tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87618590966441293712024-02-19T02:52:59.142-08:00Gayle McCainGayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-33079652052887329582016-06-05T07:12:00.000-07:002017-07-13T20:16:01.001-07:00A Story - Gia Dreams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
She had work to do, and no office to do it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had outgrown her old place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tiny house where she had raised her
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been home for her
children, and accustomed to it, they no longer remembered the larger house that
had been part of their early childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Gia knew that she needed a bigger place to do her
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All her life she had drawn people
to her who needed healing of some sort or the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now she felt the call to help the walking
wounded more effectively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she had
begun opening her home and her heart to the friends of her children, and the
people who wandered into her life like stray pups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often so emotionally battered by life that
they snapped at everyone, even the hand that fed them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gia had never thought of herself as a gentle woman, yet in
her heart, she tenderly took these lost souls in and through patience and hard
work, brought them out of whatever private hell they had been in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would have laughed at anyone who said
that she was really a softie, but she had a secret place in her heart for
anyone who tried, failed, and picked themselves up to go again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her children knew a bit of this secret, but
they did not understand the depth of her fire, for they had not been through
the hell that she had growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hands that should have been tender had been brutal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words that should have been spoken in love
were used as whips on the young Gia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chores
that should have been easily accomplished were made infinitely more difficult
by their unceasing demand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, in spite of hiding her wounded heart behind walls
and hardness, she had these tender spots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She found enough courage within her to change how she talked to her
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not playing head games with
them, she learned to ask for the behavior that she wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though in order to do that she had to figure out
what she wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an interesting
journey for the wounded Gia, peeling one layer of pain away to reveal a sweeter,
stronger woman, just as one would peel an onion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She knew that part of her healing was to help heal others
who had been wounded just as she had, with words, with fists, and with
cruelty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so she stood there, looking
out over her land, having the time, the space, and the willpower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Missing only one thing, the money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no money meant no materials.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had been clearing the land the hard way, the old
fashioned way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With an ax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling up the scrub, using it to create
fences and foot paths through the woods, fill in the low spots, and cover over
the muddy ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But finally all that preparation was done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stood in the midst of the clearing, ax in
hand and realized that there was nothing left for her to cut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trees around the area had ribbons around
their middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These ribbons marked the
edge of the yard that would surround her new home and office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would shade her home in the hot summer
sun of Arkansas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They gave protection from the winter winds
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was the fierce heat that she
was most worried about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the winter
you could wrap up in a blanket or put on another sweater, but in the summer it
was hard to take off enough clothes to keep cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trees helped that tremendously, which was why
Gia didn’t want to cut any more of the tall sentinels down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides they made her feel safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Protected, watched over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she had never had family and friends who
did that for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there she stood, ax in hand, uncertain what came next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sitting carefully on the ground, she crossed her legs and
just enjoyed the peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once her home
was built, it would not be quiet in the clearing again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so she enjoyed the silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A silenced filled with the stirring of mice
and voles, fluttering of butterflies wings, twittering of the yellow and blue
songbirds, as well as the harsh cawing from the neighborhood crow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The silence was anything but.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she listened to the cheeps, and whirring, the knocking
and the clicking, she began to hear a pattern, a song really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And hearing it, she began to hum along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It began tentatively at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a quiet humming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The song of the Forest
seemed to quiet momentarily, as if listening to her song, and then it began
again, quietly at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her heart
she heard the melody of the greenwood and allowed her voice to grow, adding a
harmony, tentatively at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gradually, the sound grew, echoing through the forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eerie, haunting, and soulful, her song echoed
the Forest, and the Forest echoed through Gia.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each note sliding up and down the scale,
harmonizing, shifting, swooping and diving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The song drove on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harmony
interweaving with melody, until she was not sure which was which.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes closed Gia sang from the heart, pausing only to
breathe, listening to the excitement growing within the Forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been many years since anyone had sung
with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enjoying the playfulness of
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stretching here, singing close
harmony there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only dissonance came
as a pick-up drove up the gravel road nearby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Radio blasting, momentarily silencing the Forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only to have the shifting melody start up
again as the dust settled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The song
returning stronger than before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes still closed, Gia found her self lying down in the center
of the small meadow, feeling that her body was alive, perhaps for the first
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As though she were larger than her
skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weaving melody and harmony, into Forest and home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bringing each separate sound into the melody much the way a builder
would add each board when creating a building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Totally focused on the swelling symphony, she didn’t hear
the quiet rustlings around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t
feel the wind dance, ebb and flow, enveloping her lifting her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t feel the earth move as the clearing
reshaped itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So totally focused on Listening and Singing, she didn’t see
what was happening around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t
notice until the melody wound down to its end, gently slipping into silence as
the last note faded away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes still shut; Gia felt vibrant and alive, wishing it
could go on and on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing that soon
enough she had to return to everyday living, she allowed herself the luxury of
a short nap in the dappled sunlight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally the sound of a dog barking in the distance drew her
back to her body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sighing, knowing that
she still had to figure out how to build her home, she struggled to a sitting
position rubbing the sleep from her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Confused briefly by the buildings that confronted her, she
thought she was still dreaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
right in front of her was the home and office that she had envisioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hands had been unable to draw what her
heart had wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her words a poor
substitute for the vision she had carried all these years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet it was before her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d even managed to dream the guest
cottages that she’d seen one time in a movie, so that the people who came to
get her help wouldn’t always be underfoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was lush thick grass, and as she looked down, even the dirt under
her fingers was different from the poor sandy soil that had been there before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was rich and black, and the plants growing
in it were strong and healthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everything she had ever wanted, down to and including, the flower garden
underneath the front windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She knew she must be dreaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None-the-less she stood and went to
investigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house of her dream
didn’t include furniture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor did it
include window screens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amused at the
missing detail, she started to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And began to run through the house looking at everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wondered why the wood of the window sills
looked as if they had grown up from the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The kitchen had just the kind of faucet she had seen at the hardware
store and wished for, knowing it would never happen because of its
expense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her dream it had happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gia joyously spent the rest of the day wandering through
this new home and office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guest
cottages were tiny, but as exquisite as the rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Nathanial came home, supper wasn’t ready, hadn’t even
been started, and Gia wasn’t in her usual places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worried about her, he decided to go the only
place he could think of – the clearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had been working herself near to death to clear the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he was concerned for she had never stayed
so long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She heard him call through the woods, as he hiked up the
path toward the clearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Positive that
she was still asleep, that when he stepped into view, Gia greeted him as if she
were a mere girl again, skipping across the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Puzzled by the look on his face, she peered
into his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As tears ran down his
face and he pulled her into his arms, Gia realized that she was not dreaming.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gayle McCain</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Written for a friend in 2008.)</div>
</div>
Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-27420259368821183942013-12-15T06:11:00.003-08:002021-06-24T11:54:09.012-07:00Cigar Box Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Fighting tears, Peggy watched her husband leave
the house, as he had every night for the last month with what was left from
supper. He would come home a short time
later smelling of tobacco and the night air.
She didn’t know where he went, or what he did when he got there. And she was a little afraid to find out for
sure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">All she knew is the money she put in the
cookie jar kept
disappearing. She had expected to use
that money to buy presents at the mercantile. But found herself making Christmas presents for the
children instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Billy wanted to be a pirate. So she made an eye patch and a pirate’s hat from a large scrap of felt and embroidered a dragon on the front. Then she copied the dragon onto an old wooden
cigar box. Hours and hours of
painstakingly painting the dragon till she got it right. An old string of beads, a few tin foil coins,
and an ugly cameo broach turned the box into a perfect treasure chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Discipline kept her from crying as she cut
apart a stained pink dress that she had found abandoned in the attic, left by
the previous tenant of their small rented house. Located on the right side of the tracks,
Peggy tried very hard to keep up appearances determined that her family would
be seen as well-off, given her husband’s position as supervisor. It frustrated her that his paycheck
didn’t seem to be enough lately. She was
worried that his nightly outings would be seen sooner or later and the
neighbors would begin to talk. Small
towns were so gossipy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">A second cigar box, this one painted white,
would serve as a bed for Katie’s baby doll.
Sniffling Peggy created bedding for the doll bed. Sheets, pillows, a little blanket, and a
small bedspread. She was even able to
make a little dress and apron for the doll from a sleeve. She was
not a seamstress, so this gift was truly a labor of love, working secretly while
the children were at school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">By scrimping on the amount of meat she
bought and serving more stews and soups than normal, she had managed to buy a
small pouch of her husband’s favorite pipe tobacco.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Nevertheless, she felt inadequate. In his
old job, there had been plenty of money and they had all become accustomed to
lots of presents under the tree. The three
small presents were a stark reminder of the tough times of the depression and
of how her husband was apparently squandering their precious resources. But she loved him. And so said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The children opened the presents that she
had carefully wrapped in pages of an old Life Magazine – snatched from a burn
pile before a neighbor noticed. Katie
loved her baby doll’s new bed. After
jumping up to kiss her mother, she wandered off to play in the corner, while Billy put on his eye patch, and went around
all day saying “aaargh.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">But there was no present under the tree for
her. She just looked at Floyd with quiet
sadness as he sat there smoking his pipe, thoughtfully. He was a man who had molded himself into a
tower of strength. In his young life he
had been a cowboy in Oklahoma, a gandy dancer laying track across the Illinois
prairie, and a professional boxer, hanging up his gloves after he won his third
purse, having proved himself to the rough Irishmen that worked alongside
him. He took this confidence into the
hard work of laying telephone lines across the countryside, unafraid of the
creatures that walked about on two legs.
But he didn’t know how to talk to his young wife. Didn’t understand that her strength came from
understanding why sacrifice was needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Hiding her emotions, she bustled about the
kitchen, fragrances of roast goose, stuffing, fresh bread and apple pie filling
the house. The adults ate quietly, while
the children chatted excitedly about their presents. While he was outside getting more wood for
the fire, Peggy packed a picnic basket with an extra pie for whoever it was
that her husband visited. Leaving the
basket on the table, she went to their room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Floyd heard Peggy cry herself to
sleep. He knew she didn’t
understand. Someday he would
explain. It had been hard to watch his
brother and sisters starve as his mother took in boarders in an effort to keep
the family together. He believed his
little sister would have survived, if he’d been able to put enough food on the
table for her. But with his father gone,
he’d been the man of the family at ten.
