Press Room Flowers

A gentle cross breeze meanders in and out of doors and windows while I work this morning. Unseasonably warm, but none of us are complaining. I bend the paper, letting this tame air ease between the pages. The stack drops briefly to the table. Tap. Tap. Pages settle into alignment. I slide them into the machine and tap them in place once more.

“You ready, Toby?” I whisper to the machine.

His motor continues rumbling his monologue, which I carefully interpret to be an affirmative.

Leaning back from the safety sensors, I push both hands underneath the work surface, pressing twin buttons and holding them in place, while the blade of the machine slides down with a soft swoosh through the paper stack and thunk reaches its limit and thunk returns to starting position. I sweep the paper trimmings into the recycle bin beside me, thin ribbons of waste tumbling into their confinement. My process continues, repeating. Jog the paper into a neat stack. Tap. Tap. Register the paper in the cutter. Tap. Tap. A gentle but excited murmur. “Here we go, Toby!” Swoosh. Thunk thunk. Slivers of paper tipping over the edge and tumbling, tumbling down. Then gone, and I reach for the next section of paper, only to find I’ve finished already.

“Thank you, Toby. I’ll be back soon enough.”

My feet carry me across the press room floor along a weaving line between machines, paper stacks, and rolling tables to the bindery station, my own space in this planned chaos. Here, I perch on my rolling chair, old enough to have plastic wrap wrapped around and around and around the seat, trapping in the exposed orange foam. Here, I shape the brochures in careful thirds, pressing each fold into sharp lines with the tool in my hand. We call it a bone, and I cannot help but imagine the years of hands that have held it, tilted and pressed it into paper creases. The bones wrapped in their own skin strangely similar. In reality it is something akin to a tongue depressor but plastic and thicker in the middle because of the years of wear on the edges rubbing against paper. As I near the end of my brochure pile, I glance over to the clumsily made metal flower I taped upright on the desk weeks ago.


The shrink wrap system had partly broken that day. The metal wire that heats to melt the plastic together was hanging down, a limp and partly severed appendage, when I went to package a finished job. I stared at it, the broken wire. It twisted at an odd angle, no longer straight, strong, and shining. “You poor, baby.” I rub my hand against the metal blue casing surrounding most of the system in an attempt at comfort.

As a coworker clocked in for the day, I called her over. “Sarah, what do I do?”

My comrade in arms looked at the wire for a moment, frowned, considered pushing it into place with the end of a pen, and finally said, “Let’s ask Kyle. He usually fixes it.”

Kyle, a gentle man nearing retirement, smiled as he accompanied us to the heart rending scene, despite the inconvenience. “Sarah, could you unplug it?”

“Sure.”

He reached under the device and retrieved a cardboard box, two sides of which were labeled Shrink Wrap Parts in bold swoops of a Sharpie pen. Talking to us as he did so, he unfastened the old wire, blackened and bent. “I don’t know what this could be used for now. Probably something.”

“We could make a flower out of it,” I offered.

He twisted the pliers to the left. “Sounds like an art major thing to say.”

I shrugged, watching him unspool the new wire while he continued in a conversation with Sarah which I can no longer recall. The shining strip of metal reached nearly from one anchor point to another, barely too short.

“Here. Make a flower out of this.” Kyle handed me the failed wire.

It rested with a gentle weight in my hands as so many sticks had throughout my childhood. I pressed and it bent without breaking, so I set about my task, bending and straightening, wrapping and twisting, until a flower as crude as a child’s fifth finger painting emerged, but a flower all the same.


I reach out and gently touch the edge of one wire petal. Smooth and cold, it contrasts to the stacks of paper I’ve been handling my entire shift today. My shift. I should get back to work. The job ticket, this lovely orange sheet of paper with the standard instructions from above (that is to say, Amanda’s office upstairs), dictates that the finished brochures be packaged in three groups of one hundred, so I count. I count in piles of ten until each stack is ready. I slip them into thin plastic and melt the ends together to seal them in. I place them on a blue table to my left. Before I’ve even turned on the heat gun, I’m singing ballads again, and while plastic tightens around paper in reaction to the hot air, the Lady of Shalott looks out her window to see the water lilies bloom.

In Which I Am Simply Human

Wind and leaves sway their lullaby above my head as I slowly wake up. The cygnets have drifted back to their mother on the island in the middle of the pond, no longer waiting by the fencing that encompasses their world for me to hand them clovers that grow out of their reach. I hear them faintly muttering to their mother and other siblings as I stretch a little, eyes still closed. Music continues to play through my earbuds, one of which has fallen out of my ear and into the grass I rest on.

The kingdom of the morning star
can pierce a cold and stony heart. 
Its grace went through me like a sword 
and came out like this song. 
Now I'm just waiting for the day 
in the shadows of the dawn.

Gray Havens' "Shadows of the Dawn." It's just after the song I was listening to when I drifted off. But has it only been the length of a song, or have I been asleep the whole album and it started playing again? I put the question from my mind and inhale deeply, the grass, dirt, pond, and gentle summer air, smell like sweet colors that fill my mind. The grass murmurs as someone leaves the concrete path and approaches. I know this pattern of steps, the soft chuckle.

I stretch, smiling, and open my eyes. Seeing him smiling down at me, my own smile broadens. "Hi."

"Hi." The laughter gracing his shining eyes tickles his voice as well. "Were you asleep?"

"Not just now. I was thinking."

"Sure you were."

"I might have been sleeping for a while beforehand."

He chuckles again, pulling a leaf out of my hair. "Let's get going, Silly Woman." Taking my hand, he helps me to my feet.

---

Evening autumn chills have wrapped themselves around my fingers like strips of cloth as I leave him at the door, worry prodding my heart with icy fingers. He's sick. Just a cold, but I still feel lost, unable to help him recover. Instead of going straight home, where I can make cocoa and wrap myself in a blanket, I wander along paved paths while the chapel bells sing songs. Eventually I make my way towards the glowing sunset. An illusion from the distance told me the sun had set the fog to a red glow, but no fog exists to greet me when I reach the cliff's edge. I lean on the fence and gaze down at the water, its strange surface a mix of dancing textures, waves that dissolve into the shore and ripples that resemble the wrinkles of a fluttering silk cloth.

I drift away with the breeze, back up the path, leaving behind the people hammocking, chatting among themselves. When I am behind the library, I pause. We've sat in the grass here together, he and I, talking about various universes. This evening, I see something I have repeatedly overlooked when the grass was green and vibrant: a well worn path. Without consciously coming to a decision, I find myself following it. I place one foot at a time, not rushing myself when it's even a little steep. I've learned caution from a childhood of running through fields and walking along ledges beside creeks. I gently lower myself down large rocks similar to the those at the cliff point I just left. At the end, I stand on a flat slab that overlooks the lake below. I feel different here, more myself than work has allowed me to be in a while. There is no fence here. No fence to protect me, but none to confine me.

I sit down, alone but for the occasional owl call and cricket symphony. The sun continues her near completed journey, settling ever so slowly behind the tree blanketed hills in the distance. As I trace senseless shapes and patterns in the red clay dust that covers the stone, I study the almost twinkling cities in the distance and the reflections of lanterns on the lakeside docks. Watching the water so late at night, I understand the writers who came back again and again to ink. It's so dark I can hardly imagine ever seeing through it clearly, but even as I accept the obsidian depths, remembering my mother's inks and pens with which she does not write, but draws, the words to paint the universe, I cannot help but notice how much clearer the reflection is in this black mirror. Eventually I take my camera out and try to capture a fragment, but none of the pictures satisfy me.

After a while, I return up the path again, find my way to my room, curl up with a blanket, and make cocoa for my roommate and myself. The night passes gently, and I fall asleep in a deep pile of blankets.

