Write Brained Girl

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  • The Waiting Room (continued)

    The boy slowly pushes himself forward on the cushions, ’til his knees are able to bend at the edge. His feet still don’t reach the floor. He leans out, stretching as far as he can, fingers barely able to grasp the book. He pulls it toward him a little further, then runs a single finger down the ribbon, softly. He looks at it like it might fly away if he takes his eyes off of it.

    I am startled when he quickly jerks his hand back like he’s just been shocked. A trickle of actual blood begins to form between their ends – ribbon and finger, floating in the air between them. My eyes widen. I can’t help but think I’m seeing things. I look from the ribbon, to his finger, to his face. I expect to see fear. Instead, I find him watching with a look of innocent pride. A grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. He begins to wave his finger slightly to the left and right, watching the swirling trail of blood as it follows. I look around, wondering if anyone else is seeing this, but everyone seems to be lost in their own thoughts.

    “This is the place for that, after all,” says a quiet voice beside me. “The time for that.”

    I look over at an empty chair, then back across at the boy. I must’ve heard wrong. Shaking my head slightly, I lean forward. “For what?” I ask in a hushed tone.

    “For introspection. For accountability,” the voice whispers. The boy’s lips do not move. He is, in fact, in his own, little world; far from me and whomever the voice belongs to. I look around again, behind me, beside me again at the empty chair. Perhaps not empty? Perhaps just . . . invisible? Disembodied? I frown.

    I jump again as the clock chimes one o’clock. How has it been an hour since I last looked at it? I could swear that was just minutes ago! I feel myself begin to tremble as I realize the rules (which I have lived my life by) do not apply here. Why would they? But this means I can have no idea what to expect, I think. Like I expected to have twelve, normal hours before going through the door. Panic starts in my belly and claws its way up into my chest, then climbs my throat. I can’t breathe. I glance wildly around.

    My heart begins to slow as my eyes fall once again on the boy. He is staring in my direction. There is no longer a rivulet of blood hovering in the air. He is sitting against the back of the couch, feet hanging over the edge, bouncing. I look down and find my datebook open, not on the table, but in my lap. The boy’s eyes are on the ribbon, running down the crease between days like a trickle of . . . I blink, then stare at the black ribbon in confusion.

    The clock strikes noon.

    ***

    It starts low, quiet, deep beneath us. It starts like the vibration of hoofbeats through the ground or a distant train when you touch a rail. A vibration I feel under my skin well before I begin to hear its pulsing hum; an hum that rises to a crescendo of tremulous sensation. The deafening roar of engines and air against solid object yanks me from my sleep just as the wheels touch down on the tarmac, my body pressing forward with the momentum against the drag as the brakes engage, hard and fast.

    I look around, feeling muddled. Across the aisle is a young boy, apparently traveling by himself (he nervously fiddles with the tag around his neck), anxiously kicking his feet. I look beneath the seat in front of me and see a bag which looks vaguely familiar. I check my watch: the cracked face shows it is twelve, noon. I need to get that fixed, I think absently. As I move to sit up straighter and return the seat to its full, upright position, my datebook slips out of my lap.

    “Shit,” I say and grab for it before all my loose notes and papers can fall out. I catch the boy watching me. “Sorry.” He shrugs. “Where you headed?” I ask. He shrugs again. Okay, I think. You’ve probably been taught not to speak to strangers. All good. I busy myself pulling the carryon out from beneath the seat, sliding my datebook into a side pocket. Something nags at me, though, and I turn back to him. “What’s your name?” I try.

    “I don’t know,” he whispers. I get chills.

    It occurs to me that I have no idea where I am, nor where I am headed or where I’m coming from. Or for that matter, who I am. As the plane slowly taxis to the waiting terminal, I reach back into the bag and withdraw my datebook, looking for tickets or clues. Nothing that I can find. Not quickly, at least. The flight attendant is droning on about gate numbers and “if this is your final destination, welcome,” and my stomach drops. I grab the armrests as the plane gives one, final lurch forward before coming to rest at the extended jet bridge. The thought echoes in my mind: my final destination . . .

    The plane begins to fade, as do the passengers. Instead, a dark room comes back into focus. I am gripping the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. Have I been in the waiting room this whole time? What was this? Some kind of trick? A test? A buried memory? I glance at the door, at the clock, at the boy. He is asleep. It is 2 o’clock. The rest of the occupants of the room appear to have experienced the same thing. Or something at least. I suppose it might not have been the same vision (if that’s what it was) for everyone. But they all appear confused; reacquainting themselves with their surroundings, adjusting their realities. I have not yet regained my equilibrium. I can’t seem to let go of the chair. I still feel the vibration, a resonation in my bones.

    ***

    As I try to relax, I begin to study the other people in the room with me. Curious as to what brings each one here. There is an older woman, leaning slightly to the side, with a soft, white bob. She has a kind face. I wonder suddenly if I know her somehow. She has the sort of warm, welcoming energy that makes one seem familiar and safe – like a grandparent or a longtime friend. She notices me noticing her and smiles. Though the smile reaches her eyes, I see fear and uncertainty in it. I smile back and look away.