And he just couldn’t do a man’s job, or get a man’s wage. Though he did try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">But he was a man now. He had tears in his eyes as he picked up
the basket his wife had made and when out into the blustery night, his
Christmas bonus tucked safely away in his shirt pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">A half a mile outside of town the lonely cabin
stood, on the wrong side of the tracks.
Christmas was here, and Sarah had nothing to put under the tree for her
children. She had put them to bed with
bread and milk, having nothing else to feed them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The scarlet fever had nearly done Sarah’s husband
in. He was starting to get better, but
it had been touch and go there for a while.
Since he had taken sick, every night someone had secretly left a pot of
stew on their porch. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Some nights there were
a few coins next to it. Sarah didn’t
know who the angel was that watched over them, but was grateful that someone in
this town cared. <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">That night Floyd didn’t run out of sight after
he knocked on the door. He placed the
basket in her hands and pulled his Christmas bonus from his pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">“Ma’am,” he said quietly. “Your husband works for me. I’m glad that he’s getting better. But I can’t keep coming here. The Company is sending me and my family south
for the winter. It’s getting too cold to
do the work. There’s enough here that
you should be able to live for a couple of weeks, if you’re careful. Or take a train somewhere warmer for the
winter. Maybe go live with relatives or
something.” He fell silent, unsure what
to say next. Taking in Sarah’s
confusion, he continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">“My wife, is a good woman; she fixed you up a nice
Christmas dinner. She made an extra pie
for you. And she doesn’t even know you.
I think she believes I’m having an affair.
But she did this anyway, because she just wants me to be happy. I didn’t tell her about your husband being
sick and all. She’s the kind of woman
who would have come to take care of him and you, and probably gotten sick
herself. So I have got to go fix the
mess I made. And explain the struggles
I’ve put her through. If you were my
sister I’d tell you to go home to your family.
The trains will be running tomorrow.
And I’ll have one of my men come give you all a ride to the station if
you’re going. Now I’ve got to get home
and fix it with her.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">He tipped his hat and turned to leave. She asked him to wait and ran to the pink cigar
box she kept her precious treasure in.
She scribbled a quick note and placed it in the box. Returning she asked him to please give it to his
wife as a Christmas gift. He tipped his hat once again, and walked off into the
night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Taking off his overcoat, he silently poured
himself a shot of whiskey and lit his pipe.
Then he went into their bedroom and woke his wife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">“Tonight, I gave a family a chance to
survive,” he smiled grimly. “People are so proud. It’s so hard on men when they can’t
work. But it’s even harder for the women
and children; they’re so thin. And when
we try to help them, they get all prideful and won’t take what they so
desperately need,” he said quietly. “Honey,
I gave them my Christmas bonus. So they can
go home to her parents. I know it’s been
hard for you, with money so tight. And I thank you for not complaining, for we
have so much more than most.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">“She asked me to give you this,” he said
handing the cigar box to his wife.
Inside she found a delicate ladies handkerchief with tiny pink and white
embroidered flowers. And a simple note
that read: “Thank you, from the bottom
of our hearts. You saved us all. Sarah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">“I know I should have told you. And I hope I didn’t ruin your Christmas, Peggy,”
he wiped a tear from her cheek. “I had
hoped to take you to your mother’s for the holidays. But I just couldn’t manage it. I’m sorry.
I love you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">“I love you, too. Come to bed,” she said as she kissed him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Some of the details are pure imagination. But the presents were real and my grandmother died never knowing that
those meager gifts were the most cherished things my mother and uncle ever
received. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-17064421730699613642013-03-18T10:08:00.001-07:002021-06-24T09:54:36.111-07:00Story - A Reality Takes Shape<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzVD3fgBor_sPJ2AdRCEutn6hRdhJEhiZkGhKUVGksjMRWwUiW-fdbyroJqUP8Q9XdIEN3JUGLA6UI7ohC5p-wq2DV2Ukxhdcd-KwdV0VgVtS8LlWTKPQAELL8xLRtMkCCUyiPW91UvI/s1600/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+014.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzVD3fgBor_sPJ2AdRCEutn6hRdhJEhiZkGhKUVGksjMRWwUiW-fdbyroJqUP8Q9XdIEN3JUGLA6UI7ohC5p-wq2DV2Ukxhdcd-KwdV0VgVtS8LlWTKPQAELL8xLRtMkCCUyiPW91UvI/s200/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+014.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She wasn't positive, but she thought she might be dreaming, or dead, meaning she'd crossed an exit point for her old life. The world was a softer place than it had been
the day before. The weather warmer, the
traffic noises sounded further away, and </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 16px;">the creek she took her morning walk alongside of was uncharacteristically trash free.</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";"> She noticed she was was more
relaxed than she had been in a long time. So she figured she must be dreaming, or in
that place people go when they’re between one life and another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Her ‘old life’ had
been difficult, full of unrelenting mental work. While she had been given a top of the line
brain, she liked to mix it up a bit.
Splitting her time between solving problems, reading, writing, time spent with family, friends and patients, and
getting out into the wide world breathing in and breathing out - just being
without doing. The unrelenting nature of
her studies had gotten old. Grateful
that she was able to get the education at all due to her advancing age, Katie
none-the-less was noticing signs of inner rebellion growing at the irrelevance
of much of it. Sighing, she knew that
the minutia came with the territory. But
that didn’t mean she had to like every facet of it. Though she grudgingly admitted perhaps the
very contrast made her appreciate the good stuff even more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Taking a break from her studies, she made
her way into the Antique Mall, feeling as though she had stepped into a different reality. She wondered if somehow the upscale flea market was a way station of sorts. Where people chose their next life by the
things they wanted around them. Katie believed that things are an outward expression of the inner beliefs and rules that one lived by. It wasn't always true to form, but she had found that those who chose their
surroundings deliberately tended to reflect their inner landscape surprisingly well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKma-I-ox2_ULLrM0mYlstFBrq2qaNaFClCnaDMIkOO_pdckw3a31c_g4Qip37khkmy96Dz0HP-sGn-salcFOlRU1KSyUTsYiphhih-hfjBwGcCxChWtKncJuK8NZl2zsZLDRRvlGQp8M/s1600/iPad+photos+prior+to+2012-12-27+008.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKma-I-ox2_ULLrM0mYlstFBrq2qaNaFClCnaDMIkOO_pdckw3a31c_g4Qip37khkmy96Dz0HP-sGn-salcFOlRU1KSyUTsYiphhih-hfjBwGcCxChWtKncJuK8NZl2zsZLDRRvlGQp8M/s200/iPad+photos+prior+to+2012-12-27+008.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She had always
loved wandering around looking at ‘shiny things’ that one found in the nicer shops, having grown tired of garage sales early in life. She enjoyed mentally trying on a potential new possession (or way of life) the way some women try on shoes. Mostly
she enjoyed the exercise in imagination.
But it had taken on a different quality this time. It was at once more vivid, and more detached.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Most of the things
surrounding her were well worn, and would make for an authentic setting if she
were a ‘staging expert’ like her friend who set up empty houses for
resale. She looked with curiosity at a booth crammed with the detritus from estate and garage sales. The vendor had gathered items that had a high
resale value, but had haphazardly mixed decorating styles. Katie would have grouped the things
differently. Placing the stainless steel
toaster, plug in percolator, the kitchen utensils with the black bake-o-lite
handles, and a white plastic canister set on the chrome and vinyl table. The tea kettle, fine tea cups, and lace tablecloth
would be arranged elegantly on the butler’s side table, and the Shaker chairs
would be hung on the wall above the plain wooden bench. But she liked to have things grouped by era. Not mixing Danish Modern with 1950's Chrome and Formica. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Some of these
styles her mother had had at one point or another in her life. All of them were attractive in some way, but
she didn’t want to duplicate her mother’s home. She wanted her own style,
wanted to reflect a softer, kinder life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc59qIeKpc5gw7fIdiahVuCZAYMLNMJEymNknObUP-Py9WVV-zNcw193RUi31dqjhjSJjsyNWcXPVtNlaPGfzwiEgpLcozMhxa56GMBQsUUIxbiHeKULynpOBZh3qUF1i9wmGcJlwyO3c/s1600/photo.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc59qIeKpc5gw7fIdiahVuCZAYMLNMJEymNknObUP-Py9WVV-zNcw193RUi31dqjhjSJjsyNWcXPVtNlaPGfzwiEgpLcozMhxa56GMBQsUUIxbiHeKULynpOBZh3qUF1i9wmGcJlwyO3c/s200/photo.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Moving on, she
found a booth where the vendor had chosen the items to blend together, reflecting a
style that Katie could only describe as pink, frilly, frivolous. She hadn't known that lace came in so many
shades of white, cream, and pink, much of it attempting to hide what was underneath. Dripping with ribbon, flounces and ruffles,
crystal chandeliers, the booth was 4000 cubic feet of total fluff. Lampshades covered with what looked like bits
of lace tablecloth and tulle. Ornate lamps, silk ivy garland wrapped in order to hide the ugliness beneath, shades
heavy with crystal beads, mountains of pillows, buckles, buttons and bows. It was rather overwhelming, all that fluttery
stuff. For a tidy sum Katie could have
the kind of room she might have liked for about fifteen minutes when she was
thirteen. There were a few things in the
booth she liked: a quilt here, an old
powder box that would hold jewelry, little things that would remind her of her
femininity without requiring the extraordinary steps to keep the dust at
bay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RwJHTbiYYuqECl7fbw1wme8jAmwN46jFu17_7hWFgkdQOO7EULbi3HzZA4dKQE3muBCuLdom3ilhU-NdmHkdkfAR8rmXmDQJw1Ypj2qJhtFB1NweyuI07k9rF5SM89GCmaoeFOM_VFY/s1600/A+baret+-+no+no+no.PNG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RwJHTbiYYuqECl7fbw1wme8jAmwN46jFu17_7hWFgkdQOO7EULbi3HzZA4dKQE3muBCuLdom3ilhU-NdmHkdkfAR8rmXmDQJw1Ypj2qJhtFB1NweyuI07k9rF5SM89GCmaoeFOM_VFY/s200/A+baret+-+no+no+no.PNG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Right next to
this wash of pink was an art-deco booth lined with movie posters, flapper
dresses, retro faux mink stoles, spike high heels, and a number of little retro women's hats. She slipped one of the hats on,
and stopped to admire herself. A single
glance in the mirror had her snatching it off, for she looked like her grandmother. When had she grown that old? The beret was definitely not her style, never had been, never would be, no matter how cute they looked on the model.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Ah but then she
saw a soft wool fedora, in black, she could not resist trying it on. Over the
shoulder of the elegant woman in the mirror she spied a patch of black, hiding
behind a hideous red, vinyl raincoat.
