《Back DOWN.》


 Flash. Again. Again.

    Speakers behind me shake the stage as a voice echoes from them, across the crowd. I can see the cameras for live TV spread across the stands. I lick my lips.


    "At just sixteen, this angel of a girl saved a two-year-old boy who was kidnapped ten days ago and returned him to his loving family. She has achieved more already than most do in a lifetime. Where does she get her motivation? How does she continue achieving the impossible? Come tell us, Rayde! How are you so unstoppable?"


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    The cloak that covers me swings its comforting weight as I step forward to the mic. The crowd sounds like rolling thunder. I suddenly realize how many people there are. A lot more than I can count. The clapping fades. "I am here," I say, my voice booming across the crowd, "because I . . . I . . . I". WHY AM I HERE? My mind screams for release, but I force it to keep looking for the answer. Why? The people, the mic, and the light fade, but the question beats the walls I have built in my mind. What do I fight for? I used to know. This is the worst torture.

 Eternity inside my head.

    I spin. From one memory to the next, my tortured brain yanks me through a place I did not know existed. I don¡¯t know where my body is. It seems my connection to it has been severed. The next memory is dumped on me like a bucket of cold water.


    I see my mother¡¯s excited and glowing face as she shows me my new sister. She is beautiful, in hindsight. But all I could see in her was the flaws. Her slightly flattened face and more pronounced eyes. She has down syndrome. I am forced to listen to my bratty, childish, self say angrily, ¡°I did not want a sibling, especially one that doesn¡¯t have a brain.¡± My mother¡¯s face crumples as I run from the room under a blanket of shame.


    This memory bleeds into the next. I want to sob, but I cannot. It is just me and my thoughts.


    A new memory. My hands are almost too sweaty to hold the needle that my grandmother gave me. She has been trying to teach me sewing basics for the last hour and I have been an ungrateful idiot. ¡°I can¡¯t do this,¡± I proclaim in a whiny voice. ¡°I am just too stupid.¡±


    My sweet grandmother tries to encourage me. ¡°You are not stupid, honey. You simply have to practice.¡±


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    I look at her. I am so mad at my failure that I no longer care. ¡°If I am smart enough, then you must be too dumb to teach me.¡± I have always had a problem with people that I perceive to be not as smart as I am and that problem shows itself constantly.


    I draw into the soft darkness that now seems to be my home. I am a terrible person. I had not thought about these things in years! No one should love me. Did I even apologize?


    My thoughts mercilessly drown me in my worst failures for an eternity.


    When mother told me to watch the cookies, but I forgot. They burned. Which made grandpa mad. Which put mother in danger trying to protect me.


    When I got my high school diploma at fourteen, and I was asked how I did it. My speech was so self-absorbed! I forgot my family, my God, and my friends. Without them, I would be nowhere. But I forgot them.


    When I dared my best friend, at seven years old, to climb a fence twenty feet high. He fell and broke his leg. I never saw him again because my shame was too strong to accept my mistake. He moved away two years later.


    Every time that I ever failed, from not keeping promises at five, to cheating on that one test at ten years old. Every circumstance was played through my head on a loop. With no sense of time, my tortured mind cried for release.


    I did learn one interesting thing in that experience. Eternity really is forever. And forever hurts when you are stuck with yourself.

 Who is in control?

    I yank back into my body. The mint toothpaste burns my tongue with a cooling fire as I brush my teeth. Wait a minute! Since when am I brushing my teeth? I stop, spit in the sink, and cry, confusion and a head ache work together to break my fragile resistance.


    My mother pats my shoulder. I start. I didn¡¯t remember she was there. She rubs my back. ¡°What is wrong, Love?¡±


    I am mildly freaking out. ¡°How did I get here? How long was I asleep? Why does my head hurt?¡± I throw my toothbrush to the ground. ¡°I can¡¯t do this!¡± I scream the words and they echo off the bare bathroom walls. I lean against the wall and slide to the floor, to shocked to keep sobbing.