    A tired looking mom sits with her two young children. They are exceptionally quiet and well behaved, for I have not heard or noticed them once ’til now. She has a haunted look about her. When she lifts her eyes to meet mine, they are empty and stare unblinking, almost as though she were looking right through me to nothing. She makes me feel uneasy. Again, I look away.

    The boy is still asleep. His head has tilted to one side and I note a scar across part of his neck, just below the jawline. Instinctively, I reach for my own neck, rubbing absently where I have a similar scar as I scan the room to the next person: a stooped old man with large, thick glasses and dark suspenders over a crisp, white shirt. I get the impression he is someone with high, even harsh standards for himself, and yet infinite patience with others. I’m not sure why, but I am certain of this.

    Someone coughs. It is startlingly loud in the quiet of the room. Everyone looks at the culprit – a young gentleman who looks so nervous he might be sick. He turns red at the attention and murmurs a low apology. People look away, one by one; back to staring into space, into the past, into themselves. I am reminded of what the voice said; introspection and accountability. I have certainly been reflecting on my life while sitting here, waiting. However, I have also become distracted by my curiosity about those here with me. Perhaps I should stop looking around and focus on myself. I find this difficult to do now that I’ve begun studying the others.

    “Mr. Richardson?” a clear voice calls out. It breaks the silence like the sharp crack of a whip. Everyone’s heads jerk up toward the desk in the corner of the room. The receptionist stands with clipboard in hand. Slowly, the young man who coughed gets up and goes to the desk. She speaks to him for a minute in hushed tones, then he returns to his chair bringing the clipboard and a pen along. I almost laugh. Even here, even now, we have forms to fill out? It seems absurd. Or maybe it’s some kind of punishment for making noise in a room whose door says “Silence, Please!” The young man blanches as he reads over the questions, then after a brief hesitation in which the pen hovers just above the paper, he begins to write.

    “Mrs. Meyers?” the receptionist calls out, and the mother with the two children walks briskly to the desk. Her children wait obediently at their seats. She receives the same hushed instructions and a clipboard to take back to her chair. Next to be called is the older woman, Ms. Arnold, then a very young woman, maybe 20, whose name is Melody, two others I had not been able to see from where I sat, and then the old man, Mr. Johnson. I am called last.

    I approach the desk with a bit of a tremor in my hands. The receptionist tells me I am to fill out the questionaire as thoroughly and truthfully as possible. She tells me to take my time; that she will not be collecting it until 11 o’clock this evening. She tells me they will know if I omit anything, that they will know if I lie (which includes embellishment). She warns me that there would be consequences for either infraction. I take the clipboard and pen and return to my chair. Before beginning to read over the questions, I look again at the boy. He is awake again, but his name was not called. I wonder at this while I settle into my chair to begin writing. The boy watches me. The clock strikes three.

    ***

    I begin by reading over the first few questions. They seem simple enough, but the answers would be deeply personal. The truth could be catastrophic. It asks about secrets, about regrets; about the worst things you’ve done in your life. It asks who you really wanted to be and how that differs from who you are. It asks, if you could, right now, have a different life than the one you’ve lived, what would that look like? It asks who you’ve hurt, and how. It asks all the questions pertaining to life, and identity, and purpose. Now this definitely feels like a test! I take a deep breath. This is not going to be easy.

    About halfway through answering the first question (what is your biggest secret?) I find my mind drifting more and more to the boy sitting across from me. I think I have figured out who he is. I think he is me. I remember that plane ride now, but not as an adult; as a child, traveling alone. Something happened in the airport bathroom before boarding that flight. Something that had been happening frequently for a few years by that time. I never told anyone. Never even admitted it to myself. Now it seemed to loom over me – undeniable, unavoidable.

  • Believe Me, It’s Lethal (2012)

    Stream of consciousness poetry (of sorts).

    No one asked her if she wanted this, or if it was okay to hitch a ride on the train of her dreams.

    She didn’t choose this; did not wander along the aisles of life’s buffet, loading her plate with heavy poisons and rancid fare.

    But now they’re telling her she must wade five feet deep and wait for the final twelve countdown to commence.

    And she already hears it. She feels the earth already falling in around her, and she’s told it is all she can have.

    Hopelessness is not denying the existence of hope. It is the sense that you are not worthy, are not capable, are not allowed to own it.

    And, as envy is a sin, we must resign ourselves to our poverty.

    But they forgot that it is in the dirt that our souls become roots, and our roots become channels.

    We grow, but we don’t know it, because we’re looking for the bloom and can’t see it.

    We can’t see it because we ARE the evidence of life.

    And so, an ache pulses through her stems, through the veins of her leaves and petals.

    Had she a mirror, she would see that she is not the wilted, browning thing they say. She is Brilliance.

    They tell her to aim a little lower, and all the while, she’s already levitating. She is Flight.