Pushing aside the offending bit of plastic she found a well, tailored, cashmere coat. Slipping it on, she
admired the way it hugged her curves. Paired with the fedora she would not be out of
place stepping out of a taxi at the Met.
All it needed was the right scarf.
Silk or soft knit, in red, dove grey, or cream depending on her mood. After a last look at herself, she reluctantly placed
the hat back on the wall hook, and the coat on its padded hanger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She knew that
she would find these things again someday, probably in better shape. But now was the time to dream, not buy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She fell in love
with a vase, clean elegant lines, rainbows showing through the cut crystal
edges. It was beautiful even without
flowers. A red and white quilt there, some
blue and white china, and a cut crystal sugar bowl. There were baskets and boxes. Dressers and damask drapes. Brass fireplace tools, a fender, and antique
brass andirons for a larger-than-life fireplace. There original oil paintings, and candlestick
lamps. Crystals and occasional
chairs. An old hutch made of mismatched
wood caught her eye, reminding her of one her grandfather had lovingly made
from an abandoned wardrobe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She spent the
next several hours wandering about finding things she would enjoy if she were
to completely refurnish her home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEfXRCi0ZD8eGk-28RXcV5zAnF6BiJx5JqUrzicPzA6_MckStvwUhyphenhyphen6PO9PLOsMoimZXJ-slElVmXJN6beCnyWmd9G13rXVjP4wHDhM05JMNpoVi0RssSn4EkcKxHinC2T04IDNwSNdI/s1600/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+016.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEfXRCi0ZD8eGk-28RXcV5zAnF6BiJx5JqUrzicPzA6_MckStvwUhyphenhyphen6PO9PLOsMoimZXJ-slElVmXJN6beCnyWmd9G13rXVjP4wHDhM05JMNpoVi0RssSn4EkcKxHinC2T04IDNwSNdI/s200/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+016.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Stacks of soap
made in Scotland that smelling like ‘home’ spilled lazily down a display of
charming wooden boxes. English lavender dresser paper, and handmade cotton
quilts thrown over the foot of a bed caught her eye. Natural fibers, old time fragrances, and well-crafted
wooden furniture out shown the garish synthetic fabrics that so many merchants
were pawning off on the ignorant public.
An overstuffed wing back chair and ottoman were crammed into a corner
next to a fake fireplace, begging to be set free. A small wooden dresser buried under a
mountain of linens whispered of the lingerie that it had once held. A bent teakettle hung from a hook above the
coffee grinder that was missing the bowl.
And she smiled to herself for the one she owned looked better and still
worked. Katie had made coffee the old
fashioned way when the power went out – in the old metal pot hanging in the
fireplace while beef stew simmered in the Dutch oven and snow storms raged
outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">The rows of old
glass medicine bottles in the next booth reminded her of her grandmother’s
vinegar cold remedy. Tasting of garlic
and something that kicked like a mule, she smiled as she remembered that it had
broken up every cough she had ever had. She moved on, nudging
a square bottle back into line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">And then she saw
the wooden humidor. Sanded till it felt like satin, someone had
lovingly crafted the maple piece, fitting it perfectly with an airtight insert
lined with a cork sheet. When she lifted
the lid the aroma of cigar tickled her nose, and she was washed with a wave of
homesickness. And she knew that this was
why she had come. None of the other ‘stuff’
mattered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">She knew He had
smoked the cigars that the humidor had held.
Wherever he had journeyed to make
his fortune – this time it was up to him to find her. She didn’t know what his name was. Or the
details of his life… but she had a sense that he was looking for her… and that
he had left the humidor for her to find, which meant he had been there. As she thought about it, she wondered if he
had been leaving little things that would remind her of home for years. That would wake her up enough to recognize
him when she saw him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRwchLN8vY0yXFnN6Mmory927ALsK4L1dInbSD-G_JVkqvR8mWw341Bm9refxbVuwUdbjFkgnz03sLHRhlfPHumSaVvbuRr3epC1eSd3NbLF_C1SrNahLt1WieIU_kzr9GKjt2tcp3ac/s1600/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+013.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRwchLN8vY0yXFnN6Mmory927ALsK4L1dInbSD-G_JVkqvR8mWw341Bm9refxbVuwUdbjFkgnz03sLHRhlfPHumSaVvbuRr3epC1eSd3NbLF_C1SrNahLt1WieIU_kzr9GKjt2tcp3ac/s200/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+013.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">And then she
realized that perhaps it had not been him that had gone away, but her, because
she had needed to find out who she was independent of him, and whether she still
wanted to mingle her life with his. And over time, she had forgotten much of their
life together. And yet she had been
driven by a yearning to get back home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Was she
dreaming? Or finally awake? Ready to enter her new life? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-44291369833205810082013-01-19T13:30:00.001-08:002021-06-24T10:03:55.731-07:00A Story Begins -- In the Beginning Was the Word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The stage
is almost set. Choices made for
costumes, lighting, and most of the cast.
Looks like an interesting weaving of storylines. The director walks around the stage one last time, and gets caught up in the story.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXi7hDehoXDzjEPXRVZaSFhZ25g2aE_FG-Jn65tdsi-H3Zh3Vh-nISshLLaVXg2xenYNLFv61UxV5v83asozwsXYr4RfA7HJU0mLjUb5UThU272ovpUNC8GsQwS-fv7c6XSBC-F4fXqo/s1600/IMG_6350.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXi7hDehoXDzjEPXRVZaSFhZ25g2aE_FG-Jn65tdsi-H3Zh3Vh-nISshLLaVXg2xenYNLFv61UxV5v83asozwsXYr4RfA7HJU0mLjUb5UThU272ovpUNC8GsQwS-fv7c6XSBC-F4fXqo/s200/IMG_6350.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="line-height: 150%;">The
furniture is different. </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">I've</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> come to
expect that from a dream. We have less
than 24 hours. It is moving day. Or
perhaps it should be better said it is packing day. And in less than 24 hours
it will be moving day. Six a.m.? Nine a.m.?
I don’t remember now. But it is
time.</span></div>
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoimx0ef0G3Y5ShTojJ6_TZgJ-YdMeEgck8J-Dj9W8nqWESBNQvtcsiZ0HIwSnJnkI1VPDTxRLjqjf8o9O01bF-pWPP7r_dMpZs3WUIpw8s0IcppUjU8Kfzi08Ac7SfWgouPrqNrVM-OU/s4608/IMG_20201024_073414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoimx0ef0G3Y5ShTojJ6_TZgJ-YdMeEgck8J-Dj9W8nqWESBNQvtcsiZ0HIwSnJnkI1VPDTxRLjqjf8o9O01bF-pWPP7r_dMpZs3WUIpw8s0IcppUjU8Kfzi08Ac7SfWgouPrqNrVM-OU/w157-h209/IMG_20201024_073414.jpg" width="157" /></a></div><br />
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I am uncertain if we will be able to get everything out. I certainly don’t have boxes or even enough time to pack everything up. And yet I am calm. Moving through the house to see what
absolutely positively has to be taken, I have to walk around a stuffed dog with long eyelashes and a hint of femininity. This is not a tiny puppy. She's the kind that you can really cuddle up with on the couch.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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There are stuffed velvet kittens and some plastic sharks in a goldfish bowl. A six
foot Labrador standing on his hind legs and a floppy eared mutt down on all
fours crowd in the hallway. Standing next to them is a funny big nosed
stuffed person, all head with itty-bitty arms and legs, about waist high. He is cute in a cartoon character sort of
way, and red. In fact there are two of
them, the one standing next to the dogs in the hallway, and another one tucked
almost out of sight behind the couch with her arm around a brown mare. A saddled black horse with white mane and tail is kneeling near the front door looking toward the couch. <span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I don't remember owning any of these stuffed animals, have never seen them before. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Surfacing up out of the dream I remember that the props crew goes to a lot of work to find things that will fit into the set of my dream dramas. The details vary from dream to dream, just as the stories that weave together into the tapestry of each imagining are different.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It is almost
time to leave. I don't know how I know this. It feels as if I've been handed a script and the screenwriter has given it as part of the background. Regardless, somehow I have to
pack all these critters into boxes to take them with me. I don’t know where I am going. How I will get there. Or even if I am going alone. I just know it is time to go.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO1QU6Cz-gZZAegcNofjnTCA4s-tQirkC-sYToI85-VbD3wmyyuC7qA1uAhvPiuze_Xl5IwgMU4QK4B35kGpQBTLRUdx_gNVTN4ZZ7BSCWODAS5dVeklqAuJTPOUojjsdcZXHsHbiYzQ/s207/Spider+Web+-+created+by+Gayle.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO1QU6Cz-gZZAegcNofjnTCA4s-tQirkC-sYToI85-VbD3wmyyuC7qA1uAhvPiuze_Xl5IwgMU4QK4B35kGpQBTLRUdx_gNVTN4ZZ7BSCWODAS5dVeklqAuJTPOUojjsdcZXHsHbiYzQ/s207/Spider+Web+-+created+by+Gayle.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO1QU6Cz-gZZAegcNofjnTCA4s-tQirkC-sYToI85-VbD3wmyyuC7qA1uAhvPiuze_Xl5IwgMU4QK4B35kGpQBTLRUdx_gNVTN4ZZ7BSCWODAS5dVeklqAuJTPOUojjsdcZXHsHbiYzQ/s207/Spider+Web+-+created+by+Gayle.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO1QU6Cz-gZZAegcNofjnTCA4s-tQirkC-sYToI85-VbD3wmyyuC7qA1uAhvPiuze_Xl5IwgMU4QK4B35kGpQBTLRUdx_gNVTN4ZZ7BSCWODAS5dVeklqAuJTPOUojjsdcZXHsHbiYzQ/s207/Spider+Web+-+created+by+Gayle.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="207" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO1QU6Cz-gZZAegcNofjnTCA4s-tQirkC-sYToI85-VbD3wmyyuC7qA1uAhvPiuze_Xl5IwgMU4QK4B35kGpQBTLRUdx_gNVTN4ZZ7BSCWODAS5dVeklqAuJTPOUojjsdcZXHsHbiYzQ/w140-h116/Spider+Web+-+created+by+Gayle.PNG" width="140" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Wandering into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee I am stopped by a thick spider web strung across the walkway from the ceiling, though the creatures hanging in it aren't spiders at all. Striped like a tiger, orange and black they have twelve pairs of legs. And clearly they spin webs. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">They
don’t look poisonous, but one never knows with a new critter. Hanging in their web over the fridge, they have anchored a cable to the very center of the floor, making it hard
to move around the kitchen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">I
really don’t want them jumping down on me, I’m not fond of that. But their web is in the way. Heart pounding, I
