The Broken Pieces of Yesterday

It was the first calm day in weeks and he couldn't resist taking his book down to the dock to read. It wasn't warm enough for swimming and the slight wind was cool enough that he was grateful for his windbreaker.

The calm was disrupted by a footfall on the dock which sent the dock bobbing on the water.

He looked up and sighed. "What are you doing here?" he asked, not looking at her but returning to his book.

"I wanted to talk."

He didn't respond, but continued to look at his book but he wasn't reading it anymore.

She sat down and stuck her bare feet into the water, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again.

"I wanted to talk," she repeated. Not looking around.

"What's the point?" he asked, closing his book and getting to his feet. "The wound was healing! You coming here today is just ripping the scab off. Why do you insist on picking at it? This will only make it bleed more."

"I like blood," she said quietly. "It's clean."

He stared at her. "Clean?"

She shrugged. "Some things need to bleed."

"Most things need to heal." He didn't really want to listen to this anymore. He took one step toward the shore then called over his shoulder. "Stop picking at it and it will."

"Are you closing the door on me?" she asked, pulling her feet out of the cold.

"No, you closed the door on me," he said. "Let's not pretend it was any different." He gave her one last look and strode from the dock, but she followed.

"Well, you know what they say about closing doors and opening windows," she said, catching up to him and matching his stride.

He kept walking. "That windows aren't nearly as helpful as doors when it comes to moving forward?"

She laughed. "Maybe the smaller gap is so that you'll try harder!"

But he was not amused. He stopped and turned back to her.

"Are you saying you want me to try harder?" he asked. She saw the pain behind the question and hesitated.

"No," she said slowly. "I didn't mean that."

"Look, I'm not trying to force anything," he said. "I won't close you out or close any doors, but I'm not gonna stand waiting and weeping either."

"Weeping?" she asked. A shadow crossed her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly as she stared at the ground.

But he wasn't interested in an apology. "Why are you following me? Are you unhappy?"

She stopped, a little surprised. "I'm not unhappy," she said. "Do I have to be unhappy to talk to you?"

"Yes!" he said angrily. "I don't understand you! You made your decision. You chose him. What are you doing here now?"

"I miss you," she said in a small voice.

"You aren't allowed to miss me if you're with him. It has to be a choice. You can't have it both ways."

She nodded, biting her lip. "I'm sorry you think that," she said. And she turned to go.

"I don't understand you, Meg!"

"Why can't I be with him and still be friends with you?" 

"Because that's bloody weird! I'm sorry, but you just can't keep things the way they were. It doesn't work. When you walked away, that was the end. You can change your mind, but you can't keep us both in your life. It's that simple."

"I wish it were," she said. "But I will go. And I won't bother you anymore."

He watched her. "But do you understand?" he asked.

"I think so."

"I'm sorry. I never wanted to shut you out, but you see why it has to be this way, don't you?"

She bit her lip. "I wish I did."

"I don't understand you," he said again.

"That's part of it, isn't it?" she said sadly. "It turns out we were never on the same page."

"Then why do you insist on keeping me in your life?" he asked wildly.

"Because you had something that I wanted," she admitted.

"Are you talking about that scotch?"

"No," she wanted to laugh, but her heart was hurting too much. "It wasn't anything like that. You're just a person I wanted to be around. You meant something to me."

He shook his head. "Stop picking at the scab, Megan."

"I like blood," she repeated.

A Way Back To Life

In the darkness I gasp for breath. It's always about breathing. So interconnected are the heart and lungs that one cannot feel without the other. There is a slow and inconsistent fluttering in my chest. It is a bird in a tiny cage, trying to stretch, but it keeps flapping its wings in too small a space. Hitting the walls of my heart and bruising them. And then it rests, saving up strength to flutter again.

The fluttering is so gentle. How can it bruise so deeply?

The bird tries again. This time it is hitting its head against the wall. Desperate to be free!

"Stop!" I beg. I try to explain that the more it fights the more it hurts. The smaller the space will feel.

One breath. But it's too tight. I can feel the air as it fights its way free.

"Stop fighting me!" I cry. "I know. I can feel your suffering. You are part of me."

Quiet. Feel that. Patience. Rest.

But the beating grows faster and there is a ripping as the breath disrupts the bird in its cage and it panics, a whirring of wings and talons. And again I am running, trying to escape my heart and lungs as they overwhelm me from within.

The running does nothing to calm the wild bird or bring new air to my lungs. There is no running from the pain. But neither can I look the aching little bird in the eyes. There is no explaining. Will it ever understand?

Peace. Be still.

It always comes back to the need for rest.

Be calm.

But you cannot calm the storm. The winds and waves consume. There is no calm.

Go back. Go back! Move forward. Run. Flee! The emotions storm and pull. Everything is moving every which way at once and there is no peace. Wind beats against me. Salty waves crash over me, wearing me down. I cannot get free of these waves, and I am battered again and again and then I hit something solid and instead of pain it is something to grasp and I cling to it and clamor desperately for strength, for freedom, for light. A rock among the waves and the moment my head breaks the surface I can feel warmth. A wave crashes again and I am battered down below, but I felt the warmth. It is there if I can only stay afloat. And instead of fighting for the surface I let go and I can feel the strength of the rock and I climb on high. Once I am resting above the waves I can feel the full warmth of the sun drying me, warming me. Saving me.

"Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of Jehovah, which He will do for you today." (Exodus 14:13)

The Last Attempt

The machines whirred as the couple argued across the lifeless form of their disappointing son.

"He doesn't need an older sister to look up to. He needs a younger sister he can look down on."

"Charming! But you've had your say and it's my turn to design his childhood!" She held up a syringe filled with thick orange liquid. "I want to inject him with these memories and try a different tact this time!"

"Suit yourself! But I warn you that he will not be ready if you give him a mollycoddling older sister!"