    No one asked her if she wanted the shroud, nor the ashes and tears. But she accepts it without question.

    If only she knew.

  • The Waiting Room (2014)

    I have no idea where I was going with this one. Should I pick it back up? See where it takes me?

    The Waiting Room

    The room is so quiet, every sound echoes like thunder. It is a torture chamber. I glance at the ancient face looking down at me. The jagged scar splitting the glass in two gives it a warped quality. 11:59. Twelve hours and this year will be history. Done.

    I look at the boy sitting across from me, hands fidgety in his lap, feet bouncing at the ends of legs sticking out from couch cushions too deep for his small frame. He stares back at me silently. I look at the door. The door for which we are all here. The door through which we will all enter [at midnight]. The door from which there is no escape.

    The chime makes me jump. The face glowers above me with hands converged at due-north. 12:00. Twelve hours ’til the end.

    The others in the room shift uncomfortably. The rub of cloth against skin, the scratching of breath against the stagnant air is deafening, garish. I feel inverted; as though I’m all flesh and nerves on the outside. Every tick seems to claw at my brain. I think I am slowly going mad.

    The boy’s feet stop bobbing. I am suddenly aware of how anxious the repetitive movement was making me. I breathe out; look at him; offer a polite smile. I can’t help but think he’s why we’re all here. I also feel like I should know who he is. But I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do. . .

    His eyes glance down at the planner sitting in my lap. It lays open at December 31 / January 1. He stares at the red ribbon. Place-keeper, marker of time. It runs down the crease between days like a trickle of blood. I think how many people will be celebrating the birth of a new year. To us, it is not a fresh, new beginning; it is a tired, old death.

    I clear my throat and loosen my tie a bit. Leaning forward slightly, I whisper, “what’s your name, kid?” His eyes still on the ribbon, he whispers back, “I don’t know.” Raising my eyebrows, I sit back again. Well, I guess that’s as good a reason as any to be here.

    I extend my planner out toward him. “Do you want to hold it?” His eyes finally break away from the little stream of red long enough to see if I’m serious. His face holds curiosity, doubt, hope, mistrust. He has shadows in his look far too dark for his young age. I can tell he thinks it’s a trick, so I set the book down on the low table between us and push it gently closer to him, then retreat back to my chair.

  • The Last Snow (2014)

    This short-short story was written just to get myself past a writing block.

    The Last Snow

    The guests will start arriving at nine o’clock. The air is chilly, the ground grey. Gabe sits at the front window staring out into the yard. He’s been insisting all day that it’s going to snow tonight. We haven’t had snow in years. Not wanting to discourage his excitement, I just keep saying “maybe.” Though I worry that he’ll be crushed when it doesn’t.

    “Sweetie, why don’t you put on your coat and go play while it’s still light?” He turns those bright blue eyes toward me. “Will you come out, too?” he begs. I ruffle his blond, feathery hair. “Can’t right now, kiddo. Gotta’ finish making the food for tonight’s party.” The corners of his little cherub mouth turn down. “I’ll play with you tomorrow, okay?” His face lights up. “We can make snow angels!” I consider telling him we won’t be able to; instead, I just smile and say “maybe.”

    Guests start arriving at nine o’clock. The air is cold, the ground bare. Gabe sits at the front window, staring out into the darkness of the yard. He insisted all day that it’s going to snow tonight. We haven’t had snow in years. The doorbell rings. I pause on my way from the kitchen to the front door as I see him there, forehead against the glass. I feel a strange, vertigo sort of de ja vu. He turns his ice blue eyes toward me and I feel a shiver across my skin. “Will you come out now?” he pleads. I frown. “I can’t leave the guests, Gabe. Besides, it’s pitch-black out there. And freezing! We’ll play tomorrow.” He turns back to the window. I shake my head and hurry to answer the door.

    It’s eleven o’clock and I’m already longing for an empty house and my warm bed. My feet are killing me. I turn a burner on and watch the blue flame. I wonder for the hundredth time why I decided to host a New Year’s Eve party so soon after. . . after. . . I’m suddenly light headed and dizzy. I grab at the counter to steady myself. I rub my temple and strain to think. So soon after what? Maybe I’ve had too much to drink.

    The guests are already leaving at 12:01. They’re all leaving. They’re rushing out. Screaming. Why? I look over at Gabe, still sitting at the front window. “It’s snowing!” he insists. He turns to me with clear, icy eyes. “Will you come now?” he demands. I look out the window. There are soft, white flakes floating downward, settling on the cold ground. I’m in shock. No, wait. Not white. Grey. Pale grey. And not flakes; confetti. I stare, perplexed.

    In the window’s reflection, there is a flashing, flooding of light behind me. Red, yellow, white, orange, blue. My house is full of light, and I can’t breathe. I grasp for understanding. I feel so confused. I stare at the ash falling outside the window. It is only then that I notice my own reflection, and beside me. . . I look quickly down at Gabe, whose frigid hand has taken my own, then back at my reflection. Only mine. I am suddenly hot. And cold. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go make snow angels.”

