A new Fairy Tale...

More often than not, the recorders of fantastic stories leave certain parts out during the story’s retelling, or jumble the stories together, creating new stories which never happened. Consequently, following generations of storytellers leave different parts of the story out, so that by the time someone has the brains to write the story down it is so vastly altered from what really happened the real story is lost. The truth is lost. So, nowadays we have stories about obedient princesses without mothers who possess astounding singing voices, or little animal friends which follow them around, or stunningly red lips, or a tendency to snooze for too long, but where is the substance? Where is the point? The point of these stories is that every princess will be rescued by a handsome prince, a prince usually riding a white horse. These bleached chargers are apparently a fashion staple of the fairy tale world, so much so that a prince is not a prince without one. Perhaps they are a gift to young royal gents in the way that coming out balls are for sweet young debutantes. Once you reach a certain age, “Here you go, son! Your first noble steed!”
This story contains such nonsense. There are princesses and their appropriately matched and daring suitors, the gentlemen’s horses, of course, and daring adventure. There are towering castles and rich velvety dresses, jewels and servants, romance and villains, chivalry, and grand acts of bravery. These are all wonderful things, but the most important part of this story - one of the only pure stories which survived through the ages of senile storytellers - is Feria.


She grew up like any normal child in those days, on a farm with her parents, brothers, and sisters, cows and sheep, and pigs and horses. She liked the horses best for their windswept manes and velvety coats, which grew shaggy and tickled her face during the winter months, and they always smelled of fresh hay. Each week, when chores were assigned, Feria made sure she was in just the right spot – fourth in line - to be selected to clean up and exercise the horses. Her siblings knew this was intentional but disliked that particular chore, so did not raise any objections, with the exception of Onidah. Feria’s brother was nine-and-a-half months her senior, which was nearly unheard-of, a mother conceiving just weeks after delivering a child. Normally it would have been a nearly insurmountable task to take care of two infants in addition to the three children already born into the family, but Onidah and Feria were unusually easy to take care of. They mostly sat together and stared at their surroundings, preferring to remain quiet and out of the way. Now, they were not always so mature about their activities. They ran and played and screamed just like other children, but they were always the first to help their mother get supper on the table and help their father with the harvesting. They were sweet and gentle with their siblings and always looking for ways to help them. Lest you are thinking there are no two children so perfect, I must add some of their faults, at least, what are perceived as faults. Children are born with the characteristics they will need later in life, although many parents do not understand this wonderful blessing.

This was exactly the case with Feria. Those around her thought her plain and simple when this was not the case. Feria possessed a quick wit and a great ability for stinging rhetoric. Her sarcasm was often misunderstood for sassiness and therefore punished. This would cure many children of such boldness, but this resilient young girl chose instead to keep it to herself and observe those around her with a cynical eye. The only member of her family she was able to share this comical intelligence with was, of course, Onidah. These two young children spent hours together wandering in golden fields of wheat and climbing trees in the forest near their house. One such day would change Feria’s life forever.

