It Starts With A Step

Standing in the middle of the room, the walls seem as though they’re closing in.
The door is cracked open, light gently peering in.  Not enough to cause the darkness to flee.  Only just enough to remind there is light on the other side.

It only takes a few short steps to get to the door.  To enter the hallway and be washed in that light.  And yet, we hesitate.

The raging emotions, terrifying us.  Anxiety taking our breath away.

What’s in the hallway?  Will it kill us?
Will it attack?  Will it hate us?

Alone we continue to suffocate in the darkness.

It drives us insane.  Wanting out, wanting to stay.  Wanting to be free, wanting to stay hidden in the darkness.
Will you choose Freedom?

It only takes a step.  One little step at a time to conquer the darkness.
Freedom begins when you let yourself move.  When you take that first step toward change.

#PrayForTheWorld

#PrayForParis

In light of the attacks in Paris, France, the earthquake in Japan which set them on Tsunami watch, the attack in Beirut…. etc….. people are raising awareness ALL AROUND the globe, of the evils and tragedy.  Social media is filling up with “Pray For The World”.

I’m going to lay out three reasons why the rest of the world needs to let FRANCE have their Moment of Silence.
1) They’re a Westernized country where the people live in Safety.
2) This was a STRATEGIC attack.
3) People. Died.  ISIS killed 129 people in a country that doesn’t even touch the Middle East.

12241327_989253087814149_981254863958497983_n

So many people are complaining the middle east doesn’t show up in this picture.  Well, sorry to break it to you, but the Middle East has been at war since I don’t even know when, and continues to tear itself to shreds.  America has come in to try and help, GAVE Iraq back to their people and then the terrorist group known as IS showed up.
America has responded COUNTLESS times to the Middle East.  We have permanent Military presence in Kuwait.  British troops have been to the middle east, French troops have been to the middle east.  By now, average civilians are so sick and tired of sending troops to the Middle-East because we’ve just given up hope that their countries will EVER stop fighting with each other.

Africa is not a country.  It’s a continent.  Countries in Africa have been facing turmoil for ages.  In recent years, Activists like myself have been pouring in to the countries of Africa to provide clean drinking water, shoes, clothes, gifts, schools, transportation, and a NUMBER of other things including adopting African children.  It is absolutely tragic what the governments in these countries do to their people.

Earthquakes have hit numerous countries in the last twenty years.  Teams of Christians, doctors, the American Red Cross and again other various Activists have poured into those countries to clean up, hand out supplies, take care of injuries, feed people, clothe people, adopt children who became orphans, rebuild houses, provide shelter.

The Mexican hurricane ended up far less a tragedy than was expected.  The Caribbean is affected every year by hurricanes.
It’s true, the world stood by and did NOTHING when the Syrian government destroyed the country.  And I am so sorry that happened.  IS has been KILLING HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE relentlessly.  The ONE country that could have stopped all of it when it started, was the United States of America.  Instead of going over there, dropping a bomb and calling it done, our government let it spread like an infectious disease.  They haven’t stopped since.

Our World is a horrific place.  Everywhere you turn, something new is happening.  Right NOW is the time to be standing together and fighting against it.  Right NOW is the time to Pray for these people and these countries.  Right NOW is the time to stop evil at the doorsteps.
They attacked a Western country!  A place billions of people travel to every year.  Cry for Paris, and mourn their loss.  And then stand with Paris and tell them We. Are. Not. Afraid.

tumblr_nhtvmeFwFE1sicv5ro6_1280

Because it’s going to happen again.  And when it does, the people of this world need to stand together against it, just as we have done with Paris.  Just as the World did when 9/11 happened, and THOUSANDS of people died in a strategic event.

Join together, Humanity.  And pray.  Pray together.  Pray for Peace.  Pray for our World.

Pray For The World

The Ranger Of Severum: Episode 6

The day had started like any other. Boring, drab, with the threat of rain. But it was a special day. The Rangers were returning from Pelivain. It meant his father would be home again.

Trillian watched out the window at the gates, his young heart beating with anticipation and longing.

“Trillian.” The beautiful voice of his mother sung out to him.

The boy reluctantly pushed off of the window and hurried out of his room to find her.

Her voice continued to stretch through the halls calling out, “Trillian? Trillian where are you?”

