Leander- Short story

It is shortly past 11 o’ clock, and I am still lying in my bed, burrowed in soft silk and warm down pillows. I had been laying here in the quiet, denying the birds chirping on my veranda the satisfaction of waking me, but now I sit, watching the light shift across the floor and onto my duvet. Sooner or later, something will pull me into the tiring reality of my birthday, but until then, nothing can convince me to leave this bed of my own volition.

            My eyes drift closed as my heart pounds in dreadful expectation of the start of the festivities. I can’t sleep again, distracted by the commotion of the servants chattering in the courtyard, shouting directions in excited tones to each other. Soon enough they’ll be at my door, ready to tie me into a corset or paint me like a porcelain doll. The whole process is exhausting, and the party itself, I can’t even think about. The constant congratulations on nothing more than living another year, the incessant small talk, the hordes of people I don’t know giving me gifts I don’t need and reminiscing about a childhood I barely remember, and did I mention the corset?  If it were my decision, I’d skip the whole affair. But unfortunately, that is not my choice, and the knock at the door reiterates the fact.

            “Come in” I shout to the door. I push my blankets to the side and throw my legs over the edge of the bed, my body following in reluctant obedience to gravity. My toes crack as my weight settles onto my feet. I run my hands through my hair and flip a layer of curls away from my eyes, but as it falls back into my vision, I realize it’s useless until someone with actual skill comes to help.

            “May I come in, Miss Catherine?” My servant Beatrice peeks around my door and into my room, only entering when I smile and nod in her direction. She bounces inside with her arms full of clothes, the dreaded corset topping the pile like a depressing crown. She knows I hate it and does her best to go quickly, but it’s still frustrating to be dressed rather than dressing myself. Layer after layer of fabric, all different in texture is slipped onto my body. First come bloomers, then a petticoat, covered by a thin lace slip and finally a deep green dress. I straighten up in the mirror and look at myself, pleased it was less painful than I remember, but out of the corner of my eye, Beatrice is loosening the laces of the leather corset. My shoulders slump, and the air in my lungs flees in a frustrated huff before being forcibly vacated. I lift my arms and draw in the last full breath I can expect, and Beatrice wraps the corset around my rib cage. I put my hands on the back of my desk chair, digging my fingers into the wood.

            “Are you ready?” Beatrice says as she finishes running the ribbon through the eyelets again.

            “Yeah, go ahead.” I say and then try to suck in my stomach. The first swift yank sends sparks to my eyes, my vision erupting in flurries of snow. I instinctively gasp, only to find my ribs bruised against the boning. Another forceful pull cracks my spine into alignment. The next three pulls are less jarring, with my lung capacity already reduced to what feels like a thimble.  I’m still breathing, albeit lightly, so Beatrice looks pleased with her work as she straightens and ties the ribbon in a bow at the base of my spine.  She turns her attention to my hair, gathering it into a bun and sliding a bronze comb with colored glass into it. I tap my bare foot on the cold floor, and she shoots me a look in the mirror. She is really a sweet lady, and it isn’t her fault. I just want to be left alone.

            “I can do the rest if you need to do other things.” I say. I do my best to look as kind as possible, but in the mirror I can see my smile is strained. She smiles and nods, then turns to leave. I hope she’s not hurt, I’ll apologize later. My chair swivels and I walk out to the veranda. The courtyard is now full of decorations but devoid of people. Lights are hung, wrapped around floral arrangements and dipping down from the branches of the oak in the middle.  Underneath my window, two men are constructing an archway, presumably for the cake. I want to get a better look, so I lean forward, farther and farther. There is a creaking sound rising, and before I can react, a snap of wood. The metal railing has broken free and now I’m falling. The workmen’s eyes dart to me, dangling with one hand grasped firmly around the side rail.

            “We’ll be right there, Miss Leander! Hold on!” Both men run stumbling inside, not the most intelligent move. One could easily have pulled me up, the other making sure I don’t fall. As for now, I’m hanging by one hand, my feet kicking at thin air when one suddenly brushes metal. I look down, and sure enough, the broken railing lies propped between the wooden arch and the wall. If only I could get a hold on it.

            I manage to wrap the toes of my left foot around a pole, but even with all my strength, I can’t pull it more than a few inches upward. My eyes clamp shut, and I reach as far as I can, praying to feel metal. Finally, a shock of success runs thorough me as cold iron sinks into my warm palm. Fighting against the tingling in my right arm I plant my feet on the poles and push myself upward. Looking down to find my next step, I notice something strange. The railing isn’t standing on the archway, or on anything.