    My mother kneels and wraps me in her arms. Out of pure instinct I curl into a ball. How long we sit there, I don¡¯t know. I do know my butt was asleep and I was super thirsty by the time Mum stood, brushed herself off, and reached for my hand. I let her help me up, and she pulled me into a hug again.


    ¡°It will be okay, Love. You will rise from this. We all will.¡± Her voice shudders and she squeezes me tighter. It would be easy to get distracted by her warmth and smell that I have known my whole life. But I can¡¯t. I need answers.


    ¡°How can I rise from an unknown challenge?¡± I whimper like a lost kitten. I might as well be one. ¡°I don¡¯t know what the heck just happened and my head is going to split. I just relived my worst memories, and I really need some grilled cheese and tomato soup.¡± I sound whiny, but I don¡¯t care. I need my mommy. She¡¯s been there forever. Well, almost.


    She found me on the street as a toddler, and ever since I have been with her family. But in the last ten years, the family has gone from four to two. My brother and father disappeared while leading the organization that I lead now.


    She puts one arm around my shoulders and pushes the bathroom door open the rest of the way. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean about memories, but I can help with the grilled cheese and supply you with what parts of the story we know. Come on.¡±


    Sunlight blinds me, and increases the pounding in my head. I know where I am, I realize. The master bedroom. She leads me through the sunny room, across the carpeted hall, and down the slick wooden stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, we turned left and walked through the dark dining room into the kitchen.


    A huge deck runs along the whole back of my house. Windows fill the walls, looking over the mountain lake. The room was full of sun. Too full. I squint and pull a few of the blinds as mom grabs bread, butter, and extra sharp cheddar cheese. I sit at the bar and watch her, soothed.


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    As she works, she talks. ¡°Well. Love? What do you remember?¡±


    I try to think without increasing my head ache. ¡°Before the memories? Nothing. My memory is completely non-existent until yesterday when I left for the mission to, uhh, inspect some evidence.¡± I stutter on that last part, cuz mom is not supposed to know that I have been heading up the missions. As I finish my thought, I have a bad feeling that yesterday wasn¡¯t yesterday, today isn¡¯t today, and I am about to be told part of my life is unknown to me. Then it clicks, and scares every bit of daylight right out of my soul.


    Mum takes a deep breath. She is about to jump off a cliff. ¡°Love, I¡¯m sorry. I don¡¯t know how to set you down gently! I guess I¡¯ll drop you and get the pain over with. That mission that you think you left for yesterday was almost a month ago. You have been living in a fog since. Asking the same questions over and over. Wondering where you are, what day it is. I prayed for so long!¡±


    Her tears rundown her face and drip to the floor and she squats by the cabinet. She grabs a can of tomato soup and slowly stands. Snorting loudly, Mum continues. ¡°He found you on the highway, walking. You were holding a necklace and book and you were chanting. You were saying ¡®Never give up. Remember, elephants can hear you from a mile away.¡¯ He thought you were crazy. You were identified at the police station he took you to, and I came to pick you up. It was a two-hour drive, and you weren¡¯t acting right. I told them this was normal and gave the excuse of some type of drugs because I didn¡¯t want you in a hospital. I have been trying to help you myself with natural remedies and stuff. A guy who calls himself Nightshade from your group has been appearing every day and helping me with whatever needed done. Someone taught him to cook and clean well, let me tell you.¡±


    I sigh. Yep. That was me, I was hard on him. He must hate me.


    Mum looks at me inquiringly. I barely have a moment to wonder why Nightshade would want to help me before she keeps talking. ¡°Nightshade says the minute you were out of commission, some Aspen girl took over, and won¡¯t let you in the group anymore because you are mental. He says when she did that, he quit. You were the head of the group, he says. No point in going on missions without you.¡±


    I wince as her glare shoots into my soul, awakening my conscience. Oh dear. I¡¯m in, and I¡¯m in DEEP.


