Prologue
Deangelique shuddered, drawing the thin, worn blanket closer around her shoulders, sinking back into the doorway seeking shelter from the wind. She was so cold, and her stomach ached. She stared at the half eaten sandwich she'd taken from the garbage can, bile rising in her throat. Pieces of garbage clung to the dirty bread, but she would die if she didn't eat. Dusting off the bread she closed her eyes, forced herself to take a bite, pushing down the bile, swallowing without chewing.
"Well, now, what have we got here?"
DeAngelique froze, eyes opening wide, stomach contracting.
The man laughed as she pushed further into the corner, pulling the blanket around her.
"I can do better than a dirty sandwich. Hot meal, warm bed."
He reached out and stroked her cheek. "All you gotta do is be nice to me."
DeAngelique knew what he mean by "be nice". She'd learned it the hard way, when her mother sold her for a cheap bottle of whiskey. "You be nice to the man, honey, and he'll be nice to you."
Still, if she stayed here she would freeze or starve. "All right," she whispered, standing up on shaking legs. She'd be nice, and she'd survive. Taking her arm the man pulled her roughly against him, feeling her small breats, one hand cupping her rear. His breath smelled of sour whiskey and stale cigarettes.
"How old are you sweety?"
DeAngelique squared her shoulders, puffing out her chest. She needed food, and she needed a warm place to sleep. She could survive tonight. After all, it was just her body he wanted.
"Eleven."
(Poetry by my son--Charles W. Prather, Jr.)
SIP YOUR NUMBED PARADISE
Crumpled cigarettes litter the table,
Alcohol burns the throat,
The pattern of self-destruction forms,
Cacophony of voices permeate the air,
A den of forgotten dreams,
Washed away with pinpricks to the brain,
Here there are no names,
Faces are all that matter,
Time is merely a formality.
Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it sit in the corner for a while,
You don't need to worry about it,
We'll take away the cause,
Sip your numbed paradise.
Dance away your memories,
Who needs them here,
You are in this moment,
Just let go of your future uncertain,
You can certainly be sure it's worthless.
Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it soak in the view,
A little taint never hurt,
We'll take away the consequences,
Sip your numbed paradise.
The lights are now less faded,
We've got to bid you farewell,
Our time,
Out of time,
So long yet so short,
But come back tomorrow,
A kindred spirit cannot be denied,
Your table will be waiting.
Sit down, take your soul off,
Do you remember where you left it?
We'll help you find it,
Sip your numbed paradise.
CHAPTER ONE
"Are you gonna shoot my papa?"
The course of life can be altered by many things. Lacey St. Claire knew that more than most. Her own life had been altered many times. Given new direction. Tragic events that shaped her, molded her, allowed her to survive. In the end it all boiled down to choices.
Lacey stilled her auto reflexes, gently removed her finger from the trigger and stared at the small child standing less than five feet away. Damn Chandler, he'd told her Domaslav had no family. Someone had made a mistake. A really big one.
Lacey could hear the sounds of movement overhead. A baby's cry. The flick of a light switch, opening of the door. Light spilled down the stairway.
"Anna?"
"Here, Papa."
Lacey moved back into the shadows beneath the stairway. Seconds ticked by, the huge clock in the foyer the only sound in the small hallway. The child had not moved. Her eyes were huge, riveted to the gleam of cold steel. Her body trembled, but she made no sound. She'd seen guns before. Knew about death.
Lacey caught bits and pieces of whispered conversation above her. The mother's anguished cry. Domaslav knew she was here. Knew why she was here. She could hear him hastily dressing, shushing the woman. Footsteps descended. The huge Russian stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
"I know you're here."
Lacey moved out of the shadows, gun held in front of her. "Keep your hands up."
"I'm unarmed."
Gun held firmly in her right hand, Lacey patted him down and stepped back.
"Anna, go to your mother."
The child hesitated, but moved slowly toward the stairs, her bare feet soundless. She stopped at the bottom step, raised her head and stared into Lacey's eyes. A single tear slid slowly down her cheek. "I love my papa."
The words were a mere whisper, lost within the ticking clock, raspy breathing of Domaslav, but Lacey heard them. A shudder ran through her. A long forgotten memory. No sobs, no begging for her father's life. Just a single tear from a power blue eye. Lacey waited as the child ascended the steps. Waited for the sound of the door closing above.
"Please, do not hurt my family."
"Turn around."
The Russian turned slowly, hands held on top of his head. Lacey studied his face, just as she'd studied the photograph that had been given to her. There was no mistake. It was Domaslav. He had the same powder blue eyes as Anna. The same age-old acceptance that death was imminent. He showed no fear as he lowered himself to his knees. He obviously knew the drill. He wouldn't beg for his life, but he would beg for the life of those he loved.
"You will not hurt my family?"
"I love my papa." The words seemed to echo in the room, but Lacey knew it was all inside her head. She felt dizzy. She could still hear the baby crying, the sounds of quiet sobs above her. How long had they waited for this moment? Anna could be no more than five, and yet her eyes had reflected knowledge far beyond her years. Acceptance of this day. The death of her father neither suprised her, nor had she feared it. She had merely accepted it. Lacey glanced around the small foyer, noting the sleeping bag just beneath the stairs. The child had not mysteriously appeared. She has been waiting for her, or someone like her. Kneeling there in the dark, watching the shadows. How many nights had Anna kept that vigil? How many morning suns had risen to find the child on her knees, murmuring a prayer of thanks for one more day.
"Please, you will not hurt my family?"
The words brought Lacey back to the present. Cleared her head. Her hands trembled slightly as she tightened the silencer into place. Dammit, she didn't pass judgment. It wasn't personal. Just names and faces. People who had to die. Choices. She hated choices.
"I will not hurt your family."
Domaslav relaxed, his last words a knife that sliced into Lacey's soul. A curse of things to come.
"Bless you."
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author ~ ~ ~ writing and streams of consciousness
Monday, January 4, 2010
Monday, December 14, 2009
Censoring Blogs--Book Burning
I recently joined a literary site for authors, writers, artists and generally anyone within an artistic field. I posted a poem, or perhaps several poems. I'm truly not sure the exact post. Yesterday I received a somewhat disturbing, but nice email informing me that although the moderator had the greatest respect for me, and in fact referred to me as Dear Sister (excuse me); that she had deleted my blog because she had never been there and therefore could not connect with the feelings expressed therein. She went on to say that abuse was a legal issue, not appropriate for writing. Abused people needed to just stop the abuse and stop whining. She invited me to write something more appropriate for the literary world.