            I’m not even holding it.

            My heart pumps violently and I scream, swinging my left arm up to reach for the railing my other arm can no longer feel. The one supporting my feet flies out of our yard and into a tree.  My left leg had followed and now lies stretched out across the wood floor of my balcony.  All the muscles in my left side flex at once and I climb into my room, collapsing in a heap of fabric as Beatrice and the workmen rush in.

            “How did you-” they all look at me in astonishment, and I raise my arm and make a muscle, breathing heavily all the while, or as heavily as I can in this wretched corset. Before I know it, Beatrice is at my side, quick hands loosening the lacing and waving the men out. As she’s pulling splinters out of my knee, I’m just staring at my hands. What just happened? Somehow, I held a 200 pound railing in midair without touching it. That is impossible, isn’t it?
            “How are you feeling now? Are you sure you’re alright?” Beatrice asks, standing up and hauling me with her. As she moves to examine my hands, I see the veins in my left hand pulsing- no, glowing blue. I pull my hand back quickly and hold the sleeve against my palm with my fingers. Beatrice jumps back, her eyes wide with concern.

            “No Beatrice, I’m really fine. My hands are only a bit hurt, but I’ll be fine, really.” My heart is pounding as I see the light glow faintly under my sleeve. As I get more nervous, I can see the string of her glasses lift from her shoulders a bit. I breathe out and force a smile, and it settles back to its resting place. “I’m sorry for all the commotion.”

            “Nonsense,” She waves a hand at me and goes back to looking at my hand, the veins now only faintly luminescent. “I will always be here to help you. Now let’s finish getting you ready.” She looks at my face and hair, undone and messy with no makeup. Her eyes narrow and she shakes her head at me “You haven’t started. No matter, I’ll have you all set in no time.” She sets to work, and in another hour, I’m primped and polished for the masses pouring through our gates. Beatrice pushes me out the door, and we scurry through the halls as quickly as we can.

            I round the corner into the foyer, and my father stands at the top of the stairs, waiting to escort me down to the party.
            “I heard you had a rather eventful afternoon, Catherine.” Father says, a statement rather than a question. He’s dressed extravagantly, even for him; a black tuxedo over a burgundy vest, with a cravat and chains. You would never know he’d spent the majority of the day in his private workshop if not for the faint smell of metal and coal that follows him. Or perhaps, its only time- maybe jealousy of his work- that causes me to take notice.

            “You could say that” I put my arm in his, while he nods politely, feigning attentiveness and then leading me out to a roar of applause. Like the showman he is, he parades me around like his newest invention. His daughter and heir, the only hope for his legacy, finally becoming an adult must be a tremendous occasion, and it is. He spared no expense on this occasion, never failing to live up to expectations. A string quartet plays in the shade of our oak tree, while the glamorous and refined of the city gossip and chatter. We wander from one bigwig to another. They all bow politely and congratulate me, but the conversations all inevitably drift to my father’s accomplishments, and finish with “What wonders you must be capable of, Miss Leander!” to which my answer has always been “None.”

            Around an hour and a half into the party, Father motions for me to wait while he walks away, stepping onto the small stage under the archway by my window. I look up and follow the flight path of the railing; I can still see it in the tree just over our wall. My eyes snap at the clinking of crystal, radiating from the champagne glass in my father’s hand. He stands on the platform, the cake moved to a cart and a cloaked shape in its place. The eyes of all the guests glide from him to me, and a couple push me forward into a clear space.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and colleagues… Thank you for joining me in celebrating my dear Catherine’s 18^th birthday.” He says, making wide gestures and smiling an unnaturally wide smile. The crowd is enraptured, whooping and clapping with expectation. “In all my years as an inventor, my pride for all my creations could never compare to the pride I feel when I look on this incredible young woman.” The crowd awws at this as his voice cracks on the last word. No one could ever say he doesn’t know how win a crowd. “Catherine, would you come here, please?” I pick up my skirt in one hand and walk to the platform, my father lifting me up to his side. I flick my eyes over the object, covered with rough burlap and a bow wrapped around the upper part. Near the bottom, I can see a faint blue glow

            “Now, I wasn’t sure what to give you. After all, what business does a man of my age have knowing a young woman’s world?” His face crinkles into a laugh, and the older men in the crowd laugh with him. “So, I stuck with what I knew.”