"Ready for what?" she spat. "I don't want him ready for any of that, I want to give him something to be proud of! Something that he can choose."

"That's ridiculous! Just watch the last round of his life and see for yourself!" he said pushing past her to turn on the simulation.

"I was there. I saw it for myself first hand!" she said reaching up to stop him from pushing the button.

He slapped her hand away.  "Then you know it was a disaster!" he said, continuing with the sequencing.

"Yes, which is why I want to try this! I don't think it will be a disaster to give him an older sister."

He gave her one cold look before turning back to the machines and answering. "Just remember that we have to live it too, and I don't want another child, even if she is older. We'll have to deal with her too!" He finished the sequence and hit the button and they were plunged into the full living memories of the last attempt.

The best time in our life.

Wham bam shang-a-lang, and a sha-la-la-la-la-la babe.

"Will you please turn that off!" she screamed. The music was blaring and she couldn't hear herself think. The children were turning the house over and Mark was just sitting on the couch with his laptop open and the music blasting.

He didn't seem to hear her. He was too immersed in whatever he was doing. She stared at the man as he sat in obliviousness watching his screen. Time froze as she stared wondering how on earth he could be so unaware of his surroundings. How could he not care? She almost wished she could feel such apathy; to be immune to the cries of her children! Because even when she was too busy, and tired and unable to meet all of their demands, even their crazy and unnecessary demands, their cries still pierced her. Wouldn't she love to be able to zone out and not even hear their cries?

No, that was not what she wanted. She just wished that Mark could hear them too and that they would affect him the same way they did her. How could he hear his daughter sitting on the floor three feet from him wailing and not notice her?

I think a little emotion goes a long long way. But careful now don't get caught in your dreams. Look out baby this is not what it seems.

"Mark? Mark, can you hear me?"

"Wha? Yeah, jes a sec, Beth," he muttered.

"Unbelievable!" she said striding across the room and picking up the three year old before Jamey threw another block in her direction. "Jamey, stop that! And go get your shoes on! Addie, are you dressed yet?" she called down the hall.

There was no answer, but that didn't surprise her one bit.

"Bea, go check on your sister, will you?"

"She'll never let me in!" Bea said, not looking up from her book. "She doesn't even answer when I knock on the door."

"Bea, just go!"

Beatrice slammed her book shut and stormed down the hall. Beth could hear the distance shouts of her daughters as they yelled at each other through the doorway, but she couldn't deal with that now. Jamey hadn't moved from his pile of blocks and the baby was now crying.

"Jamey! I said get your shoes on! Mark! Can you get the baby? She's crying again!"

Well I thought we agreed on what we need. So listen to me I'll tell you what we've got. We've got a wham, bam shang-a-lang...

Mark was still staring at his computer. Beth dropped the 3 year old on his lap and left to get the baby from their room. When she returned, the 3 year old was on the floor and Jamey was trying to fend her off.

"Stop! Stop!" he cried. "Mom! Get Kate to stop touching my tower!"

"Jamey, I told you to get your shoes on. You can't be building a tower right now anyway!"

"Make her stop!" he screamed.

Beth looked at her husband on the couch surrounded by all the chaos and wondered again how he could withstand such noise without intervening.

Rather than shouting for his attention again she dropped down on the couch next to him with the infant in her arms and looked at him. "Mark?" she said. "I could use some help!"

He seemed to pop out of his reverie as he looked away from the screen and to his wife beside him.

"Hey," he said. "What's up?" Beth let out a snort of laughter and frustration.

"Mark, honey. We gotta go! None of the kids are ready and we're gonna be late!"

"There are more important things than punctuality," he told her.

"Like your computer?" she said, unable to withhold the snark.

"Sometimes," he replied, with a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

He stood up, setting his laptop aside and pulling his wife and youngest child into an embrace and began to dance with her.

"I'm not really in the mood," she said, but he saw the smile growing behind her furrowed brow. "We gotta get going!"

He smiled as he spun her about and looked at their children fighting on the floor as he sang along with the lyrics: "We'll remember the best time in our life!"

Cold

Dead? That was not at all what I was expecting. I wasn't even sure what to say in response. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and waited. I wasn't even sure if I should look at him. Could I meet his eyes? What was going on?

I waited. Finally I looked over at him and the look on his face prompted my pity, and I broke.

"Dead?" I really didn't know what to say. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He began to nod slowly. "I think we should," he finally said.

"Do you want me to drive us home?" He didn't answer.

"Would it help if I asked questions, or shall I just wait?"

"You can ask," he muttered.

But where to begin? I wasn't even sure what to ask.

"Well," I began hesitantly. "Who was she? What happened?" I knew the questions were too broad, but I didn't know how to be more specific without being impertinent.

He didn't answer right away. He stayed motionless in his seat, but at last said "She fell through the ice."

"Oh, my gosh!" I whispered.

And then he was just talking. "I saw her when they finally pulled her from the water. She was like a statue. Her eyes were still open and there was nothing in her face that read "peace". She was in agony. I remember hearing her screams through the ice as the current swept her under. She was no where near the thin ice that she fell through. She died, panicking to get out, stuck under a thick layer of ice that we couldn't break through. I don't know whether she drowned or froze to death."

On the word "death" his voice cracked and he stopped talking. I could hear him swallowing. I glanced over at him and he was biting his lip. I could tell he was working hard not to cry.

"It's okay," I said softly, trying to invite him to cry if he wanted to.

"No! It's bloody well not okay!" he cried, and I recoiled. I knew that he was just trying to hide from the memory and hide from his own pain and that he was not mad at me. But being angry was easier than being sad.

"I didn't mean that!" I said.

Silence fell between us again as he sniffed slightly and shut down.

At last I ventured another question.

"Do you want to talk about it more?"