    Her voice raises an octave. ¡°You said you weren¡¯t going on dangerous missions! You told me you were doing office work and checking evidence. I already lost your father and brother. In the same mission no less! I can¡¯t keep doing this. You won¡¯t even be honest with me! I will lock you in your room ¡®til you are eighteen if you don¡¯t stop this.¡±


    Mum is crying. I am crying. I can almost feel the instantly changing emotions in the room. They bounce off the walls and block the sunlight from outside. My head pounds, and I almost want to die in my seat. The next few months are going to stink.


    Mom bangs the can of tomato soup onto the counter, denting it. She doesn¡¯t understand, I am just trying to help people. I am doing my God-given mission and changing the world one family at a time. But no. ¡®Stay home¡¯, she says. I swear. She just wants to control me. I won''t have it.

 The Nest

    A knock interrupts our tortured staring at the floor, windows, and counters. Anything but each other. Both my mother and I start. She glances at the clock, and I follow her gaze. It is high noon.


    Mum straightens and starts toward the door. ¡°Most likely Nightshade is here. He checks on you every day around this time.¡±


    I lay my head on the counter and groan. Then I glare at her. ¡°Send him away! I am not talking to him right now. I am talking to no one. You don¡¯t understand the team dynamic between us. I can¡¯t do this. Please don¡¯t! Mum!¡±


    She barely gives me a glance as she walks to the door. ¡°You are going to be talking to the person who has cared enough about you to help me by watching you when I work and telling me about your organization. Don¡¯t move, Lark.¡± Oh. Dear. Me. She never calls me by my first name. No use arguing now, don¡¯t I know it.


    I move faster than I thought possible. It makes my head split, but I am determined not to talk to him.  Quickly, I jump down from my barstool seat and run for it. As I scoot out the door, the stool squeaks quietly as it turns in the now vacated room. I hear the front door opening and Mum greeting Nightshade. He replies. How in the world did I forget about that voice? So deep and calming. He always thinks about what he does before he does it, which makes him seem wiser. This does not change my mind about talking to him, but it is an interesting thought.


    A moment later, I am standing on the mossy path beside our house wondering which way to go. This path goes almost anywhere on this mountain range. It has been worn down by generations of goats and bare feet.


    Hesitating will never do. I can hear my mom yelling for me inside and Nightshade¡¯s quiet voice saying confidently that he will find me. He probably will, and that makes me annoyed. I whirl in a circle. Which way to go? The porch door squeaks and I barely glance his stubborn profile as I follow a goat trail deep into a ravine.


    I slip down a few boulders, bruising my toes and getting slime all over my butt. I look down, and realize suddenly what I am wearing. My favorite jeans. The jeans my father got me. Now, they are stained for good. I consider crying about it. Nope. No time.


    When I finally reach the bottom of the ravine, thick moss cradles my already sore feet. The stone cliffs on either side of me are covered in slime and dripping water. The ravine is made up of hairpin turn after hairpin turn. I run harder than I ever have. Slower too, it feels like. This last month of doing nothing has really taken a toll on my strength and stamina.


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    Cold water inside the moss I am running on squirts between my toes and I remember that I usually wear shoes for the climb to the particular place I have in mind. I sarcastically tell myself, ¡°Well, me, since you are so worried about shoes why don¡¯t you just yell for Nightshade to grab your tennies?¡± Only, I don¡¯t think of him as Nightshade. I pause. Just as I start digesting that nugget of information, I hear his footsteps in the ravine behind me. Crap. Crud. Shucks. Drat. Blast it off. I forgot how fast that kid was.


    Taking all the confusing turns with no hesitation due to the fact that I have lived here for years, I run to the only place he won¡¯t know about. The Nest. Up, out of the ravine. Down a brushy slope. Up a slippery, stony hill. If feet could cry, mine would. I gingerly prance along the base of the cliffs right to the lakes edge, trying to spare my toes.


    As was my brother¡¯s habit, and now mine, I throw a quick prayer up into the sky at this special place. I thank God for the fantastic view. I may also mention that there are plenty of convenient places for Nightshade to break both his legs between where I am and where he is.