            He whips the burlap back with a wide flourish, and the crowd claps and cheers. The gift is a statue, an iron woman floating while rings spin around her. Arcs of electricity spark between the elements of the sculpture. My eyes follow the white flashes to their source and then I see it again, that blue light, pulsing and glowing at the bottom of the device, and I recognize it: that same blue glow that had shone from my veins.

            “What’s the blue glow? Is that the magnet?” I ask, my eyes growing wider by the second.

            “No, my dear, that’s the power source.” He beams down at me with his arm around my shoulders. My breathing is heavy, I’m positive that the glow emanating from the power core is the same as the one that I’d seen.

“What is it?” I turn to him, my eyes wide and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “What’s powering it?”

Father’s eyes drift over my face quizzically. “A thank you would suffice, Catherine.” The power source surges more intensely now, it’s light less a gentle flow than before, pulsing brightly and rhythmically, like the beat of a heart. The electromagnet sparks violently, causing Father and I to jump back.

“I don’t think you understand me.” I say, my pulse rushing. “this isn’t safe!” The crowd backs further away,  the light show still entertaining, but not instilling the same fear I feel, the feeling that this thing, whatever it is, is a danger to us all.

“Nonsense, I pioneered the Aether Harness before you were even born. Don’t be so irrationa-“

A massive spark wrenches its way out of the sculpture, arcing from the magnet to my balcony and over to the tree where the railing had fallen to rest. Like invisible hands that just grazed a missing coin, the Harness takes hold of the railing and lift it from the tree. The crowd cheers, still keeping their distance.

All of a sudden, the railing whips through the air, crashing through the wooden arch over me. Just as quickly, almost without thinking, my hands stretch out in front of me. As the feeling of metal grazes my fingers, the flying metal stops just feet away from the heads of the crowd. My fingers stretch unnaturally and all the power I can possibly muster is focused into my forearms. Unlike before, it feels like something is fighting back against me. My arms twist painfully, so I inhale and draw them in toward my body. Whatever had been fighting me releases, and the railing soars over my head and clatters loudly against the courtyard wall.

The whole party seems to have fallen to dead silence, couples cowering together, and the sizzle of the electric statue signaling the magnet’s death throes. I stand to my feet, my sleeves now in tatters, revealing the afterglow in my veins. My pulse thuds in my ears like a drum, disorienting and painful. My eyes are heavy, and as my vision fades, I catch a glimpse of my father, looks horror and guilt fighting for dominance before everything goes black.

My eyes snap open to an unfamiliar ceiling. I try to raise my arm to rub my temples, but find my wrists clamped tightly to a table. The feeling of metal against my wrists is cold and painful, and my hands sting. Turning my head returns a rush of nausea, and I choke it down as tears burn in my eyes. My hands are dotted with red marks. What happened to me?

Footsteps echo through the room, the sound causing my head to ache anew. As they get closer, I can smell coal and metal, and the tears break free. It’s my father.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I howl like a child, my voice a foggy wail through the haze of injuries and sedative. His hand moves tentatively and gently to brush my forehead, and I choke on snot and saliva, gasping and crying harder than before. He leans over, and for the first time since I was small, I see a look of love in his eyes. He shushes me and wipes my tears away with a handkerchief.

“Oh Catherine, what have I done? My precious girl, what have I done to you?” His eyes well up, and he backs away a bit, picking up a light and moving it closer to me. “I’m so sorry.” He taps the side of a syringe and moves toward me, with tears falling in thick beads.

“I don’t understand…” My vision still swims, the vicious combination of being drugged and crying. Seeing me cry causes him to sob, and he stands at my side, fighting for composure. He takes a deep breath and starts to tear off my sleeve.

“No, please, don’t! Please! Please dad! What are you doing?” My voice rings across the room, bouncing off the walls and accentuating my frantic plea. The echoes sound like a chorus of angels pleading my case; a sound my father is deaf to hear. His eyes closed tight with resolve, his arm swings with considerable force toward my exposed and glowing arm.

In a flash, my vision is crystal clear. My brow furrowed, my eyes burning, I turn to the man who raised me, the man who gave me life. In his hand, the syringe shakes, held back by the force of my will. He is paralyzed, staring wild-eyed at me. My glare does not move from his face, my mouth set in a firm line with teeth bared and grating. A voice, unlike any I’d ever heard coming from my mouth growls, and Caswell Leander stumbles backward. The shackles binding me to the table creak and break off at the welded joints, hanging from my wrists like thick bracelets. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge, my bare feet turning to ice against the concrete.