“I’m coming, mother, I’m coming.” He tried to follow the sounds of the echoes. Each of the rooms that she usually kept to were empty, and the sound of her voice was getting further and further away, “Mother?” He shouted desperately. The beat of his heart quickened as Trillian left the east wing of the Severum, “Mother?” He continued to call nervously, now aware that he was quickly going to be someplace he wasn’t allowed to go.

Sideon, the Master of the Rangers of Severum, walked out of the library looking for Trillian.

“There you are boy.” His tone was gentle, as though beckoning Trillian to him, “Your mother is here, child.”

The little boy was frightened of Sideon, the Master behaved like a good man, but Trillian knew better. His mother had been called away to see Sideon, coming back crying one too many times. Trillian was right to fear him, and deep in his heart he hated the man for making his mother cry.

In slow, heavy steps, as though his feet were weighted with lead, Trillian moved toward Sideon, not at all trusting the man. The only sound he could hear was his racing heart, as his stomach churned violently.

Sideon held his arm outstretched towards the library door.  The boy continued in his fearful steps, reluctant to see what was behind the door.

Indeed, his mother stood there. Her arms crossed and her eyes seeming sad. She appeared to be unharmed, but the little boy could tell something was wrong.

“Trillian.” She exclaimed, opening her arms to him.

The boy ran eagerly into his mothers embrace, “What? What is it mother?” He asked, trying to swallow the lump gathering in his throat from fear.

She released him, kneeling down to look into his eyes, “Trillian, you father—” She hesitated. Her bright blue eyes looking past Trillian’s to Sideon. “Your father,” she started again, “is—”

Trillian’s eyes stretched open wide fearing what her hesitation meant, “He’s what?” He begged, “He’s what, mother?”

“Now Trillian, you must be brave.” He heard Sideon say, “Your mother is going to need you to be brave for her, because she can’t do it alone.”

“What is it mother?” Little Trillian shouted.

She smiled softly, “He’s not coming home.” The smile fell and her eyes blinked out tears.

“You’re lying.” Trillian started shaking, “You’re lying!” He shouted. “He promised he would be back, and he never breaks his promises.”

“No, Trillian. He doesn’t. Your father never breaks his promises.” His mother’s tears were now streaming down her cheeks, and her lip trembled, “But sometimes, things can happen. And these things cause people to break promises without meaning to.”

“What she means child, is that your father is dead.”

As though a spike were shoved through Trillian’s chest, the boy turned and violently shouted at Sideon, “You killed him. You did this!” Heaving several times, with tears spilling down his cheeks, Trillian ran from the room.

While the boy ran, the floor seemed to swell and blur from under his feet, the stone halls of the Severum shifting into a dark forest.

Just ahead of him, a group of rangers were huddled around something lying on the ground.

Approaching softly, the little boy heard one of them say the man was gone, it was no use. He was dead.

The figures wavered for a moment before disappearing altogether, but the body was still there, lying on the ground.

The boy trembled uncontrollably, weeping as he approached, knowing who it was before he even got there.

“Father?” Trillian walked in hesitant steps toward the body. He had never seen a corpse before, and the graying skin frightened him. He continued to weep, his mind desperately tried to divert his eyes.

 

Trillian awoke with a start, sitting up quickly. His breath hissed through his teeth as he choked back the lump growing in his throat. Running his hands through his long dark hair, hanging loose about his shoulders, he shook his head several times, as though trying to clear out the darkness and clinging emotions lingering from the nightmare.

He always woke at the same moment. Always just before he had the opportunity to see his father’s cold, dark eyes, staring at the sky. Always before he had the chance to know what his father looked like at the moment of his passing. Always just short of coming to peace with the fact that his father was gone.

It had been said that his father died in the skirmishes they encountered with the druids. Trillian, however, suspected that he was murdered.

Sideon was deeply attracted to Trillian’s mother, and whenever his father left, the Master would lure her away for hours at a time. It did not take long after his fathers death for Sideon to offer marriage to his mother. Before he knew it, they wed, moved into Sideon’s wing of the Severum, and Trillian was immediately forsaken by all of his peers.

The awareness of his healing wings came to mind, as a cramp that had built from the way he had to sleep started to spread through his side. They had moved his bed from the wall in order to situate a sort of hammock next to the bed, so Trillian could rest his wings onto it while he slept. This took the strain off of his back, giving him room to relax. In the beginning it took help to figure out, but now he was able to manage himself, and hopefully he wouldn’t have to worry about it very much longer.