The next day, I wake in a cocoon of warmth but manage to force myself to get dressed and out. I see him at lunch, still miserably ill. He eats quickly, and I walk him back to his place again. Again I wander to the cliff behind the library. Today, I notice a path that enters the trees. Curious, I follow it until I find a place to sit. There I build a small fairy house in the base of a tree. Inside, I place a sun-bleached snail shell. The rest of my time on the path, I take pictures. There's something about light that touches the human soul. So many stories from all around the world, and light is almost always a force or symbol of good.

Before I go back to my room again, I sit on the stone slab for nearly half an hour, staring out at the lake and surrounding countryside, far away but somehow close enough to see. Despite the chilly weather of late, I am warm in the sunlight, warm and content. Absentmindedly, I reach up and touch my hair. My fingers encounter a stowaway there, a yellow leaf. Its edges are jagged and must have caught in my hair while I was hidden away along the forest path. Although I am not certain why, I give it a gentle kiss before I return it to the trees.

Standing, I stare out one more time at the vast segment of the enormous garden I am a part of. It's not the perfect garden, the Garden of Eden, but it's still a garden, brimming with life, beauty, and the fantastical. How wondrous. I brush the dirt from my jeans and sigh happily.

The Used Bookstore

The buildings were old and weathered. Some sported paint and new signs, but the rest were comfortably the same as they had been for many long years. Walking along aged concrete amid the faintest sprinkle of rain, I glanced at the dusty windows of unused businesses. Where a comic book store had its short run, boxes, an old wardrobe, and an easel populate the darkness, illuminated only by the light shifting through neglected windows. A few more yards and a door greets me, paint chipped but cheerful regardless. I wrap my fingers around the metal handle and push gently, noting the pale semicircle on the floor that marks the door's daily repeated path. As I step inside onto the wooden floor, I take in my surroundings and close the portal. Two cats occupy the counter, one curled tightly in sleep and the other simply lounging, watching me with clear, green eyes. I know these cats, if only in passing. I have sat on the floor with them, running my hair stick back and forth across the uneven surface as they pounce, bat, and bite it.

When was I last here?

A year? More?

I make my way to the back corner where science fiction and fantasy are laced together on the shelves, followed by one of the cats. Grace tossed aside, he leaps from the counter and charges past the shelves; his little thudding feet leave echos trailing behind him. Immediately, he jumps upon a chair, staring at me with loving eyes. I lean over, allowing him to climb to my shoulder. There I stroke him, soft fur sliding past my finger tips, pulling a silky purr into the air. This is not enough however, and he continues to climb on me, finally settling on my back, leaving me bent over to accommodate. His feet tucked in beneath him, he is the contented victor, having conquered the giant. I stand, bent over like a broken doll still left on display and stare at the books on the bottom shelf. Cookbooks and photography. I make a mental note to return, but never do. A minute passes and the cat leaves with no explanation. I straighten and take the last few steps to my chosen genre.

Here, where spines wear authors and titles like strange garb from the far away lands in which they take place, I inhale and close my eyes, soaking in the atmosphere of the books that no longer have homes. This is a shelter, a place where those who find themselves unwanted are taken, a place where those who are lonely come.

The cat has returned. He sits beside my feet, talking to me. His voice fills the space around him as clearly as if it were solid matter ballooning from his small form. My gaze flitters across the shelves and comes to rest on a note taped to a nearby door.

"Do not let cats in this room no matter how much they beg."

He meows again.

"No." I tell him, gentle and firm, but I still smile.

Moments later, one of the store workers enters that back room, and the cat slips in. She calls to him, trying to navigate the stacks of boxes, all of which hold promising books. He proves stubborn however, and refuses to emerge.

I return to the books. There are names I recognize and names I have never before encountered. Goblin Moon by Teresa Edgerton catches my eye, as does The Gnome's Engine. I start my book pile with them. I've never heard of the writer, but if I only read authors I already knew about, I would have far fewer books and much less happiness. I step to the side and lift my focus a few shelves higher. There, tucked away in shadow, are various works of Patricia McKillip. With a quiet sigh floating to the floor in the company of now startled dust motes, I carefully bring down Od Magic, still robed in Kinuko Y. Craft's cover art. This is a piece of my beginnings. I remember curling up with my mother under the covers of her bed, sunlight gleaming in the windows as I listened to her read, her voice crafting poetry from prose. Od Magic was one of our favorites, the color of the cover matched by the color of McKillip's descriptions and characters. Yes, well known and loved, this book will accompany me home as well. I also select Riddle of Stars, having never read the trilogy before, and had I unlimited time and the ability to do so, I would clutch more books to my heart and bring them home like baby birds in need of a mother, but Earth spins on her toes with no intention of slowing, no matter how desperately I may plea.

Forcibly removing myself from the shelves where temptations beckon me sweetly, but not quite ready to leave the quiet little store, I cross the floor again, this time entering a little reading nook, populated by chairs, a couch, and a few small tables the perfect size for a pile of books and a laptop to comfortably sit together. The nearest table is taken by a dozing fellow. A little out of shape, his dark hair is warm from sunlight. I give him a polite hello as I take the chair closest to him. He opens shining eyes and answers with a soft meow and a tail twitch. We talk in whispers, gentle sounds in different tongues, as I rub behind his ears. We can hear the store workers talking.

"Brody got in the back again." Her voice rests somewhere between concern and irritation.

"I'll go get him." A man answers, seemingly resigned.

This place is owned and run by a family. They don't aim to make it large or particularly profitable, so it stays small and quiet near the edge of the square in a town where most citizens would rather go hunting than read, and there is nothing wrong with that. I like the small and quiet. I love the empty spaces and dancing shadows. I enjoy the peace here.

The door to the back room opens again, and I hear the man talking to Brody. "Go over there. There's a girl over there. She'll pet you."

Sure enough, I hear once more the echoing of little cat feet. Brody crashes onto the table between me and his brother. Tail high, he greets me with trilling song as I restack the toppled books. These he chooses to rub his cheeks against whilst sprawling across my purse.

"You can stuff him in your purse and take him home with you." The man reminds me of my father, not fond of cats, but loving people who are, and thus doomed to look after the small, bothersome beasts. Regardless, they are a part of his team.

I laugh. "I already have enough cats at home."

"Another cat person," he chuckles to himself before walking away into the forest of covers, spines, and pages.

I never once looked up from cats or books to see his face, to sketch in my memory how his face folded when he smiled or the manner in which he took a single step.

Eventually, I ease Brody off of my bag with apologies and careful movements, finally making my way back to the front desk. Somehow, I still have credit here, and it applies to all the books but one. I pay what is due and thank them, slipping back out the door with a little wave goodbye to the cats. It's sunny out by now, and I wish it wasn't. Rain, however light, always seems right when the day involves a used bookstore, especially a quiet one, but I count my blessings that the books stay easily dry.

Once in the car, I flip the pages of each book, smiling at them lovingly. Each used bookstore smells slightly different, as if the books have been talking to each other, sharing their stories and trading news of outside places. One day, when I am old and many of the books in my library are even older, my skin will be wrinkled and the books' pages will be yellowed, and both will still be filled with love and quiet.

And maybe, just maybe, a bit of cat hair.

Box Turtle Buddy

My sister and I were enjoying rare free time together last month when we spotted a box turtle in the yard. We raced to the fridge to grab a couple strawberries and embarked to make a new friend.

He seemed to appreciate our gift and ate his fill before ambling away.

Nearly a week ago, I was greeted by a visitor on the front step: the same turtle. Reckless, he ambled up to me when I sat down on the ground. I placed my phone on the concrete in front of him to see what he would do with it. The curious creature inspected it from all angles, bumping his beak against its edges, before losing interest. I held out my hand to him, much the way I do with the cats. This too he bumped his beak against. It felt like getting a tiny high-five. He began to walk away, and I reached out and stroked the back of his head. Instead of pulling back in his shell, he let me pet him. He was friendly and trusting, with beautiful markings.