  • Flash Fiction: First Comes Love (2022)

    Another flash fiction challenge. Genre was romance or romcom (can’t remember for sure), and we had to mention a stork. As always, there was also a word limit, making it even more challenging.

    First Comes Love

    A clerical error wreaks havoc for an unsuspecting young woman.
    But she finds it may not have been the worst day ever, after al    l.

    Exactly an hour and two cups of coffee after turning off his alarm clock, Matt climbed into the passenger side of the company van, clipboard in hand. Gabe leaned forward, his hand on the keys, but he paused and squinted at Matt.

    “You didn’t do it, did you?”

    Matt looked up and blinked. It was way too early for this. Gabe fell back against the seat, grumbling under his breath.

    “You gotta’ do it, man. I ain’t starting the van until you do!”

    “Are you seriously going to make me follow your supersti-”

    “No, no, now don’t go callin’ it that. It’s tradition, and I’m not gonna’ be the one whose assignment doesn’t go well, just because the new kid thinks he’s too good for the traditions of our fine institution.”

    Matt rolled his eyes, held his hands up in exaggerated surrender, and tossed the clipboard onto the dashboard. He hopped back out and walked the few steps to where the large mascot of the company smiled from the side of the van with a raised wing and the promise, “We Deliver!” in bright, bold lettering. Shaking his head, he raised an arm and high-fived the stork, before stocking back and climbing into the cab again. With a satisfied grin, Gabe started the engine and pulled out onto the highway.

    Matt glanced at the address on the day’s itinerary and frowned. He flipped the paper up to look at the order sheet and studied the customer’s information.

    “Uh, Gabe? I’m not so sure we’re going to the right place.” He held up the clipboard. “The customer is Jennifer Smith, home address: 103 Poplar Street. But this has us going to a Jenn Smith at 103 Poplar Road. That’s got to be a mistake, right…?”

    Gabe waved his hand in dismissively. “Nah. We’re good.”

    “Are you sure? I know I’m new and all, but . . .”

    “Look,” Gabe said. “We’re going where we’re supposed to go. Trust me!”

    As they pulled into the town’s small airport, with a special field for their launches, Matt looked at the order again. A pregnancy announcement. This was only Matt’s second week with Stork, LLC, though he felt he was getting the hang of things pretty well. It was a small company, but it was the only specialty delivery service of its kind – offering the unique method of delivering the big news of pregnancies, birth announcements, or gender reveals by hot air balloon, all over the county.

    After getting everything set up, it was time to launch. This assignment included a banner which would be hung from the basket as well as small gift baskets with themed items which would be delivered by being dropped with small parachutes. These were some of the most entertaining, as the recipients often never saw it coming, and the reactions ranged from shock to hilarity, to outright hysteria and the occasional dramatic meltdown.

    * * *

    Exactly one hour and one cup of coffee after turning off her alarm clock, Jenn headed from her front door to her car. She was surprised by a bunch of neighbors milling around and rushing to her with wide smiles and arms open. She greeted them warily.

    “Ohhh, congratulations!” oozed Sarah, her next-door neighbor. Jenn frowned, opening her mouth to ask what she was being congratulated for, when her neighbor from across the street grabbed her up in a too-tight hug, saying she was so very happy for her. By the time the next person squeezed her arm and started chattering about having playdates, Jenn felt like she’d seriously lost her mind.

    “Wait, what? I’m sorry, but what are you all talking about?” she finally managed to ask. They all looked embarrassed for a moment, before pointing up. Looking up, Jenn saw a hot air balloon with a giant stork on its side and barely registered the words “JENNIFER IS EXPECTING!” on the banner fluttering below it before a small parachuting basket collided with her head.

    * * *

    After trying to convince her neighbors that she was not, in fact, pregnant, Jenn stormed back into the house. “Sasha!” she yelled. “Do you know anything about this??”

    Sasha stepped out of the bathroom, toothbrush frozen halfway out of her mouth, as she stared in surprise at Jenn. “Know about what? What’s wrong?”

    “Oh, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that the whole damn neighborhood now thinks I’M PREGNANT!”

    Sasha’s jaw dropped, her toothbrush falling to the floor.

    * * *

    By the time Jenn got to work, a bruise on her forehead from a basket full of cookies and a mini bottle of sparkling cider which all said “JENNIFER’S EXPECTING!” she had already received calls from her mother, who was friends with one of her neighbors, and about a billion people who’d seen the balloon over her house this morning posted by just about everyone on Facebook, Instagram, and even TikTok. After finally convincing everyone at work that it was a mistake and she was not expecting the stork to deliver anything, Jenn left early and drove to the office of Stork, LLC.

    “Excuse me, but I’d like to speak to a manager, please! Do you have any idea the mess you guys have made for me?” she said to the young man closing up the van parked out front. He turned and flushed, suddenly sure, as he took in her face, that he had been right about the mistaken address.

    “Let me guess, your name is Jenn?” he asked. At his kind tone, her bravado and anger crumbled, and she struggled to hold back tears.