“Onidah!” she called, using the name he insisted everyone use. “Where are you!?”
A stifled giggle came from a nearby tree and Feria scrambled into the branches to see her brother crouching close to the tree branch. “I got you, Onidah! I told you I was far better at seeking than you are.”
“Alright you are a better seeker than me, but I am an excellent hider, so we are at least equally matched.”
After a moment of hesitation, she conceded, “I concur,” and settled herself into the tree. Heaving a heavy sigh she looked up into the tangled branches of the tree.
“Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“Whatever that sigh was for.”
“I can’t even breathe without a cross-examination?” She feigned a pout, looking away from him to hide her uneasy expression.
“You might as well give it up, because I know the difference between a sigh and breathing. We have spent millions of hours together and you know I’m right,” he said, pointing a finger at her face, an amused expression on his face. When that tactic did not work he tried a more direct approach, tickling his younger sister until she screamed with delight and nearly fell out of the tree.
“Okay!” she screeched, “I’ll tell you!” But she didn’t know where to start? Should she just dive in and admit everything to him or hold back and only share the normal difficulties? Knowing he would know if she were keeping something from him. “I wish I were pretty like Alayna,” she said, referring to her eldest sister. “The boys all look at her and stare. One of them said to me the other day it was too bad I wasn’t as pretty as my cousin, but maybe her siblings got all the good genes.”
“Who said that!? I demand you tell me his name! I’ll call him out and see what he says then!” Onidah jumped from his branch to stand above her, his expression enraged.
“I’ll not tell you! I didn’t want to tell you and you made me, so now you must live with the suspense!” She continued in a quieter tone, “I know he’s right anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
Taking her chin softly in his hand, he declared, “You are beautiful, Feria. You have a beautiful heart and a sweet spirit.” He finished with a smirk, “And someday I will be forced to beat off your suitors with a heavy stick.”
“You’re bias. You’ve no one better to look at with any kind of decent personality.”
“There. You said it yourself. Alayna has no personality, nor any of our other siblings for that matter! They may be unusually attractive, but there is nothing to know beyond their skin. Their beauty has blinded them to more important characteristics which will endear them to others.”
She sat silently, not believing him, but trying to pretend so he wouldn’t lecture her any longer. “Yes.”
“You’re just trying to pacify me, Feria.” He softened his countenance and slouched back onto the branch behind him. “I know you don’t believe me now, dearest, but just give yourself time.” Pushing his face close to hers, he whispered forcefully, “Feria Merei Odessa, you are destined for greatness.” As he said this he seemed surprised at his boldness and hastily retreated to his examination of the summer clouds.
His earlier tone chilled her to her heart and she desperately wanted to believe him, but could not feel the truth of his words. “Greatness, huh?” she muttered with sarcasm in an effort to dispel the heavy mood. Onidah nodded. “Anything more specific?” She again tried to sound flippant, but her tone came out flat and desolate.
He only smiled and said, “You will see.” His smile was cryptic and could have been frightening if she did not know him as she did. He seemed to know something she did not. It was a smile she had seen many times and often wondered if he could see into her soul, or perhaps the future. Once when she had asked him, years ago, he had laughed and smiled the smile, refusing to confirm or deny her prediction.

It was not long after this conversation in the tree that Onidah became sick. He was fine one day and the next he lay in his bed moaning, his body burning with fever. His skin was pale, but burned like an uncontrollable forest fire. He did not drink but his body continued to perspire. The most disturbing part of his sickness was his eyes. He did not close them, did not blink, and muttered unintelligible sounds at all hours of the day and night, as if he were speaking with someone. The childrens’ mother sat with him at all times while their father tried his best to take care of the rest of them and keep them away from their brother in the hopes that none of them would catch this illness. It was only Feria who was brave enough to enter the chamber where her brother lay and sponge his ravaged body with cool cloths. During these hours when her mother slumbered in the chair next to Onidah’s bed, her hand clinging to his, Onidah would cease his constant writhing and look straight into his sister’s eyes while she ministered to him. At first, when he went so still, Feria was sure he had died and woke her mother in hysterics. As soon as her mother woke, Onidah resumed his feverish speech and would not look at her, so the next time he did it, she did not wake her mother, but tried speaking to her dear brother, seeking understanding for his comfort. He never spoke to her, but she watched his eyes and suggested hundreds of possible remedies, and when his expression changed even the slightest bit, she would try that remedy. Some of them worked and would lower his temperature for a short time, but she was never successful in healing her sweet brother.

One week after Onidah’s fever came upon him, a woman knocked at the door of the Odessa’s little cottage and asked to see the woman of the house. Mother came out of the kitchen to greet the strange woman, but the woman looked straight at Feria and requested an audience with her.
“Lady,” the young girl protested, “I am not the lady of this house. Indeed, I am the youngest child but one. Surely you wish to speak with my mother.” The lady shook her head. “Or one of my sisters?” Feria gestured to her sisters standing silently in a corner. Again the Lady shook her head.

“It is you, Feria Merei, to whom I wish to speak. I understand you are ministering to your brother, no?”

