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.

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.

Cars in the distance

It was a cool evening. Not cold, but cool enough to warrant being wrapped in my cozy sweatshirt in August. My favorite summer evening weather! I sat on the deck listening to the crickets and the sound of waves breaking on the other side of the dunes. The occasional distant sound of a car reminded me of my childhood. There was something nostalgic about the rumbling sound of car tires rolling along the pavement. It reminded me of pulling into my grandparents' house after a long car trip. The east coast is alive with night sounds. You can hear bugs if you listen for them. The west coast didn't have so many bugs. It was weirdly quiet. Of course there's always a trade off because here you get eaten alive. I remember nights in California, lying on the grass at night and not being afraid of the bugs. Yes, that was childhood, but it was also San Diego.

I remember pulling into my grandparents' driveway and half waking up. I remember the porch light and the screen door greeting us with a squeak. And there were the lightning bugs. Such a magical part of visiting my grandparents' home. And the smells. The smells of the night air and the smells of their kitchen. I specifically remember the smell of Cracklin Oat Bran wafting from the pantry stairs: slightly sweet, with a hint of nutty earth smell... probably mingled with a bit of rancid. I don't know if they ate it themselves or if it was there for us, but we didn't visit often so I hope that it was in flux.

We didn't visit often and yet, the sound of a lone car on the road reminded me of arriving after a long trip in the car. I must have a specific memory that all the other memories hang on, for it wasn't a frequent occurrence.

Sitting now, close to the shore was a more frequent happening. I could hear the crickets and the waves and yet my ears were tuning into the cars passing infrequently along the boulevard. That dull hush of passing cars will always remind me of the end of a long trip. That sound is the end of a long day. The sound that draws you in and says "Welcome traveler. Rest now."

Movement and starting small

I have discovered that most of my rambling little bits of story that I just dump into the middle of are so often about people moving from one place to another. It almost always involves a few people walking and talking.

Starting here, ending here. And always in the middle of a conversation too. I just drop the reader into a scenario and into a conversation. No context given.

I don't know when I started doing this or why, but it's pretty consistent. I've only just noticed this recently. I wonder if it started in an effort to kickstart a story. Starting with a "Once upon a time" or a description of people, events, or a setting would get me hung up. So I would start in the middle. Maybe originally with a goal to go back and write the beginning, maybe not.

But now it's a pattern. I like to just jump in at the deep end. When I'm writing snippets as exercises I think it's probably fine. Maybe it's fine anyway, but it's funny to notice this pattern.

Sometimes it's hard to write anything at all. Right now that is my life. I didn't want to write the above. It didn't flow. Maybe if I had written it in story form it would have flowed better. 

"Why do you always start stories in the middle?" Hydrangea asked as we walked from point A to point B.

"Good question. I guess I haven't thought about it much," I responded, thinking back over the things I had written.

We walked on.

"Maybe it was an effort to kickstart my silly brain," I laughed. "I just enjoy jumping in, throwing the reader into a setting instead of gently guiding them to it." I thought for a moment. "It's like zooming out instead of in. I start close up, right on the characters and what they're saying, pan out to what they're doing, and then paint with bigger and bigger strokes until I have showed you my world. Some authors start with the broader strokes, creating a world and a setting and then introduce you to the characters and their motivations."

I looked up at Hydrangea to see if she had followed my train of thought.

She was thinking about it. "I think that's accurate," she responded. "I haven't read all of your work, but I can see how that's a theme in your writing.  Do you know why you always start close in and then slowly pan out? Do you think one style is better than the other?"

I thought about it as we walked under the something sky in some kind of weather.

"I think it is because whatever story I'm telling, it's for the characters. Everything is character driven. Not so much plot driven. I know where the characters end up, their friendships.... I mostly know their goals and motivations. But the world they're in matters less to me. I just want to know how and why they care about each other. What they're doing to make each others lives better. I don't care where they are. I just want them to be happy. Sometimes I let them be unhappy for a bit. Sometimes things don't work out amazingly, but I'm afraid that what I care about most is weaving friendships. Saving the world is secondary. My characters care about saving the world... because they care about each other."

Hydrangea smiled at me. "I think that makes sense. And it makes sense that you would begin by having two characters talking. Or a handful of characters. Why do you think that they are traveling? So often your characters are going from one place to another. Have you ever thought about that one?"

I had. But I thought again.

"I don't rightly know," I admitted. "But maybe two people sitting in a living room feels too empty. Maybe it's because I know that for myself I talk best when I am in action myself. Words fall more easily from my mind to my tongue when I am walking. It's all well and good to sit across the table from someone or on a couch, but when I need to process my thoughts it's useful to be walking or driving somewhere. It frees my tongue. And in my writing, I guess it's the same way. Something about the momentum of moving forward makes it feel like the story is going somewhere."

Hydrangea nodded. "Are you happy with that?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, if you start in the middle, if your characters are in motion... does that bother you? Or are you fine with beginning your stories like that? I guess what I'm getting at is do you think there's something wrong with this habit you have formed? Or are you fine with it?"

I thought about what she was saying. Was there something wrong with this form I had chosen?

"What do you think, Hydrangea?" I asked.

"Do I get a say?"

"Yes, I need to know if someone else is okay with it. I know what I think, but what I think isn't enough. I want to know what others think. It has to be okay with someone else. Someone outside my mind!"

Hydrangea just looked at me, a smile creeping over her face. "Silly," she said. "I'm not outside of your mind."

I raised an eyebrow. We had arrived where we were headed. This journey was complete. Another journey would start again. Another pathway in my mind would need to be explored. But this pathway was tread. I had arrived at the stopping point.

Approval outside my mind was waiting on the other side of another journey. But for now, I had walked this pathway with myself. Unwinding an idea in my mind that needed to be talked through.

And that is why I write. To talk things through. To figure out what is in my mind. To get it out on to paper... or a screen. So that I can see it out there. Outside of myself and evaluate it for what it is.

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.