    Then, I continue up the shore to the boulder graveyard. Weaving my way through the awesome boulders that come in all different shapes and sizes (like people, my brother always said), I find my favorite one. It is bowl shaped, and my body fits perfectly in its stony, sheltering curves. It always has.


    I curl up, and pull my arms into my favorite sweatshirt and tuck my knees up inside as well. And there I hide. Oh, and cry. I cry too.


    My head hurts. My feet hurt. I am freezing and getting colder by the second as the boulder absorbs my body heat and sucks my motivation right out of me (it seems). I simply have to wait for Nightshade to give up. As I wait in misery, I think.


    My father always said to avoid thinking too much when your emotions are out of control. Today, I ignore his advice. What will I do now? I have no friends, my mother is much too controlling. Should I run away? What is my purpose without my organization? Should I start a new one?


    I hear heavy breathing some distance away and shrink farther into myself. I wish he would just go jump in a frozen lake, drat it. Didn¡¯t God hear my little suggestion? I wiggle a bit deeper into the Nest. The stone is starting to warm up now.


    My heart rate goes up as Nightshade moves closer. I have been laying here for maybe five minutes. How did he find me so fast? I almost sigh in frustration, but hold it back just in time. Nightshade walks right by me with no change in his walking speed. I must not have left obvious tracks. I relax, just slightly.


    The Sun peeps over a mountain peak and warms me more than ever. With the edges of my stone bowl blocking the wind, I could almost sleep here. In fact, my mind and body are tired from this whole ordeal. Maybe when I wake up, my headache will be gone. Maybe all my problems will disappear. We can only hope.

 An Angel Hold Your Hand

    I take a deep breath. A shadow hovers just beyond the perception of my sixth sense. My brain finally comes to. I must rouse myself.


    I try to uncurl from the cramped position I find myself in. My arms and legs are held next to my body as if I was caught in mid-air while trying to do a cannonball into the lake.


    I begin to panic just as my legs pop out of whatever blanket I was wrapped in. Then I remember. The sweatshirt.


    Keeping my eyes closed, fighting waking up, I hunt the sleeves. My arms slip into the soft material and I stretch, tempted to go to sleep once again. But wait, was there not something that woke me?


    I fumble my hood off my head and wince as the sun makes me see spots. Sitting up slowly, I rub my eyes with grubby hands.


    The last several hours come back to me in flashing scenes. Nightshade. Mom. The caring boulder that never fails me.


    I hear something shift behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin; I tell you true. In leu of jumping out of my skin, I whirl to face what is behind me.


    The instant my eyes spot him, I freeze. A mask falls over all of the emotions sparring for attention inside me. Nightshade.


    He is sitting on the ledge that is the edge of the nearest boulder. One leg dangles over the twenty foot drop. The other is drawn up towards him, his hand resting on his knee. His face. It is a mixture of hurt, caring, and . . . fear, maybe?


    I see him draw breath to speak, but before he can take the lead I begin talking. I tell him how much I hate him. How he deserved all the menial work I have been making him do as long as I have been his supervisor. How he failed. How I can take care of myself.


    Through it all, he sits silently with no reaction. Now, I am scared. He should be mad! Or broken! Years of his life were wasted because of me, and even now I hold him back.


    Silence falls. The wind blows as he thinks about all I said. I am empty. I have nothing to say, nothing to feel. Why does he not speak? Yell?


    When he does whisper what he wants me to understand, I lean forward to listen. I always do, I always have, I always will.


    His voice barely carries to my ears. What he says floors me. It breaks walls I thought were permanent. I blink, slowly it seems.


    ¡°I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. I was my fault that your brother died. I deserve all the pain you could ever cause me.¡± His voice has a quality I have never heard in it before. Is he fighting tears?


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    My pride wars with my conscience. Right or wrong? Which do I choose today?