I returned inside to finish some work, but I didn't stay in long before I returned to my reptilian friend, this time with blueberries. He found this quite exciting.

Not at all intimidated by my ever present camera, he treated it with the same interest as he did everything else.

Finally he made his way through the grass to continue whatever expedition of great importance he happened to be on that day, and I was sad to see him go.

That evening, I decided to do some research. Most turtle types are territorial, so it's very likely that this little box turtle is the same one we met when my family moved in and the same one I encountered almost exactly a year ago. Apparently, box turtles live from thirty to fifty years. I hope this one stays around that long; I've come to consider him a friend. The next step in my research was to determine what kind of box turtle he is. That step did not go well. He has five toes on his front feet and three on his back feet, however, his markings aren't consistent with the three toed box turtle. I honestly have no idea. As far as I know, he could be a box turtle cross breed or simply a mutant. Either way, he's a beautiful turtle.

My father will sometimes tease me about talking to animals as if they were people, especially when it comes to the cats. In some ways though, they really are like people. Not all cats act identically. The same goes for dogs, hamsters, horses, and even turtles. When we head out into the world, we make friends and allies. Each will be different and startlingly beautiful because of that. Animals are just the same. This is why I decided to name the turtle, because--besides it being easier to say a name than "that box turtle that lives somewhere around our house"--he, in his own turtle way, has an undeniable personality.

His name is Gerald.

Raining Spring: In Which I Am the Polar Bear

After a few occasions in which the sky dumped snow and the night froze said snow solid for several days, spring may finally be setting in. At least I hope it is. I have woken up to find sunlight and bird song outside my window, only to have it cruelly snatched away by daylight savings. Thus, I am more than ready for spring, for flowers, for tall grass, and even for the allergies that come from all of those blooming plants.

Our last snow and freeze was, admittedly, fun. In many areas of the yard, the ice was thick enough to hold my weight. I located especially smooth areas and let myself be a child again for a little while. Lying down with my back on the glass-like surface and breathing in the cold air, I contemplated the sky of a frozen Faerie Land. Moments later, I was sliding around in little half circles and giggling. There is no point in being grown-up if you can't stop and be a child at times. I also went about on my hands and knees saying "I am the polar bear!" I do not know why. It just happened. Occasionally, I would attempt to find weak spots in the ice and break it by slamming my "front paws" into it, like an actual polar bear might do. This didn't work quite as well as I had hoped, since usually it was my knees or backside that broke the ice instead, at which point my cry was "I am the fat polar bear!" because no polar bear breaks the ice that way.

Children play games where they pretend to be something or someone other than what they are. It's not something they plan out. They just do it. As we get older, we lose this ability. It becomes harder to shed our skins, to simply play. But maybe hope isn't lost for the grownups. Perhaps we can still step outside ourselves; it just takes a little magic.

The snow melt was beautiful. Light reflected off of the remaining sheets, illuminating falling drops and providing contrast to the vibrant green grass slowly being revealed. Taking my freshly charged camera, I set out once more to take some pictures.

Temperatures rose a few days ago. The little frogs began to sing again. Deciding to take a break, I trekked through the still muddy field into the woods. I hadn't journeyed far, when my cat, who had been following me at a distance, stood on her hind feet and stared intently at something over the hill. I had to walk a few yards to see what had attracted her attention, her litter-mate and my sister's cat, Shadow. Once he saw me, he decided to walk with me, which usually means he winds himself tightly between my feet. As I was on a sloping pond bank at the time, it is possible he was attempting to drown me. One can never say for sure with cats. After about fifteen minutes of frantic affection, he decided to follow at a more leisurely distance.

Venturing into a part of the woods I had previously left largely unexplored, I ducked under low branches and wove around fallen tree limbs.

Eventually, I came across a tree with a little well in its base where rain water and melted snow had gathered. It was the perfect size for a cat to drink from, which both Lizzy and Shadow preceded to do.

Finally, I decided to go home. Along my winding path back, Shadow found a stump on which to pose. Cats are fully aware of how beautiful they are and what colors bring that out; Shadow is no exception.

The last day or so, the sky has lazily drizzled rain from above, and the little peeper frogs have been singing contentedly. With God's blessing, this may be the beginning of spring, rather than a small moment of warmth in late winter. I'd like to be able to take more rambling walks with my camera and feline escorts for company in the near future.

Befriending Big Brother

Today is my big brother Kirito's birthday (called Death on big brother Ace's blog). The youngest of my honorary older brothers, he is also the most recent to be adopted, as it were.

I had been aware, for a few years, of Kirito as an upperclassmen. I'd seen him repeatedly in the halls and had the vague knowledge that he was smart and played computer games. He was on academic team as well, and would quite often give people mint gum for no real reason. I found it fascinating, the different kinds he would produce, all mint: spearmint, winter mint, etc. Naturally, I wanted to befriend him. There was only one problem: I am incredibly shy.

My freshmen year, my sister and I became fans of the writer Ted Dekker, and it is only natural that we would share the names of any other fans we came across. Kirito was one my sister mentioned. Almost the entire school year later, Kirito and I were both on a bus letting other people off before us. I had been reading Dekker's Thre3, and I still wanted to befriend Kirito. However, I was terrified to start the conversation, so I readjusted my hold on the book to a position that, while it was slightly uncomfortable, looked natural and allowed him to see the cover. Somehow, it worked.

"That's a good book."

"Really?" I looked up at him (he's actually quite tall).

"Yeah." He smiled gently.

And there lay two problems in my plan.

1. I hadn't read enough of the book yet to make it into a conversation. 
2. Even if I had, I was too shy to do so.

My junior year, I signed up to help an elementary teacher during one period of the day. I was assigned to Mrs. T. There are several Mrs. T's in the elementary, and I was relieved to find that another student would be helping her that period too. I could bluff about knowing what I was doing and follow the student to her room. I quickly discovered that Kirito was that other student and that he didn't know either.

In the Mrs. T's classroom, we could have very easily spoken rarely, staying to our own tasks. That is not what happened. Starting the first day, Kirito would talk to me. I had never heard him talk so much before. He told me about anime, music, and multiple other topics. Many days, he would work with one earbud in, and I would look up from helping a student to see him air drumming to the music. A few times, it looked like he was pretending to beat the children over their heads. He wasn't though; he was just lost in the music. I came to know his quirks of behavior: how he can't tell a story he likes without standing up and how he practically glows when he's talking about something he loves.

We would talk in the hall after that period too. He could make me really laugh, something that didn't happen often that year. We discussed choice weapons in a fantasy setting. His was the scythe, and he correctly guessed mine: bow and arrow. We also discussed Ted Dekker. He didn't remember how he knew that I was aware of his love of Dekker's books, but when I brought them up, he beamed. "You remembered!"

My junior year was hard. I had days when all I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and cry until I passed out from exhaustion. I felt alone, utterly alone. My closest friends were disappearing, some had graduated the year before and others were gone for different reasons. I don't know if I could have survived the school year without him.

So, long story short, happy birthday Kirito. I am so glad you talked to me and became my big brother.

The Blood Drive

I have never given blood before, not because I didn't want to. Circumstances have always worked against my desire to help. Thursday, I was able to break that pattern. I decided to donate blood.

I was nervous, to be perfectly honest. That's normal. Who wouldn't be nervous the first time a lifeless, plastic and metal mosquito feed on a vein?

As I walked into the room, a nurse smiled at me and handed me the forms I needed to fill out. After the paperwork, I sat at a little desk with another nurse. She brushed back a strand of short blond hair as she fastened the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around my arm. As it tightened, a snake strangling its prey, I felt each pulse of blood with thundering clarity. Only a moment and she was scribbling down my blood pressure (110/69) and pulse (73) onto a form. Next came my temperature (98.6). I watched as she prepared to prick my finger and calculate my hemoglobin. I'd had that done once before and watched her little device cautiously. It sharply bit my finger regardless. Hemoglobin came back as normal as could be expected (14.4).