Her mother’s shocked expression said much, and little Feria wished now she would have kept to herself. When she spoke, it was to her mother, “He needed me, and you were so tired…”
The circles under her mother’s eyes confirmed her reasons, and her mother smiled a little smile which said she was proud of Feria’s desire to help. Mother nodded to her, telling her she should offer her guest some refreshment.
“Forgive me, would you care for some refreshment Madame?”
“Yes I would, thank you. I would care for some lemonade.”
“I’ve just made some,” Feria told her, mildly surprised. “Pray excuse me a moment.”
The Lady said nothing but sat down daintily on an upholstered bench underneath a window. The young girl’s mother and sisters were very quiet as the young hostess fetched refreshment for them. Soon after she returned all the ladies were quietly sipping their beverages and an awkward silence had once again settled on the small group. At the encouragement of her mother, Feria politely inquired as to the occasion for this Lady’s visit.
She was told, “I wish to heal your brother.”
The sound of shattered glass came from the direction of Feria’s eldest sister, Marigold, who dropped her glass of lemonade on the rough stones beneath her feet. Eyes wide with fear and embarrassment, she hastily swept her skirts over the whole mess and bowed her head to stare at her folded, trembling hands. All the Odessa women, except Marigold who was too embarrassed to look anywhere but her lap, stared at the Lady with mouths hanging open.
“Can she be serious?” Feria thought to herself, “Did she really just say that she wishes to heal Onidah, or did I imagine it?”
“You most certainly did not imagine it, Feria Merei. I wish to heal your brother.”
A small gasp escaped her lips at the thought of having voiced doubts about this stranger. Her natural instinct was to hide her face much as Marigold had done, but a strange courage forced her to straighten her shoulders and look this odd woman in the eye with a challenge.
“Who are you?”
A small chuckle came from the woman as she said, “I am Madame Aradia and I am a sorceress. I would like to heal your brother,” she repeated.
“Please excuse me,” Feria blurted, “but why do you want to heal him?”
“Feria!” the girl’s mother gasped. “You are being rude to our honored guest!”
“Mother, it is a perfectly legitimate question. Why would someone we have never met offer such a gift?” She turned back to the witch, who was smiling with satisfaction.
“You are a smart girl, Feria Merei. I wish to heal your brother because he is special.”
At the word special Feria’s eyes widened and her hands gripped the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Ah, I see you already know this?”
A small nod from the young girl prompted the witch to continue, “You know he is special, and I want him to continue living. The balance of good and evil is very important, and, as you well know, he is on the side of good.”
Feria was nodding while the rest of the Odessa women wiped silent tears from their eyes. Feria’s sisters were hugging each other and the youngest ran to fetch their father and the other Odessa men from the fields. The mother went to her son’s sickroom and began preparing him to receive company. As the room emptied and the house became a flurry of activity, time stood still for young Feria as she and the witch sat near each other. She had to ask the question, but feared the answer. She feared they would be unable to pay what the witch would ask. Would her brother die? This fever was unlike any that had hit their family before, and no matter how they tried they were unable to doctor him properly. What if she said no to this offer? Would he die then? Forcing her swirling thoughts to lie still, she summoned all of her courage and forced her voice to be steady as she said, “What must we do for this gift, Lady?” She looked into the woman’s eyes and saw pleasure there. She saw delight as well.
“Walk with me, child,” was all the woman said as she stood and headed for the door.
Once they were outside the woman began to speak, saying, “I must ask a large payment for such a miracle as I will do for your brother. You know that, I think.”
“Saving a life is a great thing, indeed, Lady. I know you would not do this without recompense. It is what you will ask which frightens me. If we are unable to pay my brother will die.”
“You are so sure he will die?”
“I have tried everything I know to do and still he writhes like a tortured soul.”
“What are you willing to do for your brother’s life?”
Without hesitation the young woman whispered that which frightened her above all, “I would die.”
The woman stopped walking and simply said, “I will call for you when it is time,” and vanished without a sound.



The next day and every day thereafter brought much improvement to Onidah’s health. He did not regain his strength all in one day, but improved very much each day until, one week after the witches visit, he was in full health and helping Feria once again tend the horses. His miraculous healing was heralded by the village as a miracle and a good omen and the Odessa family did not have the courage to tell them differently. Being paid attention by a witch was not something one went around telling one’s neighbors. Doing such had a tendency to ostracize one from the other members of the community. So the Odessa family kept quiet about how their son had been healed. Young Feria did not tell her family what would be required of her, but let them believe the witch had not asked anything of them. Each day the witch’s name was used as a blessing on the family. Feria nearly cried one afternoon as her sister Penelope dropped a clay bowl on the floor and exclaimed, “Oh, sweet Aradia! Mother will be angry!” Her family often referred to “The Madame” and praised her goodness. Feria’s concern was how and when the witch would call for her. She did not relish the idea of dying, but every day when she saw Onidah sitting at the breakfast table laughing with her family she knew she would not have answered the witch differently. Every moment she was able to spend with her dear brother nearly brought her to tears. He knew something was wrong, but despite his valiant effort to wheedle it out of her, he could not figure out what it was. Never before had he been unsuccessful in understanding and comforting her, and it unsettled him a great deal.