    “Oh, man. I am so sorry,” Matt said.

    * * *

    Gabe watched from inside as Matt and Jenn leaned against the side of the van, Matt offering her a tissue and listening as she vented about her day. A day they had admittedly made ridiculously hard for her.

    “You think babies are the only thing storks deliver?” he muttered and chuckled to himself. “Nah. Sometimes love comes first.”

  • Flash Fiction: Inherited Magic (2022)

    Flash fiction challenge from a few years ago. The prompts/parameters they gave us were genre and an object or something that had to be included. This one was magical realism (I think), and you had to mention a scooter. There was also, of course, a word limit. Which was a struggle for me! I had so much fun with the flash fiction challenges both that year and in previous years! If I can find the older pieces, I will post them as well.

    Inherited Magic

    I was caught between the ‘real’ world, and the world of magic my Grandmother believed in. I had lost her, but in looking for the magic she wanted me to discover, I found her again.

    Branches catch at my clothes and scrape my face as I push through the thick underbrush, dry twigs snapping under my feet. It makes me nervous that I had to leave Lila beside the trail and continue without her. (Lila is the scooter my Grandfather built me for my 16th birthday. She’s got a custom paint job – iridescent white with purple filigree, just like my favorite My Little Pegasus from when I was young – and is my most prized possession!) But I’ve walked her as far from the trailhead as I could manage. She could barely handle the old, rutted logging road I took just to get that far, and while normally she may be my trusty steed, a rugged dirt bike she is not. I’ve gone deeper into the forest this time than I ever dared before. It’s disorienting in here, and makes me uneasy. I always feel like I’m somehow going backwards.

    My grandmother always swore this was an enchanted wood. I used to find it endearing that she expected me to believe in magic just because I was a child (and all children must), but I only ever humored her. I was never a princesses and fairytales kind of kid. After my 16th birthday, though, she insisted I come out here with her. She used to say that it was at the very heart of this forest – where an underground river emerged from beneath the mountain, and both a ravine and sharp ridgeline also converged in a strange, triangular polestar – that she, a wild river nymph, and my grandfather, a dryad from an ancient line of the Tamarack Larch, met for the first time. She so badly wanted to take me there; where, she said, our family’s magic was strongest, where she hoped I might discover my own enchanted nature. I don’t know why I still thought she told magical tales for my sake, but as we hiked into the forest together that day, I realized she truly believed it. And . . . well, things happened that I’ve never been able to explain. I’m determined now to find answers.

    I pause to catch my breath, leaning my hand against the rough bark of a tall spruce tree, feeling like everything is suddenly a bit blurry at the edges. Like anything I’m not looking directly at is slightly watery or soft, somehow. I shake my head, though, and dismiss this as my nervous imagination, as each thing I turn and look at is in perfectly sharp focus. I have no idea how far Grandma’s polestar is supposed to be, or if I’m even still going in the right direction. I just know that I have to try to find it. I have to try to find her. I think back on that day we hiked into these woods, though we didn’t get far. I remember how she kept fidgeting with her charm necklace. I remember how one minute, we were walking side by side, and the next, I was sitting back at the trailhead by myself, the mark of swirling water on one wrist, and of a tree on the other.

    As I start off again, sliding through a narrow gap between two cedars, I hear a distinctly footstep-like sound just ahead. I freeze, and hold my breath. Anything could be out here. I stand quietly, still between the two cedars, and slowly peek around them. For a moment, I could swear I saw a flash of white and purple through the dense trees up ahead, and quickly look backward as well, wondering if I’ve gotten myself all turned around and am heading back toward Lila. I frown, listening hard, waiting for more footfalls. When I hear nothing else, I slide the rest of the way through the opening and though I had not heard the sound of water at all just a moment ago, the roar of river rapids is suddenly a roar all around me. For a moment, I even think I hear the slight jingle of Grandma’s charm necklace she always wore as well. Confused, I step back through the trees and everything falls silent again. This. The strange things that happened that day with Grandma were like this. My heart begins to beat faster. I must be getting close!

    I step back through the opening again, and my breath catches in my throat! Besides the sudden rushing of water, besides the twinkling bells of Grandma’s charms (which I am sure I hear this time!), there, standing tall and impossibly real, is a Pegasus – a shimmering, rainbowy white, with purple filigree scrolling up around her legs and around her eyes. Eyes with which she watches me expectantly. Knowing eyes. I finally let out my breath, slowly, as though even that might make all this disappear. She steps toward me and lowers her head, nudging my arm. I am in awe! “Lila,” I whisper, and she lets out a soft nicker. Reaching out, I touch the softness of her muzzle. I am pulled from my reverie as I once again hear the sound of Grandma’s charms.