"Only if you ask the questions," he said. "I can't offer any information."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because it's too bloody hard to talk about!" he said, his voice becoming elevated again.

"We don't have to talk about it," I assured him. "If you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to at all."

Silence again.

I looked over at him as he sat there chewing his lip. I couldn't tell if he wanted me to ask him questions or if he wanted me to leave him alone. We hadn't been dating that long. I guess that's why he had never brought this up before. It definitely explained why he was reluctant to go to hockey with me. But he had come so many time with me before and never said a word. I thought he was enjoying himself. I mean, I could tell he didn't love it, but he had been a willing participant. This was the first time I felt like I had dragged him against his will. And now I was wondering what it was about this time that had triggered him. And I still didn't know who she was. I wanted to ask so many more questions, but I felt like it was for myself; I only wanted to ask questions so that I might know what was going on. What could I say or do for him? I didn't even know if it would help for him to tell his story or to be left alone.

I shivered, and realized how cold it had gotten in the car as we sat there in this random parking lot. But the shiver was about more than the chill on my skin.

I turned the key in the ignition and Laif looked up.

"Are we going?" he asked.

"I just wanted to heat the car back up," I told him. "But we can go wherever you like."

"I'm sorry I made us late for hockey," he muttered.

I turned to face him. "Look," I said. "Hockey doesn't matter. I'm not going to hockey tonight. What do you want to do?"

He reached over and grasped my gloved hand, but said nothing. I squeezed it back, wishing I could do more.

The Gray

This time I was surrounded by blackness. It wasn't that total black that makes you think that there just is nothing around you. It was a dull gray. A painted gray. It was real, but an absence of color that was swirling all around me.

Before there had been something to reach for, something to focus on, but here, everywhere I looked was darkness. It wasn't sad or scary. It just wasn't.

I sat down. It wasn't tumultuous. I guess it was still. But I didn't feel panicked. I didn't feel worried. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel bored. I just didn't feel.

I don't know how long I sat in this gray, misty substance, but I had no desire to move. I could have just drifted off to sleep and it would have just been effortless and calm. But as I sat there was a prick inside me and I doubled over and opened my mouth to speak but instead endless air rushed in to me, filling my lungs and expanding my chest. It felt so good that it hurt.

I was now crouched in the grayness looking around me for something, anything to focus my eyes on. I began to panic. Everything around me was the same. I felt stuck and despite the life giving breath I had just received, my breathing became shallow and I gasped for air even though the air around me was as clear and pure as any I'd ever breathed, but it hurt as it came in my nose and throat. It was like my nostrils had forgotten what it felt like to breathe. Every breath hurt and at last I had to put my shirt over my mouth and nose to keep the fresh air out. My shirt worked as a filter and I could breathe in this clean air without the intense pain.

But now I noticed my shirt; it was the same gray nothingness and so was my skin. I let out a dull scream as I stared at my dead looking hand. "Help" I breathed. But it came out as a rasp.

I tried again, but I was still coughing on this fresh air and couldn't fill my lungs anymore. I was afraid to breathe deeply. It hurt. But without the air I would not be able to speak. I lowered my shirt from my mouth and breathed in deeply. The pain ripped at my throat and the first sound out was a silent scream.

I tried again and took a more cautious breath. Was I getting used to it? I felt less light headed and more ready to feel.

"Help!" I tried again, and the sound carried a bit more. With a bit more practice I was able to breathe more easily and began shouting.

"Help me!" I cried. "Can anyone hear me?" but there was no answer. Even my own voice did not send back a comforting echo. I was completely alone. There was no sound but me. And now I could hear my breathing like it was right by my ears and I screamed and tried to burry my mouth and ears with my gray arms.

I stayed like this for too long. Curled up in a ball facing the ground. I only moved because I felt warmth on my back and it scared me. I cautiously crept out of my hiding and noticed that the grayness was being replaced by a yellowness that seemed to be seeping in around me and encompassing me with warmth.

I didn't like it. The grayness had become a sort of comfort and even though I wanted the grayness to end I wasn't sure that I wanted this instead. It felt invasive.

It was getting brighter. I put my hand up to block the light, even as I looked toward it, and gasped because my hand was flooding with color.

I dropped it and looked down, but my clothes were still gray and the brightness was still growing.

"Stop!" I whimpered. "Stop! It can't be so bright. Stop!" But there was nothing I could do. It kept growing and my eyes began to ache even though I closed them tightly. I was not in control and as soon as I realized this I realized that my breathing had become shallow and scratchy. And I remembered that my breathing had been the one thing I could control. I couldn't control the intensity of the air I breathed but I could control the depth. I tried again to focus on that and as I breathed I saw the lightness begin to slow and hasten as I breathed in and out.

Was I controlling the light? but as I looked into its brightness I knew that it was not me. I could only control my reception of it and so I took a slow deep breath and saw the brightness approaching in equal measure to my breath.

I closed my eyes and listened to my beating heart.

One Winter's Day

They were like two little children; laughing and teasing. His face lit up as she skated around him, her smile as wide as his own.

"Marta, your nose is as pink as a berry!" he laughed, tugging one of her braids.

She skated to a full stop to face him. "Then warm it for me!" she laughed and rubbed her nose against his.

He held her for a moment, looking into her eyes. "I love you!" he said, before wrapping her in a warm hug. She nestled under his chin, feeling safe and warm.

"I've never felt more loved," she said. She could feel the engagement ring on her finger which he had placed there hours before. Her thick wool gloves concealed it from view, but she could feel the comforting band on her finger.

He took her hand and pulled her in to motion. As they skated along the frozen pond they couldn't help but smile at each other.

There was no one else on the pond that day to witness their shrieks of delight due to the weather. It was actually quite nasty out. The sky was a deepish gray spitting out intermittent sleet, but you wouldn't have known it from the way these two played. From their faces the sun shone and the clear blue of Marta's eyes was enough to brighten the day.