One day in late summer he found her crying in the stall of her favorite horse and tried, once again, to convince her to share her burden.
“Dear Feria, please share with me?”
“I cannot. I can hardly bear it as a secret. If I had to share with someone I would die of heartbreak.” She choked on the word “die” and Onidah’s wise heart saw her problem in some small context.
“Are you afraid of dying, my dear Feria? You are much stronger than I and you will not become ill.”
Looking into his eyes, she whispered through fresh tears, “My darling Onidah, you know I wish to share this with you, but I cannot. It is my burden to bear and I cannot tell you. Someday you will understand, but please do not make it harder right now than it already is.”
“You sound as if you are going away, Feria. Do I hear true or is my heart deceiving me?”
“Where would I go, brother? I have no friends but here and no relatives elsewhere who would take care of me. How can I help but stay home?”
“So you are not leaving? Tell me you are not leaving, Feria.”
“I must leave someday, but I will stay as long as I can.” Forcing a light chuckle, Feria added, “Every girl must marry, you know. Even I shall fall in love one day. You’ve said so yourself.”
Onidah’s face relaxed a bit and he pulled her out of the stall. “Even when you fall in love you’ll always be my girl. C’mon, let’s go swimming.”
Putting a smile on her face, Feria followed him out of the barn and into the bright sunlight. Part of her hoped the witch would call for her soon, because it was getting more and more difficult to keep their secret to herself, but she also wished for more time with her family. Every moment had become more precious than the last since the witch told her she would die in payment for her brother’s healing. Oddly enough, Onidah was more precious than ever also, despite the fact he was the reason for her soon-to-be-demise.

Three months passed from the time Onidah got off his sickbed and still the witch did not call for Feria. Her sixteenth birthday came and went, the planting season came to a close, and winter storms began before there was any word from Madame Aradia. As Feria was tending the horses and preparing the barn for winter she heard a quiet voice outside the closed barn door. Thinking it was most likely her eldest brothers scheming to ambush her, she crept up to the door and flung it open wide. She was greeted with a hot wind rushing into the barn. Strange as it seems, the wind smelled of summer and spices. This startled the young girl since there was already a small dusting of snow on their small farm. Summer had been gone for months, but this hot wind whistled through the barn, ruffling the manes and tails of Feria’s livestock, whispering words she could not understand. Suddenly the wind rocketed back toward her, knocking over pails and pitchforks as it moved. It whirled around her feet, twisting and turning until it enclosed her entire body in sweet summer heat. All around her silence descended. The horses stopped stamping their feet, the wind stopped knocking things over, and all she could hear was the low, melodic voice which haunted her nightmares.
“Feria Merei, your time is nearly here. I will come when he dreams of you.”
“When who dreams of me?”
“Prepare yourself, child. I am coming.”
With those final ominous words the wind departed, leaving her barn a mess and her hair disheveled. Closing the door to the barn, she hollered, “You couldn’t even clean up your mess!?”
A bright flash of light seared through the barn and when it had gone everything was put in its proper place and her chores were finished.
“Thank you,” she said grudgingly to the vanished wind.

The results of a daydream...this stemmed from real events, which is why my name is the same as the main character!

A Spy Tale


“Carl! Hey, do you remember me?”
The young woman skidded to a stop in front of me, receiving glares from the hurried passengers around her. What on earth was she doing!? I definitely recognized her from my singles ward during this last summer. I accidentally gave her a flying tackle in the middle of a mad rush to catch the flying disc in a heated game of Ultimate Frisbee. They were going to see her talking to me and I was pretty sure I had been made only moments ago.
“Uh, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Sure we did! It was last summer during the Ultimate game.”Dang it. She remembered too many details. The only way to get her to leave, and consequently keep her from the men following me, was to be mean. I hated to do it; she was a very nice girl and took my tackle really well. Even covered in sweat with her curly blonde hair flying around she was pretty. Plus she was one of the nicest girls I’d ever met. But it was for her good.
I gathered my courage and said, “No. We’ve never met,” in as disdainful a manner as I could muster.
She flushed and looked at the floor, stammering apologies and hurrying away. Feigning gratitude to have gotten rid of her I hastily made my way to the exit and prayed she would be delivered from suspicion.



I walked into my apartment just as the phone started ringing. Hurrying to set down my small sack of groceries and briefcase I picked up the receiver and barked a breathless greeting.
“Carl Murdock?” it was a deep voice without a trace of humor, which I found highly disconcerting.
“Uh,who’s asking?”
“Are you Carl Murdock?” the voice insisted.
“What do you want, man?”
“There’s someone who would like to speak with you.” Some shuffling ensued while the phone was obviously handed to someone else. I heard a small gasp and whispered instructions before a woman’s voice came through the line.
“Carl?”
I cursed under my breath, which I never do, by the way, and decided to pretend I didn’t know what was going on.
“Uh, who is this?”
“Um… we don’t know each other, but these men seem to think we do. I mistook you for someone else in the train station today and, um, that’s all I guess.”
Although she seemed fairly steady I heard a tremor in her voice near the end and knew it was her. Just for clarification, I asked, “What is your name?”
There was some hesitation on the line and a gruff voice ordering her to respond, then I heard her whisper, “Brittany.”