    Lila tosses her head, her mane throwing prismatic colored light all around the trees. She leads me toward the rush of water, and I follow. Soon, we are standing on the bank of the river, and I stare into the white, frothy rapids rolling over and around the rocks where it comes out of the mountainside. To my left is a deep ravine, looking dangerously steep, and to my right, a high ridge, lifting sharply from where I stand. I look back at the river ahead of me, and suddenly feel a thrumming pulse in the wildness of the water. I look more closely, and there, in the midst of the thrashing water, is a face. A face I remember so well. She smiles at me. My heart is bursting, and I know I have found my magic here after all.

  • Romance at Wolf Mountain (1994)

    I found this old story I was writing when I was 13 or 14. Figured I’d throw it up here as my first post, because – well, who doesn’t love seeing what they wrote when they were a kid, dreaming of becoming a writer? It’s somehow inspiring. I resisted the urge to edit while I went, only correcting spelling and some typos. I know it is ridiculous, and full of inconsistencies, but I wanted to keep the integrity of where I was at in my writing and in who I was and what I found interesting at that point in my life. (You can definitely see the influence of my fear of running into wild things in the mountains where we lived at the time, as well as the influence of what I was reading at the time: primarily Christian romances, set in “the frontier.”) Anyway, if nothing else, I am preserving something of my history.

    Chapter One

    A sweet whistle outside Eric’s window woke him from a restless sleep. Merry sunbeams danced across his troubled face.

    “Martha?” he exclaimed, looking out the window at a beautiful woman in the flower garden. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The whistle outside faded and entered the house.

    “Eric, are you up yet? Breakfast will be ready soon.” Martha’s sweet voice floated throughout the house.

    Eric grinned and patted his growling stomach. “Sounds good to me.” He could hear her soft giggle in the kitchen. He walked in and sat down. Martha came around behind him and dished some oatmeal into his empty bowl. “Did you sleep okay?” he asked.

    “Yes,” was her simple reply.

    “No nightmares or nothin’?” he asked insistently.

    She pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. “No. Why?”

    Eric groaned. “Oh, I don’t know really. I just had a real strange dream last night. And I’ve got this funny felling . . . ” He stared into his bowl and shook his head. “I’m worried. I don’t know why” he looked up, “or what I’m even worried about; I’m just worried.”

    Martha laid her hand on Eric’s shoulder. “What was the dream about?” she asked softly.

    He shook his head. “I can’t remember. But something happened up at Wolf Mountain.”

    “Maybe you should go look around after breakfast,” Martha suggested.

    * * *

    Eric looked out the kitchen window and sighed. “I’m not sure I’ll get to go after all,” he mumbled. The crisp, sunny morning had turned into a cold and cloudy one. “The wind is acting up again,” Eric said. “Last night it broke a branch off the big oak out back.”

    Martha brushed a stray hair back as she put the last breakfast dish away. Eric walked up behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. Then kissing her head, he said, “I’m going to check on the horses.” She quietly watched him stride to the door, grab his hat and coat, and leave; slamming the door behind him.

    Martha looked down. “Something is bothering him.” Shestarted to go afterhim but stopped. ‘I probably shouldn’t get too involved in his problems,’ she thought reproachfully. But the tender concern inside urged her on. She grabbed her coat, swung it around her shoulders and ran out the door.

    Outside, the wind was blowing leaves around the yard, and the sky was dark and cloudy. As she ran against the wind, her loose braid unraveled and her hair went flying behind her. When she reached the barn, she slipped in and shut the door softly behind her. She glanced around and took a few steps.

    Eric was leaning against one of the stalls with his head buried in his arms. Martha bit her lip, wondering if she should have come out. Suddenly Eric spun around and kicked the nearest haybale. Martha jumped and stared at him in surprise. Eric’s eyebrows shot up. Tears were streaming down his face.

    “Martha, what are you doing out here in the cold? You’ll get sick! Now go back into the house and just leave me alone!” he yelled at her.

    The wind didn’t seem nearly as loud now. Martha just stood there staring. “You’ve, never talked to me like that before,” she said quietly and a bit unsteady.

    Eric looked down. “I’ve never talked to anyone like that before,” he said shamefully. “I’m sorry!”

    Martha nodded. “I forgive you.”

    Eric’s eyes were cast downward, and full of tears. Martha walked over to him and put her arm around him. “What’s the matter?” she asked him.

    “The dream I had last night?” Martha nodded and Eric continued. “Well, it was about . . . Karon. She was up at Wolf Mountain; during the storm. She was lost, and cold, and she was crying, and . . . ” Eric’s voice broke.

    Martha smiled sympathetically. “You know Karon’s death wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, but Eric turned on her.

    “Yes it was!” he said with gritted teeth. “It was ME who got mad and left her up on the mountain alone. No you, not anyone but ME!” He slammed his fist into the nearest beam.

    “Eric, stop! Get a grip. It was wrong for you to get mad and huff off like you did, yes. But it isn’t your fault she’s dead. You know that! I mean, how were you to know whe would get lost? She knew that mountain like the back of her hand! And, and you didn’t make the storm come, and you weren’t able to go get her. And she wasn’t able to come down. You see, as painful as it is, God must have some purpose to allow that to happen.”