First I was appalled that any literary site, which started it's headline and title with Literary would censor any blog as long as it wasn't offensive and it was well formatted and free of blatant typos. This reminded of the days of book burning. I wonder how many people burned C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters without ever reading it, and understanding that it wasn't the work of the devil, but was instead a wonderful book, funny and entertaining, which clearly glorified God.
I wrote a nice letter back to the moderator, and kindly informed her that on behalf of the thousands of men, women and children who suffer mental, emotional or physical abuse daily, I felt that I needed to educate her on a few things.
First of all, abuse is not just a legal issue. I know, as I worked in courtrooms for many years, and yes, the legal system can lock up the abuser--but the damage done to the abused is out of the judicial systems purview, and out of their control.
Secondly, there is not a psychiatrist, psychologist or mental health professional that would EVER tell an abused individual not to talk about, write about or somehow try to deal with the emotions and trauma that abuse has caused them. This is not whining. In fact, it's far from it. It is the abused's efforts to take charge of their emotions, their lives, and therefore never allow themselves to be a victim again. And what better way than words?
Words have power, and words can be powerless. We use words every day in one context or another. We use words that are powerless and that have no meaning. We say things to people that we don't mean, don't feel and truly don't care about. Over a period of time our words are powerless, because they have no feeling, no emotion behind them, and we start to loose that power in other areas of life. Victims of abuse, many times are powerless to stop their abuser. Powerless to change their lives.
I have been fortunate to work with many young people, mostly young women, who have lost their power. They've given in to their abusers, and simply given up on themselves. Addictions. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. They can never change their lives and come out of the victim stage without some sense of power. We've worked on creative writing. Using words to express the internal emotions of pain, frustration, anger, hopelessness and moving on to joy, hope, faith and future. Mastering words that have feelings, emotions and life gives power to the word, thus power to the writer. Power to take charge of their feelings. Power to take charge of their addictions. Power to take charge of their future. It doesn't happen overnight, but with words, therapy, and guidance every victim can change their life. I know this too, because I did.
Deleting a blog, because you can't connect with the emotions and feelings of the blogger, is like throwing out the cake, because you're allergic to chocolate even though there are going to be 30 other guests at your table. Where would our literary world be today, if every publisher or every literary site had decided to censor material? What happened to freedom of expression? And what happened to just good old courtesy from the moderator who could easily have written and said, "I'm sorry, we have a site policy against blogging about these subjects: (and listed the subjects) and therefore I would ask that you please rewrite or remove your blog."
Censorship. Book burning. I felt I woke up forty years in the past. And as a final note, I asked the moderator to remove me from their site. It clearly was not the proper forum for me. Not because I hated having my own blog removed, but I hated the idea that I might be missing some great articles by other contributors that this particular moderator had not experienced, or could not connect to.
First I was appalled that any literary site, which started it's headline and title with Literary would censor any blog as long as it wasn't offensive and it was well formatted and free of blatant typos. This reminded of the days of book burning. I wonder how many people burned C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters without ever reading it, and understanding that it wasn't the work of the devil, but was instead a wonderful book, funny and entertaining, which clearly glorified God.
I wrote a nice letter back to the moderator, and kindly informed her that on behalf of the thousands of men, women and children who suffer mental, emotional or physical abuse daily, I felt that I needed to educate her on a few things.
First of all, abuse is not just a legal issue. I know, as I worked in courtrooms for many years, and yes, the legal system can lock up the abuser--but the damage done to the abused is out of the judicial systems purview, and out of their control.
Secondly, there is not a psychiatrist, psychologist or mental health professional that would EVER tell an abused individual not to talk about, write about or somehow try to deal with the emotions and trauma that abuse has caused them. This is not whining. In fact, it's far from it. It is the abused's efforts to take charge of their emotions, their lives, and therefore never allow themselves to be a victim again. And what better way than words?
Words have power, and words can be powerless. We use words every day in one context or another. We use words that are powerless and that have no meaning. We say things to people that we don't mean, don't feel and truly don't care about. Over a period of time our words are powerless, because they have no feeling, no emotion behind them, and we start to loose that power in other areas of life. Victims of abuse, many times are powerless to stop their abuser. Powerless to change their lives.
I have been fortunate to work with many young people, mostly young women, who have lost their power. They've given in to their abusers, and simply given up on themselves. Addictions. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. They can never change their lives and come out of the victim stage without some sense of power. We've worked on creative writing. Using words to express the internal emotions of pain, frustration, anger, hopelessness and moving on to joy, hope, faith and future. Mastering words that have feelings, emotions and life gives power to the word, thus power to the writer. Power to take charge of their feelings. Power to take charge of their addictions. Power to take charge of their future. It doesn't happen overnight, but with words, therapy, and guidance every victim can change their life. I know this too, because I did.
Deleting a blog, because you can't connect with the emotions and feelings of the blogger, is like throwing out the cake, because you're allergic to chocolate even though there are going to be 30 other guests at your table. Where would our literary world be today, if every publisher or every literary site had decided to censor material? What happened to freedom of expression? And what happened to just good old courtesy from the moderator who could easily have written and said, "I'm sorry, we have a site policy against blogging about these subjects: (and listed the subjects) and therefore I would ask that you please rewrite or remove your blog."
Censorship. Book burning. I felt I woke up forty years in the past. And as a final note, I asked the moderator to remove me from their site. It clearly was not the proper forum for me. Not because I hated having my own blog removed, but I hated the idea that I might be missing some great articles by other contributors that this particular moderator had not experienced, or could not connect to.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Memories of Christmas Past
I find myself becoming melancholy every year around this time. A mixture of sadness and joy. Happiness and pain. This year is no different, except there seems to be more sadness. Sometimes I trace this back to earlier memories. And I always wind up at the same place, same time.
I was 17, and I had just started working retail sales for a local department store. We'd spent days, weeks decorating and getting ready for the Christmas rush. Most of the time I was too busy to pay much attention to the shoppers. Management placed me in toys. Wow! My job, to help every shopper find just that right thing for their little bundles of joy. And to keep the aisles straight and orderly. That was a major task in itself.
While drifting through each aisle, picking up tossed items and placing them back on packed shelves, I happened upon a woman who was picking up items and placing them back on the shelves. She wasn't the typical shopper there. Her clothes were clean, yet well-worn. Her hands wrinkled and red, from hard work. Her eyes a light grey, that reflected sadness not joy of shopping. I asked her could I help her. She smiled sweetly and said, "I have eight grandchildren to buy a present for, and I only have eight dollars. Can you help me find something they might like?"