disentangle the thread and one of them jumps onto the floor. </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">I do not want it scurrying under the fridge or worse - running up my leg. </span><span style="line-height: 24px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I believe in 'catch and release' so I choose to trap it under a glass bowl from the counter. The other spidiger thing seems to be tangled in the web and is easily caught in another bowl. It must be really sick because t</span><span style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">he poor thing is just laying in the bowl on its back pretending to be dead. </span><span style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">Looking around the kitchen there's an air of unreality about the whole thing. There</span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> are two of
these tiger-spidery things. </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I return to the living room and began to realize that there a lot of the things are present in pairs. </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Two red head guys. Two dogs. Two chairs. Two canisters. There are even two identical doors on the fridge. It is bizarre.</span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> And none of it is alive. There are stuffed fabric
animals, plastic bugs, dolls, drawings, stick figures, sculptures. </span><span style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">Two of this and two of that. Pairs of things. </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Everywhere. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Something very strange is going on.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Shaking my head, I go back
into the kitchen and carefully release my captives, apologizing to the spidigers even though I now realize they are made of plastic. I'm polite that way. And even though they're not real, something says I could have hurt them. Not wanting the props guys to be upset, I put the couple carefully back into their web and re-anchor the broken thread out of the
way on the window blinds.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I need more information and wander into
the bedroom. The bed is empty, covers
turned down, waiting. But lying on top of a very long dresser is a bear, quite
comfortably stretched on a white blanket folded for padding. He reminds me very much of a brown bear
puppet I had some years ago. Only this one is
human sized. He is waiting for someone. Me? I
don’t think so. But there is a quiet smile
and softness around his mouth as he dreams.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Do stuffed
animals dream?” I ask out loud to no one in particular. And then an idea occurs to me. <o:p></o:p> I return to the living room and bring the feminine bear to the doorway of the bedroom. She leans against the door jam, waiting. If he wants her he’s going to have to ask her to join him. And together they can go out into the forest - or discover the softness of the feather pillows.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6eiNyA8v4Xh7EkmUVOxYiZABr7tQjJptG06VPx2D4BkJZGEySPhqx178a1t0XVUnStNTt6vfw2OZkFdCAAlzxpa7U1IvPIRSgrqSIvJ73tHT5UlZuLSpk-n-ej2DtfUEhYQhRA2z_B0/s1600/005.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6eiNyA8v4Xh7EkmUVOxYiZABr7tQjJptG06VPx2D4BkJZGEySPhqx178a1t0XVUnStNTt6vfw2OZkFdCAAlzxpa7U1IvPIRSgrqSIvJ73tHT5UlZuLSpk-n-ej2DtfUEhYQhRA2z_B0/s200/005.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not your ordinary dream</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I finally realize that I am seeing the equivalent of an ark. In house form. Or perhaps more properly the stage of an ark… a
theatrical stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Perhaps of
a new world in which animals live together, harmoniously. They don’t eat each other, they don’t need to. That somehow they absorb their energy from
the world around them, without depleting it. They build
for beauty and usefulness. They explore
for the joy of exploring. Play and work
together. Using the strengths of each to
create their world. The small and frail are as useful as the big and strong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is a world with peaceful rules. And anyone
who decides to bring violence and war to this world will be removed, and sent back to school. Those bad behaviors are things we learned by watching too much television when we were young. This is graduate school.
When they grow up and let go of the violence they will be allowed to come back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
As I return to the living room I can see through the window that a man is sitting in a glider on the front porch, waiting for me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I now realize that I will not be taking these things with me. That I was, am, supposed to leave them behind. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">And then I
wake up. And remember.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
So now the
real question is… is this the stuff that new worlds are made of? What if... this is how it works? We set a new stage, and then say "the Word" and
the action begins. What is the word that
a director uses? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Ah yes … “Act……”<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> But I
don’t want to say it yet. I still have a character that needs to be cast, the actor hasn't said he will take the contract. But one way or another it
won’t be long.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAAnKHlpdi2DXbmcDPIUbERD64HOFnRyxQPS23YrhaJOY8r2y9Vt5AQDyIElQdphlIPB0HSHU0YEYwLOAwIVg3l9nhONb2db9Ml-qqA97coEBE6sh77NpMhwimRkWOc2BNgFnhjjGQ2l4/s1600/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+176.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAAnKHlpdi2DXbmcDPIUbERD64HOFnRyxQPS23YrhaJOY8r2y9Vt5AQDyIElQdphlIPB0HSHU0YEYwLOAwIVg3l9nhONb2db9Ml-qqA97coEBE6sh77NpMhwimRkWOc2BNgFnhjjGQ2l4/s200/2012-07-22+photos+from+ipad+176.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Action</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;">
In the
Beginning Was the Word.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHiluyznbRg2B1Y2Tn4htu7RqeYkKgRTRSFrU4OsutB9DjHGjAFb0pf2RjGDiY6uvxj8EWAkiHpBVMFPOsPNGFs6beG02SzO_XXWrhSPPfAutnpHjnLTSEVCDe9Fx69XjAWGv17fn2QU/s1600/Gayle+McCain+-+Author+-+Forest+of+Mists.PNG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHiluyznbRg2B1Y2Tn4htu7RqeYkKgRTRSFrU4OsutB9DjHGjAFb0pf2RjGDiY6uvxj8EWAkiHpBVMFPOsPNGFs6beG02SzO_XXWrhSPPfAutnpHjnLTSEVCDe9Fx69XjAWGv17fn2QU/s320/Gayle+McCain+-+Author+-+Forest+of+Mists.PNG" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gayle McCain, Fantasy Author<br />
Sacrifice and Forest of Mists </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-16368547009965960352012-11-23T07:18:00.001-08:002014-04-08T11:20:24.887-07:00Forest of Mists by Gayle McCain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9yk6UgOSw3burllJCAkv7Or4YTiyH7bUW-TWzZ4UQ1Z81h3LePAkP5-zD2CgCvoXNlRrK93iymslYri9MkuxaLe8mgdm5qJY6tP_VNnGlERi-LE4QRVj7t60aKhsT6XrlIB24S8ddgAY/s1600/Forest+of+Mists+-+Gayle+McCain.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9yk6UgOSw3burllJCAkv7Or4YTiyH7bUW-TWzZ4UQ1Z81h3LePAkP5-zD2CgCvoXNlRrK93iymslYri9MkuxaLe8mgdm5qJY6tP_VNnGlERi-LE4QRVj7t60aKhsT6XrlIB24S8ddgAY/s1600/Forest+of+Mists+-+Gayle+McCain.PNG" /></a></div>
What do you do when a story jumps up and down begging to be heard, and will not be silenced? You Listen. And then you write!<br />
<br />
<b><i>Forest of Mists</i></b> - a novel of epic proportions is now available at Amazon in paperback, on Kindle, on Lulu eBook, and at iTunes for the Apple lover:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00J4CXTA8" target="_blank">Forest of Mists (Kindle)</a><br />
<br />
<br />
I cannot describe the journey the writing of this book has taken me on, except to say that I lived it. These are the 'breathings' of my soul.<br />
<br />
I hope you enjoy <i> <b>Forest of Mists.</b></i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i>Gayle McCain, Author</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-75974399564513187462012-08-10T17:16:00.001-07:002021-06-24T10:04:55.754-07:00Sacrifice by Gayle McCain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<h1>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">It Begins in a Circle</span></span></h1>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Feet aching with cold, Amber waited outside the circle of
Standing Stones for the ceremony to begin. The pain in her toes a welcome
distraction from the fear of what was to come. Her disappointment over broken dreams
brought tears to her eyes once again. She had wrestled for some time with the
turn her life had taken before she finally sought counsel. Called simply “The
Merlin,” he was the person that everyone went to for healing, assistance, and
wisdom. Reluctant to add to his burdens, Amber had waited a long time
before talking to her elderly friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Merlin had watched Amber grow up, had even come to think
of her as his granddaughter. He had spent many hours with the girl and her
grandmother. Yaya, whose name was also Amber, had come to live with her
daughter and granddaughter when her beloved husband had died. The elder Amber
had found life with her son-in-law difficult, and had begun spending more and
more time away from the cottage taking the little girl to the Forest. The
Merlin had met them on one of their first journeys into the wood and the elders
had developed a strong friendship.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The girl had not minded the deep conversations between the
two as she entertained herself playing with his dog, chasing butterflies and
picking flowers, occasionally stopping to help as the old ones gathered food
for their tables. The Merlin’s wife was an indifferent cook and had
relinquished that chore to him. For many years, he had wandered the Forest
gathering the ingredients for their next meal. This allowed him the solitude
that his place as the village shaman required. But by the time he had met the
elder Amber Yaya he had recognized that the solitude was not as necessary as it
had been in his youth, and was able to enjoy company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He had discovered that as he talked with both Ambers, he was
more awake, more able to see that he was no different from them, not separate. There
were times when he felt as though he were looking out their eyes at an old man
sitting on a log. Whenever it occurred it was disorienting but eventually he
had grown used to it. Unable to explain the sensation of being in two places at
once without sounding crazy he had remained silent, though he often caught the
knowing look his old friend gave him as he explored it.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yaya Amber had a way of being in the world that allowed her
to slip through life, connected to everything but rarely caught up in its
drama. The Merlin had watched as she did her best to teach the young girl how
to use that connectedness to be part of the village without getting dragged
down by disappointment and pain. But Yaya and The Merlin had to contend with
the influence of the other people in the girl’s life. People, whose belief that
life was hard and required sacrifices, were unable to experience the sweetness
of any of it as they scrambled to survive. An old man, he had spent many years
believing in the need for sacrifice and scarcity. He wondered if perhaps the
lessons that the elder Amber gave her granddaughter were often for his benefit.