Laif couldn't have planned the weather. He didn't know it was going to be a day for books and fires. He had planned a special skating outing since he knew it was her favorite. So here they were, braving the nastiest weather of the year to skate. And they didn't care. Hot chocolate and reading aloud their favorite books by the fire would come later. For now they had to enjoy the outside world for what it was!

"Can't catch me!" Laif said, releasing Marta's hand and soaring along with a look of determination on his face. But Marta could. She was a better ice skater and he knew it. He loved her for her exuberance on the ice. She had never taken lessons, but she'd been on the ice all her life. There was nothing she loved more than to don her skates the moment the weather was cold enough. The wind and ice in her hair were life giving.

When she caught up to Laif he held out his hand and caught her so she circled around him, laughing the whole time. He brought her close again, grinning at the icicles in her braids, wanting to kiss the snowflakes off of her cheeks.

But she was too fast for him and pushed off getting a head start. He had a harder time catching her and she stayed ahead of him until her laughter slowed her down and he caught her around the waist and spun her around.

"We will raise our children on the water," she said as they stood looking out over the icy landscape, his arms still around her.

"And in the water in the summer," he said, almost pleading; for he loved the summer as much as she loved the winter. They were two complementary halves.

She laughed. "Of course!" she said. "The only way to tolerate the heat of summer is to be in the water! And besides," she said, kissing his cheek, "They wouldn't be your children if they didn't long for the sun on their curly heads."

"That's right!" he said, kissing her knit cap. "All of our little ducklings swimming along behind me in the summer and skating behind you in the winter."

"And we'll be skating alongside each other. Forever."

He held her tight, and the moment felt like a lifetime and not long enough.

She skated away from him and then twirled once before a terrific crack and she was gone from view, swallowed by the icy depth.

Hockey Skates

I knew he didn't like hockey, but I never understood why. I loved everything to do with winter, especially if it meant engaging with the elements to the fullest.

Cold? Why not freezing? So when it came time to don the old ice skates and hit the pond I was thrilled.

We were bundled up and heading for the car when he stopped halfway down the driveway.

"What is it? Did you forget something?" I asked, hardly taking the time to turn back over my shoulder to speak. I had my skates in one hand and my keys in the other. I was anxious to get going. I unlocked the car with a few excited beeps and hustled into the car throwing my skates on the back seat. Laif hadn't moved from his spot. This was unusual. I started the car to get it warming and poked my head out the still open door.

"Are you coming? What's going on?" He jolted as if he had been asleep and ambled toward my blue sedan.

Slowly he got into the car.

"Are you not feeling well?" I asked. "We don't have to go," I told him, my heart sinking at the thought of not making it to the ice tonight.

He shook his head. "I'm fine." He didn't sound it. I hesitated with my hand on the gear shift.

"What's going on then, Laif?" I asked again. "You seemed fine a moment ago."

"Natalie," he began as if he hadn't even been listening to me. I waited. "Natalie," he said again. Slowly, looking at his knees.

"Yes?"

"I told you about Mar, right?" He was still staring at his knees, fumbling with his gloves.

Mar? Mar? I was racking my brain for something.

"I don't think so. Remind me."

He looked up slowly to meet my gaze, but only held it for a split second. I think he has only looked to see that I was truly not following him.

"Marta?" he said, half a question.

I shook my head. I couldn't tell if he was really upset about something, but he seemed off. I couldn't pull out of the driveway without checking what was up.

"Can this wait?" I asked, anxious not to be late. Everyone would be there already and have picked teams if we didn't leave soon.

"Sure," he mumbled. I gave him a hesitant look before pulling on my seatbelt and looking over my shoulder to back down the driveway.

I glanced over at him a few times as I drove. He sat there silently. I was really torn now between hockey and my boyfriend. Something was wrong. He was never this quiet.

"Are you sure you're alright?" I asked.

"I'm sure I'm not," he finally admitted.

I was exasperated now. Was he wanting to talk or not? If he wanted to talk he needed to just say it and stop being mysterious. Should I pull over or keep driving? Was he just gonna sulk the whole drive? The whole time we were out on the ice?

"Are you feeling sick?" I asked. I'd rather deal with a sick boyfriend than whatever he was doing right now!

He looked over at me and then back at his knees.

"I'm not sick," he said. "Just... upset."

I was starting to get worried now. What on earth was his problem? Doubt and fear started to flood over me. I could feel the burning cold sensation on the back of my neck.

He was about to break up with me, I was sure of it. I pulled over into an empty parking lot, trying not to let myself get carried away before he'd even said anything, but my mind was racing now.

Had he ever mentioned a Marta to me? Was this someone he has met recently? Was I about to be replaced? A lump was forming in my throat as I feared what he was going to say next.

"You don't have to pull over," he told me.

I was having trouble speaking at this point, but despite the lump in my throat I mumbled that I thought this would be better. But he didn't speak and nor did I.

He continued to look at his jeans, unsure how to continue I guess. So I gave him a prompt.

"Who is Marta?" I asked, my heart squirming with the fear of what he would say. When he still didn't answer I added, "Have I met her?"

"No," he said. "You haven't."

"Okay?" I was completely lost and getting very worried at this point. He was about to tell me that he cheated on me. I was having trouble keeping calm. I was sure that he would soon be able to hear my heart beating out of my chest.

"And you won't meet her," he continued. "She's dead."

Just Breathe

"Just breathe," he says.

But I can't, because the colors are closing in around me. I can't even describe what colors they are, because there are too many and too close. I can't distinguish between them anymore, and my breathing is shallow. Or maybe it's not even there anymore.

I don't remember the last time I took a breath. And I am dizzy. Too much is pressing in on me and the colors are swirling faster and faster.  I can't focus on anything. I have to make it stop. My head is going to explode.