My heart broke. Even in those days when prices weren't as high as today, finding something for eight children with only eight dollars was virtually impossible. I told her I needed to do something, and then I would be right back. I went to my manager, explained the situation and got eight new tickets priced at a dollar. I asked her ages and sexes, and the two of us scoured the shelves until we finally found eight gifts. Eight nice little presents that only cost a dollar. I then took her to my register and rang her up, telling her I would pay the sales tax on the items.
Her eyes lit up with joy, as I placed her purchases in bags and wished her a Merry Christmas.
Fortunately for me it was payday, and after she left I had the manager clear my register of the phony tickets, rering the items and we split the cost of the gifts, minus her eight bucks.
That was one of my favorite Christmas memories, and yet each year it brings a touch of sadness to my heart, because I wonder. . . how many grandmothers are out there with eight grandchildren and only eight dollars to spend.
Christmas has over the years become more and more commercial. And today's children seem to expect not just A GIFT, but THE GIFT. I hear it on radios, see it on TV and read it online. Parents searching and willing to pay three times the amount of the item just so their little angels can have it on Christmas Day.
That's a wonderful thing. But every year there are thousands of children who receive little or nothing. And there are thousands of parents who for no reason of their own simply don't have the money to buy presents. They're wondering where they're going to find food this year.
So, yes, Christmas for me holds a certain amount of joy. I love seeing my children, my grandchildren. I love giving presents. Cooking that huge Christmas dinner. But it also brings a tinge of sadness, and each year I take a moment to pray for those who have been less fortunate, and I think about that grandmother, and how just for one year at least she was able to give her grandchildren a nice present for $8.00.
I was 17, and I had just started working retail sales for a local department store. We'd spent days, weeks decorating and getting ready for the Christmas rush. Most of the time I was too busy to pay much attention to the shoppers. Management placed me in toys. Wow! My job, to help every shopper find just that right thing for their little bundles of joy. And to keep the aisles straight and orderly. That was a major task in itself.
While drifting through each aisle, picking up tossed items and placing them back on packed shelves, I happened upon a woman who was picking up items and placing them back on the shelves. She wasn't the typical shopper there. Her clothes were clean, yet well-worn. Her hands wrinkled and red, from hard work. Her eyes a light grey, that reflected sadness not joy of shopping. I asked her could I help her. She smiled sweetly and said, "I have eight grandchildren to buy a present for, and I only have eight dollars. Can you help me find something they might like?"
My heart broke. Even in those days when prices weren't as high as today, finding something for eight children with only eight dollars was virtually impossible. I told her I needed to do something, and then I would be right back. I went to my manager, explained the situation and got eight new tickets priced at a dollar. I asked her ages and sexes, and the two of us scoured the shelves until we finally found eight gifts. Eight nice little presents that only cost a dollar. I then took her to my register and rang her up, telling her I would pay the sales tax on the items.
Her eyes lit up with joy, as I placed her purchases in bags and wished her a Merry Christmas.
Fortunately for me it was payday, and after she left I had the manager clear my register of the phony tickets, rering the items and we split the cost of the gifts, minus her eight bucks.
That was one of my favorite Christmas memories, and yet each year it brings a touch of sadness to my heart, because I wonder. . . how many grandmothers are out there with eight grandchildren and only eight dollars to spend.
Christmas has over the years become more and more commercial. And today's children seem to expect not just A GIFT, but THE GIFT. I hear it on radios, see it on TV and read it online. Parents searching and willing to pay three times the amount of the item just so their little angels can have it on Christmas Day.
That's a wonderful thing. But every year there are thousands of children who receive little or nothing. And there are thousands of parents who for no reason of their own simply don't have the money to buy presents. They're wondering where they're going to find food this year.
So, yes, Christmas for me holds a certain amount of joy. I love seeing my children, my grandchildren. I love giving presents. Cooking that huge Christmas dinner. But it also brings a tinge of sadness, and each year I take a moment to pray for those who have been less fortunate, and I think about that grandmother, and how just for one year at least she was able to give her grandchildren a nice present for $8.00.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Prologue--my first paranormal/psychic novel
Prologue
The howl of the wind reminded Catherine Mans of the voices of lost souls as it shook the old house, rattling the window panes. A single candle flickered and died as the faded drapes gave way to the drafts pushing them. Catherine pulled the frayed blanket closer around her shoulders, sipped the lukewarm tea and waited, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was waiting for.
The room grew steadily colder, a constant reminder of her plight. No money. No job. No hope. Her stomach rumbled and she glanced at the single pack of crackers on the table. She would need those tomorrow.
Catherine sighed heavily and bowed her head. There was nothing she could do. Her only talent lay in the ability to see what others could not. To hear the voices of the dead, and sometimes the living as they cried out in pain and desperation. A talent no one wanted to buy.
Her face flushed, warming her body as she remembered the humiliation from earlier that morning. Desperation and hunger had led her to the police station to offer her talents there. She had fled in tears, the sounds of rude laughter ringing in her ears. Destiny? Fate? The wrong officer on the wrong day? Perhaps, but she didn’t have the courage to try again. Never again.
A familiar tiredness washed over her. She fought the trance. What good was it to see things if no one believed you? The sensation grew stronger as she grew weaker, her eyes slowly closing.
The vision was clear and Catherine found herself standing in the howling snow, watching the red and blue lights flash. She watched as the patrol car parked in front of her house. The officer sat there, hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. He stared at her door, hesitating, weighing his options. He looked too young to be a police officer, but the clear gray eyes held a strength that told her he was older than he looked. And that he had seen things no one should have to see. He was clean shaven, blonde hair closely cropped in military style which only added to his youthful appearance.
Catherine continued to watch as he signed, wrenched his hands from the wheel, squared his shoulders, opened the door and stepped into the blinding snow. She felt desperation, frustration and fear emanating from him as he followed his steps toward her front door.
The sound of angry pounding jerked her from the vision. Her hands trembled. Pulling the blanket closer against the chill in the room she made her way to the door.
Even though she had just watched him walk up the walkway, the shock of staring into those clear gray eyes almost caused her to slam the door in his face.
“Catherine Mans?” “Yes.” Catherine hated the sound of her voice. It sounded weak, afraid. They couldn’t arrest her for just offering her services. She stiffened her spine, raising her head to meet his stony gaze. Why was he so angry?