“David I have to do something. You don’t understand. This girl has nothing to do with any of this, but she is stuck in the middle. She’s not the kind of girl that will deal with those kind of men very well. She’s…innocent. She doesn’t understand any of this.”
“She’s a casualty.”
“No. She is my responsibility. I got her into this mess and I will be the one to find her and make it right. Let me go.”
“Carl, I just can’t spare you right now. I’ll send O’Shae or Sullivan. They can handle it just fine.”
“O’Shae or Sullivan,” I muttered as I paced back and forth in front of the desk. “They’re as bad as the men she’s already with! There’s a reason they weren’t assigned to this task in the first place!”
“Murdock, you are not going. I have another assignment for you.”
“My current assignment is unfinished, Chief. I respectfully request permission to finish it.”
“You blew it, Carl. They made you. I know it hasn’t happened in a long time but something happened and you aren’t safe on that mission anymore If you see those men you run the other way, do you hear me?”
“I hear you. I have no other option?”
“No. No other option, Carl,” the older man said with a trace of sorrow. “Everyone gets to choose their actions. You know that. Unfortunately sometimes people use that agency to put themselves in danger.” He looked at his hands and heaved a heavy sigh. “Sometimes we can’t do anything to help them.”
“Sir?” David shook his head and looked out the window. “Sir I must respectfully resign from the agency if you will not allow me to finish this mission.”
“Don’t do this Carl,” he warned.
“I must, David. She’s an innocent…” when David started to protest my comment I cut him off with, “She. Is. An. Innocent. She is probably the most innocent woman I have yet to encounter.”
“Carl, I have to ask you; is this personal?”
Although his question caught me off guard, I was able to honestly reply, “No, Dave. This is not personal. I just have to do it.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“I’m sure.” Feeling the need, I added in a whisper, “I have to go Dave. I just have to.”
Shaking his head and opening a drawer in his desk he pulled out a memo sheet and began writing on it.
“Carl Jonathan Murdock, I hereby sentence you to sixty days of inactivity for…” he looked me straight in the eye and finished, “personal reasons. Is that time adequate?”
“Yes, sir. More than adequate.”
After signing the sabbatical notice he reached into his desk once more and handed me a small card with a series of rotating numbers displayed on a small screen.
“Access codes?”
“Yes. Sometimes people gain access to important information in mysterious ways. Sometimes it helps when you’re trying to find things. Dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck, Carl.”
I nodded as I slipped out the door and prayed I had made the right decision. The only thing I knew for sure was that she was my responsibility and that her capture was on me. I had to make it right and hope no lasting damage had been done.
Locating a subject that didn’t want to be found was very difficult but not impossible. These men obviously wanted me to find them because they called and let me know they had taken Brittany. If they only wanted to scare me they would have killed her and left her somewhere I would find her.
I punched in a phone number and asked for Rebecca. After a short pause she came on the phone, saying, “This is Rebecca.”
“Becca, I need you to trace a number for me; off the record.”
“Carl, what are you up to?”
“Becca,” I scolded, “you know if I tell you I’ll have to kill you.”
“Right, right, I know. Okay, what’s the number?”
“Mine.”
“Yours?”
“Mine.” Sensing hesitation on her end I added, “Please don’t ask me questions, Becca. Just do it? It’s important.”
She hesitated a moment and I could picture her furrowing her brow, adjusting her black-framed glasses, and looking around to see if anyone was looking. I wondered when she was going to figure out she had the whole place to herself. She didn’t have any colleagues (because no one could keep up with her) and people rarely stopped by to chat (because she usually ended up explaining to them why they had no idea how to do their job).
“Okay, Carl, but if I get caught it’s on you.”
Chuckling, I said, “Becca, you never get caught. That’s probably the reason they fired everyone else that used to work there. They got caught but you never do.”
“Whatever. Those people got fired because they were stupid and didn’t know what they were doing.” There was a short pause and I wondered if she had hung up the phone.
“Bec, you there?”
“Gimme a sec! I’m not rerouting traffic for you or anything! It takes some time!”
I waited.
“Okay, your mom called about an hour ago, your landlord twenty minutes ago, and… your mom again about three-and-a-half minutes ago.”
“Becca, I need you to go back farther than that. I need to know about a call made yesterday evening around ten twenty-five.”
“Bingo. Holy cow.”
“What?”
“Someone has some major equipment and doesn’t want you finding them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The signal was bounced off every tower between here and New Zealand. It’s gonna take me awhile to figure out what is going on.”
“Call me back.”
“Right.”
While I was waiting for Becca to call back I started packing a travel bag, but realized I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t stand to just sit around waiting, so I laid out a stack of warm weather clothes and a set of cold weather clothes so I could leave as soon as I knew where I was headed. After that was all done I booted up my computer and signed on to the agency’s database to gather information about not only the suspected abductors, but also their abductee. Just the thought of her being caught in the middle of this made me want to break something. Fortunately for me I had long since disposed of all easily breakable items in my apartment for that exact reason. It was too expensive to keep buying picture frames and dinner glasses whenever I lost control.

