright. But I will say this- while I go heat up one of your little frozen pizzas, why don’t you go walk to the stream and put your feet in.”

It was not a suggestion.

Poppa Gerald began shuffling off to the kitchen, “then tomorrow we’ll mop so your mo-ma doesn’t find out.”

Matthew had never argued with the retired army engineer and starting now seemed foolish. So he set down his beer, slipped off his boots, and left the house by the back porch.

He started with his evening usual path, down the slight slope of the property and off to the left. This is the same walk his family had taken for decades. He remembered holding onto dog leashes in the mornings and his mother’s hand in the evenings, being called after to be careful as he chased cicadas and fireflies.

It was not lost on him that he had no hand to hold as dusk once again settled on the mountain.

But he got into the rhythm of trail walking easily. It was in his bones now. The little crumble crunch of leaves against gravel, the constant adjustment of earth. Enough feet, those of humans and deer and raccoons and foxes and every other little creature, had walked this path to make it smooth under his naked toes.

Before the large red maple marking his way right, back up the other side of the mountain, he took the left towards the water. The spring had been a chilly one, with summer not yet sneaking into the air. It left this path less worn-in than it was in the hotter weeks. Later in the season it would be re-tamed by small exploring footprints, and larger strolling ones. The ragged edges would be smoothed over with each passing adventurer.

So Matthew was not surprised to find low handing branches, as well as a few pointy twigs, loose pine-cones, and spiders angry at the disruption. When an acorn top lodged itself in the soft curve of Matthew’s left foot while he dodged a web hanging at eye-level, he wondered who was more insane: his grandfather’s metaphor-driven instructions, or himself for following them near nightfall. Barefoot in the unkempt woods. His mother would have a fit and demand he get a fresh tetanus shot.

But when he hit the soft mud and larger stones that signaled the stream was near, he let that thought go. He’d done as told because for months he hadn’t had an idea of his own. Better a crazy old man’s than nothing.

He nearly trip over a large root when he first heard the babbling song of the stream. For some reason, it shocked him. Such a simple, easy sound, and it triggered so many feelings within him. Matthew was nostalgic for the boy that pushed his sister into these shallow waters and danced across the rocks with his cousins. He felt the awe natural waterways always stilled him with. He felt a little guilt for betraying the easygoing spot by filling it with all his worries. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t visited it earlier. He should go, and leave this place to its innocence.

But instead of running this time, he sat down in the gritty sand. He loved this stuff far more than the powdery kind at beaches. This had more character, he felt, more color. With a little bit of the earth’s chill seeping into his shorts, he stuck his feet in the stream and gasped.

It was indeed not summer yet. He forced his feet to stay in the moving water, waited for them to adjust to the temperature even a bit.

Blue. Crystal blue is the color of this feeling, he thought. Amazing.

So he sat. And he listened. There was the laughter of water slapping against the sand. A tiny breeze moving the ferns of the undergrowth. A nearby squirrel screamed that someone was too close to its branch. A mourning dove romanced the last rays of day. A smile came across his face when a family of minnows- or are those tadpoles? inspected his toes for snacks before continuing on their way.

And he felt the smile he carried. Really felt it. Allowed it to stretch his cheeks and open his eyes. He sighed, then sighed again to hear the sound of it against the backdrop of the woods. Finally, as the night sky began to take over the sunset, he shook off the biggest droplets from his toes and started the walk back. He liked the idea of feeling how long the sand on his heels would hold on. Back to the main path? All the way up to the top of the mountain? Would he have to wipe his feet at the door or would everything have shaken free?

He didn’t have any more answers than when he’d left the house. But damn, he felt better. And that was enough for now.

The Word

Voyage (noun): A long journey involving travel by sea or in space. (verb): Go on a long journey, typically by sea or in space.

WELL, poor ol’ Matthew. Or not? I mean he did run off on his bride. But he seems to feel pretty bad for it. And maybe it was the best choice for everyone? I’m not sure. But that’s okay, to not be sure.

Have you ever heard those old stories of sailing? Sailors, pirates, passengers, Naval captains- they used to have to take off into the sea without a GPS, without flash-dried food, without any of that. The sea was so powerful they worshiped her and her unpredictable moods. Even now when we part from one another, a phrase to shout is “smooth sailing!” because it was such a hope, and never a guarantee. Basically, “I hope everything goes well, especially the parts you have zero control over!”

We’re always told “it’s about the journey, not the destination” and I hope that’s true. I’m often like Matthew: searching for answers, but not quite finding them. Needing a sign, but receiving a rest instead. It’s hard to be thankful for that, but I think we need to at least be more aware. The voyage is long, and sometimes hard, but it’s learning to walk on the rocky ground, how to respond to a sudden storm and choppy waves, that will get us where we’re going. And if we find a little place to rest, where we can forget the questions for just a moment, I think we’re that much closer to the answers.

Smooth sailing, my lovely readers.

The Story

She couldn’t believe it, a message in a bottle! When do those ever actually happen?

Her sketchers sinking into the wet earth, she crouched to get a better look at the glass voyager. When she determined it wasn’t carrying any stinging passengers or slimy gook, she went to pick it up. Carefully she tugged the bottle, scratched and scored from its travels, from the sand.

With it free, she looked around. Were there any little kids or lonely hearts around who had maybe just thrown this in and the tide rudely brought it back? But no, she was alone as usual on her 5am run along the dunes. Daufuskie Island worked long into the night, but did not rise until the sun had settled nice and high.

Tara had not always been an early riser, but something about having the waves and stars to herself made her move the long runs of her training schedule to match the first ebb of the morning. And now, mysterious find in hand, she was glad she did.