“We don’t have much time. Can I come in?”
His voice echoed the same desperation and frustration she had felt earlier. Opening the door she stepped aside, watching as his gaze swept over the meager furnishings before coming back to her.
“I don’t know if you’re real or not, but we have a three-year-old boy lost in this snowstorm and we’re running out of time. If you’re real, then for God’s sake help us. If you’re not, then don’t waste my time. There’s a thousand dollar reward that. . .”
“Let’s go.” Catherine pushed him toward the door, rushing ahead of him as she struggled through the knee-deep snow, wind whipping through the old blanket.
Grasping the car door, Catherine pulled it open and quickly climbed in. Gasping from the cold, she shivered in the warmth of the patrol car.
“Give me your key, and I’ll go back and get your coat.”
“I don’t have one,” she snapped. “You’re wasting time. Do you have a picture?”
Taking the seat next to her, his gaze raked her features, as if seeing her for the first time. Catherine struggled to control the shivering. She knew what he was seeing. The auburn curls matted to her pale face. The worn out shoes. The jeans and flannel shirt a size too big.
“How old are you,” he asked.
Catherine met his gaze with what she hoped was more confidence that she felt.
“Twenty-one.”
Reaching above the visor, he handed her a picture of a small boy laughing at some unseen antic of the photographer. His soulful brown eyes reached out to her, touching her, wrapping her in warmth, pulling her toward him.
“What’s his name?”
She felt the hesitation, skepticism. “It doesn’t work that way.” She wanted to scream at him, but her words come out as a whisper through chattering teeth.
“Danny.” He looked away from her, staring into the blowing snow.
Catherine ignored the emotion filled car as her shivering stopped and the familiar tiredness enveloped her. She closed her eyes, watching the flashes of white. Hearing the sounds of laughter. Running. She followed the sounds. He was chasing something. More laughter. Crawling. Cold. Hungry. “Mommy? Daddy?” He was scared. His hands were so cold. No, they were warm. Touching something. Something warm, furry. Hugging. A kitten. He was hugging a kitten.
Catherine felt the warmth of tears running down her face as the onslaught of emotions reached out to her from the young child. He was so cold. His eyes were stinging from the wind. His cries turned to whimpers. A large object loomed before him. “No, Danny,” she whispered. “Dear, God, no.”
“Landfill, junkyard, a place where old refrigerators are stored.” Catherine reached for her seatbelt and buckled it. “We have to hurry.”
Cody Allen didn’t move, simply stared at her.
“Start the damn, car!”
“The closest junkyard or landfill is two miles away from where the kid disappeared. There’s no way he could have made it that far in this weather.”
Catherine stared at him in disbelief and disgust. He’d come to her, asked for her help. The little boy was still alive, but he wouldn’t be much longer. Rage boiled inside her. If he wasn’t going to believe her, then why had he come? Danny’s feelings washed over her, the warmth, the laughter—the cold, the fear. If he died she would be left with those feelings for the rest of her life.
“Damn you,” she hissed, opening the door and climbing out into the howling wind. Tears of frustration froze on her eyelids as she once again struggled through the snow. She didn’t feel the cold, or hear the slamming of the door before a strong hand seized her arm, jerking her around to face him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The clear gray eyes had turned cold blue.
“I’m trying to save a child’s life.” Catherine shook off the hand.
“Get back in the car.”
“Go to hell.”
“Ms. Mans. . .Catherine, please. You’ll never find him in time.”
Catherine stopped, swallowing the remark on the tip of her tongue, along with what little pride she had left.
“Please, get back in the car.”
The authority was gone from his voice now. Catherine knew he was right. All she would accomplish was giving the city two bodies. She’d never find the junkyard in time, and her pride wasn’t worth Danny’s life.
Catherine refused his help as she made her way back through the snow to the car, opened her door and slammed it shut behind her. She stared ahead, ignoring him as he started the car and turned up the heat.
The rode in silence as the wail of the police siren competed with the howling of the wind. The streets were empty. Cold, stark and lonely.
He reached for the radio. “This is car 97, I need an ambulance at the junkyard at the corner of Seventh and Steele Street.”
The radio squawked. “What’s the code, 97?”
Cody glanced at Catherine. “Just send the ambulance.”
Catherine closed her eyes, struggling to feel the lifeline that would tell her the child was still alive. It was weak, but still there.
“You know, if you’re wrong you just cost me my badge.”
“Your badge?” Catherine turned on him, her voice filled with the contempt she felt. “If I’m wrong, I just cost a child his life.”
Turning away from him, Catherine bit her lip. Welcoming the pain. For some reason he was really getting under her skin. She’d dealt with skeptics before, but his was something more. Something personal. Why hadn’t he called for backup?
The gates to the junkyard loomed before them.
“Damn, I forgot about the gates.” The car slowed.
“Crash them.”
A slight smiled played around her lips as he heard his mumbled oath. The locks were old and the gates crashed open as the cruiser plowed through them. Not waiting for him to completely stop, Catherine ripped off the seat belt and rushed from the car. Her gaze scanned the fence line, looking for small holes underneath. Danny had crawled under a fence chasing the kitten. He was close. She could feel it. Wind whipped her hair and the old blanket, still wrapped around her small frame offered no resistance to the freezing chill that enveloped her. She had to be quick for Danny’s sake, as well as her own. Stinging tears filled her eyes as she scanned the snow covered piles of debris and old appliances.
Gold.
“The refrigerator is gold,” Catherine screamed as she ran, spotting it in the distance. How could she have forgotten that? She heard the sound of the ambulance approaching, heard Cody’s yell, but the wind carried his words away from her. “Dear God, please let him still be alive,” she prayed. Her hands shook as she reached for the handle. How long had he been in there? The hinges of the old door squeaked as she jerked it loose. His tiny body was curled into a ball, wrapped around the small black kitten held tightly in his arms. “Please. . .” Catherine sobbed as her trembling hands reached out to the small still form.
“Strong fingers closed around her wrist. “I’ll do it.”
Catherine stepped back to give him room, watching as he reached in to pick up the child. She heard the sound of his whispered prayer, running footsteps coming toward them. She held her breath as he cradled the child in his arms. Waited for the words that would tell her, but he seemed unable to speak and simply stared at her. Even after the paramedics removed the child from his arms he continued to start her at.
“He’s alive. They’re both alive.”