The man suspected of heading this group of criminals is called “Big J” by his subordinates. His full name is John Williams, but having his full name doesn’t really get us anywhere. He is so slippery and his operations so efficiently run we have yet to pin him down to a specific location he may use as a headquarters. Although with technology the way it is I think he didn’t have a physical headquarters, but instead directed his people from all over the world. All we know about him is what his rather large file in the criminal justice system tells. Unfortunately the concrete information in this file is limited to his small-time dealings from the time he was fifteen when he stole a car to a series of high-profile robberies when he was thirty-two for which he was never apprehended. The crimes between escalated in gravity as well as visibility as he got older, but until he went off radar at thirty-two there wasn’t a whisper of human collateral on any of his jobs. He blew up cars, empty buildings, and held people at gunpoint, but he never took them from the scene or followed through with his threats of injury. Whatever he had been exposed to in his more recent years had caused him to deviate from his normal behavior and begin dealing in people.
Big J had a pretty big crew in light of our inability to find him. Every once in awhile we would nab one of his boys, but they always broke out of jail before we could get anything valuable out of them. The guys at the office weren’t big into torture so we didn’t usually get anything useful from them even if they did stick around for lengthy interrogations. Big J’s muscle was a six-foot-three three-hundred-pound gorilla named Albert Jones. Albert wasn’t high on the intelligence scale, but he more than made up for that with his ability to heft midsize cars above his head. Riley Anderson took care of J’s intelligence operations and anything that needed to be done on a computer. Riley was so good at what he did we were unable to gather much information on him at all. We only knew his name because Becca was able to capture some information in a dark corner of cyber space. He’s a gloater. Every once in awhile Becca will get a haughty email with a request for her to admit he’s better than her. Personally, I don’t believe this is true. Becca has come up with some pretty amazing information from nothing. Once I brought in a computer that had been in a building I blew up on accident. She found the user information and locations of hits which led to the capture of a terrorist ring working out of an abandoned mine shaft in Uzbekistan.

One Small Step

I wrote this essay for some school assignment once and was pleasantly surprised at how it came out. FYI - it is pretty much written in stream-of-consciousness.

A school yard. Children. Little redhead in Osh Kosh B’gosh. Superman Backpacks. Crossing guard with the nice smile. A big STOP sign. Fast cars and loud horns. The little first-graders giggle and skip toward the road. A slow boy hurries gleefully toward the nice lady. Dad’s weekend. He’s waiting for me. Gotta hurry. Dad’s weekend.
Little Aaron runs and runs. His brother, Andy far ahead. Andy, perfect little boy. Blonde, tall, strong, smart – fast. Andy runs and runs – stops – at the curb. Aaron runs and runs and runs and runs. One small step. A horn. Andy yells, the little redhead girl cries. The nice crossing guard gasps – runs.
The businessman gets out of his fancy car. So sorry – he’s so sorry. I was late he says – very important meeting – so sorry. Little Aaron won’t wake up. Andy – is he asleep? Crossing guard – I don’t know. Red lights, blue lights – a stretcher. Dad holds Andy. Mom cries. Dad’s pretty wife holds little sister – Melissa. She is crying.
Little Aaron won’t wake up. Not for another four months. Four months of doctors and jello and hospital chairs, big words. Cerebral. Non-responsive. Stability. Comatose. Melissa cries a lot.
Mom blames Dad and his pretty wife. She is called Mom, too. She smiles a lot. Old Mom doesn’t smile – she cries and yells. Dad is sad. Melissa cries. Andy brings Aaron G.I. Joes. New Mom explains – he can’t play now. Andy – I won’t play with Melissa – she eats them. New Mom smiles.