She taught him to be softer, and when he focused on being connected he was able
to see out of the eyes of others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When his old friend had died, he missed her terribly, for
they had spoken as equals and no one else in the village did so, even his wife.
The young girl’s father disapproved of things he could not understand and had
prevented the girl from spending time with the old man. The effect of the loss
of contact prevented him from continuing the girl’s education and over time she
forgot much of what her grandmother had taught. Even though he had seen the
changes, he had not been able to stop them. So he had watched her from a
distance as she grew to womanhood, offering what guidance and friendship she
would accept.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When the young woman had finally come to him to talk about
her future, he realized that he did not know what to say. Trying to remind her
of her grandmother’s wisdom had brought her only pain, and he had fallen back
to discussing practical options. His suggestions were met with resistance, for
many of them were aimed at helping to remind her of what she had learned at her
Yaya’s knee.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When Amber offered to participate in the midsummer’s eve
ceremony, he had resisted. As she persisted, he reluctantly acquiesced, praying
for an alternative. This was how he found himself staring out into the
dark with his assistant, Hawood, pounding out the ceremonial call.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Called by the drums, one by one the villagers joined the
circle outside the stones. Shuffling back and forth in the unseasonably
cold night they waited for the ceremony which would mark the beginning of a
summer that held little promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The booming of Hawood’s beat poured over Amber and dragged
her attention back to the ceremony in progress. Deep in pitch, it sent a
heartbeat rolling across the land, her own heart matching the pounding as it
thrummed against her body. It was the beginning of summer and yet the cold of
the dewy grass made her bare feet ache. Her throat tightened against the fear
of her part in the upcoming ceremony. She waited quietly, appearing to be just
one more villager standing outside the ring of stones, except for her bare
feet. Wearing only her best robe, and the triskell that had been her
grandmother’s, and her grandmother’s before her. A draft wafted up her
back, chilling her even further. She wrapped the fabric around her long legs in
a vain attempt to keep warm. Amber blinked the tears back trying to keep from
crying outright, her body pounding with the drum and aching from the cold. She
wanted an end to the pain, no longer sure whether it was the pain in her feet
or her heart, she just wanted it over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Abruptly Amber felt a warm hand on her shoulder.
Glancing up, she saw that it belonged to the man she yearned for.
Byron smiled, teeth white in the darkness. Handing her the rope that held
a late spring lamb he squeezed her shoulder and moved away, leaving behind a warm
spot and his scent. Heart racing, she followed his progress with her eyes
noting that, though he went to stand in the circle of villagers, his betrothed
did not join him. One of the customs that the stranger had tried to change,
Shara believed that the nighttime ceremony was blasphemy, with or without the
sacrifice. The outsider had watched Byron join the circle and then returned to
the warmth of her bed. She would be up soon enough.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With drums pounding, Amber took a deep breath trying to calm
her fears. Fears that she thought she had put to rest when she’d made her
offer. Fears that she had discussed with The Merlin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Young and Foolish</span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">It had been a year of deprivation for the village of Stone
Circle, indeed for the entire land. The rains had not come, only cold and fog,
but never carrying enough moisture to allow the plants to flourish. The village
council had been meeting regularly, hoping to come up with something that would
ease their desperate straits.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally, someone had idly suggested that they follow ancient
traditions and perform a sacrifice. The council had agreed because no one
had a better idea. They all wanted to do something, even if there was
only a sliver of hope. Which was why Byron had brought a lamb to the
midsummer’s eve ceremony. He doubted that this ritual slaughter would be enough
to change the drought, but he hoped it would give a favorable start for his
upcoming marriage.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At dawn Byron would marry Shara, just hours after the
sacrificial ceremony. Tall, strong, and handsome, with a charming twinkle in
his eye, he had been leading hunting and trading parties for more than a
handful of years. His bride, tall and thin with waist-length blond hair,
had seen him on one of the trading missions and pursued him relentlessly. He
had allowed her pursuit, for Shara was a beautiful woman who flattered him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One of the village’s best hunters, the young man was well
respected for his leadership skills. Always sharing his quarry with
the less fortunate, he had become particularly popular with those who looked to
him for support. After the village
chieftain had been slashed by a wild boar, Byron had assumed much of the work
of running the village.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Though they had known that Byron looked outside of the
village for a bride to stabilize tribal loyalties, no one in the village had
understood his choice. Nor could they understand why a simple treaty was not
enough to continue peacefully trading with the northern villages. Byron had refused
to explain his choice of mates. By all appearances, he had acquiesced to the
northern woman’s advances with little regard for how she would get along with
the residents of Stone Circle. Byron had yet to see the effect of Shara’s
arrogance and disrespect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Amber, being young, had been able to convince herself that
he would change his mind. She believed he would eventually see how much she
could help him and would choose her instead. Even though they thought her odd,
she was far more respected than the sharp-tongued older woman from the north.
But plans for the wedding ceremony had proceeded without delay. Finally,
Amber had resigned herself to the idea that she would never be with the man she
had dreamed of for all those years. She knew that watching him build his life
with this stranger would be simply too much to bear, and thus she had finally
made her offer to The Merlin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hawood</b></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Holding the rope in her hand, her mind went over her reasons
once again. Even knowing that what she was about to do was for the good
of the village she was afraid. She had felt disconnected from the community
since her Yaya had died, finally coming to believe that she had few hopes for a
better connection. And with Byron marrying the blond stranger she had no hopes
for the future. Depressed and lonely she had spent hours with The Merlin
discussing her options privately, not liking any of the alternatives that he
suggested. Finally, for the good of the village she knew what she had to do and
made her offer.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It wasn’t that Amber was unsuitable for marriage. Hawood had
made her an offer of marriage. He had always been fond of the young woman and
was willing to take her as his wife. Amber had turned him down because while she
enjoyed his company, she thought of him as a brother, and could not think of
him as a lover. She believed herself to be a passionate person, and his
peacefulness didn’t fit well with that. She didn’t think that he would be a
true match for her, because he lacked strength and vigor and she had always
held back to keep from overwhelming him. She wisely knew that she would
be too much for the quiet man. He needed a peaceful wife, one who would be
satisfied with his gentle ways.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For months Hawood had been sitting with the rest of the
villagers listening as they discussed options to ensure the survival of the
village. A bright young man, his rare but thoughtful comments did give them
alternatives. When he idly reminded them that in the ancient stories sacrifice
had been an accepted practice it had sparked a heated debate. Perhaps Hawood
had said it casually but The Merlin had already spent many a sleepless night
pondering that very question. After nearly half a year watching his
people suffer the shaman had come to the distasteful conclusion that perhaps
Hawood was right. Perhaps a blood sacrifice was called for. He had
discussed this with the village council which was how Byron came to offer the
lamb as a sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Amber had her own reasons for her part of this ceremony and
knew the village’s reasons as well. She even believed they were doing the right
thing, but that didn’t relieve her rising tension. What if it didn’t work? What
if it did? Would she be glad that she had become involved in it? Would she even
care? Would anyone even notice her part in it all? Questions skittered through
her mind as she held the rope of the innocent lamb in the darkness. As midnight
approached, Hawood’s drumbeat rolled out into the dark, while The Merlin called
the magic.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hawood had watched while the shaman prepared for the
ceremony. At The Merlin’s nod, the quiet man had begun pounding the drum,
slowly, steadily, a heartbeat rolling out across the chilled land. His friend
was going to walk the lamb to the center of the Stone Circle, holding it
tightly so that its innocent blood could be spilled. A sacrifice that would
release the energy needed to change the weather and bring rain. The quiet man
was certain the legends were correct, that some sort of sacrifice was needed.
Perhaps they only needed to release the idea that suffering was the way of
life. The young man wisely knew that sometimes change is easier to accomplish
when accompanied by some action, which is why he suggested the sacrifice in the
first place. Involve the body and the mind and the result is a change.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He personally preferred the idea of giving up a prized
possession, his favorite cup for example. But he believed that most of
the villagers were too selfish to be willing to do that. And he knew that
because this was an issue for the entire community if even one person wasn’t
emotionally moved in some fashion, the sacrifice could be in vain. He hoped the
spilling of the innocent lamb’s blood would so shock the villagers that they
would release their belief that this was an acceptable way to live. He also
prayed that Amber would see him for who he was and let go of her reluctance to
marry him. The young man loved her dearly, and wanted only to make her
happy.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was a small village and they had known each other since
Amber had learned to walk. Several years older, Hawood had found the young girl
fascinating. Lighthearted as a butterfly, she had picked wildflowers and
berries, always willing to share with her friend. He had watched shyly as she
sat with her grandmother and The Merlin, and had wished that he could join
them. Though he didn’t really like Amber’s brother, he made friends with him as
a way of getting close to her, thinking that she would be impressed. She hadn’t
been. More than once he had distracted her brother while she slipped away,
mistakenly thinking that the two boys were best friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He had taken more than one beating from the girl’s brother
for interrupting as he picked on his little sister. But Hawood had done it
anyway. And he learned to fight, protecting her as necessary, though he had
always been a gentle soul. He had been the only one who knew that Amber was
learning skills normally reserved for the boys. She had been terribly
embarrassed the one time she knew he had seen her, which is why he had remained
silent the next time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When her grandmother died, Hawood had been there to offer
friendship and what comfort his shyness would allow. He had listened to the
girl sobbing for hours. He had seen her withdraw from everything and everyone,
including him. He had been appalled at the way she cringed whenever she heard
her father’s voice. She had been so caught up in the drama at home that she had
no room for anyone in her life and had withdrawn further and further into the
silence of the Forest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As Hawood came to manhood, he decided that she was someone
who he wanted to be able to spend more time with and had sought her out. But
her withdrawal had continued, and she simply did not have the desire to come
out of her self-imposed silence. Unsure what to do about her distance, Hawood
had finally gone to The Merlin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What had begun as a request for advice turned into many long
discussions with the elder, and had eventually led to his position as The
Merlin’s assistant. Though he would have liked to be trained as a shaman, he
did not believe he had the spark that would make it possible. Enjoying The
Merlin’s company, he had decided that even if he could only be hands and helper
to the old man it was worth the effort. And that was how he came to be in
the Stone Circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the drum pounded, the villagers gathered. Taking a
deep breath, Amber knew her part would come soon enough. Her aching feet would
be warm again, the ache in her heart eased or if they weren’t at least she
wouldn’t care. She hoped. Abruptly, the pounding of the drum was
silenced.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><b>The Owl</b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">The Merlin called into the stillness, a single note held
until he could hold it no longer. Amber moved forward, dropping the rope
holding the lamb as she stepped into the Stone Circle. Walking to the altar,
she bowed toward the shaman, honoring his wisdom, honoring his magic, hoping
that her sacrifice would accomplish what all the wishing in the world hadn’t --
bring rain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What are you doing?” Hawood hissed, surprised. “Go get the
lamb. What do you think you are you doing?” The words hung in the air, waiting
for an answer. An answer that Amber didn’t think she could give her childhood
friend.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Silence, Hawood,” the shaman ordered. “Do not interfere.”