I let my mind stray for a moment while a little machine nearby whirred. Of course the little tool for pricking fingers had shot its pointed end out so quickly. If it were slower, people would have time to flinch and pull away. The blood that came out was dark, a deep burgundy that made me think of my sister.

I vaguely became aware that I had grown hot. My head felt fuzzy and muted, grey even. I figured that, like being nervous, this was normal, but there could be no harm in asking, just to be on the safe side.

"Is it normal to feel hot and light-headed?"

She blinked and frankly answered, "Nope. It means you're not giving blood today. Lie down in the floor and put your feet in the chair." She left me and went in pursuit of a damp cloth.

A third nurse leaned around the side of her desk towards me. "Are you okay, Sweetie?" Her voice sounded odd, like I was under water.

I nodded.

I stayed there for about twenty minutes, head against cool concrete. If I had been left there much longer, I may have struck up a conversation in my head with the nearby trashcan. Eventually, I was given a little food and a cup of water before being released back into the world.

Oh well, there's always next time.

A Work of Art

All across the country, students are gritting their teeth, rolling their eyes, groaning, and generally doing decent zombie impressions as they begrudgingly return to school. The little ones seem to enjoy the entire education process more than about sixth grade and up. This is partly because so much of what they are exposed to is new and partly because they want to see their friends. They don't get to see their friends nearly as often during the summer as they do during school.

I have never quite fit into the "normal" category. In my beginning years of grade school, I was friends with almost everyone, but I would spend recess walking around the playground singing to myself. I was happy to be my own person by myself. Whatever factors allowed me to be that way (more than likely the A+ parenting I received) also allowed me to befriend all of my teachers. It was probably the end of my first grade year when I realized that I wanted to give presents to them before school let out. There were a few days left, but it was the last day that I would have art that year. When my teacher blew the whistle to summon us to our line that would dismally trail behind her, eventually being secured indoors once again, I quickly bent over and scooped a few pebbles into my hand.

After recess, we wound our way through the white washed halls, past cells in which crouched exuberant kindergarteners and world weary second graders. We were a prison line of excitement, a snake of wildly separate individuals. The art room door loomed above us all, and through it was a haven. Yes, we were still required to sit in our seats, raise our hands, and not scream, but it was here that our individuality could shine, even when we were told to do the same project as all the others. I adored the teacher. She had short white hair, but somehow we never saw her as old. My mother said that she had taught my uncle. It would not surprise me to learn that it was that endeavor which turned her hair white. Still, she always had a smile in her eyes. She loved art. More than a teacher, she was an artist. She ran an art studio, and still does, that my mother took my sister and me to once. No one else was there other than my teacher. She welcomed us in, gave us each a can of soda, and showed the two of us (my sister had her classes too) to a table where we could draw. The windows had art pieces standing in them so that light could shine through. I thought that it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, and entering her classroom for the last time as a first grader, I felt a full appreciation for her efforts with the snot nosed young of the human race in our little town. I waited until the other kids were busy with their work, then went up to her desk.

"This is my favorite rock, and I want you to have it." I handed her a little brown pebble, one of the few I had picked up only moments before on the playground. It was of an oval persuasion, brown and smooth. I told her it was my favorite because I wanted it to have the meaning for her that I intended for it to have. I felt horrid for not telling the truth, even if I had a good intention behind it.

Second grade started, and I was excited to see all of  my friends that I didn't really talk to all that much. The first day of art, I claimed a seat by myself and blissfully started on my assignment. Not long after, the art teacher walked up to me, smiled, and placed a gift on my desk. A sun-catcher of sorts, it was constructed of metal that had been melted and left to set around shards of glass.

Glass and metal, not unlike those large panels in the windows of her art studio. Here was a little piece of her that I would treasure for many years to come. I took it in my hands and felt all the changes in texture. There was a sea shell on the right side, just thin enough to let the light illuminate it the smallest bit. And then I noticed it. Above the shell was a smooth, brown, oval pebble. I had given it to her, and she had turned it into art.

She was the art teacher for elementary and the Jr. High. I had her for many more years, and she was always a friend. She didn't talk to me any more than the other students, but that was how it was with all of my teachers, all of which I considered friends. One year, I developed a loathing for water colors. I didn't have the control that I wanted. She introduced me to water color pencils, which fascinate me. She retired when I was in Jr. High. After she left, I didn't have time in my schedule to take art again until high school, so I never met the new art teacher. Art remains a releasing of energy for me, a directional flow.

The pebble is, in some ways, quite like my heart. It's a little thing, pretty in its own simple way. When I gave my heart to Father, He took it and polished it until it shone in the beauty He had always intended it to have. What is more, is that He set my heart in His plan, His plan being the most beautiful of all. Some days, we forget that, leaving it on the wall and allowing dust to slowly blanket the shimmering creation in our eyes, yet all it takes is the slightest glimmer of sunlight to remind us just how truly lovely His great art, His plan, really is.

Having Cats is Rather Like Having Children

I like taking walks. Wandering along paths with the sky above me, surrounded by trees and grass, is, for me, soothing. My mother says that, when I was still very small, when I cried and cried, she would take me outside, and I would go still, staring up at the trees. Outside is a place of peace for me.

A few weeks ago, I decided to go out to the goat pasture nearby. It's where my mother used to walk when she was my age. She had taken me there a few times, so I know the way. I set out across the field towards the gate, and I had barely passed the little pond when Sparkle came trotting up to me. She is, perhaps, the sweetest of our cats. I petted her a little and continued on my way. When I reached the fence a few minutes later, she was still following me. I didn't want to lead her off of the property, so I walked back to the little pond, Sparkle following me loyally. I sat down at the edge of the pond, and, after she had determined that I was not going to fall in and drown, Sparkle settled down in the shade of a tree. For a while I prodded some pond scum with a stick, at least until I felt certain that Sparkle wouldn't follow me.

I made my way back to the fence, refusing to look back in case that might encourage her. When I reached the fence, she was at my feet again. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't cross the fence. I climbed up and over the fence and continued on my way. A few yards later I heard panting so loud that it could have been my grandparents' Labrador. It was Sparkle. She looked up at me and mewed quite quietly. Looking down at her, I knew she would follow me all day, even if it killed her. It was ninety degrees outside. She'd pass out from dehydration and exhaustion. I picked her up and carried her all the way home. She wasn't happy about that. Sparkle is not one for holding still for long periods of time, especially when she's being held against her will.

I opened the back door, and she sprang from my arms, nearly tumbling down the stairs to the cool basement. Promptly, she located a shadow and flopped over, still panting. My mother and I sat down beside her. Despite her excessive panting, Sparkle still insisted on purring as she was petted.

We set a bowl of cool water beside her and talked a little.

"Having cats is like having children, isn't it?" I commented, watching Sparkle's heaving side as she stretched out so that she could rest her chin on the floor too. It did make sense. Cats will follow you about just because they love you, as will children, and, just like with Sparkle, having children often means you can't go where you want or do what you want, but you don't really mind all that much.

"Yes." There was a laugh in my mother's eyes. A laugh that said "More so than you know."

Beautiful Encounters on a Walk

The weather has finally reached my favorite temperatures, mid-seventies to mid-eighties, with gentle whispers of wind. Windows are open throughout the house, and the area that I sit in is almost always caught in a pleasant cross breeze. I love early summer. Nearly every other day, I climb over the fence and walk in the field behind the house. The grasses reach my waist and brush against my wrists as I meander here and there. It could almost be a setting for one of those commercials that feature such settings, usually advertising hair products. However, low lying black berry briars, burrs, snakes, and other agents of nature make wearing skirts, shorts, sandals, or flip-flops horribly impractical. On one point I do have to agree with advertisers: a field in the summer is certainly beautiful.