"Just breathe," he says again.

And one rickety breath escapes my lungs.

But my mind is still a fog. I want to collapse because there is no breath in me, but instead I start running. Running from the mess of colors trapping me in. I feel sick, and there is a tightness in my chest, but I must keep running.

All of the sudden water is pouring over me and I'm coughing and spitting it out. It's like I ran in to a waterfall that wasn't there. And I look around me, trying to find the source but I cannot see. The water is flooding over me and at last I try to gasp for air but all I get is a mouth full of water and I'm coughing and sputtering and I double over trying to find dryness to breathe in, but the water is choking me. I am drowning.

"Don't stop. Keep going."

But the water is pounding down on me, knocking me off my feet. I am on my knees, trying to crawl out of this mess but I am so wet that I am more liquid than solid and I can't crawl. I feel like I am oozing.

And then I am falling. Sliding, being carried along by this strong current. I'm not sure if this is pleasant or miserable. I still don't know if I'm liquid or solid, but I am moving. I had tried to move forward, but now I was being washed away. Down didn't seem like the right direction, but at least I was moving. And as soon as I had this thought the water began rushing me up. The current was pushing me up until it spat me out on a dry bit of land and I coughed and at last sought the breath that I had put off taking.

In with one great gulp and my brain begins to clear.

Look Up!

The redness is back. It's dark this time. Not the bright throbbing glow that drew me last time. It's a deep beautiful red. Is it even the same?

The redness is back and it's pulling me again.

I flinch when I see it. It hurt so much last time. It hurt when I drew near and it hurt as I pulled away from it. Is it even the same red?

The fiery glow that pulled me in last time nearly hurt my eyes it was so vibrant with life. This redness is deep and soothing. I'm not sure if it should be described as vibrant or not. It's full. I must describe it as full.

I see it now. There is a golden glow beyond the red. Mingling in a flash of light.

There is a pain in my chest as I look at the redness. Is the pain a memory or a real feeling? It hurt so much last time! My throat begins to feel sore with the memory.

"Stop." I say to myself. I turn away from the red, but it is all around me. There is no turning from it. I look down and my feet are bathed in the darkness. I look up and rather than feeling trapped I feel close and safe as I see the wide expanse above me. Suddenly there is a dark, deep blue with a myriad of stars.

This tightness, and yet this broad expanse. I should feel nervous. I should feel scared, but the tightness in my chest begins to release. I am surrounded all around by a dark, warm red and above there is so much deepness and light.

Hands slightly open, I begin to turn slowly on the spot looking up at the stars. Is there a familiar constellation in the heavens or are these not my stars? There are so many more than on an average night that it is filling in the expanse. I cannot tell if I should know this place or not.

But I do. Something about it is familiar. No, not familiar. I've never seen this before, but I recognize it. There is something about this that feels safe. I am at home here. Overwhelmed, I fall back but instead of thudding to the ground I fall gradually. The transition from standing to lying is one I hardly noticed.

But suddenly I feel cold. The pain should come, should it not? It hurt so much last time. I was sure that I would shatter.

Instead of enjoying my surroundings I was suddenly shivering in fear. Fear of something that might not happen. Indeed, there was a pleasantness in my chest that seemed to be saying "Do not be afraid." But I was sure that the pain would return and I did not trust the feeling. I curled myself up, looking away from the stars. But folded up, with my face pressed into the ground the red still reached through my eyelids, insistent through my avoidance.

There was no pain, only fear. But the fear began to manifest as pain. My eyelids began to hurt. My stomach knotted with worry and my heart started beating too fast.

"Please stop!" I gasped, pushing on the pain in my chest.

"You are creating the pain." I don't know where the voice came from. I knew it was true, but I didn't know how to stop it. I tried to slow my heart beat just by thinking about it. But thinking about it scared me. I felt so cold and though I tried to stop myself from shivering I could feel my teeth chattering.

Slowly I again became aware of how warm and inviting my surroundings were. But I was still afraid.

"Look up." The voice said.

I was afraid. But how much had it hurt last time? Last time. Everything hurt more than words last time. But then there was peace. I knew that. I knew it then and I knew it now, but trust hurt before the initial plunge.

"Get it over with," I told myself. "You're hurting yourself now. You, and you alone are causing this torment. Look up."

"Look up," the voice that was mine repeated.

But as easy as it would have been to turn my head I couldn't. Resolutely I looked inward. Rolled as tightly as I could I was looking in at myself. Trying to protect my feelings. My heart, my lungs.

But I was causing the tightness. I was causing the pain.

"Look up."

In one violent wrench I tore myself out and looked upward. Light was streaming from the sky. The redness around me and the blue above were mingling together in strong waves. Water poured from my eyes as I beheld the striations of light and color. The beads of wet on my eyelashes added another dimension to the light and colors, refracted in my tears.

But I was safe. Again. Just as I had known I would be. I looked about at the mingling colors and down at the purple and white reflecting off my skin and I laughed.

It was relief. I was safe. I had always been safe. I had caused the feelings of fear and anxiety, but the safety had been around me perpetually. I was safe. I had always been safe.

Man and wolf

Warm sticky blood oozed from his leg. He looked down at the wound and then back at the wolf in front of him. His eyes narrowed but he smiled at the beast.

"You won't be so lucky next time," he spat. The wolf sprung at him again. This time the man was ready. The weight of the wolf still knocked him off his feet but he was able to keep the wolf's teeth from piercing him. As they wrestled, the wolf's claws tore at the man's chest.

The man let out a startled cry as one claw pierced deep. For a moment the man thought the wolf was withdrawing, and for a mad moment he tried to stop it from going. But the wolf had no intention of leaving. He growled deep in his throat and bit down hard on the man's left shoulder.