Four months.
Comatose.
Non-responsive.
Little Aaron is awake.
Therapy – Brain damage.
Retarded.
Retarded. Such a strange word. We use it every day. Don’t be a retard! That’s retarded. Out of context. Wrong. Fear. Prejudice. FEAR.
Six years later – Me. Aaron is “mentally handicapped.” Politically correct. Whatever – he’s retarded. Like a child with facial hair. Naïve, innocent. He has the mind of a six-year-old. In 24 years he has only aged six years. He is twelve years past his life expectancy and he is getting worse. He has seizures a lot and gets sick real easy. He’s thirty years old and can’t live alone. Andy is twenty-nine, married to a Southern Belle, 3 beautiful kids, and a house payment. Melissa is twenty-five, married to her high-school sweetheart, two cute kids, and a house payment.
Aaron was engaged once – Jennie. He’ll always be single. He gets up at 5:00 every morning, works 8-10, development group until 3, TV, empty the dishwasher, TV. There is never any change.
People are afraid of him – teens mostly. They laugh at him – they’re scared. Aaron knows everyone in town. He is the smartest guy I know. He once told me that strangers were only friends he hadn’t met yet. He isn’t afraid to be himself in public – with everyone. He is fiercely loyal and will never say a negative word about anyone. Everyone loves Aaron and he has friends everywhere. Aaron freely gives compliments and tells me I’m always beautiful – he says I don’t need makeup because I’m already beautiful. I am so lucky to have Aaron.
People feel sorry for me that I have to deal with Aaron and my life is so hard – just put him in a home somewhere. NO! He is a blessing. I wish you had an Aaron. You’re the one missing out. Handicap isn’t contagious, but his love is.
We should all be like Aaron. He leaves people better than he found them. He feels no hate toward the businessman. He has freely forgiven him. Do we forgive as easily? No – we hold a grudge.
Different is GOOD. If we didn’t have people like Aaron, who would we learn from? There would be no one to remind us of simple kindnesses, pure love. Those who are different are to be treasured and loved – they are the reality, and we are fake.

Poplar Lane

As soon as I posted my last blurp I found my other story. This is just a teaser:

Towering aspens quivered in the summer breeze, their colorful leaves dancing to a whispered song winding through the trees. Walking down the lane I could hear each tree beckon me. This place always sent a chill up my spine. With every passing tree, my willpower wore down. I had been told never, ever, under any circumstances to go into the forest, for therein lived a man who was said to be a murderer. But such a beautiful forest could not be dangerous, I reasoned. Maybe I’ll just go in for a moment. I don’t have to be home for another half of an hour. Fifteen minutes, just a little walk and besides, no one really lives there.
Walking through the woods I felt the simple beauty of the delicate aspens and the towering giant oak trees. How could anyone be scared of such a quiet place? After my first adventure it became a daily routine and most days I ate my lunch under the shade of the larger aspens. Weeks later I was walking through the trees and heard a twig snap behind me. When I turned around I saw an elegant young woman standing behind me. He stood easily a whole head above me. Studying him quickly from had to toe, I noticed he was sturdily built with a trim waist and broad shoulders, covered by khaki breeches and knee-high leather riding boots. His vest was burgundy velvet layered under a fitted overcoat made of navy blue brocade finished with a crisp white cravat. His chiseled body was distinguishable even under his regal garb.
“Pardon me, Miss, have you seen my horse?”
I answered, my mouth gaping. “Um, no, I haven’t.”
“Blast it all. He seems to have run off while I slept.”
He ceased his turning and searching to stand, tall and elegant, staring at me with wide eyes and furrowed brows.
“May I inquire as to your name, Miss?”
Remembering my manners, I closed my mouth. “Yes, my name is Catherine.”
“Just Catherine?”
“Oh no, Catherine Mandelstam.”
“Catherine Dominique Mandelstam.”
“Yes, how did you know my name?” I asked.
His face turned pale and his eyes glazed over.
“Sir are you all right?” I inquired.
Coming to his senses, he started and stared at me with unabashed interest.
“Sir, are you all right?” I questioned him again and touched his arm.
He jumped as if I’d burned him.
“Please excuse me, Miss,” he said.
With these last harsh words he turned on his heel and strode off. Dumbfounded, I scurried after him hollering, “Hey, where are you going?”
He didn’t stop but instead started running toward the edge of the wood across a meadow and into a small shed. Finally the porch of the old moss-covered shack and opened the door.
Inside were several small windows and a door on the opposite end. The rickety shelves held glass beakers full of strange liquids and an odd array of items. Ignoring these I proceeded to open the door. But halfway open an overwhelming dizziness washed over me. My knees gave out and I fell onto the grass outside the shanty, the blue sky covered by a different man staring at me.
“Are you all right?” he questioned.
Unable to answer, I slipped into the blackness flying at me.