I've started to take my camera with me almost any time I go outside. As a result, I have a lot of pictures, most of which are from Friday and Sunday. I generally go straight to the larger of our two ponds, take some pictures, and sit and think for a while. There is always a chorus of little frogs making big noises, a dance of water bugs and dragonflies, and the fleeing of tadpoles. When I was little, we lived in a house with a clear, shallow creek on either side of the property. I would wade in and catch tadpoles, feeling their slippery skin against my fingers before letting them back into the creek when the water ran out of my hands. Tadpoles give me a sense of calm, one that I can soak into my heart as I sit on the pond's bank, so, late Sunday afternoon, I decided to go to the pond again. Before I even left the yard, I came across someone who had visited the driveway that morning.

He was a particularly fearless three-toed box turtle. He had gone straight up to one of the cats and then my bare toes before changing directions in favor of a worm that was trying to keep from drowning in the light rain. The turtle was also munching on the dried out worms that had died a day or two before. I had always imagined the dried ones would be something like bacon bits but with more protein. It's actually surprising that I never tried eating them when I was little. When I saw him again that afternoon, he was on the other side of the yard

Looking up from visiting with my reptile acquaintance, I saw that my trip to the pond would be delayed. I had set out later than usual, and the cows had beaten me to my destination. Since they were there first, I sat on the fence for a while and took pictures of them with two of the cats nearby, one of which was my sister's cat, Shadow, previously referred to as Insta-purr.

Eventually, I hopped down on the other side and explored a part of the field that I had previously been uninterested in. The difference now is that the thistle there is in bloom. A large, yellow butterfly was perched on one of the blooms, and I was hopeful that I could get close enough to get a picture before it left. Because of the distraction tactics of Shadow and Sparkle, one of the sweetest felines I've ever come across, the butterfly was long gone when I reached the thistle. However, I did get a few good pictures of the two cats.

Taking pictures and playing with the cats, I realized that when I sat down, or even crouched, the grasses came up past my head. A field is a wonderful place to hide in the summer, so long as one keeps an eye out for cow patties.

Although the butterfly had left the thistle, two fat bees were busying themselves there when I arrived. They buzzed and hummed around the purple blooms. Bees really are such pretty insects; sometimes I am baffled by the fear held by many who are not allergic. The thistle was beautiful with or without bees or butterflies.

When I finished with the thistle, I went and sat on a part of the fence that overlooks the road we live on.  On the other side of the asphalt is a wood. There are pale trees that speak of age with their cracked trunks and reaching branches. I would hardly be surprised to learn that the door to Fairy Land was there. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there was a door in our woods either. All forests and woods have a degree of magic to them. Why else would so many fairy tales from so many different countries take place in forests?

When the cows left the big pond, I scurried to its rocky banks. Most of it is surrounded by a steep incline that levels off at the top. On one side is the pond and on the other is the woods. 

I like to sit there and think or just listen to music. It is a safe place, a place where I can fill the sky and fields with thoughts and musings. I took some more pictures and mentally noted places that would be nice for pictures of people. I don't often get human subjects to work with, so I do my best when they are available.

Satisfied with the pictures I had taken, I left the pond. It was getting relatively late, but there was still enough light that I loathed the idea of returning to the house. Instead, I made my way to the smaller pond, following trails of trodden down grass that the cows had left behind. At one point I had to stop to pull a bur out of my sock. I reached the bank and plopped down. Unlike the larger pond, this one has hardly any slope to it's bank; the ground is almost level. I looked at the edges of the water and saw little black water snails moving about, climbing over each other and searching for food. It was then that I realized that someone was sitting next to me.

He was a little western ribbon snake, black with yellow stripes. Having grown up in the area, I knew he wasn't venomous. I slowly pulled my camera from its case and turned it on, careful not to startle him. He held perfectly still. I took several pictures of him, each time expecting him to dart to the water. When I finished taking pictures, I tried to encourage him to run away. I lightly touched the tip of his tail a few times, but he only curled the tip away a centimeter or two. Carefully, I stroked his middle, smooth scales sliding past my finger. He still made no move to leave. If he wanted to stay, I wouldn't argue. Turning my gaze from the sweet little reptile, I looked out across the pond.

I love reflections and light. The pond was quite simply lovely to see, and there was a slight breeze. An orange image of a battery blinked at me from my camera's screen. I had taken several pictures in the last few days, so it wasn't any surprise. I took a few more pictures and looked back at the snake. Slowly I reached toward him where he could see me then took pictures as he sped away across the water full of clouds, little head held high.

As I waded through the tall grass on my way home, I thought about Father. He takes such care with every little detail: each of the snake's scales, each whisker on my silly kitties, and each breath that I take. He doesn't do all of this out of obligation. He does this because He loves so entirely and so vastly. More beautiful to me than that which He creates is His love.

This morning, I looked up the western ribbon snake and something caught my attention: the eyes of the adult snake pictured. They were small in proportion to its head compared to the one I sat with on Sunday. I checked and there was the text to confirm my new suspicion. "The young are born from late June to September... At birth, young western ribbon snakes are from 230 to 250 mm (9 to 10 inches) in length." That was the right length and relative time of year, and it would explain why he has such large eyes. He's a baby. He didn't run from me immediately because he hasn't learned to be afraid of me. People are wrong when they say that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is only frustration and uninformed mistakes. Innocence is bliss.

A Visit to the Bookstore

Early Monday evening I entered Barnes and Noble. The chill from outside loosened its grasp and drifted away from me like smoke. There were more people than I would have liked, but I'm an introvert, and, as such, would prefer as few people as possible. Doing my best to remain invisible, I wove around the bookstore patrons. Despite any discomfort I might feel around them, they were there for the same reasons I was, reasons that were made of paper and ink.

I stopped by the journals first, a habit I had picked up from my mother. Many of the blank books were familiar faces: a leather lion, a yellow ribbon bookmark peering from between pages, and a variety of green leaves. A few that I recognized were the same as some of my mother's. Several new faces murmured their mute hellos as well. I picked up one that I'd inspected before. Its black cover was rough as I traced the clockwork design on the front. Gently opening it, I flipped through the pages, blank save for the black lines, and inhaled the sent of unused paper, the sent of potential.

I moved on to the graphic novels and mangas, taking a few detours to avoid people perusing the fiction and poetry shelves. Peeking into the desired aisle, I smiled slightly and moved on to the next one. The graphic novels and manga had a slightly different atmosphere. In other sections, readers stood back from the shelves or sat in chairs, but here, those who felt quite at home sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle. On days when other customers were few and far between, I would do the same until my legs fell asleep beneath me. Monday, however, I moved on to the other books for the time being. I flipped almost every book over to read the back, occasionally opening them to read the inside of the dust jacket. Cover art and titles are far from reliable in defining a book's worth. Still, only a shelf away from the graphic novels, I could hear the college age boys that occupied the floor. There were a few mentions of characters they all seemed to be familiar with, and then they began to head out.

"What's that one?"

One of them picked up a book and flipped a few pages. "It's about a hipster."

"I don't want to read about hipsters."

I waited a moment and put down the steampunk book I had been holding, moving to investigate Barnes and Noble's stock of graphic novels and manga. My attention shifted from book to book, art style to art style, before I wandered back to the fantasy, where a book of dragon history caught my eye. I smiled. I have a love for dragons. Taking it into my hands, I opened it to the middle and found a copy of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Eventually, I drifted back to the front to do some people watching. Many in line were adults, more than likely parents. They seemed worn, but perhaps it was simply the effect of the holidays. A pair of girls near the line stole my attention for a moment. They both were shorter than me, likely in high school or early college. The taller of the two had short red hair and wore a black pea coat. She embraced her friend.