The howl of the wind reminded Catherine Mans of the voices of lost souls as it shook the old house, rattling the window panes. A single candle flickered and died as the faded drapes gave way to the drafts pushing them. Catherine pulled the frayed blanket closer around her shoulders, sipped the lukewarm tea and waited, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was waiting for.
The room grew steadily colder, a constant reminder of her plight. No money. No job. No hope. Her stomach rumbled and she glanced at the single pack of crackers on the table. She would need those tomorrow.
Catherine sighed heavily and bowed her head. There was nothing she could do. Her only talent lay in the ability to see what others could not. To hear the voices of the dead, and sometimes the living as they cried out in pain and desperation. A talent no one wanted to buy.
Her face flushed, warming her body as she remembered the humiliation from earlier that morning. Desperation and hunger had led her to the police station to offer her talents there. She had fled in tears, the sounds of rude laughter ringing in her ears. Destiny? Fate? The wrong officer on the wrong day? Perhaps, but she didn’t have the courage to try again. Never again.
A familiar tiredness washed over her. She fought the trance. What good was it to see things if no one believed you? The sensation grew stronger as she grew weaker, her eyes slowly closing.
The vision was clear and Catherine found herself standing in the howling snow, watching the red and blue lights flash. She watched as the patrol car parked in front of her house. The officer sat there, hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. He stared at her door, hesitating, weighing his options. He looked too young to be a police officer, but the clear gray eyes held a strength that told her he was older than he looked. And that he had seen things no one should have to see. He was clean shaven, blonde hair closely cropped in military style which only added to his youthful appearance.
Catherine continued to watch as he signed, wrenched his hands from the wheel, squared his shoulders, opened the door and stepped into the blinding snow. She felt desperation, frustration and fear emanating from him as he followed his steps toward her front door.
The sound of angry pounding jerked her from the vision. Her hands trembled. Pulling the blanket closer against the chill in the room she made her way to the door.
Even though she had just watched him walk up the walkway, the shock of staring into those clear gray eyes almost caused her to slam the door in his face.
“Catherine Mans?” “Yes.” Catherine hated the sound of her voice. It sounded weak, afraid. They couldn’t arrest her for just offering her services. She stiffened her spine, raising her head to meet his stony gaze. Why was he so angry?
“We don’t have much time. Can I come in?”
His voice echoed the same desperation and frustration she had felt earlier. Opening the door she stepped aside, watching as his gaze swept over the meager furnishings before coming back to her.
“I don’t know if you’re real or not, but we have a three-year-old boy lost in this snowstorm and we’re running out of time. If you’re real, then for God’s sake help us. If you’re not, then don’t waste my time. There’s a thousand dollar reward that. . .”
“Let’s go.” Catherine pushed him toward the door, rushing ahead of him as she struggled through the knee-deep snow, wind whipping through the old blanket.
Grasping the car door, Catherine pulled it open and quickly climbed in. Gasping from the cold, she shivered in the warmth of the patrol car.
“Give me your key, and I’ll go back and get your coat.”
“I don’t have one,” she snapped. “You’re wasting time. Do you have a picture?”
Taking the seat next to her, his gaze raked her features, as if seeing her for the first time. Catherine struggled to control the shivering. She knew what he was seeing. The auburn curls matted to her pale face. The worn out shoes. The jeans and flannel shirt a size too big.
“How old are you,” he asked.
Catherine met his gaze with what she hoped was more confidence that she felt.
“Twenty-one.”
Reaching above the visor, he handed her a picture of a small boy laughing at some unseen antic of the photographer. His soulful brown eyes reached out to her, touching her, wrapping her in warmth, pulling her toward him.
“What’s his name?”
She felt the hesitation, skepticism. “It doesn’t work that way.” She wanted to scream at him, but her words come out as a whisper through chattering teeth.
“Danny.” He looked away from her, staring into the blowing snow.
Catherine ignored the emotion filled car as her shivering stopped and the familiar tiredness enveloped her. She closed her eyes, watching the flashes of white. Hearing the sounds of laughter. Running. She followed the sounds. He was chasing something. More laughter. Crawling. Cold. Hungry. “Mommy? Daddy?” He was scared. His hands were so cold. No, they were warm. Touching something. Something warm, furry. Hugging. A kitten. He was hugging a kitten.
Catherine felt the warmth of tears running down her face as the onslaught of emotions reached out to her from the young child. He was so cold. His eyes were stinging from the wind. His cries turned to whimpers. A large object loomed before him. “No, Danny,” she whispered. “Dear, God, no.”
“Landfill, junkyard, a place where old refrigerators are stored.” Catherine reached for her seatbelt and buckled it. “We have to hurry.”
Cody Allen didn’t move, simply stared at her.
“Start the damn, car!”
“The closest junkyard or landfill is two miles away from where the kid disappeared. There’s no way he could have made it that far in this weather.”
Catherine stared at him in disbelief and disgust. He’d come to her, asked for her help. The little boy was still alive, but he wouldn’t be much longer. Rage boiled inside her. If he wasn’t going to believe her, then why had he come? Danny’s feelings washed over her, the warmth, the laughter—the cold, the fear. If he died she would be left with those feelings for the rest of her life.
“Damn you,” she hissed, opening the door and climbing out into the howling wind. Tears of frustration froze on her eyelids as she once again struggled through the snow. She didn’t feel the cold, or hear the slamming of the door before a strong hand seized her arm, jerking her around to face him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The clear gray eyes had turned cold blue.
“I’m trying to save a child’s life.” Catherine shook off the hand.
“Get back in the car.”
“Go to hell.”
“Ms. Mans. . .Catherine, please. You’ll never find him in time.”
Catherine stopped, swallowing the remark on the tip of her tongue, along with what little pride she had left.
“Please, get back in the car.”
The authority was gone from his voice now. Catherine knew he was right. All she would accomplish was giving the city two bodies. She’d never find the junkyard in time, and her pride wasn’t worth Danny’s life.
Catherine refused his help as she made her way back through the snow to the car, opened her door and slammed it shut behind her. She stared ahead, ignoring him as he started the car and turned up the heat.
The rode in silence as the wail of the police siren competed with the howling of the wind. The streets were empty. Cold, stark and lonely.
He reached for the radio. “This is car 97, I need an ambulance at the junkyard at the corner of Seventh and Steele Street.”
The radio squawked. “What’s the code, 97?”
Cody glanced at Catherine. “Just send the ambulance.”
Catherine closed her eyes, struggling to feel the lifeline that would tell her the child was still alive. It was weak, but still there.
“You know, if you’re wrong you just cost me my badge.”