It had been three weeks since the injury. A smile tugged on his lips, three weeks since he had met Yulissa. Although there hadn’t been opportunity to see her since their meeting, he couldn’t help remembering the way her hands felt on his back. When the surgeon had finished putting him back together, Trillian had decided he much preferred Yulissa’s gentle, delicate way of attention. She did not cause more pain in the process. Though, he was quite glad they would be healing properly.

Trillian was plagued by the nightmare and wasn’t sure if he could go back to sleep. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached out and touched the lamp wick catching it aflame.

Massaging his side, attempting to bend the other direction to stretch it out. With his wings, this proved difficult, but with enough adjusting and shifting, he was able to find a comfortable position to relax in.

He sat back again, rubbing his brow. Morning wasn’t for a few more hours. Maybe after breakfast he would check in on the woman. He found himself strangely curious to know how she was doing. At least she took his mind off of the nightmare. For now.

Wanton Forms of Regret

Love. What is love?

Is it the senseless feeling you have for someone?

Is it the unrequited resolve to stay with one individual person?

She held her glass of wine feeling the tears longing to burst behind her eyes.

Setting her glass on the counter, she tucked her knees up to her chest fighting the urge to cry, replaying the scenario in her mind again and again.

Everything in that moment was bright and colorful. A dream she didn’t get to experience.

She wore a long, beautiful white dress. Her long hair adorning her head as though it were a crown spilling with curls. The long tulle veil was pinned under her hair with a silver comb, falling down her back like rushing water, tiny white flowers tucked into it.

She stood at the edge of a stage waiting for the game to be announced.

He was across the room, wearing a beautiful black suit with a white shirt and silver tie. He laughed brightly, the joy of the day shining off of his face and in his eyes.

He stopped laughing, but the mirth of the moment stayed on his face in a large smile showing off his teeth.

She met eyes, winked and then stood up on a chair with her bouquet in her hands.

Luscious red roses were elegantly arranged with sprays of baby’s breath, little blue flowers and blue ribbon that flowed out of it.

The crowd of eager young women clustered together heightened the cheer, as she faced away from them. She held her breath while the leader of the band counted to three, and then she flung the bouquet behind her.

A rush and screams broke out behind her.  She giggled softly, turning to see who had caught it.

It was a girl she had met, but didn’t know very well. She was a friend of her husbands.

Husband.

The word made her warm inside.  She caught eyes with him.

He watched her intensely, his heart bursting forth through his shining eyes.

That was all she had ever wanted to see.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as the daydream faded into reality again.

That moment had never been hers. And she wanted it so desperately.

From the shining, bursting forth of love in a man she knew beyond a shadow of doubt cared for her, to the scramble of single friends awaiting her bouquet.

The image was so vivid, and so real.  It only added to the trauma of her breaking heart.

Faith picked up her wine glass again. After another swig, she set the glass heavily down and half-ran to the sofa, throwing herself into the arm, hugging a pillow into her chest as she began to sob.

Hell, the gates that bind me hence,
and without pity bar my soul.
That I should endure this fate no more!
Resigned to misery, must it be?

Where are they who would rescue?
Do they mock my place as well?
Braking,  broken, I succumb.
This endless chaos swallows me whole.

What have I done to deserve it?
Why are my prayers never heard?
Foresaken I mourn without a savior,
This cage won’t let me free.

Rewriting Fairy Tales – The Tin Soldier

Some stories are well known, from beginning to end, and their words play over in our minds.

But sometimes these stories that we know so well, did not happen they were written at all.

Take for instance, the love story of the Tin Soldier and the Ballerina.

What we all remember was an act of love, where you find the smelted soldier and the ballerina burning together, is not how it happened. No, no, my dear friends!

The little tin soldier had been wounded in a battle with the mouseking. Thankfully, the nutcracker and his dear girl had vanquished the foul beast, and ran away unscathed. But not so for our particular soldier. This little soldier of tin had lost a leg in the battle.

When he was found, his friends placed him on the mantle shelf. There he stood in a place of honor above the fireplace.

He was happy and content to watch the household affairs, knowing that he had been brave and true during the battles. Every time the nutcracker and his lady danced, a smile would warm the tin soldiers heart. His sacrifice was worth the effort as long as they lived without fear of the mouseking.

One day, the shelf was being rearranged by a maid as she dusted and cleaned. Gazing softly at the one-legged tin soldier, she happened to notice that he looked quite sad. Of course he must be, to stand there all day with no one to keep him company.

As she cleaned, she looked for something who would make a good companion.