"I didn't expect to see you here!"

"I read!" The shorter one replied indignantly. Her hair was dark and fell a little past her shoulders. She wore a dark shirt with a wide, but not low, neck line.

I smiled a little. They reminded me of myself with my friends. It was the clothing styles as well as the fact that I wouldn't expect to find my friends in Barnes and Noble, even though I know full well that they read.

I came home with one book. It was enough. Two days before, I had downloaded ten new books to my kindle, many of which were for free. I have reading material. I go back to work tomorrow. The books not yet read will be a comfort to have ready as well as a torment to ignore, as it is with all books.

Happy 115th Birthday

"What are you reading?" I looked up at my mother, blond hair with touches of brown brushed my shoulders. I was maybe four or five, perhaps six, but I had already been filled to the brim with an appreciation for books. I also knew that it wasn't likely that she'd even hear me ask. Books would do that to her, pull her from herself, leaving her deaf to the world. It wasn't so today.

"It's about a man who goes to another planet where sin doesn't exist, and he has to keep that world's Eve from sinning." She looked down at me for a moment before falling back under the waves of the story her pages held.

My mind was filled with images of a star traveler on a barren wasteland of a planet, perhaps Mars. To his left I could see an Adam, Eve holding his hand and standing slightly behind him. Miles past them were buildings where civilization had sprouted. To the traveler's right was a skinny little apple tree and a snake. I was sure it would make a great story and promptly forgot about it.

Last year, I picked up C. S. Lewis's Space Trilogy. I hadn't ever really been able to stay focused when reading the Narnia books, but these three books were a far different story. I devoured Out of the Silent Planet and started on Perelandra. I don't know how far I was into Perelandra when I remembered a short conversation with my mother what seemed like ages ago.

Before last year, I firmly believed that such a thing as a favorite book was impossible (excluding the Bible). I liked Out of the Silent Planet very much, but Perelandra made me want to scream, cry, and throw up all at once. Since then it has been my favorite book, and Lewis my favorite writer.

C. S. Lewis was born one hundred fifteen years ago today. Seven days ago was the fiftieth anniversary of his death. His death was overshadowed by American President John F. Kennedy's assassination, which happened the same day.

Happy birthday to the writer that made such an impact on my life and my religion.

Sound of Mind

It's looking at me, the blue bug. It glows. That's why they don't ever listen to me. Plenty of things glow. Lightning bugs. Lightning bugs... lightning... bugs. Bugs. The bug is still looking at me, even after six hours. It always watches me after I wake up. Does it watch me while I sleep?

I shudder. It scuttles a little closer. I glare at it. I know this routine, this dance, and I do not like it.

Footsteps. There are footsteps in the hall. I don't break eye contact. It happens more quickly when people are near. The bug doesn't want them to see it.

Voices. Oh no, not voices. I guess it decides it has risked enough for today.

It lands on the inside of my left elbow and burrows in in the blink of an eye. I squeeze my eyes shut and whimper. It has happened so many times; I handle the pain better, but it still hurts beyond belief.

The people in the hall come through my door. They are the ones who don't believe, who never never see.

"I'm just going to give you some medicine to help you sleep, okay?"

I start to cry uncontrollably. I don't want to sleep. I don't... I don't want to wake up.

I am sound of mind. I can operate on my own. I'm normal. Sound. Of. Mind. Sound... mind. The sound in... mind. The sound in my mind... the click click click of the bug...

I'm not crazy.

You believe me.

Right?

...right.

You don't.

My Sunshine

Both of my parents are English majors.They corrected my sister and me when our grammar was less than satisfactory. They did keep in mind our age and how much we could understand at the time; for this I am thankful. However, that does not mean that we did not have our share of grammar blunders or misunderstandings.

Sometimes my mother would put me on her lap and wrap her arms around me, singing "You Are My Sunshine". I'd lean my head on her chest and listen, picturing images of clouds, sky, and rain.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."

This was all fine and dandy. I thought it was a lovely song, and half of the time I had no problem. It was when she sang the second verse that I hated.

"The other night, dear, while I was sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, and I hung my head and cried."

I tried to show that I didn't like it. I wouldn't sing along. I held very still. If she ever did pick up on those signals, she probably thought that I didn't like it because it says she cried. A grave mistake. You see, I didn't know the difference between hung and hanged. Every time my mother sang about bending down her head and crying, I pictured her in the closet held up by a coat hanger around her neck, dead.

I joke around with my mom about having been traumatized by grammar now, but, truthfully, it really has helped me to remember which is which. Grammar is truly important in this world of communication.

Spider Slayer's Log: Kara Smith

Day 1: Preparing for rest, a nemesis was discovered about a foot from the end of the bed. After the initial shock, he was smashed with a flip-flop, which was left beside the bed in case of other emergencies.
Total Spiders Killed: 1

Day 2: Around midday, as I was folding laundry, a spider had the guts to dash into a folded towel. While my sister found it humorous that I would have to refold it, I had no qualms about shaking the spider out and unfolding the towel in the process. I crushed the exoskeletoned offender with a coaster and refolded my towel. He wouldn't have the guts to do anything again, especially since he doesn't have guts at this point.
It was in the evening. Jake had come over to visit and was getting up to leave when I saw another one. It was a big brown grass spider, not far from where Jake had been sitting. Jake, being the brave older brother that he is, hurried to the next room and left me to kill it with his shoe. It's odd sometimes to be reminded that he's more scared of them than I am.
Total Spiders Killed: 3

Day 3: I was in the bathroom around seven in the morning preping for a shower. I didn't notice it until I almost stepped on it. It was a brown recluse because what else would it be. I darted to the sink counter, where there were a range of bottles and jars that would do very well, but by the time I had a weapon, it had crawled down the heat vent. However, while it did scare the wits out of me, I must have stepped on it a little because it had left a leg on the bathroom floor.
Total Spiders Killed: Not enough, not nearly enough

Day 4: No spiders encountered. They're plotting. I know it.
Total Spiders Killed: Unchanged

Day 5: About two in the afternoon, I set out to make chocolate pudding. I took a mixer thing out of the bowl, so that I wouldn't pour milk and powder all over it, and grabbed the whisk. I was about to put the whisk in place when I saw him. He was big, and he was a spider. He was also a brown recluse that couldn't climb back out because the sides of the bowl were too steep. I was in shock and completely terrified for a moment, but a song poped in my head, and by humming it, I was able to calm down enough to think clearly. I was not about to put my hand in there with it, even on the premise of killing it. Instead, I sprayed poison on it, in the bowl I was about to make pudding in, and waited for it to die. Once it had stopped twitching, I dumped it in the trash and set about washing the bowl. It was about then, as I was scrubbing like the bowl was coated in spider webs, that I realised which song had been in my head. Lead Me To The Cross by Newsboys. It was from the album In The Hands Of God. That made me feel happy. My Father and Lord loves me and reminded me that he wouldn't let anything hurt me if it wasn't part of his plan by putting a simple song in my mind and heart.
On another note, the pudding turned out great.
Total Spiders Killed: 4

Day 16?: I was in the bathroom, about to brush my teeth, when a spider apeared beside my bare foot. It was a brown recluse, and it was missing legs. It had three on one side and two on another. I'm fairly certain that he was the one that menaced me on day three. I crushed him with a can of hair spray. It was fairly satisfying. I wiped him off the floor and the can, and felt a small sense of closure.
Total Spiders Killed: 5

Fairy Tale Fathers

There are a lot of fathers in fairy tales. Most die pretty quickly, or their wives die, and they don't remarry very well; sometimes they'd remarry poorly and then die. Of the commonly known stories the best father I can think of is Hansel's and Grettel's. Taking into account that it is a fairy tale, one really can't hold him accountable for marrying a monster the second time around, but despite this common occurrence, he still stands out. He doesn't die or completely submit to his new wife's will. While he did eventually give in to her nagging, he resisted it for as long as he could, which is more than we're told the other fathers ever did, and when his children came home he embraced them with joyful tears. Depending on the version, he either kicked his spouse out or she died for unspecified reasons before the children returned, which I find a little suspicious, but either way, nothing would convince him to leave his darling children ever again. I assume that includes any charges of murder, vandalism, or theft that were never brought against the two little delinquents (in some versions they returned home with riches from the witch's house that ensured their financial security after that).