“Your badge?” Catherine turned on him, her voice filled with the contempt she felt. “If I’m wrong, I just cost a child his life.”
Turning away from him, Catherine bit her lip. Welcoming the pain. For some reason he was really getting under her skin. She’d dealt with skeptics before, but his was something more. Something personal. Why hadn’t he called for backup?
The gates to the junkyard loomed before them.
“Damn, I forgot about the gates.” The car slowed.
“Crash them.”
A slight smiled played around her lips as he heard his mumbled oath. The locks were old and the gates crashed open as the cruiser plowed through them. Not waiting for him to completely stop, Catherine ripped off the seat belt and rushed from the car. Her gaze scanned the fence line, looking for small holes underneath. Danny had crawled under a fence chasing the kitten. He was close. She could feel it. Wind whipped her hair and the old blanket, still wrapped around her small frame offered no resistance to the freezing chill that enveloped her. She had to be quick for Danny’s sake, as well as her own. Stinging tears filled her eyes as she scanned the snow covered piles of debris and old appliances.
Gold.
“The refrigerator is gold,” Catherine screamed as she ran, spotting it in the distance. How could she have forgotten that? She heard the sound of the ambulance approaching, heard Cody’s yell, but the wind carried his words away from her. “Dear God, please let him still be alive,” she prayed. Her hands shook as she reached for the handle. How long had he been in there? The hinges of the old door squeaked as she jerked it loose. His tiny body was curled into a ball, wrapped around the small black kitten held tightly in his arms. “Please. . .” Catherine sobbed as her trembling hands reached out to the small still form.
“Strong fingers closed around her wrist. “I’ll do it.”
Catherine stepped back to give him room, watching as he reached in to pick up the child. She heard the sound of his whispered prayer, running footsteps coming toward them. She held her breath as he cradled the child in his arms. Waited for the words that would tell her, but he seemed unable to speak and simply stared at her. Even after the paramedics removed the child from his arms he continued to start her at.
“He’s alive. They’re both alive.”
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Do you believe in ghosts/spirits?
With the television hype, it’s truly hard to develop an understanding of the paranormal, and the on-going quest of many to either prove or disprove the existence of ghosts/spirits. Paranormal research teams spring up daily and vast amounts of evidence/data to uphold their claims are presented to the world as proof of the existence of “something else out there”. But if you do believe in ghosts/spirits, you are no longer the minority.
For many in the field, like myself, it is a personal quest to understand things we have seen, heard or experienced. My first actual viewing of a ghost/spirit was at the age of five. We had moved into an old house that was a part of the underground railroad at one time, hiding out Union Soldiers during the war. Bear in mind that I knew none of this at the time. Shortly after moving in I was playing in a room upstairs and tripped a panel that opened a small hidden enclosure. Just big enough for one person to hide in. There sat a Union Soldier. Fully dressed, bleeding and holding a rifle. To this day I remember his blonde curls, vivid blue eyes and the fear on his face when I opened that panel. I can only assume, by the amount of blood on his chest that he died while hiding there.
My later studies into metaphysics, mediumship and psychic experiments resulted in additional oddities that I could not explain. I had little doubt in my mind that there was indeed “something else out there”. But what, and why? Those were the questions that I couldn’t answer.
Skeptics and debunkers are quick to bash any evidence/data presented as fake, or explainable, or simply not scientific because it cannot be reproduced under certain conditions. And yet the belief in ghosts/spirits is not new. Even biblical references are made. In fact, in the New Testament, Jesus has to persuade the Disciples that he is not a ghost following the resurrection. Luke 24:37-39. Clearly that would not have been necessary if none had existed. In a similar vein, Jesus' followers at first believe him to be a ghost (spirit) when they see him walking on water.
Many accepted theories of actual activity have now been debunked. Take Orbs for instance. Many are no more than dust particles, bugs and/or reflections from the camera. I’ve seen some really beautiful ones on movies when the camera hits the light just right. But are all Orbs non-paranormal? Can a dusty room contain hundreds of orbs one minute, and absolutely none under the same conditions a day later? And what about the completely milky white solid orbs? Are they also dust? Bugs? I’m not sure. And I’m not totally willing to write off every orb figure as non-paranormal just because. Having visited the New Port Aquarium I saw many new species that until now had never been discovered before. Is it possible that some of these drifting orb shaped oddities are simply a different life form? Not, per se, a ghost or spirit, but simply something that until now our cameras and camcorders were not sensitive enough to pick up.
Matrixing has also provided a plausible excuse for the vast majority of photos out there. Shutter speed. Double exposures. Light effects. Smoke. Fog. Mist. In fact, so may plausible excuses that I rarely take photographs anymore. And if I do, I always take a series of three. If something is in one, and not the other two, then possibly it is an anomaly and bears more investigation. If it’s in all three, then the odds are that there is something perfectly normal causing the appearance of an anomaly.
I would call myself a skeptic believer. Having seen it with my own eyes, I can’t dispute that something exists outside of the “reality” I know. What? Why? Well, those are questions I haven’t found the answers to yet, so until that time—I’ll keep researching.
For many in the field, like myself, it is a personal quest to understand things we have seen, heard or experienced. My first actual viewing of a ghost/spirit was at the age of five. We had moved into an old house that was a part of the underground railroad at one time, hiding out Union Soldiers during the war. Bear in mind that I knew none of this at the time. Shortly after moving in I was playing in a room upstairs and tripped a panel that opened a small hidden enclosure. Just big enough for one person to hide in. There sat a Union Soldier. Fully dressed, bleeding and holding a rifle. To this day I remember his blonde curls, vivid blue eyes and the fear on his face when I opened that panel. I can only assume, by the amount of blood on his chest that he died while hiding there.
My later studies into metaphysics, mediumship and psychic experiments resulted in additional oddities that I could not explain. I had little doubt in my mind that there was indeed “something else out there”. But what, and why? Those were the questions that I couldn’t answer.
Skeptics and debunkers are quick to bash any evidence/data presented as fake, or explainable, or simply not scientific because it cannot be reproduced under certain conditions. And yet the belief in ghosts/spirits is not new. Even biblical references are made. In fact, in the New Testament, Jesus has to persuade the Disciples that he is not a ghost following the resurrection. Luke 24:37-39. Clearly that would not have been necessary if none had existed. In a similar vein, Jesus' followers at first believe him to be a ghost (spirit) when they see him walking on water.