She peered out towards Savannah, then back to Hilton Head. This bottle could have come from one of the island’s neighbors. She tried to subdue her excitement with this thought. But the bottle had that old-timey shape, and the amber hue she’d seen in museums, so the subduing was not very successful.

The rest of her miles forgotten, she plopped onto the sand and unlaced her shoes. Moments like these required comfort and concentration. If time really worked circular as her sister suspected, she sent a wish that young single-digit mermaid-obsessed Tara knew they’d find something special like this one day.

She paused Lizzo’s ‘Truth Hurts’ on her phone, pulled the headphones from her ears. Of course she had to take a picture at each step. Before popping the cork, after the cork, pulling the paper out, etc. However, the after-the-cork shot would have to wait, because it was stuck. Very stuck. Tara had fought with many a cork before, but that was when rescuing wine from a bottle, so there were usually tools around.

Instead of the grand POP, there was a chipping away of cork that would’ve been embarrassing if anyone was around to see. Then a hideous smell, because it turned out a tiny crab had been the unfortunate companion to the encased paper. This was not the cute moment she imagined happening in Hallmark movies.

Still, she was in. Time to see what magical, beautiful words had been waiting for years to be heard.

October 1828

Timothy, you utter louse. I hope to God this letter finds you ill, sunburnt, and dying painfully.

Well then. Tara sighed, not a damn thing like the Hallmark movies, then.

You think leaving me on this Godforsaken patch of sea spit is going to keep you safe from my wrath? Ha! When my father sees I did not return, he’ll make the correct assumption that I went off with a dirty pirate, and guess what? He will know exactly which one too.

That’s right. You told me not to leave a note,  but I did. It did not occur to me then such an instruction was so you would not leave a trail. I thought it was for a more muskateering reason- perhaps not to further break my mother’s heart, or to give us enough time to escape before they knew in which direction to search.

But my heart was young just moments ago, so I did leave a note. I told my mother who had stolen my heart. I wished my sister would find someone who filled them in the same way you did me. I prayed my father and brothers would find a way to forgive us both.

Now I wish all the opposite. You did indeed steal my heart, but instead of fulfilling promises, I received empty oaths. I pray the men of our family hunt you to the ends of the earth. And whether it is for my reputation, or anger at the alliance potential of my marriage lost, I do care not. Whatever puts your blood on the end of their sword, or your last breath on their bullet, satisfies me. 

“Oh dear Lord,” Tara looked up from the yellow, cracking page. This was a far cry from what she’d imagined. She reached out into the wind and tried to pull back her wish. Eight-year-old Tara did not need to know about this disappointment any sooner than necessary. She hoped she caught it in time, or even better, that her sister was just a crazy hippy and time was liner after all.

And you know what? Lord Walton had two horse stables and more hair on his chest than you could dream of. 

Drown slowly, you pimpled liar. 

Sincerely, Everlyn Anne Bilonton of the English Bilontons

“Well.” Tara looked around, hoping there was someone she could throw her hands up with.

“Well then.” She rolled the paper back up, tapped it back into its glass envelope. Part of her wanted to throw it back in the ocean as punishment for disappointing her. Another part wanted to research the Bilonton family and see if Everlyn got the revenge she sought. A third part of her was just angry that she’d sat down to read instead of finishing her run. She’d been at a good pace, and this angry letter put her in too foul a mood to start again.

So she shuffled back to her apartment, left her sandy shoes on the porch.

The house smelled like coffee, which meant Caitlin was up and cooking breakfast, thank God. As Tara climbed the short steps to the kitchen landing, she heard the soft sizzle of what would be sausages, and hopefully toast to go with it.

Tara wrapped her arms around her short girlfriend at the stove, snuggled her sweaty face into the curve of Caitlin’s neck.

“Good run?”

Tara shook her head.

“Find anything good?”

Tara often brought Caitlin pretty shells from the beach, or a sea fossil, anything interesting that said “thought of you.” But now she just shot a glare at the bottle on the table. It waited there for explanation, research. Its anger made her angry. She knew the childish disappointment in her chest was ridiculous, but this was just further confirmation that she was no magical being in a fairytale, and those reminders sting humans, no matter how old they get.

“No,” Tara kissed Catilin’s cheek and started toward the shower, “nothing good, not a damn thing.”

The Word

Disillusioned (adjective): Disappointed in someone or something that one discovers to be less good than one had believed.

It shouldn’t surprise you that I’m a big dreamer! I have the big dreams (writing an award winning, acclaim achieving novel), and the little dreams (holding an owl), and all those little etherial ones that come and go when we are in the right place at the right time.

One of those dream-places for me is the beach at dawn or dusk. When my brothers and I were kids, my parents took us out to the shore after a thunderstorm and had us stomp really hard on the sand. It would light up, like a galaxy under our feet! They told us some mumbo jumbo about static from lightening interacting with bacteria in the water, but I knew the truth: tiny, magical, sea creatures. Friends with mermaids, probably.

Growing up kinda sucks. I don’t mean the getting taller and older part (the taller part has yet to happen for me, though). I’m fine with having an apartment and my own debit card. It’s the knowing enough to explain the world around me I’m not so found of. It turns out stars are huge bags of gas far away, and if we can see them, they’re already dying. Doesn’t that suck? I liked it better when Timon said they’re fireflies that got stuck up there.

Though I’ve grown to believe in the interesting properties of both lightening and bacteria, I still find myself in dream-places. These can be the middle of the woods on a warm day, or the top of a mountain you’re familiar with. Sometimes it’s a new overlook of a field, or a breeze in a quiet place, or a bridge anywhere, anytime, ever. And in those moments, those perfect spots, magical sea creatures seem real again. Heaven feels a little closer. Pocahontas seems more right about everything.

What are your dream-places?  I’d like to hear about them!

And I hope you visit one soon, sweet reader. Good night!