Here's a fairy tale, one that may be more true than you might believe it to be.

Once, not so terribly long ago, a youth fell in love with a beautiful young woman. He wasn't a prince, and she wasn't a princess. Neither one was the child of a poor woodsman or tailor, but the youth still saw her for the clever beauty that she was, and still is. He tirelessly wooed her, and one day they were wed. They lived happily for a few years and had a child, which did not dim their joy in the least. She was a golden haired little princess that was mostly quiet and observant. Not long after their daughter reached three years of age, they had her sister, who was a little bit louder to be perfectly frank. To this day the youth lives happily with his family. He works hard to support and feed them, and they love him as he loves them.

Happy Fathers' Day. I love you Dad.

The Fairy Queen's Maid

Once there lived a girl named Daisy. She had golden hair, green eyes, and porcelain skin. Her father was a wood cutter, and he loved her very much. Anytime she went to play in the forest, he cautioned her to be careful and not to wander too far. He died when she was seven. Now, Daisy had a brown tabby cat that she loved with all her heart. The day her father died, she wept and wept, but her cat pawed at her arm and said, "Get to your feet, Child. You must find your way in the world, or there'll be no food for either of us.

"But Kitty," the young girl sniffled, "I have no skills with which to make my way."

"Hush now, pack your clothes and any food you can find." Kitty said, "I know where we can find work, but it may take a few nights to reach. When you're packed, go to sleep, for the path may only be seen in moonlight."

Daisy did as she was told and soon was fast asleep. She awoke to the calling of Kitty and hurried to her.

"It's time to leave. Are you afraid?"

"No, Kitty. I am not afraid."

With that, the two slipped into the night, following a moon milk silver path. They silently stole past the sleeping doe, the hunting wolf, and the singing insects, as they entered the woods. It was hours before either spoke, but Daisy finally did.

"Kitty, where is it we will find work?"

"At the Fairy Queen's palace, Little One," Kitty purred.

These words Daisy took to heart, for the Queen of fairies was said to be the kindest and most beautiful being. No human had ever found her palace, but Daisy trusted Kitty more than anyone else, so she picked up her pace and followed the cat as diligently as ever. For many more hours, they walked.

"Oh Kitty!" Daisy finally burst, "I am so thirsty. Please let us rest for a spell."

"Dear child," the cat responded, "we mustn't stop yet. A little bag of water is in your pack. Drink from it."

Daisy did as she was told, and not long after, they reached a little glade.

"Here we will rest." Kitty said, and rest they did, until the next day's sun set in the west.

"Wake, Child. We must be on our way."

They walked for hours and hours in silence until Daisy cried out to Kitty, "Oh Kitty! I am so hungry. Please let us rest for a spell."

But Kitty replied, "Dear child, we mustn't stop yet. There is food in your pack. Eat of that."

Daisy did as she was told, and not long after, they reached a second little glade.

"Here we will rest." Kitty said, and rest they did, until the next day's sun set in the west. Then they awoke and continued on their way. They walked  for longer than they had either night before, and Daisy began to be afraid that they would never stop. "Oh Kitty," she wept, "I am so tired. Please let us rest for a spell."

"Dear child," Kitty whispered, "we mustn't stop yet. A little farther, I beg you."

And so Daisy continued on, weeping, for her shoes were worn to tatters and her legs could barely support her, but it was not long after that they reached a third little glade where Kitty told her to rest. It was when the next day's sun was high that Kitty woke Daisy.

"Child," she purred, "we are nearly at the Fairy Queen's palace. We must now follow the path lined with rose bushes."

In moments, they reached the palace. There they were given baths, food, and a good night's sleep. The next day, they had an audience with the Queen, who was as lovely as any story and more. She had the longest golden tresses, that rivaled the sun; violet eyes, that inspired song; and a smile like every mother's. Upon hearing of Daisy's predicament, she insisted on being of help. It was thus that, as long as Daisy helped the maids wherever she could, she would be provided with food, an education, and a place to sleep. Kitty was also provided with food and was allowed to sleep with Daisy, if she kept the mouse and rat population to a minimum. They lived there happily for many years, and Daisy grew into a beautiful young woman.

She was out in the forest one day, gathering berries, when she saw a magnificent grasshopper caught in a web. Her heart ached with sympathy, and she cut him loose.

"Thank you fair maiden," he said with a bow, "What can I do to repay you?"

"Nothing is needed," the sweet Daisy replied

"Then take this crown, for I am the King of grasshoppers, and when you need me, put it on your little finger, and I will be there."

"Thank you very much." Daisy took the crown, put it in her pocket, and continued along.

The next day, she was sent to the fairy market. On her way down the path, Daisy heard a frog crying at the bank of a pond

"Whatever is the matter?" she asked.

"I was playing with my silver ball, but when I threw it into the air, it became lodged in that tree above us, and now I can't reach it."

"Oh." Daisy said. She looked up and spotted the ball. It was just out of her reach. Refusing to give up, for a weeping frog is the most heart wrenching sound, Daisy picked up a stick and poked at the ball until it fell to the ground, where the frog happily reclaimed it.

"Thank you so much!" he croaked, "As heir to the amphibian throne, I vow that, should you ever need my assistance in return, you need only drop a pebble in this pond."

"Thank you," Daisy said, and she picked up a pebble and slipped it in her pocket.

A week later, she was tending the fire in the great hall after everyone else had gone to bed, when she saw something moving in the flames. A salamander had become trapped when a piece of wood fell on top of his tail.

Taking the poker, Daisy lifted the wood just long enough for the salamander to crawl out.

"Many thanks, I don't know how long I would have been trapped, if not for you," he gasped.

"It was the least I could do." she assured him.

"My kingdom and I are in debt to you," he said, "Take this piece of charcoal, and, if you ever need my help, throw it into a fire."

She graciously accepted the gift and slid it into her pocket. It was months before she ever needed any of their help.

It came to pass that the Fairy Queen called Daisy into the throne room.

"Dearest Daisy," the Queen said, "my cousin seeks a bride, and you are kind, beautiful, and true to your word. I do not know of a better bride. If you are willing, he has set three tasks that you must complete, for his bride must be worthy."

"I would love nothing more." Daisy replied, for the Queen's cousin was rumored to be a true and wise gentleman.

"The first task is to raise an army that is small but large. He will be here in the morning."

Later in the day, Daisy related all of this to Kitty, who softly replied, "Call upon the Grasshopper  King. I have a plan for you."

So Daisy placed the crown on her little finger, and Kitty explained her plan to him.

The next day, the Queen's cousin was greeted by an army of grasshoppers, riding steeds of mice. They numbered in the thousands, and he consented that, although they were small, they certainly made a large army. He then set the next task: to bring forth a wonderful sound from an unconventional orchestra. She had two weeks time.

Daisy didn't need Kitty's advice this time. She hurried down to the frog prince's pond and dropped the pebble in.

"How may I help you?" he burbled, for his mouth was still partly underwater.

"I need your finest musicians to play a song at the palace of the Fairy Queen in two weeks time. I hope I'm not asking too much."

"Consider it done."

And indeed, in two weeks, everyone in the palace was drawn to the windows by the sweetest sound. The fairy children rushed to the courtyard and tried to dance like adults. The adults closed their eyes and let the sounds wash over them.