In, my breath flows as I walk toward him. Out, it runs from me as he tries to back away. In, I pull him, with the feeling of fabric dancing across my torn hands in response to his unaided levitation. Out, his arm flies from his side, his fingers open, and the syringe is lying in his shaking palm.

“What’s in it?” I ask, pressing him against the wall.

He shakes his head and cries “Please, Please, Catherine.”

“Tell me what’s in it, or I’ll drop you. I swear I will.”

“It’s cyanide.” A child’s fear seems to have overtaken him.  He closes his eyes and continues to sob uncontrollably. He was trying to kill me like a criminal, not a child he’d seen grow from an infant to a young woman. I was a danger to be dealt with, no more, no less.

“Who do you think I am, Father?” I set him down gently, and let the syringe fall to the floor. “Why would you do this?” my rage subsides and all I can feel is confusion. I drop to my knees and crawl toward him, a huddled crying mass. He shrinks back, and his tears glisten in the luminescence of my skin. I reach out and gently touch his shoulder. “I’m your daughter.”

“That you are.” His eyes peek out from under his brow, narrow with violence and determination. “I made you who you are, and I can unmake you.” He lunges forward and pins me down, his knees holding my forearms firmly against the cold concrete. I struggle against his weight, but my arms can’t move. All I can do is tug at his clothes in vain attempts to dissuade him, but he has the upper hand. Without any further conversation, no apology or explanation, he swipes at me with the needle. I throw my head forward, and make contact with his hand, throwing it off course… and directly into his own arm.

The syringe drops to the ground, his face overtaken by disbelief. He looks from my face to the blooming stain on his sleeve, the bright red blood standing in start relief against the linen shirt.  He hadn’t injected himself, but the pure trace of poison on the needle that plunged deep into the meat of his arm was enough. Clutching his arm, his knees roll off my mine. I pull myself up to sit in front of him, and he looks me over. The poison can’t be taking effect yet, but he knows death is on its way.  His lips move incoherently, too overcome with emotion to actually form words or the sounds to convey them. He reaches for me. I kick the needle away and crawl to his side, wrapping my arms around him. What can I do? I have nothing to help him. I’m helpless and broken.

My eyes sting with the struggle to hold back tears, but I immediately surrender.  I hold him tightly, my tears and snot mixing with the blood on his clothing. I whisper comforts, but whether for him or for me, I cannot tell.  He is fading, but still clinging to me, choking for air and seizing from suffocation. I shush him gently, and smooth his hair with my hand. His lips quietly form “Sorry” over and over again between gasps. I let my eyes drift over his face, his eyes are wide under upturned brows, scanning my face like reading a book.

“I’ll be fine, Daddy. I promise.” I say as he shakes his head, tears falling and gathering at his temples.

“No, don’t be fine. Be free.” He chokes out the last words I would ever hear from him, and gasps one last time. “Run.” He mouths gently, pressing his hand into mine, and then falling silent and motionless. My heart thuds to a halt, beating once and waiting for me to breathe again to beat once more. A wail rips its way out of my lungs, and I shake him, but there is no doubt, Caswell Leander is gone. My arms illuminate the silent corpse,  and the clatter of metal and tools echoes through the room. I feel something metallic pressed against my palm, not the ghost of something, but something really lays in my hand. I carefully fold my father’s arms on top of his body, and look. A card with teeth like a key, brass, enameled with his portrait, lies across my dotted palm. Inscribed with flowing script, the words he spoke on the revelation of his airships.

“The world belongs to those who are not bound to it.”-Caswell Leander

Out of nowhere, a banging and screaming sound comes from the door. Through my tears, I can see feet breaking the light coming from the stairwell. Frantically, I look around. Even with all the tools in the room, I’d be helpless against guns. I lay my father down and scramble to my feet. The keycard in hand, I run, obedient to the end. In the distant darkness of the basement workshop, I see it. Little more than a mining track, lit with phosphorescent lamps. I jump into the cart, and pull the lever, hurtling off into the darkness.

The light breaks me out of my crying and the cart coasts to a stop. I step out of the cart and stumble blindly through the door. There, waiting for me like someone knew, a small airship with Leander emblazoned across its side. The room is silent, except for the faint bubble of a boiler and the hiss of steam escaping. I run from the shadows through the bright hangar, and push my key into the groove made for it. It turns and the door unlocks and hisses open with pneumatic pressure. I walk inside and press the buttons I know will set the ship on its course. The tethers retract and the ship rises into the air, lurching forward as I hit the throttle.