Amber could tell that her friend did not understand why she had come into the
circle alone. As it dawned on him what was happening, Hawood looked at her with
anguish. The Merlin gestured her toward the tallest stone from which hung a leather
strap. She stood in the moonlight, dew dampened robes wrapping around ankles
and feet numb with the cold. The last bit of warmth left her body as she leaned
against the tall standing stone. Reaching up, she slipped one hand after
another through the loops tied on the end of the binding. “She has consented.
Her reasons are her own.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hawood said in anguish “no no no no no.” Although he had
brought the idea to The Merlin’s attention he had merely been repeating an
ancient story. He had never wanted a blood sacrifice in the first place,
believing that even the life of a lamb was too much life to give up. It
had never occurred to him that this woman would agree to this. The villagers
began murmuring restlessly as it dawned on them what was about to happen.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No! No, you can’t. Why, Amber? No. Why?”
Hawood cried, fire lighting his eyes. “Why are you doing this thing?” he
asked, stepping between her and the shaman. He had known that she felt unloved
and lonely, but he hadn’t known that her grief would cause her to go to this
extreme. Looking straight into her eyes he said, “Why? You are better than
this. You will find what you seek if you can just wait. Do not do this.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hawood,” she began softly. “We have all prayed for an end
to the drought. We have all hoped that something would change, that some
sacrifice would be great enough to change the earth and sky and allow rain to
fall again. In the ancient stories, it was told that the drawing of blood
altered the very air the ancients breathed. I have tried to accept the changes
that will come to our village in the morning, and I find that I cannot. So I
must go. My blood will give our people the chance that they need. Please try to
understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“She has consented, placed her hands in the binding by her
own choice. Do not interfere again,” the shaman spoke harshly to his assistant,
voice rough with emotion. “No one is forcing her. This is her choice. Now go.
Stand out of the way,” he said pointing to the far side of the Stone
Circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Walking to the altar, the shaman picked up the wand that
this ceremony called for. Covered with arcane symbols, the ash wand had been
passed down for many generations. Bound in leather, the handle had a
combination of horsehair and barn owl feathers hanging from it. The wood itself
brought knowledge of lost wisdom and ancient tradition, helping to focus and
use the power of the earth. The horse hair symbolizing freedom, movement
and travel, sometimes both birth and death. The owl feathers brought mystery
and more than a touch of prophecy. These elements gathered power, and focused
it through the ash wand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Holding this powerful wand high above his head, The
Merlin prayed for something to stop the sacrifice. Knowing that he must
continue until the magic spoke to him; he turned away from the woman to take
his ceremonial knife from the altar, and heard a flapping sound behind him.
Whirling quickly he saw a barn owl land upon the woman’s suspended hands. The
bird peered down at his living perch and then paused to stare at the shaman in
the flickering firelight. The night fliers were said to be wise beyond
expectation and The Merlin was a believer. Turning its attention to his perch,
the predator bit cleanly through the leather strap binding the woman’s wrists.
Launching itself into the air, its claw tore open her hand. The
bird swooped over the altar, circled the Standing Stones once, and flew off
toward the east.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The turn of events brought eeriness to the entire
proceedings. Lowering her arms Amber looked at her hand as though it belonged
to someone else. While not a pumping wound, the gash left by the owl’s abrupt
departure was deep and her blood was flowing freely. She stood dumbly staring
at the red liquid that had run clear to her elbow by the time she lowered them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Merlin crossed the circle to grip Amber’s wound, blood
dripping between his fingers.. Small sparks flew into the air as each drop met
with the earth, made visible by the darkness. Amber’s eyes rose to stare
at the shaman, uncertain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Relieved that he had received the omen that he needed to
change the course of the ceremony, he had only to understand and interpret. She
was to give her blood only, not her life. And whatever else was needed
would be made clear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the distance he heard the owl hoot three times as the
growing breeze caused the fire to flare. Smile growing, he dragged her to
the flickering fire.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Blood for the Fire,” The Merlin said, dipping his wand into
the crimson liquid running down Amber’s arm. Flicking drops of red from the
feathers and horse hair of his wand, the fire flared. Flames dancing with
the sacrifice. Images moving, swirling, exploding into the darkness.
Images of Forest, a great expanse of water, and more Forest swarmed up through
the flames as if one were traveling over vast distances. The journey stopped as
a man came into view. Surprise showed on the gaunt, brooding features.
Blue eyes peered out of the flames, surrounded by dark hair and beard
beginning to grey.. He leaned forward out of the fire toward the
two of them. The stranger’s mouth forming words, but no sound was heard. The
man, the woman, and the shaman looked at each other for a brief moment. Eyes
meeting, power calling. Then the wind shifted and he disappeared in the
suddenly swirling flames.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Blood for Water,” the shaman spoke grimly as he again wiped
Amber’s arm with his wand, dropping her life’s blood into the bowl on the
altar. Light swirled within its watery depths, sending out swirling, glowing
steam. Visions swam in the mist. Again an image the gaunt stranger swam into
view, this time seen from the back, as he stared into the fire beyond him. Surrounded
by a Forest reaching toward the sky, he pulled his sword and whirled around;
searching for the wraith he had seen in the flames. Again, the wind swirled,
blowing the vision away. The villagers could be heard shifting in their circle
outside the Standing Stones. Curious to see more of the vision, they were
annoyed that the stones blocked so much of their view.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Blood for the Earth,” Merlin used a rigidly controlled
voice, full of power and potency; he shook drops of crimson from the wand onto
the dirt at the foot of the Standing Stone. Sparks rose into the air, twirling
and twisting, shimmering with power. The glittering flashes encircled the
Standing Stone from which the leather still hung, burning it to cinders, and
then streaked off toward the east. He could hear the villagers murmur in
surprise.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Blood for the Air,” was the last offering. Dipping his wand
into her open wound one last time, he swung the wand toward the sky flinging
crimson drops everywhere. The droplets did not land but went streaking towards
the rapidly gathering clouds, glowing like fireflies. As they embedded
themselves in the dark surface of the clouds, lightning flashed from west to
east. For as long as it takes to breathe ten times, the lightning flashed. Over
and over. Always the same direction, west to east. When the sky finally stopped
flashing, the circle was shrouded in darkness once again, lit only by the
flickering bonfire. The wind picked up, and as the first of the cold raindrops
struck the villagers, the lightning flashed one last time, from west to east.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fire hissing in the falling rain, the shaman faced Amber,
still gripping her wrist, blood dripping between them. Using the wooden end of
his wand for the first time, he traced the wound, watching as it stopped
bleeding and began to mend itself.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The villagers scurried toward their homes, grateful for the
rain, but thoroughly chilled. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<h1>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">The Stranger<o:p></o:p></span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">The dark-haired stranger moved quietly through the Forest,
brooding. He had been searching for The Betrayer for a handful of seasons. The
trail, hot to cold and back again. His quest had taken him from one coast to
the other, from far north to the southern coastline, and still he could not
find Her. In truth the distance did not matter, for his home was where he
spread his Blood Blanket. He was a warrior from a clan of warriors and was used
to traveling. But his quest and the reason for it had made him old before his
time. Eyes that in his youth had sparkled with laughter and truth of purpose
were dull and lifeless. The brilliant blue had faded to the dull color of the
sea during a storm, although when he was full of menacing emotions they
darkened to the point of seeming black.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">His unsettled spirit had seen too many of his brothers die
and had been unable to find peace because of it. He would only be free to
grieve fully and pursue a life once again when he found and stopped Her from
any further destruction, and thus he had willingly sacrificed the company of
others lest they distract him from his quest. His self-imposed exile meant that
while he might defend a village, he could not enjoy the peace that he brought
with his skills with a blade. Senses sharpened by a lifetime of battles and
enemy raids were now used to hunt for a single human predator. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As he traveled, Ian had exchanged his services for the
supplies that he needed, or whatever payment was offered, but only if the
service allowed him to continue to search essentially unhindered. He only
entered villages to obtain information and things that he could not gain from
the land, bypassing those without markets, for he found that his brooding
presence disrupted the community. He had avoided this particular village
because of the ceremony for midsummer’s eve, and a stranger in their midst
would cause talk. In his travels he had witnessed many ceremonies for the
passing of each season, and if the villagers decided that some innocent animal
should be sacrificed the drums had pounded out a funeral cadence. He had never
understood why they used the same cadence for sacrifice and funeral. It was as
if by pounding out the funeral cadence all would know of grief that had struck.