    Nightshade stands and begins to cross to the other side of his boulder to climb to the ground. His entire posture screams ¡®broken¡¯, and I KNOW it is my fault. I cannot live with this any longer. I choose right, even if it kills me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go.¡±


    My first whisper is so quiet I can¡¯t even hear it myself. My determination soars. As my father used to say, ¡°If you are going to jump, jump NOW.¡±


    I pull fresh air into my lungs and scream as Nightshade disappears.


    ¡°DON¡¯T GO!¡±


    I begin to sob. Though that first step shattered my pride and hurt me terribly, it was the right thing.


    ¡°Please, don¡¯t go. I can¡¯t continue like this! The hate I have held for you is infecting my soul. If I don¡¯t change soon, I will never be whole again.¡±


    Tears blur my vision as I sink deeper into my boulder, letting it cradle me as a mother does her child. I feel as though all the pain in the world is my own fault. I will never survive under this weight.


    An awkward hand pats my shoulder. I blink away enough tears to see Nightshade¡¯s own tear-streaked face. The wind whistles over the boulder. A vulture glides above us, waiting for this fragile friendship to break once again and die for good.


    As soon as I shift, the hand leaves. I push myself back up into a sitting position and fight to gain control. Unfortunately, my emotions are beyond even my own desperate grasp. All I can manage is a clearing of my throat, which burns and turns into a cough.


    ¡°Bless you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    The silence is brittle in our hands. I begin to think I will not handle the suspense. Finally, Nightshade rises and turns to leave. My words escape my mouth, by their own will.


    ¡°I am so sorry. I have wasted years of your life. It wasn¡¯t your fault that my brother died. I just needed someone to blame.¡± My voice is flat. Non-emotional.


    Nightshade does not turn around. But he does speak. His voice is sad, but calm. ¡°Lark, Lark. I am sorry that your brother, my best friend, died. I would have blamed me in your place as well. I forgive you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    A hole in my heart finally starts to heal over. I drop a single tear to the boulder as Nightshade walks to the edge and starts to climb down. I know this is goodbye.


    I stand. The wind whips my hair. But now, my heart is strong, so my body can handle it.


    ¡°Goodbye.¡± To my shock, I sound satisfied. Not happy, for certain, but confident.


    ¡°Angels hold your hand.¡± My brother made this parting saying. I have loved it for eternity is seems.


    Nightshade looks me in the eyes just before he disappears over the edge. His striking blue eyes hold pain and happiness at the same time. But he does give the reply.


    ¡°Father hold your heart.¡±


    He is gone. He took the last of me with him. The difference between the last few years and now is that I know I will survive. I will get over this, though never forget.


    A pebble jumps to my boulder from the ground. I peer over the edge and Nightshade grins up at me. He tosses a wave over his shoulder and starts to jog away. How did he remember?


    Before my brother died, when something important to me happened, I would pick up a pebble and bring it home. When I had a moment, I would put it on a chain and attach a small note describing when and why I got it.


    On the day my brother and father died, I picked the blackest stone I could find and vowed to never pick up another. Maybe I should start doing it again.


    The pebble finds it own way to pocket where it nestles safely as I work my way home. Darkness falls as I walk, but my hope is still alive. I pray it does not die again.

 Moving On.

    I pull the string that attaches to the light on the ceiling of the garage. I am not partial to bruising my shins on all the piles of boards and equipment that, I know, are piled helter-skelter everywhere. The harsh bulb leaves dark shadows on the edges of the room, but I can see what I came for. Wire. Copper wire.


    I tiptoe across the concrete floor in my bare feet. They leave perfect wet and muddy prints behind.


    I probably should have talked to my mother and changed before coming out here, but I am very excited about wrapping this rock.


    Footsteps come down the stairs and through the living room. They thump to the basement door just as I reach the table where the wire collection rests. I snatch a spool of the thinnest kind that I can find.


    ¡°Love! Why are you in the garage?¡± I freeze. She pauses, then her voice yanks back into motion.