The door closes behind me, but I don't turn around. My eyes are focused on the horizon, getting away from the danger of what was once my home. I keep my hands on the steering wheel and breathe a sigh of relief. Then, against the hum of the ships motor and the rush of the wind, I hear the sound of feet tapping and turn to see her…

“Beatrice, what- why are you-” I stammer incoherently, dividing my attention between my unusually confident servant and the path of the ship.

“I told you, I’ll always be here to help you.” She slips off her coat and her bare forearms throw blue light around the cockpit. The controls move without my motion and the clouds ahead dissipate suddenly. My hands retract and I stare in wonder, as she says with a shake of her head. “You haven't even started.”

A letter to the Editor

My soul is a book
and the pages are curled on the edges,
for my story is well known and well read.
So much so that if I were to look
upon it from Your eyes, I could see
the days of my life on which you look
fondly and say "That's my girl..."

Because those are the days you remember
and turn to when I'm losing the plot,
you remind me of who I am,
and skip unending paragraphs of who I am not.

Oh Author Eternal, what will my ending be?
Will I be a hero when I reach eternity?
If dog-eared pages and scribbled notes are all markers in me,
Let me be a journal, my empty pages left for thee.

You Stay Calm- A Short Story I Wrote For Class That I Really Actually Like

It’s been 3 years since the power went out. Well, the whole thing started long before that, but it’s been 3 years since we lost all power. Everyone was expecting some big cataclysmic thing to happen, but there was no cataclysm. Just a war, a normal war, just like the ones we’ve been fighting since someone dared to set foot in our country and poke the bear. After that, we just went after everyone, like a nerdy kid who cracks from all the bullying and goes on a rampage.  We did the worldwide equivalent of beating the bully to a pulp,  but it was only when we’d  already done the damage that we realized we were hurting ourselves in the process. By that point, we’d used our alliances to their limits, the rest of the world was sick of us, and the country was in an uproar. The people rebelled, the government was overthrown, and the one that took over was no better.  Our economy collapsed completely, we went broke so quickly the rest of the world went with us.

            Now there’s nothing. There’s no government, no taxes, no schools, no healthcare. For the first few months, everything just dissolved into raiding. Parents robbed toy stores to placate their hungry children, teenagers stole from computer stores to beef up their gaming systems thinking somehow they would be able to run again. There were old people lying in the streets, crying out to passersby to help them, gasping for air and coughing without medicine or care. People were dying from starvation when there were open fields all around them, full of crops. No one knew how to function without supermarkets and restaurants. It was total and complete chaos but somehow, we got past it. Everyone just got tired, we were hungry for order, so we just created our own. People only stole what they needed; seeds, hoes, shovels, all the equipment to become self-sufficient. People migrated out of the cities to the country, and then they started to live.

I was just a kid when the War was going, so I barely remember the life before this. I remember the end of it, but even that seems like it’s fading away. I remember life getting harder and days when we only had power for a couple hours.  I remember my Mom leaving us when I was too small to tell her to stop. I remember when I was 5, I would sit and watch cartoons while I could, only to have them interrupted by a death count or a nationwide warning. I remember I would start to cry, but then my Dad would come in, scoop me up, turn off the TV and take me outside.

“Do you see those trees? The big ones across the road?” My Dad would say as he sat me on his knee.

“Y-yeah..” I would reply, sniffling into his shirt collar.

“They’ve been around for more than 200 years, that’s how they got so big. There was a war a lot like this one when those trees were as little as you.  Now, can trees run away when they’re afraid?”

“No, Daddy! That’s silly!” I would giggle through my tears.

“So do you know what they do when they’re afraid? They stand very still, and let the wind blow through their leaves. So you do the same thing, when you’re afraid, you stand still and take deep breaths. You stay calm.”

I was 14 the next time Dad had to remind me of this. It had been 2 years since the government was overthrown, and we’d tried to set up other systems, but they’d all failed. All the money was gone, and the stock market had broken up completely. It was the start of the Chaos. As Dad and I stood outside my closed school, I started breathing shallow and tearing up. He looked over to me, and wrapping his arms around my shoulders whispered “You stay calm.”

I closed my eyes against the panic, and went back to being a kid on the porch. I felt the breeze and ignored the shouting. When I opened my eyes again, we were in the car. We drove straight home, and we became like the trees across the road. We didn’t leave home, we let the wind blow over us. Dad taught me to hunt, we started a farm and bought a couple of chickens.  He taught me to be strong, but he also taught me to love people.