She dusted over faeries, and dolls, dainty animals and beautiful butterflies. It wasn’t until her eyes lighted on a beautiful little ballerina that she smiled brightly, and took the figurine over to the mantle to join the tin soldier.

The maid smiled happily, satisfied with how fine the pair looked together.

When the ballerina glanced at the soldier she was to keep company, the girl grunted.

“And who are you?” She asked bitterly, “And why do you stand as the centerpiece, when you only have one ugly leg?”

Knitting his brow, the soldier was taken by surprise, “I helped save the nutcracker and his lady during the battle with the mouseking. I alone was injured this severely, and they wanted to honor me by placing me here where I could be remembered.”

A laugh bust forth from the ballerina that made the tin soldier angry. Who was she to mock him?

In the following days, the ballerina continued to jab and jeer. She was incapable of kindness. Her words tore his heart to shreds, and the tin soldier became less and less proud of his place on the mantle.

As winter started to make the days colder, fires became a more common occurrence, warming up the mantle above.

The tin soldier would watch the flames, mesmerized by their dance. They comforted him in his growing place of bitter sadness.

One night, the nutcracker and his lady threw a party, and all of the toys were invited. That is, all but the tin soldier and the ballerina, who seemed to have been quite forgotten by the others as time passed by.

“Look at them dance! Look at them laugh! They all have fun, while I am stuck here with you. You, the legless wonder his friends have forgotten.” She sighed, sitting down to dangle her legs over the edge, “You only hobble and would make me do all the work, so of course I can’t dance with you.”

Her words stung, and the toy soldier began to fume with rage.

As she continued to make her fun, she did not notice the darkness crossing his little eyes. She did not notice him begin to hop slowly, deliberately in her direction. She did not see the fire reflect in his eyes as he crept closer to her. She never knew how angry he had become, until she felt him shove her off of the mantle.

With a scream, the ballerina fell down, down, down, into the fire below.

Everyone gasped, looking up at the soldier who was losing his balance, until he wobbled off the edge.

By the time everyone had raced to the fire, it was too late. They couldn’t save either of them.

In the morning, the servants came to rebuild the fire. They found the tin soldier, smelted down into the shape of a broken heart. The ballerina’s plastic body was all mangled and cold. Her expression forever stilled in surprise and regret.

The maid was informed of the findings, and she, my friends, is the one who assumed it was love. For her efforts had put them together. But it was her good intentions, that had lost them both.

Death In The Family

I am part of the vast population who had a disconnected family.  While my immediate family was pretty well knit, and my siblings and I continue to get along as Family should, the extensions each had their own set of issues.

It was already stated that I didn’t particularly care for my grandmother.  Even now, in bitterness, I glance at her pictures around the house and still resent her.

It’s been a long month+ in Ohio, I had to call and reschedule my dr’s appointment for this week, because we’re not done here yet.  So many things haven’t happened the way they needed to, and here I am.  Still.
The snow has finally come to an end, but the sun barely shines, aiding unto the melancholic chill wrapped inside my heart.  Each morning, I arise to the same thing.  Each night I go down hoping to leave soon.

Uncertainty gives way to insecurity, which can lend to a plague of further negative emotion, swirling furiously within the mind.
Each step I have taken for almost a year is laced with uncertainty.
Where will we live? Where will you work? Where will we have financial security?
And now, as the months close in between a cloudy future and the baby being born, I wrestle these anxious concerns alongside my frustrations with still being in Ohio.
My path of ventilation has been to harbor continued anger with my Grandmother. For what she was not, what she never would be. Who she chose to be. What she chose not to be.
All I have lost is $40 a year in holiday checks. What made the emotion furrow even deeper was the way the Pastor spoke at her memorial service.
When nobody has a clue what is suffered on the inside of a unit, what else are they to speak of beyond the Hope of Salvation?
Each of the viewpoints were nice, but he did not have the slightest idea how off he was. What can you do, sitting in silent reverence? What do you say afterward?
Cloudy, my heart remains. Our world was already upside-down before she died. Now I feel as though I’m trapped in a snowglobe.
Yes, we’re finally in the third trimester and wanting a place for the baby to be that is properly set up, belonging solely to her, is also a high concern. But I just don’t know what is going to happen this summer.

On a positive note:
My pursuit to become an author strengthens as I open myself to the things I was made to do, and it is quite rewarding.
I hope to continue this pursuit very soon- as my writing has also been affected by this series of misfortunate events.
I hope Spring finds the rest of you in better, warmer places.