    ¡°Oh, whatever. Just don¡¯t take forever. We need to talk. But change your wet clothes first. Actually, take a shower. I can smell you from here. Hurry! I¡¯ll make supper and then we can talk.¡±


    I groan and slouch. ¡°I don¡¯t need a shower, Mom. I am perfectly clean. ¡°


    The dishes start clanging in the kitchen. ¡°Oh really? When was the last time you had one?¡±


    I think back, and realize that my memory is blank for the last month. I groan.


    ¡°Exactly. You don¡¯t remember. But let me tell you, I had to help you do it and you were not very co-operative.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s gross Mom!¡±


    She come to the door and spots me in the shadows that dominate the corners of the garage. ¡°You better step on it unless you want me to tell you all the other things I had to help you with. You could barely feed yourself. The worst thing was . . . ¡°


    I interrupt her before this gets too out of hand. I can hear the teasing edge in her voice. ¡°I am going. I¡¯m going. Jeeze!¡±


    I carefully run to the garage door and dash past her, bumping into her shoulder. She gives me the mom look and I wince.


    ¡°Sorry!¡±


    I run for the shower and, with a yelp, almost slip on the stairs. Of course, she hears me.


    ¡°Be careful Love! You¡¯ll put a hole in the wall!¡±


    I yell back. ¡°Okay Mom!¡±


    I slow down. Barely. When I get in my room, I rip some clothes out of my dresser and toss my newest pebble and my copper wire onto my desk. Then I slip down the hall and into the shower.


    Ten minutes later, as hot water runs down my face, I wonder why I resisted this in the first place. I love showers! Of course, a book and a long bath are great too but, hey, you gotta compromise sometimes.


    When the hot water stops coming, I squeeze into my dry clothes and walk down the stairs. Mom is waiting at the bar with grilled cheese and tomato soup. I slip onto a stool across from her and flip my long, wet hair over my shoulder.


    ¡°This looks good Mum!¡±


    She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Ok.¡±


    I grin at her, making her look more suspicious.


    ¡°Why are you in such a good mood?¡±


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    I think about how to answer. ¡°I don¡¯t know, I guess.¡±


    She grabs a grilled cheese of the plate and takes a bite.


    ¡°Did Nightshade find you?¡± she says with her mouth full.


    I grab my own sandwich and dip it in the tomato soup.


    ¡°Yep. He did. We had a short talk too. I don¡¯t think he will be coming back though.¡± My voice sounds rather sad at the end of that sentence. Luckily, mom asks no questions.


    ¡°What now? You do know you can¡¯t go back to rescue work, right?¡±


    My mind drifts to all the times that me, my dad, Nightshade, and my brother went on missions together. I was fun, yes, but suddenly I don''t long for it. My eyes refocus to find my mother staring me down.


    ¡°No, Mom. I won¡¯t be rescuing anybody. I will just have to figure out what to do now. I am done with school, so that won¡¯t take up time. Maybe I¡¯ll get a job.¡±


    I was homeschooled and graduated high school when I was fifteen. All I ever did or wanted to do was save people. Now, I guess I don¡¯t need to prove myself, so I don¡¯t feel the need to do it anymore. I don''t know. I can''t explain it to myself or anyone else. Oh well.


    She sighs with relief (I think). ¡°Good. Well, the doctors say you shouldn¡¯t have any side effects from your bump on the head. The only thing that worried them was your lack of memory. Since you are back though, I don¡¯t think we will have any problems.¡±


    I grin, than glance at her. ¡°Good! You will let me find my new purpose though, right?¡±


    She leans onto the counter and looks me right in the eyes. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of stopping you, Love.¡±


    I set my untouched sandwich on the plate and walk around the bar to give her a hug. ¡°Love you mum.¡±


    She squeezes me tight and takes a deep breath. ¡°Love you more.¡±


    Mum pauses a moment and releases me. ¡°Eat your soup and sandwich.¡± She smacks me on the bum as I turn, but I just grin.


    As the moon rises, we talk about the weather, the food, and what we will eat for breakfast tomorrow. Oh, and mom gives me a giant list of chores to do. Yay. It seems she is already afraid I will have too much free time.