There was a time at the end of the Chaos when people just started stealing from any house they came across. One night, I heard someone in our storage shed while I was sleeping, and I woke up and ran out with my gun. I held it straight at the back of the intruder’s chest, but then I heard Dad’s voice, speaking softly from behind me.

“You could just ask.” His tone was almost joking, but it had a hint of seriousness to it. The thief turned around and looked down my gun barrel, his eyes widened in fear and shock, all previous bravado fading. He looked from me to my Dad, and then back to me. My Dad said nothing, he didn’t reach out to touch me to tell me to put the gun down, he just stood behind me. The only thing I could see was the man’s face and his eyes shimmering. It was one of those times you know your Dad has something he wants you to do, but he wants you to choose it yourself.

I stood there, stubborn and scared. I couldn’t back down now…

But I had to.

I took a breath and lowered my arms, and every muscle in the man’s face released. Tears made tracks down his face, and he dropped the vegetables and walked past me towards Dad.

“Thank you, thank you sir. You saved my life.” He sobbed, shaking his hand.

“Don’t thank me, thank my daughter. She let you go… I made you turn, she could’ve shot you right then.” Dad said, perplexedly. The man turned and looked at me then back at Dad.

“Thank you, little girl. You’re very kind.” He said, seemingly just to satisfy Dad’s wishes.

“She is not a little girl, she is an adult. Now, take those vegetables and go.” Dad’s tone had changed. He was strict now, pushing the man off our property.

Needless to say, that was the last we saw of any scavengers.

I wasn’t in school anymore, I was running a farm, feeding myself and I even started to trade with others in town. There were a lot of things my Dad put on me, teaching me and making me into the person I am. He put me in charge of our valuables, I was the one who bought our cows and our horse. He trusted me more than our neighbors trusted their kids, because he was pushing me out into the world, preparing me to be my own person. It was almost like he felt the winds coming like the trees seemed to.

It was a month after my 18^th birthday,  I was in the house, counting canned vegetables so I could know what we needed for the winter when I heard him screaming. I dropped the paper I held and ran outside to see him bolting across the field. He was running faster than I’d ever seen him run, coughing and hacking.

“There’s a tornado. Megan, get in the cellar, I’ll grab the things we need out here. Just get it lit and get the animals inside.”

“But they’re not going to go! The stupid cows might not even get up!” I was screaming now. The storm was close enough to see the trees bending. I was terrified.

“Just do it! Get down and stay calm!”
             Exasperated, I ran from him and grabbed as many of the chickens as I could catch and threw them in the storm door. The cows struggled with me, but I eventually got them to their feet and they followed me down the ramp, mooing all the way into the basement. I locked them in the emergency pens and lit the kerosene lamps. Running back up, Dad pushed my horse through the door, fighting to calm him. I patted his mane and shushed him, finally able to coerce him into his stall. Then I waited.

I could hear the wind pulling at the house, creaking and groaning, fighting the urge to crack completely. Dad had dropped bags of crops in the door but hadn’t come down himself yet. Each time, I’d asked if he wanted help, he told me to stay. So I stayed. I waited. I closed my eyes against any fear, until I heard the door creak open and then slam shut. My eyes snapped open, and I looked to see Dad sliding down with one last bag cradled in his arms.

“I almost thought you weren’t going to make it.” I said running to hug him, my eyes aching and my breath catching in a hard knot. I wasn’t going to cry. For once, I was going to stay calm. Then the bag in his arms moved. I looked down at the bundle, and wrapped in an old hoodie was a baby. “Where did you get a baby?!” I shouted, causing her to erupt in a screech.

“Doesn’t matter, the parents are coming. Wanted me to get her inside. They needed to unload from their truck, in the ditch.” Dad said all of this between gasps for air. He was fighting for composure and that only set me more on edge. My eyes were brimming with tears and I was fighting the anger off. We didn’t have room for another family with all their crap and a screaming baby. I did not want any of this. I had fire rising in my chest and I felt it in my face, and then came the banging.

Dad gave me a look. The same look he gave me at school before the Chaos, the same look I heard in his voice when I had a man’s life in my hands. Then he looked down at the baby. She was squirming and crying louder than before, needing to be held close. Dad’s eyes looked up to meet mine, and my tears started to fall. I had to help. I opened my arms and took her from him, and he smiled and ran to the storm door. I could hear the Mother yelling down, barely audible over the wind. A man’s arm hung over the edge, covered in blood. Dad gestured furiously towards me, telling her to get inside as he tried to pull the man in, but then the wind picked up.