Floppy Disk

So after the first writer's meeting I went to last week (we really need to think of a snappy name, ladies) I went searching for a floppy disk (ancient technology, I know) containing pretty much all the writing I have done in my lifetime. I took it to the computer help desk and they were able to get the files off the floppy and onto my portable hard drive! I don't have much content there and my most complete story is still MIA, but hopefully I will find it. It's about time travel...

Essay Introduction

I had to write a research paper on the British Neoclassic/Romantic author of my choice for my British Literature class last semester, and I chose Jane Austen. Really, who the heck else would I choose? I absolutely love Jane Austen. I did an entire project on her, so if I get it back from my professor I will post some pictures of what I did. For the introduction our professor wanted to know why we chose our specific author. Here's my intro.

Sometimes our hearts are touched and our souls set aflame without explanation. We connect with something, or someone, or a place, and our souls stir. We are captivated. We long to stay. But we must go. It is the very act of leaving that instills within us a desire to return as often as possible to relive the emotions experienced upon a previous visit. Sometimes those feelings do not return. They were a healing breeze across our consciousness, but it will not be the same. It will not be the same because we change.
Have you ever met someone that seemed to complete you? Someone who knew what you felt and were able to explain it to you? Someone who can finish your sentences and knows how to make you laugh when your world crumbles into nothing in your hands? I have. She is a wood nymph, a dream brought into my reality. She is as free as the wind, but grounded, like emerald seagrass in a violent storm. She is a tease, a flirt. Her words can cut like a dagger, or heal the most broken of hearts. She is a nurturer, a healer, a guider of lost souls. She doesn’t judge. She loves without condition. She freely gives her heart to those around her, and loves them even after they break it. She is feisty. She loves a challenge. She is stubborn. She must have her way, but, given enough time, she eventually comes around. She is dignified and ridiculous. She is silly. She is a joyful giggle on a warm summer breeze. For now, she is my other half. She is called Carlie. She is my sister.
There is another that brings my deepest emotions for this hummingbird I love. She is called Jane. Jane was an author – an author of beauty and the sublime. She was an author of realism and honesty. She was funny. She was sarcastically critical. Jane had a sister. Jane’s sister was beautiful, kind, gentle, affectionate, devoted, tender, content, and supportive. Jane and her sister were rarely parted. When they were apart letters were exchanged often. Jane died in her sister’s arms. Neither ever married despite their fair countenances. The love and devotion of these two sisters who lived so long ago reminds me of my sister and me.
Jane watched the people around her, and so do I. I am a "connoisseur of human folly" much like Elizabeth Bennett. She used familiar people from her life to create her characters. These amalgamations are astonishingly true to life and move from one of her works to another. She captures these people with humor and honesty. She does not make them seem perfect. Even her most beloved characters are flawed and commit error. But instead of berating the human race she laughs at their folly and presents it as inescapable. Jane always added a character meant to be laughed at. Mr. Collins is the first which comes to mind. He is so awkward and so unaware of his deficiencies one cannot help but laugh at him.
The women in Jane’s stories are strong, intelligent, socially independent whom en. They are not financially independent as society did not allow such a thing, but they were capable of rational thought and great emotional insight. They were genteel and fresh. They enjoyed society and did not hide indoors. Excepting Miss Bates in Emma there were no spinsters. Even the sickly Miss Anne de Bourgh was married by the end of Pride & Prejudice. They were healthy and robust and often took long walks hrough the beautiful English countryside. These were all activities and characteristics of the author and her circle rendered in fiction. The images in her works are elegant and refined. They are grace ful and poised. They are images of days long gone which cannot be recovered. This is why we love them. We cannot have them and so we love them.
I am intrigued at the life Jane led and her courage to defy social convention and live her life as she saw fit. She did not marry, but instead chose to write and use her wonderful skills to better the lives of others.
Jane created dashing men. Chivalrous men. Gorgeous men. These men are classic and dreamy. Perhaps Jane was unable to find a man to equal those she created. Perhaps she did not care to try. In either case, she stirs strong emotions – love, hate, jealousy, wonder, yearning, shock, joy, merriment, and most especially satisfaction. Satisfaction that all can end well and everyone is in their rightful place. This is why I love Jane Austen.