    Eric looked down into her pleading eyes. “I s’pose you’re right. I’m sorry.” He pulled her into his embrace and rested his chin on her head. Stroking her long, soft hair, he cried tears of sorrow; not blame.

    * * *

    “You see now, you have no reason to worry; and you don’t need to bother yourself about Wolf Mountain,” Martha said when they were back inside the warm shelter of the house.

    “No,” Eric shook his head. “Not if the weather keeps up like this. But if it clears up, I’m still going to go.”

    Martha shook her head. “Whatever!” But a twinkle danced in her eyes.

    Chapter Two

    Skyler looked up into the sun as it rose higher above her. She trudged on through the thick forest, her coat now in her arms as the morning became hotter. She pushed through a clump of bushes and broken branches, and gave a small cry as they tore into her skin, sending a sting through her arms.

    Her throat was dry and sore. Oh, how she longed for some water! “There has to be some water somewhere; there has to be . . . ” She let her voice die out like her soul.

    She was coming into an opening and thought she heard the sound of running water. Her eyes were suddenly clearer, searching, straining, for some blessed glimpse of what her ears had identified as a creek. As she broke free from the last clinging branches that were trying desperately to keep her captive, her feet suddenly took on wings, and she rushed out into the meadow and straight for the sound that was getting louder with each step she took. ‘Just beyond that hill! That’s where it is!’ she thought, and tried to make her tired body move faster.

    As she mounted the rise, her eyes grew wide and her emotions were battling over whether she should be awestruck or discouraged. There before her was a deep valley, at the bottom of a steep hill. There was water alright – down at the far end of the valley: a waterfall! Of course! How else would she have heard it from so far away? The sight was beautiful! Down at the bottom, it was a puzzle of green, red, and yellow trees, golden fields, and water of deep turquoise, all pieced together. It was surrounded by towering mountains of dark green and midnight blue, crowned with frosty iridescent snow.

    As she stood on the top of the hill, looking down and the valley, with her hair floating around her face, she stood in awae and wonder. She looked like such a carefree person those few seconds. To anyone watching her, she would have looked like a perfect angel.

    Suddenly, her distant eyes were stung, and her vision became a blur. She looked up and saw that clouds had taken over the sky, and it was snowing. It grew darker and darker as she just stood there, too tired to move and too tired to care.

    Soon it was too dark for her to go on, even if she had the strength, and she strained to look through the darkness and thickening snow, toward the waterfall in the distance.

    She sank to the ground and let the tears fall. They were warm on her cold face, but soon froze. She lifter her face to the sky and openined her mouth to catch the big flakes that were coming down rapidly now. Finally she stiffly got up. She quickly pulled on her coat, all that she had with her, and walked slowly toward some nearby trees. She winced as she realized that they were all bare, stiff trees, and wouldn’t give her much shelter. At least it would be better than no cover at all. She found a small bush and burrowed into it as much as she could, and closed her eyes. As soon as the storm let up, she would walk on.

    Chapter Three

    Eric pulled on his coat and took off to the barn to get a horse and go up the mountain. Martha looked after him and then at the sky. The wind had let up quite a bit, but the storm was still hanging over them; just hanging there, waiting. She sighed and lines took over her forehead as she frowned worriedly. “Him and his whims!” she murmured and turned away to her daily chores.

    Eric mounted his horse, and pulling his hat farther over his head, rode away; off toward Wolf Mountain. With a heavy heart and purpose in his dark eyes, he lifted his chin to a confident height.

    * * *

    Skyler awoke with a start. She was shivering and as she sat up, she realized that it had stopped snowing. As she got up, her hair got caught on the bush, and she plopped back down on the ground, discouraged. Her frozen hands fumbled to untangle her hair, and minutes later she finally did it. She slowly got up and started down toward the haunting sound of the waterfall that shattered the otherwise stillness of the dark forest. She looked up into the penetrating darkness of the sky and shuddered at how late it had gotten. The moon had almost reached the peak of its journey through the night sky.

    A mournful wind floated through the bare trees, and the icy moon reached out and touched Skyler’s hair with cold and hollow beams. Tears slipped down her cold, white cheeks, as she walked slowly through the misty woods. Her long black hair whipped around her face, clinging to her wet cheeks. And her eyes, a vivid, distant blue, searched the dark caverns of the forest. What for, she knew not.

    * * *

    Eric urged his horse on through the cold, and up the small trail that was getting smaller and steeper as they went. The horse threw up its head and stopped. “What’s wrong, old boy?” he said gently. The horse gave a soft neigh and tried to look up at his master. “I know it’s cold boy, but we have to keep going! We have to find out what’s wrong up there on Wolf Mountain. Now come on!” Eric nudged him with his feet and the horse started on again with a small jump and whinny.

    They were just rounding a curve in the trail, with the slight glimpse of a flat ahead, when snow started falling; slowly at first, then faster and thicker. The horse lifted his head high and started prancing from side to side on the dangerously narrow trail nervously.