The door slammed shut on the woman, and it fell with a thud on Dad’s head. One of the lamps fell to the ground and the ramp was shrouded in near darkness. I squinted, and saw he had slumped and fallen to the bottom. I laid the little girl in a pile of blankets that was going to be my bed then ran over to him. Tearing the sleeve off at the shoulder, I wrapped parts of my flannel shirt around his wounded head. There was a lot of blood, but I couldn’t focus on that. I had to keep him alive. I ran through everything I knew of first aid, I kept him breathing and didn’t let him sleep. I sat by him all night, holding the baby in my arms, feeding her what I thought she could eat from our stores and singing.

When morning came, my eyes shot open from the ray of light peeking through the storm door. Dad instinctively moved an arm to shield his face, but I told him to stay still and not to touch his head. I stepped around him, climbing toward the light. I pushed the door open, and there was no sign of anyone. The man and woman were gone, the only trace of their presence marked with frantic bloodstained handprints. Their truck was tipped over in the road. The tree that had pinned them was thrown against the line of trees from my childhood.  I took a breath, and I went back inside to pick up the baby. She was left to me now, and I made a wish for her. I wished for her to be strong, but light. I gave her a name, Amelia Avery.

That was the day I became what my Dad always spoke over me, and what he still says over me when Amie gives me trouble. When she has nightmares, he wakes me up and points me toward the door with a smirk. And just like he did when I was her age, I scoop her up, take her outside in my arms, and point her to the trees.

“You just stand still and breathe. You stay calm.”

Whispers and Shouts.

When I was only a baby, the devil came to my mom.
One night when she was doing dishes, he whispered to her.
"You see your little 'gift from God' ? That precious little girl?
Well, I'm going to take her. I'm going to make her MINE."
Well, my mom, she's a fighter, and she didn't listen to his lies.
With all the force she had in her, she slammed her hands down and said "NO."
She claimed the force of my name over my life, and asked God to make it so.

"Gabrielle"-Strong Woman of God, or so the sites say.
And for 21 years, I've had that name. I've heard repeatedly the claim that GOD IS YOUR STRENGTH!
But I didn't let it take.

You see, I was a shy kid, and I covered it up with a punk mentality,
with a look of discontent and a tendency to only speak loudly when arguing.
But when those layers are stripped away, all that's left is a little girl,
Hiding in the shadows with her arms drawn up close so she can't be seen,
trying not to be noticed, least of all for her being.

I'm not talking about my body, but my soul.
I had this idea that if someone saw it grow, that'd make me start to fake it.
Like a native with a camera, I thought a glimpse would take it.
and so I hid it.
I buried my soul under layers of fear,
I hid the little sapling from the light for close to 6 years, and it withered away.

So I'd sit in worship and wonder why I felt nothing.
I'd sit and pray and wonder why I wasn't hearing anything but the negativity.
The voice that said to me "You've damned yourself with your sins, you little fake.
You play all perfect in the light, but look what little dark it takes to make you ugly."
All I saw was ugly. There was no joy in the little cell I'd made myself.
Bound up on every side by a black nothing.
A sucking hole I poured my purpose into, and I slept, lulled to sleep by it's incessant deathly humming.
"You see your little gifts from God, now see how far they go.
I've taken all your light away, and pretty soon you'll know...
YOU'RE MINE."

OH BUT THAT STUPID LITTLE LIE. How flimsy it proved to be,
when the girl who once stood silent in the dark,
now finds her voice and screams
"THE ONLY STUPID THING I'VE EVER BELIEVED WAS THAT YOU HAD CLAIM TO ME!"
And in one fell swoop the curse is broken, and now I am set free.
Now I'm shining in the light the Devil kept so long from me.

"Create in me..."

"Create in me a pure heart, O God..."- Psalm 51:10a 

Create in me. 

3 simple words we always seem to breeze right over so we can get to the next part. Most of the time, when I read it, I think this verse is all about the pure heart bit. I think as a result, I've missed out on something I've needed to know for a long time.

So often, we say "God Created us" and while this is true as a general statement ( God created humanity "in the beginning"), grammatically, I think there is a huge breakdown when we try to say "God created me." God did NOT "create" me (past tense), He is, however CREATING me. He gave me my form from the start, yes, but my heart, my mind, my personality, my soul is a constant job that will continue until I die.