"Well done," the Fairy Queen's cousin told Daisy, "Tomorrow, you will answer a riddle."

The next morning, Daisy was brought to the throne room.

"Tell me," the Queen's cousin began, "What burns in our homes, out of our homes, and is not fire? What has a heart and a mind, but is rarely seen?"

Daisy thought and was at a loss until she felt the charcoal in her pocket. Then she laughed. "The answer is that which is lost in legend, the salamander."

After she returned to her room, she threw the charcoal into the fire and thanked the Salamander King for his help.

The morning of the wedding, which was to be a grand affair with fairies, grasshoppers, amphibians, and salamanders in attendance, Daisy stood by a window alongside Kitty.

"Are you afraid?" Kitty asked.

"Yes, Kitty. I am very afraid."

"You needn't be, for I will be with you always."

And she was.

If My Feet Were My Children, They Would Be Taken By Social Services.

You laugh now, but after this week, I'm fairly certain that title is accurate. First was last Saturday, a blow to my right foot (A is for April. B is for Bee.) and then there was Monday, to balance it out.

I was walking from the kitchen to my room. It is something I have done so many times that I can often do it with my eyes closed (I get bored.), but Monday night I slammed my toes into my mother's hope-chest, and I had my eyes open. As with all times when any foot is slammed into furniture, the foot's owner briefly considered amputation. I managed to limp to my room, preserving my dignity the best I could, by leaning heavily on silence and my right foot. I plopped onto my chair and became a little befuddled when I noticed a piece of plastic or tape stuck to my little left toe. I swung my foot onto my lap. That was no plastic. That was a lovely, thick slice of skin from my little left toe. ...Ow. I tried to see if it went down between my toes where the blood was, or if it was from the tip of the toe. I couldn't tell, so I limped to my mother to file a verbal injury claim. She inspected it, but was also at a loss as to which part of the toe the hanging skin was on. I went to the bathroom and sat on the floor with my equipment. Band-Aids? Check. Neosporin? Check. Why I didn't think to take a wet Q-tip and clean off the blood is beyond me. I rubbed the medicated cream on the side and top of the toe and applied Band-Aids to both parts. It throbbed terribly, but I'd survive.

As I had bandaged my wound I had started to feel warm. By the time I had gotten back to the kitchen to take care of the cat's litter box, I was having trouble seeing out of my right peripheral vision and felt unbearably hot. I also felt light headed. My mother said she'd finish my chores and told me to never become a doctor if this was how my body reacted. I managed to drift off, but I continued to frequently wake up and have trouble going back to sleep. About 2:30 a.m. I went to the bathroom and sat in front of the toilet, taking deep breaths. I didn't throw up, and once I was certain that I wouldn't, I went out to the garage and grabbed a Barf Buddy. I'm so glad that I had that foresight. Around half an hour later, I woke up and felt my mouth making more saliva than normal, a warning sign. I grabbed Barf Buddy and threw up then rushed to the bathroom and threw up some more. I waited awhile to see if I was done before I cleaned up and moved to the kitchen, where I sat at the table with a glass of water and faithful Barf Buddy. I texted my mother two words. "Threw up." A moment later she was there, despite the fact that I woke her at three thirty in the morning. She expressed concern and told me not to try going to work the next day. I was perfectly fine with that. My head was throbbing like nobody's business.

The next day I slept on and off, occasionally eating crackers and sipping on ginger ale soda, doing my best to ignore my aching head and throbbing foot. My mother thinks I had a 24 hour bug, but I'm thinking migraine, triggered by extreme toe damage. Alright, maybe not extreme, but painful. Considering the temporary loss of peripheral vision, which is one of my warning signals for a migraine, and the fact that at no point did I have a temperature, my theory is looking pretty good.

 I have since learned that the loss of skin was at the end of my toe and that the blood on the side was just the blood that had flowed out of the wound. It is perfectly fine, just like the bottom of my right foot. After this week, one question really needs to be brought up. Should I keep on at least socks, shoes if I'm out of the house, since I seem to be a bit accident prone recently? The answer is probably yes, but I probably won't. I am the fairy child. If the weather is nice and I'm not going in public, there is no way I will be shod.

A is for April. B is for Bee.

A wild Blog Post has appeared! Okay, geeky attempts at a jokes are over for now, probably.

I have been slacking off as of late in regards to my blogging. That much is fairly evident. Maybe it's because I haven't been able to think of a story, or perhaps I've simply been unable to conjure a poem, which is sad, since it is poetry month. Saturday, I sat at my computer and looked outside at the bluejay and the cardinal in our dogwood. I could read more webcomics or go out. What I should do is blog, but I can't think of anything, certainly not anything good. Out it is then. It was thus that I grabbed my camera and slid barefoot into the grass, and thus it was also that you should be provided with this post.

The summer after my fourth grade year, my mother brought my sister and me to Great Grandma's house. She had great, big (okay, great, big to a fourth grader) goose berry bushes. I loved gooseberries. My sister doesn't share that taste. Either way, we both searched thoroughly alongside our cousins. There were thorns, but we were careful. It was when we were playing in the yard that the most exciting part of the day took place. My sister was stung by a bee in her palm. There was great distress, and I got to watch my mother take care of her battle wound. I was at once fascinated, jealous that she got to be the first of the two of us, and embarrassed that she was making such a fuss (even if it did hurt a lot). At all points the phrase "summer after fourth grade" says a lot in way of explanation. Although if we had been older, I probably still would have been fascinated. She stayed in for the rest of the day, but my turn would come many years later. (Although you really should have guessed that by now.)

I have spent a wonderfully large amount of my life out side and a good chunk of that barefoot. If I were native to Tolkien's Middle Earth, I would, quite possibly, have been a hobbit. So it was Saturday that I slipped outside barefoot and trotted over to the flowers I saw, camera in hand. I took several pictures, a handful of which were "photo bombed" by Spirit. She was following me around. After some time I decided to bring something outside. I've always liked pictures that have something from the inside world in the outside world. Enter Rosie, a honey colored teddy bear that I made a "dress" for while watching Frankenstein when I was too young to be very interested. She is the closest thing to a traditional stuffed bear that I have. I posed her around and in a tree and took more pictures (and one of those was also "photo bombed" by Spirit). I picked her up and started to head off for another part of the yard. A few paces from the tree, I was "stabbed" on the bottom of my right foot. I figured it was a thorn. I was, after all, not far from the climbing rose (which doesn't really climb, more of makes a slight curve up then hugs the ground again as if it were afraid of heights). I hobbled a little ways and sat, twisting my foot to see the underside. Nothing really stood out among the grass that was stuck there, nothing except the thing a little closer to the arch than most of the grass. I pulled on it and realized that it had a clear bit attached somehow. Finally, I pulled it out. Low and behold, it was no thorn. It was the back end of a bee, not just a stinger. There was some exoskeleton and the clear stuff was probably some kind of bee gut. My theory is that it was already dismembered when I stepped on it, otherwise there would have been a whole lot more or less bee.

I limped inside and taking a cloth, cleaned it off. After all, there's no point in getting an infection. Then I limped off to find my father and casually ask if bee stings required any special treatment. He was a lot more worried about it than I was. I showed him the little red spot, and he sent me to find a large bandage. Maybe two or three minutes after the initial penetration of skin, it started to hurt a little, if hurt is really the best word for it. It felt different at any rate, odd maybe. When we looked at it agin, it was a red spot in a white circle, which, I was informed, was the poison. We applied the "magic" ingredients, put on the bandage to keep it on my foot, and pulled on a sock to keep the bandage on. After all that, I sat and tried to think of how to describe what it felt like. The best I've been able to come up with is, "a little less than a dull throbbing."

I am perfectly fine at this point. The only evidence is a dark spot under my skin the size of a pinhead, like a splinter.