"No!" The man tried to plead with the wolf but it was of no use: how could the wolf understand?

The man fumbled to find anything of use and at last he was able to reach a small jagged rock. He brought it down hard on the wolf who yelped in pain.

The wolf stood stunned, the man's blood dripping from his fangs. He watched the man.

The man held the rock high and made a threat to hit the creature again.

"I'm sorry!" the man said, looking at the pathetic beast. "Go!" he yelled. "Be gone!" and he hurled the stone at the wolf. It hit him square on the jaw and he gave the man one last reproachful look before dragging himself away.

Before the breakup

Mindless, mind numbing, dumb. "I don't have to be doing this," I said to myself. I could be writing."

But did I want to write? Sometimes mind-numbing and dull are exactly what I want at the end of a long day. So scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. My eyes falling out of their sockets.

"Maybe I should just go to bed," I muttered out loud.

"Don't go to bed," Henry said. I started. I didn't realize he was close enough to hear me. He got up from his chair and came over and kissed my forehead. I didn't even want him to, but I didn't protest.

I ignored his plea that I not go to bed, slammed my laptop shut, and set it down on the table. He took that as an invitation. He plopped down on the couch and tried to snuggle up with me. As he took my hand and kissed my neck a thousand thoughts went through my head.

This is what I wanted. I wanted someone who would want to snuggle with me and hold me and not want to let go of me. I wanted an affectionate and sweet guy. Henry was all of these things. He always reached over and took my hand when we were watching movies. He went out of his way to get me things or do things for me, and he was always ready with a smile and a compliment. I believed that he loved me, but as I sat here, passively receiving his affection I didn't think that I loved him.

Yes, he was so perfect in so many ways. Affectionate and loving to the extreme. Always anxious to make sure that I felt loved and appreciated. But something was missing and I knew it. I didn't want just love. I had always longed for this. Someone who would stroke my hand and make me feel special.

The Beatles "All you need is love" played in my head. "No it's not!" I thought. "You need more than love, stupid Beatles!" I was clearly not in a good mood, and I was surprised that Henry was not picking up on this.

But love is not the answer. It's not even the question. It's only half of it. I liked Henry, a lot. I imagined our life together and could picture us getting married and growing old together. But when I threw kids into the picture things got messy. Not boogers and barf messy, but gritty parenting clashes messy.

Henry was lovely. He would be a loving and wonderful father. I could picture him now, bouncing our imaginary curly haired boy on his knee. But his discipline and upbringing would not be what I wanted for my son.

I couldn't have kids with Henry, because we would never be able to agree on what to teach our children about the way life works. And that mattered too much to me. Henry just wasn't on the same page as me. I wanted to create little people who would grow up to be the most amazing lads and lasses. Who would one day be angels in heaven, but in the meantime would make the world a better place. In short, I wanted a heavenly host. I wanted my little people to be strong and courageous and to wield swords of truth, and be unceasing when it came to standing up for the Truth.

But truth alone would not do. I didn't want my little ones to be monsters or to be cruel. They would have to learn to lean into the truth with strength and conviction, but to do so with love. To nurture and  bend, not brutally break. I believed in my future people, but Henry was not their father.

"Henry?" I said timidly. It had only been a matter of seconds since he had joined me on the couch.

"Mm?" he responded, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, but clearly not really in the mood for talking.

"I'm tired," I said. "You should go home."

He listened and stopped to look at me, disappointment in his eyes.

"Alright," he said getting up and pulling me up from the couch for a good night hug.

I let him. I even let him give me a long goodnight kiss when he leaned in for it.

"Good night," he said, holding on to my hand for a minute longer before he turned toward the door.

"Good night, Henry," I said closing the door behind him. And as I closed the door I started to cry.

Spitting words out on to a page.

"Bloody hell!" I knew I shouldn't say it, but it was the first thing off my tongue. I had only dropped a blob of butter on the floor, but it felt like the end of the world.

Everything felt like the end of the world. I wiped the butter up and continued cooking my breakfast. It was 1:15pm. I had been awake since 7ish but now was as good a time as any for breakfast. Breakfast consisted of rice and peppers.

"Jardin!"

I jumped. "What?" I responded moodily.

"Don't say that!" My mother entered the kitchen. "It's unbecoming on a young ladies tongue," she chastised.

I rolled my eyes. I couldn't help but sass back. "Is it becoming on someone else's tongue?" I asked.

A bouquet of emotions

It was one of those days. Emily lay on the floor on her old tan carpet. Was the original color tan? Probably, but it was so faded and old it was hard to tell.

It was one of those days where she felt sluggish and dead and disappointed for no reason. Her heart felt heavy and trod upon, and yet she had this bubbling excitement in her. She just wanted to spring up on to her tippy toes and dance around to loud music, despite it being 11:15 pm. And besides, she was comfortable lying on the floor and not moving. Springing on to tippy toes sounded exhausting, and yet she had a mad desire to pirouette around to get out some of this wild and weird energy.

"What the heck?" Emily muttered. She had a crazy streak. She knew it. But this mad desire to squawk out some loud and unearthly noise was such a weird combination with the desire to lie on the carpet and cry.

This was not a normal combination. Wild and crazy energy with tired disappointment. It didn't make sense. It was like an outfit picked by a toddler.

She was picturing the mismatched attire of a child and started to laugh. The laughter soon turned to tears and she rolled on to her stomach and sobbed into the carpet.

"This shouldn't be happening!" Emily whimpered through the tears. "I'm happy. I'm really happy!" Snot welled in her nose and threatened to drip on to her carpet.

"What does it matter?" she thought. "The carpet is already disgusting!" The tissue box was too far away anyway so she didn't care as the tears soaked the carpet and the snot dripped from her nose.