God did not set his pen down when my life began and say "I'm done." No, he put me into this world and stopped to watch.  He gave me free will, He gave me a mind and a soul that longs for Him. He gives me all the pieces I need, then He allows me to try to put the puzzle together myself. Then, like the Father He is, He sits down with me and shows me how to do it, even if He ends up doing all the work himself.

David understood this. David made a mess of his life, but he recognized that he was still a work-in-progress, and that's what I need to learn. God is still working on me, putting me together and fixing what I put together wrong.

He's not done with me yet.

Contentedness

For a long time now, I've been trying to be content.
But I guess all that time I wasn't sure what that meant.
Like, being content meant that I had to be smiling all the time.
Like being content meant I had to say everything just right.
Like being content meant being happy, being numb, being saintly.
But that just isn't me.

I'm a saint, I mean, that's what Jesus said, I guess.
But I don't have a peaceful mind when I lay down my head.
My thoughts go a million miles an hour in any direction but rest.
And those never ceasing thoughts, well, they tug at my flesh.
They water all my worries until they start to sprout
They call every last one of my mistakes out like fouls
They flash images from my past to the inside of my eyelids,
 and if that won't work, they just switch tactics until they find one that sticks.

"Who's gonna love you when they know where you've been?"
and just like that, my eyes are open again.
I lay face-up and my heart pounds in my chest,
and I think "There's no way I could ever be content."
Because being content means to be alright, right?
And how can I ever be alright?
I just wanna dig a hole and shove all of me inside
cover it up and forget it.
forget it.
Just forget and be content.

Because being content means to forget right?
It's ignoring the fact that there was ever a fight.
That just seems insane to me!
How could I ever forget suffering?
Maybe that's not what I need,
Maybe its not about everything being right,
Maybe it's seeing there's a tree after the death of the seed.

For a long time now, I've been learning about being content.
Now I'm reaching a time when I'll learn what Jesus meant.
He said "it is finished" and put down his head,
and I think in that moment, he was content.
He swallowed every drop of suffering
but he did it for beautiful things only he knew,
He suffered for the sake of a glory that is all surpassing.
And he asks nothing more of me than to suffer through
and find contentedness in his beauty, and in the things he has for me to do.

Life Inside My Head #1

(Some of these are old reflections, but they mostly relate to what's going on with me now. This isn't a super spiritual post. it's more about my insecurities.)

• Sometimes I wonder why I write. 
• This thing has always been secondary to the other stuff I do, but I feel like it gives me the most catharsis from my problems.
• It's a prayer for me. I communicate with Jesus through this stuff, and I think the inspiration I get comes from the Spirit. I can't stop. It keeps me going.
• But at the same time (next)
• Sometimes I wonder if anyone other than God, my family and my church family cares about what I have to say.

• There is so much pent up in this head of mine, and writing is one of the best ways for me to get it out, but no one ever discusses things with me. I want to know I'm not the only one who thinks like I do, going into the artistry of it and the poetry of a day.
• I get the feeling people think I'm really really dim or inexperienced and whatever. I hate feeling like people think I'm stupid.
• I feel like others don't have any faith in me, other than the ones that have to because I am in some way an investment of theirs. Like they have a stake in my success, if I fail they fail.
• I have a couple people who pour into me that have no stake in my success, and that's so special to me, but more often than not, I'm just there to people.
• I'm not asking to have people just blindly appreciate my existence, I want to MEAN SOMETHING to someone. Not just romantically, but...
• Sometimes, I wonder if anyone will find me beautiful in anything but a platonic way.
• I hate the fact that this bugs me so much.
• Is there a tinge of Narcissism in this? probably.
• Yeah, I know the Christian answer to this. "God made you, and you are a precious creation of his." I KNOW. I realize this.
• is it wrong that sometimes this isn't enough?
• Does that mean I have less faith in God? No, it's just different.
• Statistically, I KNOW someone will, eventually. But for right now, at this minute, I need someone to say that I am not beyond hope.
• Right now, I'm trying not to focus on this as much. I realize my value is not found in romance.
• Sometimes I wonder if it's okay to think the way I do.
• Is it okay to be harsh and brutally honest?
• Would I still be so honest if I knew people would take offense?
• Sometimes I wonder why I'm so socially incapable
• I feel like I'm loud and annoying, but at the same time, quiet and I don't contribute anything worthwhile.
• I feel totally incapable of making friends apart from people who are brought into my life by others or by circumstances.
•  I WANT that. I want to feel like people want to be around me, not that they have to be.