Many accepted theories of actual activity have now been debunked. Take Orbs for instance. Many are no more than dust particles, bugs and/or reflections from the camera. I’ve seen some really beautiful ones on movies when the camera hits the light just right. But are all Orbs non-paranormal? Can a dusty room contain hundreds of orbs one minute, and absolutely none under the same conditions a day later? And what about the completely milky white solid orbs? Are they also dust? Bugs? I’m not sure. And I’m not totally willing to write off every orb figure as non-paranormal just because. Having visited the New Port Aquarium I saw many new species that until now had never been discovered before. Is it possible that some of these drifting orb shaped oddities are simply a different life form? Not, per se, a ghost or spirit, but simply something that until now our cameras and camcorders were not sensitive enough to pick up.
Matrixing has also provided a plausible excuse for the vast majority of photos out there. Shutter speed. Double exposures. Light effects. Smoke. Fog. Mist. In fact, so may plausible excuses that I rarely take photographs anymore. And if I do, I always take a series of three. If something is in one, and not the other two, then possibly it is an anomaly and bears more investigation. If it’s in all three, then the odds are that there is something perfectly normal causing the appearance of an anomaly.
I would call myself a skeptic believer. Having seen it with my own eyes, I can’t dispute that something exists outside of the “reality” I know. What? Why? Well, those are questions I haven’t found the answers to yet, so until that time—I’ll keep researching.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Spamming and Authors
Do you ever get tired of seeing the same thing on the same space over and over again. I know I do. And authors are becoming as guilty of this as the viagra people. I've noticed in the last few months that more and more authors are updating their status ten, twenty, thirty times a day. This, of course, puts their book picture up there on the status page. Does this make me more interested in seeing what they have to say? Actually it has the opposite effect on me. I become immune to them. Seeing the picture I simply move on past it without even reading what they have to say.
Advertising and promotion are a must for ever author. But when does it become spamming? When does it become obnoxious? Did you join my site just for self-promotion? Do you join other sites, not because you have a true interest in getting to know people, talk with people and share ideas, or was it just to promote yourself?
I blog almost every day. I try at times to touch on subjects I believe will interest other people. I share my writing, my morning muses and marketing and promotional tips. I join groups I have an interest in the subject matter. And I try, and forgive me if I fail, to never spam the members of my groups. I now post my status change on my myspace once a day. In the mornings usually. I post only one blog, and hope that my friends enjoy that. I also visit the pages of my friends and try to read their blogs. Their writing. Share their lives.
With the vast amount of internet information out there, and the vast number of new authors published daily, spamming has become an accepted promotional tool. I hate it. And I hope I never feel I have to come to that level just to sell a book.
A better way to me is to study your market. Send out queries to those who may truly have an interest in the type of book you've written. Let people get to know you. In the end, you'll do just as well. And perhaps you may even do better.
Advertising and promotion are a must for ever author. But when does it become spamming? When does it become obnoxious? Did you join my site just for self-promotion? Do you join other sites, not because you have a true interest in getting to know people, talk with people and share ideas, or was it just to promote yourself?
I blog almost every day. I try at times to touch on subjects I believe will interest other people. I share my writing, my morning muses and marketing and promotional tips. I join groups I have an interest in the subject matter. And I try, and forgive me if I fail, to never spam the members of my groups. I now post my status change on my myspace once a day. In the mornings usually. I post only one blog, and hope that my friends enjoy that. I also visit the pages of my friends and try to read their blogs. Their writing. Share their lives.
With the vast amount of internet information out there, and the vast number of new authors published daily, spamming has become an accepted promotional tool. I hate it. And I hope I never feel I have to come to that level just to sell a book.
A better way to me is to study your market. Send out queries to those who may truly have an interest in the type of book you've written. Let people get to know you. In the end, you'll do just as well. And perhaps you may even do better.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Curse
Writing is truly the greatest therapy. Taking your thoughts, your pain, expressing them--and then changing them. Betrayal and The Curse is an example of dealing with the pain of child abuse, the awakening to a different world and starting to heal, only to find yourself betrayed by someone you loved.
BETRAYAL
A small body, cold and frightened
Wracked with sobbing pain,
The soul became shattered
And dimmed to just a flame.
I have no friends
No one knew the torment,
Lying deep inside,
No one heard the cries,
And the child slowly died.
I have no friends
A woman lost and lonely,
Needing desperately to cry,
For the lost children,
Dying deep inside.
I have no friends
You came and stood beside me,
You listened to the pain,
You helped to mend the shattered soul,
So we could live again.
You were our friend
The flame began to flicker,
Our life filled with light,
A world of chaos righted,
We emerged from the dark of night.
You were our friend.
But the world was all illusion
Created with deception and with lies,
And the soul slowly shattered,
As the flame flickered and died.
I no longer need a friend.
In lies there is only betrayal,
In betrayal only pain,
In pain lies the waking death
I shall not live again.
I have no friends.
Every abused child, woman, man deals with the pain of lost children inside. The parts of them they cannot face. Perhaps their anger. Their love. Their playfulness. Parts of their very essence and who they are.
THE CURSE
Caralyne stood in the midst of the forest, staring at the velvety soft rose petals created by her tears. Each tiny drop shimmered and glowed with the colors of the rainbow before swirling into a tiny petal and falling softly to the ground. She felt as if her heart would break. Betrayed, defiled, soiled, used. And all in the name of love. Dropping to the ground she buried her face within her hands as she cried out, "Oh, Father, please help me. I want only to die!"
Hearing her anguished cry Allah looked down and saw His favorite daughter surrounded by the petals of her tears. The skies darkened from His anger that anyone or anything should dare to hurt her so. On a beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds He came to her.
"What is it my child? What has hurt you so deeply?"
Caralyne could not bring herself to look at Him as she slowly whispered, "I have given myself to a man without honor. I have shared with him my body and soul, Father. His heart was not true and his body not faithful. He is ruled by passion, not by love."
"Did you love him, my child?"
"Yes, Father. I loved him as I have loved no one but you."
"Then you have done no wrong. Tell me, who is this man that would defile a child of God?"
Soft blue eyes reddened by her tears slowly lifted to the vision before her. It had been said that no man could look upon the face of God, and maybe that was true. She was not a man. She had looked upon His face many times. Heard his voice. Felt His love for her. She could no longer have any doubt of who she was.
"He is your son, Jakkob."
A great sadness touched His heart. His beloved Jakkob. His son. She felt the sadness in his voice as he spoke to her again.