And he had seen enough of that to last ten lifetimes. So, when he heard the
drumbeat, he had known that some sort of sacrifice was planned, and he disliked
those rituals most of all.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ian’s quest would only be delayed by visiting this
community. He knew that this was a place where a leader was chosen for skills
at trading, not in understanding the kind of men that prey on others. They
thought that hunting skills were warriors’ skills, and while the coordination
of multiple hunters required leadership skills, there were differences. Apparently
they thought that a sacrifice of some sort would appease the gods and life
would be simple and prosperous once again. He shook his head in disgust at
their ignorance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As he stirred his fire, in it he saw a slip of a girl step
forward into a circle of Standing Stones. The vision, when added to the
pounding in the distance, caused dread to rise in his throat. Something far
more than the ordinary lamb was about to be sacrificed, whether through
ignorance or evil, and that was wrong. It was simply not to be allowed. The
warrior checked his weapons and ran toward the ritual heartbeat that was
booming across the land.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He slipped silently through the dark arriving at the circle
just as the owl had landed on the resigned girl’s bound hands, had watched the
bird free her and fly off. Curiosity kept him rooted at the edge of the
firelight as the shaman grabbed her wrist and dipped his wand into the blood
running down her arm. He was as astonished as the rest of the watchers as he
saw sparks fly into the air where her blood had fallen on the ground. But when
the shaman flicked some of her blood into the fire, he saw himself in the
flames. Ian stepped forward trying to see what was happening.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some faint disturbance behind him caused his instincts to
take over and he drew his sword as he spun around. He knew that there was a
reason for his unease, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He heard the villagers
murmuring near him. He turned around to face the fire and the ceremony still
underway, sword drawn, and saw himself in the vision rising from the bowl of
water. He had not realized how gaunt he had become in the last year or how
grizzled. He had not yet passed into his third decade, but he looked much
older. Starvation and worry did that to a man. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the wind blew away the sword-drawn image, the shaman had
looked up from the bowl and locked eyes with the flesh and blood warrior. The
old man had seen that the younger man’s eyes were nearly black, a color long
associated with pain and the spilling of blood. The warrior withdrew before his
instinct to fight when blood was spilled took control of him and he did
something that he might regret later. He gathered his things, smothering his
fire and slipping into the darkness away from the Stone Circle, only dimly
aware of his direction. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the warrior moved silently through the falling rain when
most others would stumble and fall in the darkness. He smiled, knowing that
this skill had served him well over the years. He had been the one sent into
the darkness to discover the enemy’s weaknesses. He had a way of knowing who
was awake, where traps had been laid, and how to move through a Forest without
disturbing the undergrowth. Usually Ian dispatched the enemy sentinels without
a sound, thus ensuring the surprise of the attack of his warrior band. When he
became leader of his band, he had rigorously trained his group in silent
moving. Teaching the special way of listening to the tiny sounds that told him
someone was near. It had become an honor to be chosen to be one of his men for
they were the best.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They had been known as hard warriors, ignoring discomforts
and pain that stopped lesser men in their tracks. They trained over the
roughest of ground, and became accustomed to traveling long distances on little
sleep and meager food. Ian allowed his thoughts to wander to the women who were
drawn to his discipline and warrior’s body. He had enjoyed their company but
avoided seeking a mate, for he had known that warriors’ women were often alone
far more than they wanted to be. Plus there was something about the life that
made it difficult to be tender with a woman, and so most of the rest of his
band had made similar choices. Perhaps it was not the life, but the type of man
who was drawn to the life. They tended to be harder than most of their fellow
villagers, even as children. Certainly those warriors chosen to be members of
his band had been. They were the best.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He corrected himself. They had been the best. That is until
they were slaughtered in the dark, a little more than a handful of seasons
before. Ian’s eyes went black as he remembered the night of The Betrayer, and
he began to run through the night, no longer concerned about silence. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
~<br />
<br />
I hope you have enjoyed this taste of Sacrifice... to find out whether Amber runs again watch for it's release on iTunes as an Audio Book and on Amazon and Lulu as an eBook. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gayle McCain<br />
<br />
<br />
***Hugs***</div>
Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-71160862178413107162011-11-01T16:47:00.001-07:002021-06-24T10:24:08.317-07:00Story - No Equipment Necessary<p>“Did you see that?” he said as he returned to his colleagues. “She disappeared around the corner. I mean, she disappeared, instantly. Went poof,” his fingers flicked outwards in an unrestrained gesture. “I thought, I was…” his voice trailed off.
“I wondered how soon it’d happen,” said the thin man to his colleagues. “It doesn’t matter, we know who she is. She dropped this,” his long fingers held a business card.
“Is that why we had to meet here?” asked the raven haired woman. At his nod, she continued, “How did you know?” </p><p> “It’s a gift. I feel when someone has shifted, but this is the first time I’ve known ahead of time,” he said, as he looked down at the card. “I don’t understand it yet. But I will.” </p><p>Nodding, he looked at the man in the sunglasses and continued. “Now go find her, Frank. And when you do, give me a shout, will you? I need to have a chat with her.” Turning away as Frank vanished; he smiled at the dark haired woman at his side and said, “Let’s order another cup of coffee, we need to talk.” <br /></p><p> Katie had just wanted to see what Harrods was like. She’d heard so much about the upscale London store that she had looked on the Internet, found a photo of the outside, and passport in her purse, literally popped over to see for herself. What she hadn’t known was that these three would be leaving a meeting across the street. </p><p>Her appearance might not have been noticed by anyone at all, except that she had been knocked over by the man in the sunglasses just after she had popped onto the sidewalk. She had been as startled as he and dropped her purse which splattered its contents. </p><p> And then she had run.
Not sure why he had chased her, Katie slipped home, trying to figure out why she was concerned. She usually made decisions about trusting someone immediately; she didn’t know how she felt about this mysterious man, though as she sorted through her memories, she realized she did trust his companions. </p><p>He looked like a nice man behind the glasses, but she was having trouble separating fact from the fiction of Hollywood. That was the trouble with watching spy movies late at night.
Nonetheless, she made preparations to run. This man might work for one of the alphabet soup divisions of the PTB, Powers That Be. And if they found out she could slip instantly between here and there, they would try to contain her. Someone with her skills, if trained, could slip into places they couldn’t, and places she shouldn’t. Katie had no desire to be enlisted in that kind of intrigue and espionage. </p><p>She was sure that they would not believe that slipping took incredibly high energy, and that sneakiness or theft lowered that energy, making it impossible to slip. So she made preparations to run, buying a disposable phone and a gift card that could be used without tracking her whereabouts.
She had just paid for her purchases when the man in the sunglasses started across the store towards her. Katie grabbed her bag and slipped. </p><p> </p><p> Her actions started a game of chase that lasted far too long. Whoever he was, he was never more than ten minutes behind her each time she slipped. The one time she ran down a back alley to catch a passing bus in Chicago he didn’t find her for nearly two hours. Somehow he was orienting on her when she slipped. It was only a five hour drive home, so even though it was midnight and she was exhausted, she rented a car, and drove the distance, music blaring to keep herself awake.
Her drive gave her time to think about it had all started. </p><p> She realized that slipping between the spaces all day long had reinforced her skill at seeing where she wanted to go. She was glad that she’d taken the baby steps of getting past the most of the vertigo of her initial couple of shifts. That first time she ever slipped had been a doozy. </p><p>Katie had been painting a landscape that day, idly dragging her brush through the swirling paint. It was in the margins between two colors right before they mixed that she had always found her inspiration, imagining she could slide along those furrows and slip between this world and the next. Not knowing what would happen when she did. She only knew that when she followed the edges and used the swirling colors something happened within her that allowed for her most creative moments.</p><p> And on that particular summer morning, already warm with the promise of stifling heat later in the day, she thought about how that would feel as she sat stirring the pure white paint on her palate. Katie, caught in meditative silence, had allowed her mind to dip down into the furrows left in the paint by her brush.
Something in the paint and the silence shifted within her, as if a switch were flipped and abruptly she found herself in the desert, dizzy and nauseated. </p><p>The burning of her bare feet dragged her out of the belief that this was merely a dream.
A quick glance around showed that her only hope of relief lay in the sliver of shade offered by a large rock to her left. Placing her feet as carefully as possible, she ran between the sharp rocks of the desert floor to that blessed relief. Though cooler than the sun-blasted desert floor, her feet were burned by the time she reached it.
Leaning against the rock, fighting against nausea and rising terror, Katie really looked at her surroundings, trying to keep out of the pounding sunshine. </p><p> It looked to be mid-afternoon by the shadows, and she had absolutely no idea where she was, except deep desert. Rocks and sand. As far as she could see there was no life anywhere around. As her vertigo faded she noticed the surprising silence. No whirring of insect wings, no scratching sound as millions of tiny living things ate, crawled, and lived their lives among the leaves. There were no leaves, either. This was a land of beige and brown, yet even in it’s desolation she could see the beauty. </p><p> Squinting against the glare, she worked to push aside the creeping concern of how she had gotten there, and whether there was a way to get back home.
Crouching in the slowly growing shade, she began to idly doodle in a small pile of sand while she contemplated. It was inconceivable that she had ended up abruptly in the desert, and yet that fact was inescapable. Mouth parched, she could feel her body temperature begin to rise, as dehydration set in. </p><p>Resigned to dying, she knew that in this deep desert death would be swift, for she didn’t have enough protection from the arid landscape.
As she made peace with her end, allowing her mind to drift, eyes lazily watching her fingers leave furrows in the sand, she began to dream of someplace cool and damp. She let her mind go, slipping along the margins between the swirls in the sand. </p><p>Dreaming of someplace cool, someplace where the water was overwhelming and powerful. Someplace like Niagara Falls.
Abruptly she found herself standing on one of the overlooks, a stiff breeze blowing mist over her parched body, only dimly aware of the vertigo that had accompanied the shift. It had taken a moment for her to grasp the reality of her new vision, thinking that perhaps she was having the delirium that comes with dehydration. </p><p>She had stood there convinced that death was moments away until a small child had run by, splashing her from one of the many puddles along the walkway. The child’s mother rushed to apologize and rein in her wayward youngster, as the nauseated Katie realized somehow that she had indeed changed locations again.
Her bare feet left damp footprints as she walked across the street to the nearest bench. In spite of the chill, she sat and rested her still dizzy head on the back of the bench, wondering what mechanism, magic or whatever had shifted her from place to place. </p><p>Closing her eyes a few moments, enjoying the humidity and cool, she allowed her thoughts to drift idly over the extraordinary things that had just occurred. Her vertigo had faded completely by the time she realized that each shift had happened when she had allowed her mind to slide into the margins of the swirling paint and the furrows in the sand. The space between, perhaps even a space of silence, while her body had imagined how it would feel to be in a different place.</p><p> Chilled, but armed with an idea, she set out to shift again. She was ready to go home. It took her nearly twenty minutes to still her mind enough to allow the shift to happen again. Arriving in her own living room, she stumbled to the couch, sure that if it weren’t for the vertigo and being soaked to the skin, she’d have thought it was all an illusion. But the proof was leaving a damp spot on her couch… </p><p>In the weeks those follow first shifts, Katie had spent a great deal of time considering how much this opened up her world. She could go anywhere, and do anything. Limited only by her imagination. Because she didn’t want it to be at the mercy of a random thought she had spent time learning how to jump, staying close to home because she knew the territory. </p><p>With each successful jump the vertigo became less of a problem.