    As they entered the field, Eric pulled the horse to a stop. He sat there and looked around him, cringing as he realized that he was standing at the edge of the end of his life.

    * * *

    Skyler stood frozen with fear, and stared wide eyed at the powerful beast that was so deceiving with his graceful movements and beautiful lines. The creature lay crouched in the middle of her patch, watching her, ready to leap with the first small sign of her moving. A low growl escaped his throat and seemed to echo in her ears for ages. His tail slowly danced back and forth, and Skyler, now fully intimidated, couldn’t hold on any more. She let herself slide humbly into the safety of darkness, not expecting to wake up; for she was at the mercy of the mountain lion.

    * * *

    Eric saw two people in the field, as he sat there looking through the snow. One was him, and the other was . . . he strained to see . . . the other was Karon. Sweet, beautiful Karon. He watched with bated breath. They looked so happy!

    Karon opened her arms to the wind and ran around the field. Eric stood there and watched her graceful movements, and her face – ah, yes, her face – it held such depth, such pure beauty. It was the face of a free spirit; of love itself! He stooped and picked some wild flowers as Karon made her way back to him. He held out the flowers as she neared him, and with a small, shy smile, she took them. He reached out and gently touched a small strand of hair that had escaped its place tenderly. His face filled with a deep lookof reverant exhaltation, and his eyes, the window to his very soul, showed of a holy passion, too strong for a mere person to comprehend, or any mortal to stop. He pulled her into his warm possessive embrace, and lowered his face toward hers, and his lips raptured hers in an intense caress.

    * * *

    Skyler moaned and opened her eyes. What had happened? She jerked up as the sight of the mountain lion confronted her with sudden fierceness. With wide, scared eyes she lay there looking steadily at the cougar who just sat there curiously watching her now. Skyler drew her breath sharply in and held it as the beast got up and walked off to the right, up through the woods. She laid there watching him until he was out of sight, and even then just lay there getting over the shock and making sure she was fully safe before moving an inch.

    * * *

    Eric sat with his hand on his heart as he watched this beautiful fantasy-like memory float around in front of him. All of a sudden, like a bolt of lightning piercing a dark, void sky, something went wrong. It wasn’t beautiful any more! Eric’s eyebrows came together and his eyes clouded over . . .

    Karon suddenly pulled away from Eric and ran away from him, down in the direction of the waterfall. Eric called out and ran after her, but in vain. He finally stopped and stared after her. Then he yelled something, turned and strode to his horse. He swung up, and with a kick, was gone.

    * * *

    Suddenly it all hit Skyler hard. She burst into tears. “Oh, God!” she cried out loudly. Her cry turned to a wail that echoed through the forest, and although Eric was just out of sight, it was an unheard cry.

    * * *

    Eric shut his eyes tight, hoping to erase the sight and memory that he just painfully witnessed. He opened them and saw nothing but a white blur. Sighing, he went on. He stopped at the top of the hill and looked down over the snowy valley, then urged the hesitant horse down the ridge, with just a row of trees dividing him from the reason he was up there. But neither of them knew. He searched the woods with shadowy eyes, but saw nothing.

    * * *

    Skyler gave a yelp as she lost her footing and slid down the slick, steep ridge. She slammed into a tree, and got up dazed and unsteady. “Whoa!” she murmured under her breath as she tried to keep herself upright. When she finally gained control of herself, she started on down again. Suddenly she came to a jerking halt and tilted her head. She thought she heard something. At first fear came over her whole being. But then she listened harder. It sounded like a horse! She tried to locate where it was coming from excitedly.

    “Please, God! Please let it really be somebody; somebody that can help —” her sentence got cut off by an overwhelming sob. She lunged in the direction of the horse’s constant cries. She broke through a bit of brush onto a small trail. She paused only long enough to locate which way to go. “That way!” She rushed forward withe her breath coming in short, fast rasps. She came to a rise, and looked down on a small break in the forest. And there, in the middle, was a man riding a horse!

    * * *

    “What’s the matter, boy?” Eric asked his horse who pranced around, screaming his protest at going any further. Eric laid his hand lightly on the gun that sat in place on his hip, as he tried to steady the horse. His eyes searched intently all around. Suddenly a movement caught his eye. He watched it come charging out of the woods. The horse reared and tried to bolt, but Eric held him firmly back. He pulled the gun out of the holster and held it firmly by his side as he watched the grizzly fervently.

    * * *

    Skyler gave a cry and ran on down the path. “I can’t be too late! Got to hurry! Please wait for me!” She was in a little patch of wood that stuck out into the small field. She looked out through the trees to her left. There he was! She started to rush forward but she realized that he was watching something on the right of the outcrop of woods. She stopped and glanced over there to see what he was looking at. She drew in her breath sharply. There, just yards away, and coming her way steadily, was a huge brown bear! “He’s coming straight toward me!” she gasped in a hoarse whisper. The she looked back to the man on the horse. “Oh, God! He thinks it’s coming to him!” Then the man pulled out a gun and confidently pointed it at the bear; and her!