"I just wanted to be happy and just up and dance! This is pathetic!" She dug her fingernails into the carpet, trying to stop the tears. "Why couldn't the wild and sassy emotions have taken over tonight?" The anger was helpful. Now it wasn't just about being miserable for no reason, she had some anger too!

Wait, the anger was unfounded too. "I'm just a whole bouquet of uncalled for emotions tonight!" she said giving the carpet a solid whack. She remembered that it was nearing midnight and she shouldn't wake her housemates.

The tears were slowing. "Screw this, I'm just going bed!" she said grumpily. She set one hand on the carpet to push herself up but it wasn't there. Her tears had melted the carpet and she was falling in to blackness.

What the blazes?

... right in the middle of a sentence.

I think I like to fight the cliche of beginning a story with "Once upon a time". So I don't know how else to start one except for abruptly.


Wind and sun. Dry heat. I wandered across the bright meadows. It was lovely and unencumbered. Some kind of white flowers dotted the golden field, but my eyes hardly took it in. I followed on toward the redness blazing ahead of me.

It was growing. Or was it shrinking? Frightened, following my impulse, I started running toward it. It wasn't growing. I was just getting closer to it. It was shrinking, but the rate at which I approached it meant that the size didn't change. It gave the illusion that I was running on a treadmill. It seemed too much like I wasn't moving and all of the sudden I became dizzy and had to drop to the ground, breathing heavily. I looked up at the brightness and could now see that it was shrinking away. In a panic I began running again. I couldn't lose it. I had to make it there in time, even though I didn't know what I was running for. I sprinted, gasping for breath as it pulled away from me. I felt the glow of the redness on my skin. I looked down and instead of seeing the expected red, the light reflected as blue on my skin. It was surreal, but I couldn't register the meaning. I had to reach it before it was completely gone.

I reached out my hand. It was just--

"Stop. Don't do it."

I withdrew my hand guiltily. Who had said that? I looked around. About fifteen yards away there was a man. I didn't know his face, but I trusted him. I trusted him, but I still wanted to know why I shouldn't reach for the redness.

"Why not?" I asked.

At this point the redness was not changing in size, but growing in intensity. It made me long to reach for it, but I refrained, waiting for an answer.

"Because you're not supposed to." He wasn't yelling, but it was like his voice was fighting against a strong wind. "Don't reach for it," he warned again.

"But..." I began. Torn between trust and longing. "But... but I want to!" And the intensity of the redness was creating a storm. I felt pulled toward it and at the same time pushed away. It was as if the unknown man and I were pushing toward a wall of wind and shouting to each other to be heard, and yet we weren't shouting and his voice sounded close, and safe, and I believed him.

"Trust me," he said. And he reached his hand toward me. And I felt intense fear and loneliness. I turned toward the red glow. I could feel the warmth. I took a step.

"Please!" he said, and his hand was a gift in the brightness.

"I can't." I apologized. And I took another step toward the glow. And I began to cry.

Maybe he was right. I stopped. I looked at the hand. The kindness he was offering. The love. I thought I should try. One step toward him. And there was gut wrenching pain and I was crippled. I fell to the ground.

It was a sign. I knew that I should have kept toward the glow. My face turned back toward it. The pain receded a little. I crawled a little bit toward the intensifying red.

"Trust me," the man said again. My eyes were burning with tears. I could feel the drips falling whichever way they chose. One hitting the corner of my mouth, one rolling toward my ear, leaving salty trails on my skin. I didn't even want to turn toward the man. It hurt too much.

"I'm going to crawl into the light," I said. Mostly to myself. I didn't care if he heard.

"Trust me," he said a third time. I chanced a look. Such warmth, but my head split.

"Okay," I whispered. And it tore my throat to say it. I reached out my hand and as I did I could feel the ripping in my chest and I wanted to withdraw, but as soon as my hand touched his it was firmly in his grasp and he pulled me away from the glow. I was being pulled toward safety and to him.

Have you ever been dead?

I wrote this last fall. I never had a plan for where it would go. I wrote more, but I never liked it as much as I liked this opening little scene:

“Have you ever been dead?” Sean asked me.

My instinct was to immediately say “No!” What a strange question! But I thought for a moment. I feel dead on a weekly basis. Not in a depressing way. It just is part of being alive. But he hadn’t asked me if I felt dead. He’d asked me if I’d ever been dead.

“No,” I answered, as if the answer could have been yes.

“Why did you hesitate?” he asked.

“Because you didn’t ask if I’d ever felt dead. You asked if I’d ever been dead. I haven’t.”

“Well, have you ever felt dead?”

I hesitated again.

“Why the hesitation now?” he asked again.

“Well, because I feel dead on a weekly basis… and that sounds depressing.”

“Is it depressing?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Cause I don’t think I’m a depressed person. It’s just part of being alive. Parts of you die.”

“And that’s not depressing?” he asked, with a slight laugh

“Not really,” I said slowly. “Because parts of you have to die. Yeah, they’re parts of me that I love. But I don’t want them.”

This time he hesitated.

“You know,” he said slowly. “That makes a lot of sense. You can love something, and still really not want it in your life.” He paused again. “I guess part of you wants it. Cause when you remove it, it does feel like death.”

I smiled at him. He understood me. And how wonderful it was to feel understood! We sat in silence for a few moments. It just felt good to be with him.

At last I broke the silence. “Why did you ask the question in the first place?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, and the corner of his mouth went up as he turned slowly to look at me. “Because I was dead once.”

The Destroyer

Darkness caused faltering. The alignment of the world was out of sync.

“Best not be out in this weather, miss,” an old careworn man said to me as I walked on the pathway between connection and nothingness. “Storms a brewing.”

“Do storms brew?” I asked. Normally I would have kept my head down and eyes before me. Maybe I would have nodded at someone who spoke to me, but today I was feeling vibrant.

“What do you mean, lassie?” the man asked, clearly startled by my response.