"I have waited many years my daughter for you to grow into yourself. I have nurtured you, sheltered you and waited for your call. You are now ready to become that which you truly are. When your soul shines even my Angels will be in awe of your beauty. You are my daughter. It is time for you to take your rightful place."
Caralyne bowed her head and gently sighed. This was her path and she would follow it, just as she had always known she would.
"What would you have me do with Jakkob?" He asked. "You may choose his punishment."
"I would not have him hurt, Father. He is just a man, and I shall remember him with sadness."
He had known her answer before he asked the question. A gentle soul she would willingly harm no one. Not even one that had shattered her so badly. A fragile smile played across her features as she bravely raised herself from the ground.
"Then I shall curse him that he shall remember you. With every touch of another woman, he shall ache for your touch. With every kiss upon his lips, with every breath that he takes he shall long for that which he tossed away so callously. I curse him to watch you grow more beautiful each day as you blossum with true love, and true love you shall find. I curse him to yearn but to find no outlet for his yearning. And though he shall continue to seek fulfillment in the arms of others -- he shall not find it. I curse him to long to hear the melody of your voice, it's soft caress from which he shall be denied. I curse him to suffer for you as you have suffered for him. I turn my face from him, and my ears shall be death to his pleas. So be it."
"So be it," she whispered, knowing Jakkob's punishment had been light and yet one she would not wish to endure. As the beam of sunlight slowly faded she felt an awakening begin inside her. Something was happening. The petals of her tears swirled and blended into a single beautiful rose, as her soul swirled and blended with her consciousness. The Angels looked down from heaven and smiled.
So beautiful.
The world was truly in for an awakening.
God smiled also as He stood beside them watching His daughter dance through the forest, one with all around her. Now the reckoning. He whispered to no one in particular, "Let the games begin."
There are many things we cannot change. People will always hurt other people. Love will bloom and sometimes die. We cannot change the world around us, but we can change how we feel about it and how we feel within it. Pain can be crushing, but it can also awaken us more fully to the true person we are. The beautiful, multi-faceted women and men we were meant to be.
BETRAYAL
A small body, cold and frightened
Wracked with sobbing pain,
The soul became shattered
And dimmed to just a flame.
I have no friends
No one knew the torment,
Lying deep inside,
No one heard the cries,
And the child slowly died.
I have no friends
A woman lost and lonely,
Needing desperately to cry,
For the lost children,
Dying deep inside.
I have no friends
You came and stood beside me,
You listened to the pain,
You helped to mend the shattered soul,
So we could live again.
You were our friend
The flame began to flicker,
Our life filled with light,
A world of chaos righted,
We emerged from the dark of night.
You were our friend.
But the world was all illusion
Created with deception and with lies,
And the soul slowly shattered,
As the flame flickered and died.
I no longer need a friend.
In lies there is only betrayal,
In betrayal only pain,
In pain lies the waking death
I shall not live again.
I have no friends.
Every abused child, woman, man deals with the pain of lost children inside. The parts of them they cannot face. Perhaps their anger. Their love. Their playfulness. Parts of their very essence and who they are.
THE CURSE
Caralyne stood in the midst of the forest, staring at the velvety soft rose petals created by her tears. Each tiny drop shimmered and glowed with the colors of the rainbow before swirling into a tiny petal and falling softly to the ground. She felt as if her heart would break. Betrayed, defiled, soiled, used. And all in the name of love. Dropping to the ground she buried her face within her hands as she cried out, "Oh, Father, please help me. I want only to die!"
Hearing her anguished cry Allah looked down and saw His favorite daughter surrounded by the petals of her tears. The skies darkened from His anger that anyone or anything should dare to hurt her so. On a beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds He came to her.
"What is it my child? What has hurt you so deeply?"
Caralyne could not bring herself to look at Him as she slowly whispered, "I have given myself to a man without honor. I have shared with him my body and soul, Father. His heart was not true and his body not faithful. He is ruled by passion, not by love."
"Did you love him, my child?"
"Yes, Father. I loved him as I have loved no one but you."
"Then you have done no wrong. Tell me, who is this man that would defile a child of God?"
Soft blue eyes reddened by her tears slowly lifted to the vision before her. It had been said that no man could look upon the face of God, and maybe that was true. She was not a man. She had looked upon His face many times. Heard his voice. Felt His love for her. She could no longer have any doubt of who she was.
"He is your son, Jakkob."
A great sadness touched His heart. His beloved Jakkob. His son. She felt the sadness in his voice as he spoke to her again.
"I have waited many years my daughter for you to grow into yourself. I have nurtured you, sheltered you and waited for your call. You are now ready to become that which you truly are. When your soul shines even my Angels will be in awe of your beauty. You are my daughter. It is time for you to take your rightful place."
Caralyne bowed her head and gently sighed. This was her path and she would follow it, just as she had always known she would.
"What would you have me do with Jakkob?" He asked. "You may choose his punishment."
"I would not have him hurt, Father. He is just a man, and I shall remember him with sadness."
He had known her answer before he asked the question. A gentle soul she would willingly harm no one. Not even one that had shattered her so badly. A fragile smile played across her features as she bravely raised herself from the ground.
"Then I shall curse him that he shall remember you. With every touch of another woman, he shall ache for your touch. With every kiss upon his lips, with every breath that he takes he shall long for that which he tossed away so callously. I curse him to watch you grow more beautiful each day as you blossum with true love, and true love you shall find. I curse him to yearn but to find no outlet for his yearning. And though he shall continue to seek fulfillment in the arms of others -- he shall not find it. I curse him to long to hear the melody of your voice, it's soft caress from which he shall be denied. I curse him to suffer for you as you have suffered for him. I turn my face from him, and my ears shall be death to his pleas. So be it."
"So be it," she whispered, knowing Jakkob's punishment had been light and yet one she would not wish to endure. As the beam of sunlight slowly faded she felt an awakening begin inside her. Something was happening. The petals of her tears swirled and blended into a single beautiful rose, as her soul swirled and blended with her consciousness. The Angels looked down from heaven and smiled.
So beautiful.
The world was truly in for an awakening.
God smiled also as He stood beside them watching His daughter dance through the forest, one with all around her. Now the reckoning. He whispered to no one in particular, "Let the games begin."
There are many things we cannot change. People will always hurt other people. Love will bloom and sometimes die. We cannot change the world around us, but we can change how we feel about it and how we feel within it. Pain can be crushing, but it can also awaken us more fully to the true person we are. The beautiful, multi-faceted women and men we were meant to be.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)