    That night, I was aware of sleeping on my very own bed for the first time in over a month. It was heaven. I had my favorite fuzzy blanket, my perfectly firm pillow. My alarm was set, my next day was planned. Everything was just the way I liked it. But sleep would not come.


    Instead of sleep, I dreamed. I pictured all the ways my life could go. Artist? Welder? Champion swimmer?


    I picture a small bakery off of a green square in a small, quaint town where I could know each of my customers personally. Where I could spend my days icing cake and smelling fresh baked bread. The floor of this bakery was honey colored, freshly waxed, wood. Small tables were scattered in front of the counter. They all had silver and blue marble tops and all were accompanied by the tall, spinning stools I had been enchanted with since I was a child.


    There would be one random person each day that I would let pick one thing to have for free. Just for the fun of it. The walls would be cream colored and the one nearest the door would have a large chalkboard for each customer to write their name on as they left. Of course, the ancient wooden door would make a deep, softly ringing bell chime each time it was opened. I would learn to make fancy designs in the coffee with cream. What was that called?


    Each special person who walked through that oaken door would leave a little more full, a little more motivated, and maybe a little happier.


    I saw a petting zoo where kids who lived in the city could come and play with animals ¨C maybe for the first time. The wonder in their eyes would be contagious. There would be an acre or so of fenced in habitat that all the animals would share. Not only would they all be friendly and tame, finding the animals would be like a game of hide and seek.


    I would have baby bunnies, kid goats, mini ponies, chickens, mini cows, parrots, and turtles. The sun would shine, there would be popsicles and ice cream, and laughter would echo down the stone paths.


    I picture a ranch style house, with lots of property that includes woods, hills, valleys, fields, creeks, a pond, and a huge garden. Kids flow through the house like a river, ranging in age from toddlers to teens. Blond hair, dark hair, short, tall, blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes. Dirty feet, wet clothes, and muddy hair are normal. They are to be cherished, because one day they will be gone.


    Puppies, kittens, horses, cows, chickens, rabbits, and all other manner of creatures roam the farm, the children''s best friends. The animals challenge each child to be responsible, to have patience, to give second chances, to keep trying even when life is hard.


    Each child has a different gift whether it is for math or singing, drawing or building. They fight, yes, but they get over it. The big ones help the small ones. The small ones look up to the big ones. Every one of them is full of ideas and ambition. Some people may say their goals in life are impossible. Some may say they are crazy. But they are mine, and let¡¯s be real, they get it honest. They will know that what is thought to be impossible is always possible, with God.


    After all that dreaming, after all that thinking, sleep took me. I dreamed all night long.

 Beauty Sleep

    I drift awake. Ahh. Mornings. I love mornings. They are so quiet. The air almost smells cleaner before everyone else is awake.


    I sit up slowly and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Morning, here I come. I jump up, already thinking about the eggs I am going to eat for breakfast. Before I can fully enjoy the thought of food, I stub my toe on the bedpost. Ouch doesn¡¯t cut it. The thing I hate most in the world it stubbing my toe.


    I hop in circles, attempting to keep my balance while cradling my abused limb. I nearly bash my head on the door for my efforts. Dropping my foot to fend for itself, I catch my balance and walk towards the bath room. My face is very annoyed (I imagine).


    In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and scrub a little drool off my cheek. Man, I slept good last night. I skip to my room to find some clothes. What to wear, what to wear? If I am going to be looking for a job today, I may as well look decent.


    Ten minutes later, I look myself over in the full-length mirror. Brown hair that shows a hint of red when sunbeams hit it. Brown eyes. A bright blue shirt. Jeans, of course. I would never leave the house without my favorite pair of jeans. Of course, a pair of boots completes the picture. These are my favorite good pair. They are knee high and made of soft, silky leather. And they lace all the way up on the outside with a ribbon. Today, I am using a blue one. I grin at myself, and wink.


    I snatch pair of plain stud earrings off of my desk and notice the rock that I got from Nightshade. I need to wrap that and add it to my collection. I promise myself I will do that tonight as I dash down the stairs, only stepping on every other step.