“What do storms brew?” I asked. “Do they brew the salty air and the deep smells that are causing my nostrils to sting with longing?”

He shook his head at me and hurried along home, probably to batten down the hatches as one does when a storm is coming.

But not I. I intended to go headlong into the madness. Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they feel it? I could feel the storm. Not like someone with rheumatism feels it in their old knobbly knees. I could feel it in my spirit.

The sky was an ominous gray-green. The wind felled trees as it ripped along the border of darkness. But it wasn’t raining yet.

Suddenly there was a streak of solid black lightning and a burst of thunder so loud I could feel it inside me. I heard a scream in the distance. Why was everyone always so afraid of a little thunder? It gave me life!

I let out a cackle of mirth. It had come!

Swiftly, I glided to where the lightning had struck and stepped on to the solid gray pathway it had left in its wake. I could feel the excitement bubbling inside me. I was afraid of it. I hadn’t been this happy since the stars had disappeared, and I was sure that this sensation was going to rip me apart.

Desperately I felt for the lighting chalk as I climbed through utter darkness toward the stillness. It was going to happen at last!

Blaythes

Bone achingly cold, the party trudged through the snow, icicles clinging to their hair like fractals. It was no ordinary journey they were on, for they must reach the portal before it closed.

“We’ll never make it!” one blaythe called out over the roaring wind. His breath crystallized on the air, giving his words tangibility.

“Not with that attitude!” the cold one said, spitting out his words like they were unwanted apple seeds.

“Not with any attitude,” the blaythe grumbled under his breath. He turned his back on the cold one and continued beating his path through the snow.

The others followed behind, the cold one surveying them looking down his sharp nose at them as they passed.

“You!” he said, grabbing a fistful of a small blaythe’s jerkin and hoisting him up till they were nose to nose.

The small blaythe shuddered as he felt the warm sticky breath of the cold one entering his nostrils. He had known this would happen, as much as he had known the cost of leaving his family for this fool’s errand. But when he had registered, he had not known that they would be placing the cold one as the master of this expedition. He had been full of hope. He knew that he must do this, for his wife, for his children, and though he hated to admit it, he was doing it partly to prove himself. He wouldn’t let himself get away with one more minute of idleness. He had to break the cycle that he had been trapped in for 22 years.

He had told his children, when he had left them behind, that he must go in order to fight off the evil that threatened their very lives. He knew that when he painted them this picture of his mission, of his task, that they imagined that he was off to fight dragons. Off to save the world from some outside source of evil.

But his wife knew the truth: the only dragons her Jaq was going to slay were the dragons within. The thing that had been tormenting his mind, and preventing him from connecting with his children or even his wife. He had cried when he had left his Merrydew behind, but she had kissed his forehead and told him that she believed in him, and would love him no matter what. So he had kissed her, held her tight, and set out with a heavy heart, but full of determination and a little bit of hope.

The hope had long since departed, almost as soon as the cold one had been placed in charge of the march, Jaq’s hope had faltered. In it’s place was a darkness that he couldn’t shift.

Maybe the cold one knew how much Jaq feared him. Maybe he could smell fear. Jaq wondered what fear smelled like, but right now, all Jaq could smell was the fearsome odor of the cold one’s breath as it filled his lungs, making him want to gag. But he must not show fear, even if the cold one already knew it, he must not reveal any more of his weaknesses to this monster.

“What?” Jaq gasped, trying to sound more resilient than he felt.

“You’re slowing us down with your short little legs. Pick up the pace or I’ll be forced to leave you behind… where you belong.” His lip curled cruelly, as he let out a light snarl. “Get back in line, and don’t let me see you slacking the pace!”

He released Jaq, who stumbled over in the snow. Feeling foolish, and a mite bit angry he picked himself up, brushing off the snow and looking around, trying to pick up a bit of his dignity too.

But dignity meant holding his head high, and the winds were biting so he kept his head down and pushed on. He would not give the cold one the opportunity to call him out again.

“Hey,” someone whispered. Jaq looked up and saw that one of his traveling companions had fallen into step with him. He nodded to him, but kept his chin tucked into his scarf and turned his eyes back to the bleary snow below. But his companion continued, “That was uncalled for,” he said.

“Why are you telling me?” Jaq said gruffly. He didn’t like being singled out by this hairy bloke any more than he liked being singled out by the cold one.

“Hey now, friend!” the fellow persisted. “I only meant to take your side, offer my friendship. The names Howke.” He offered his gloved hand to Jaq who took it and gave a begrudging smile in return, which was probably missed by Howke because of how little of Jaq’s face was visible through his many layers of protection against the harsh weather.

“What brings you here, Howke?” he asked.

"Why must I write?" Wokmuh asked.
"Do you have to write?" Iokbirg asked.
"Yes! I do have to write?" Wokmuh responded stubbornly.
"Then you answer the question," Iokbirg laughed. He turned the question back on her. "Why must you write?" he asked.
"Because I come alive when I write!" Her eyes flashed with excitement. "I discover new worlds hidden inside me! and I discover things about myself!"
"What do you discover?"
"I discover grief I didn't know I was hiding. I discover strength that I forgot about. Sometimes I look deep within me and find something far outside of myself. I get caught up in the dialogues because I care more about how people interact then where they interact."
"Why don't you write an entire story about two people, and never once describe where they are or where they're going? For all we know, maybe they're suspended in space. Or sitting underneath a table with coloring books spread out in front of them, with too many crayons."
"It sounds to me like you should describe things. And I should continue to have people talk and talk and talk. And then have someone else enter the pictures, just to create drama, and then have more people talking and talking and talking."
"Pass the crayons," Iokbirg said. "I will paint pictures with words. And you can weave relationships with your pen."
"I prefer typing," Wokmuh admitted.
"Bring forth characters with your little finger!" Iokbirg laughed.