    I arrive in the kitchen seconds later and make the fastest batch of eggs you will ever see anyone make. I look at the clock that hangs on our kitchen wall. Eight o¡¯clock. I spin to the foot of the stairs and yell for my mom. She has never been a morning person.


    I dance back into the kitchen trailing my finger over the granite countertops. Plopping eggs in a pile, I make myself a huge plate of eggs and drown them in hot sauce. The first bite slides down my throat as my mom comes into the kitchen.


    Her hair is a mess and she is in a pink fluffy robe. She stands at one of the counters and blinks slowly. Then, she stretches and yawns.


    I jump up and make her a plate of eggs as well, but with no hot sauce. As I grab her fork, she sits down at the bar and rubs her eyes. I chuckle and slide her plate in front of her.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Eat this,¡± I say. ¡°It will wake you up. Actually, it would wake you up faster if you put some hot sauce on it¡­¡±


    She fumbles for her fork and mock glares at me. ¡°The day I put hot sauce on my eggs will be my last.¡±


    I laugh and shovel the last of my eggs down the hatch. While I wash the dishes, my mother slowly warms up to being awake. She even smiles by the time she is finished with her eggs. I grab her plate and give it a whirl in the dish water.


    ¡°You know, Mum, you are lucky to have me. I make you breakfast. Do the dishes.¡±


    She interrupts me listing my amazingness. ¡°Cut short my beauty sleep.¡±


    I sigh dramatically. ¡°Ahh, Mum. You are gorgeous as is. You don¡¯t need any extra sleep.¡±


    I pretend to scrutinize her for a moment. ¡°I am not actually sure if the extra sleep is a help or a hindrance.¡±


    She tries to hide her smile. ¡°I¡¯ll show you a hindrance young lady.¡± We both laugh and I sit down at the bar once more.


    ¡°I am going to go try to find a job today. Maybe at the coffee shop? I figured I would ask around.¡±


    Mum nods. ¡°You might want to hurry. Summer break just started, so I imagine most jobs will be taken soon.¡±


    I jump up. ¡°I¡¯ll hurry then. Oh, and do you know where my wallet is? It has my license in it.¡±


    She shrugs. ¡°I have no idea. I haven¡¯t seen it recently.¡±


    I sigh dramatically. My mother shows her poor daughter no sympathy. ¡°You had better go find it if you want to leave any time soon.¡±


    I power run to my room as Mom walks to the coffee pot and starts a fresh brew, whistling the whole time. At the stairs I skip every other one, of course. Hopefully I¡¯ll find my wallet soon and get out of here. I feel one of my moms cleaning sprees coming on.


    An hour later I drive my mom¡¯s rusty clunker down the road. It is butt ugly and I hate it, but it is the only car she will let me drive. Obviously, I am planning my route of attack for checking every business in the area to see if they are hiring. I will start with the square. It has zillions of alleys that are jam packed with little shops and restaurants. Now, I realize, this could take all day. Or longer.


    I decide to walk through the square so that I won¡¯t have to be seen near the car. Ugh. That means I¡¯ll have to find parking in the road. Which scares the living snot out me. Speaking of, what is living snot anyway? Oh, whatever. I turn left and drive into town.


    The transition from mountains to city streets is shocking if you are not prepared. One minute, cliffs race you down the road. The next houses and shops all vie for your attention. It seems everyone in Saravant thinks the brighter they paint their house the better. I can only imagine what our small town must look like from the sky. Probably an obnoxious blot in the perfect view of mountains stretching in all directions.


    I look at the houses more specifically than usual today. One is blue with yellow shutters and doors. One is white with black trim. One is striped. Striped! Good grief. I would never.


    Then the most obnoxious building I have seen in my life comes into view. It is cherry red and deep purple. It looks like something my brother would have done as a joke. The worst of it is that my mom would love it. I will tell her about it when I get home so that we can have a good laugh. Suddenly, I can¡¯t wait to get home.