When she’d first begun slipping through the space between places it had seemed like such a lark, jumping between two points. It had to be line of sight at first, gradually increasing the distance, and finally practicing with photos to give her a reference point. </p><p>Until the day she popped into the wrong place, at the wrong time and her appearance from thin air in front of these individuals had a galvanizing effect.
Katie wondered why the man in the sunglasses had pursued her relentlessly. It felt like she’d been on the run for aeons, even though it had been less than a full day since she had first appeared in front of Harrods. The one good thing that had come out of it was the vertigo that had been gradually weakening had stopped altogether. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdEG5OXBQbVubsy0tTYKBaXRJ8EDtbXEIxnPeZ323US0u4rQrwX7p62bb5n4wX9hMETYgMLfaeHXz0tIz8N7cDRHSyO0hdpZsbnCxddtXNKu1_QUvJnGO9NRyE9HQXDbVDFyA6QNaFTIM/s4608/IMG_20201222_171908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdEG5OXBQbVubsy0tTYKBaXRJ8EDtbXEIxnPeZ323US0u4rQrwX7p62bb5n4wX9hMETYgMLfaeHXz0tIz8N7cDRHSyO0hdpZsbnCxddtXNKu1_QUvJnGO9NRyE9HQXDbVDFyA6QNaFTIM/w196-h147/IMG_20201222_171908.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br /> She wondered why the man in the sunglasses had tracked her across three
continents. Time and time again, he’d found her. It finally dawned on
her that in spite of turning her mobile off and getting rid of her
credit cards with their embedded chips, he still had some way of
tracking her. And that was when she realized that he was orienting on the slipping itself, which made escaping by ordinary car a practical solution. <p></p><p> By the time her house was in sight in the early morning light Katie was angry. She knew that sooner or later he would catch her, and she wanted to be on familiar ground when that happened. After a fast shower, she got dressed again, and finally laid down to sleep, hoping that a resolution would come to her while she slept. </p><p>When she woke, she knew what she had to do. She had to find out why this man was chasing her. That meant that she had to go back in time to before they first fell over each other. Holding a clear image of her watch reading one hour before she had arrived in London, she slipped. </p><p>No one had seen her as she emerged from the alley near Harrods that she had originally run into.
Her tea had just arrived at the sidewalk café when the man who chased her sat down at the table next to her. Momentarily he was joined by the thin man and a woman in a hat. Listening to their conversation was a challenge due to the noise of the café. Katie spent more of her time watching the interplay between these old friends. Laughter punctuated their conversation. </p><p>When the thin man jumped to his feet, “She’s on her way. Over there,” he pointed across the street.
Katie saw herself get knocked over by the man in the sunglasses. She felt an echo of the fear that she had felt when he grabbed her arm. Her younger self took off running and was chased around the corner, as the thin man bent to pick up a piece of paper. </p><p>The startled look on his face made Katie chuckle, for she knew what he had found, as he looked around suspiciously.
She chuckled again at the frustrated look on their faces as the other man came back. A hurried conference between them sent him off again. And the remaining two sat back down at their table and discussed what was written on the card. </p><p>When she’d heard enough, she paid her tab and walked back to the alley, where she slipped back home to her own time. She didn’t know if it made any difference, but all of the movies she’d seen said it was a bad thing to meet oneself coming and going. </p><p>So she was careful to arrive back a minute after she’d left.
She neatened up the house, knowing that sooner or later they’d get around to visiting her, and stretched out to take another nap. </p><p>The doorbell startled her up out of a sound sleep, and in her sleepy state she nearly slipped again. But she didn’t want to run anymore. So, courageously she answered the door.
The thin man standing outside was very tired. He had a gentle look about him, though his face wore a look of grim determination. </p><p>He took in her suspicious look and burst out, “Damn it. It’s not going to happen the way I wanted it to. My name is Gabriel. Please don’t run,” he added, reaching out a hand, pulling back just before touching her arm. “I just want to talk to you. I want to meet the woman who could slip space so easily that even a Finder can’t keep up.” </p><p>Chuckling, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, you ran Frank all over the place, he’s worn out. Look, could we talk for a bit?” </p><p>She drew a deep breath, held it a moment and stood back for him to enter. She asked if he would like a cup of tea. When he made a face, she laughed and changed that to coffee.
While the pot brewed, they chatted over the merits of milk versus cream, sweet or not. Cups in hand, they sat on the couch, and she sat quietly waiting for him to explain his visit, and why he had sent Frank to chase her. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXlc7-IfUt0FsUbp-oJD2_86GXuGOWv8oZaDaKC3rkPJq_DsDMRpq-iPh6GcyKphrBYm_WoZreqIFzH_Hha4nmyhz8owQMEqE9Q_9DJHDmSRZz_EYdikblp_e3tQTuShjetAJLhWWCAU/s405/Time+Travel+Business+Card.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="405" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXlc7-IfUt0FsUbp-oJD2_86GXuGOWv8oZaDaKC3rkPJq_DsDMRpq-iPh6GcyKphrBYm_WoZreqIFzH_Hha4nmyhz8owQMEqE9Q_9DJHDmSRZz_EYdikblp_e3tQTuShjetAJLhWWCAU/w272-h171/Time+Travel+Business+Card.PNG" width="272" /></a></div><br />Gabriel pulled Katie’s card out of his pocket, laid it on the couch between them, and asked what it meant. She laughingly told him she was a counselor who helped people unearth the incredible soul under the wreckage of their lives. But it had seemed like a great motto when she’d written it two years ago.<p></p><p> He agreed that it was a great motto and began to laugh. “I’ve just spent the last couple of decades writing bi-location stories. I hit my head recently and after years of writing about it, abruptly I can do the traveling I’ve written about so often. Really do it. Just like you can. Plus, I can feel when somebody else jumps. I don’t quite understand it, but it’s like they pull on the fabric of the universe or something,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “But you... I knew you were going to shift before you arrived in front of Harrods. How? What is different about you?” </p><p>“Are you sure? Are you sure I wasn’t already there?” she asked. At his confused look, she continued. “I arrived before your friends. I was sitting near you when you had your meeting.” </p><p>She could see he still didn’t understand. “You’re the writer, figure it out. I’ll wait,” falling silent, she could see the gears turning as he picked up her business card and really looked at the ramifications of her revelation.
“Fed Ex would make a fortune on this you know. They’d have to come up with a catchy slogan.” And Gabriel began to laugh. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Your package
Arrives at its destination
Before it leaves.
Guaranteed. </b></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-GEtWHPiR4J7K3cLKvW4cAudzVYOozVyX7zeZN78iHUsPIcwju5dyOeGNs4az3xSk9JUeV05LjkuBk5QvL1nINUv2VU6v7gg9a_o8wRVzxahocPRbyZPIp1eyxItB-JTxEkiLO7dmpyg/s1600/IMG_0159.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670188434222118418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-GEtWHPiR4J7K3cLKvW4cAudzVYOozVyX7zeZN78iHUsPIcwju5dyOeGNs4az3xSk9JUeV05LjkuBk5QvL1nINUv2VU6v7gg9a_o8wRVzxahocPRbyZPIp1eyxItB-JTxEkiLO7dmpyg/s200/IMG_0159.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 184px;" /></a>Gayle McCain
(Written Summer 2009 - IDK why I didn't post it then.)</p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-64912766818863245062010-02-05T20:12:00.000-08:002021-06-24T11:51:22.936-07:00Story - Home from Alaska<p> Home from Alaska
by Gayle McCain
The day that Kari called to wish me happy birthday, and chat, surprisingly I was somewhere that my mobile phone got signal. I had just gotten off the ferry for some site seeing along the coast of Alaska when my oldest friend called. I’d been in the Alaskan boonies for so long that I usually forgot to put my phone on the charger, but my phone was fully charged and Kari was chatty.
She droned on and on about her new boyfriend, until I finally tuned her out. </p><p>What jerked my attention back to her I never was really sure, but when I asked her to repeat that, she said “I ran into Chad the other day. Apparently his divorce was final last Christmas.” Not hearing any reply to this news Kari was annoyed. “Are you listening to me? Apparently his ex fell ‘in love’ with a lawyer, or was it his bank account?” sarcasm dripping from her lips. “Anyway she left Chad & got married right away. I heard her marriage is not going well. Anyway he’s well shut of her. Are you still listening?” </p><p>“Yes Kari, I’m listening,” I answered. “I just never thought it’d happen. How does he doing, how’s he look?”
“Well, he looks good. Like he’s never been happier. He asked about you. Said he was going to miss spending your birthday together. Dia, what did he mean?” </p><p>“His birthday is the day after mine, and we’ve shared a cake, a cup of coffee, or a Kailua every year for the last six or seven, depending on how things were going,” it was all the explanation that Kari was going to get, as unshed tears clogged my throat. I had put so many emotions on the back burner when I’d left home that I didn’t even realize that I’d put the fun there too. </p><p>Up here I’d forgotten that I even had a birthday, and all the fun that we’d had over the years came flooding back. </p><p>“Are you OK?” Hearing what I hadn’t said, worry filling her voice. </p><p>Mumbling that I was fine, and how was her new job going, I managed to fend her off. Distracted, Kari began talking about how wonderful her life was, while I had a chance to think about Chad.
He and I had been good friends, both of us married, when I’d fallen in love with him. Because he was married, I never told him how I felt, for a number of reasons, including the fact that I liked his wife. </p><p>My marriage on the other hand had been rocky from the start and my husband and I had been negotiating the property settlement when he was in an accident while on a business trip and died. His family never knew what hit them. But they assumed that since they were so immersed in their grief that I must be too, and so had descended on me and my home like a hoard of, well, relatives. I was never left alone, there was no place for me to retreat to. And I couldn’t get away from their grief. </p><p>Whatever happened to the idea that grieving in private anyway? My in-laws were into sack cloth and ashes, prone to sobbing in line at the grocery store, telling the tale of their long lost son to any one foolish enough to stand still.
But since he’d died just before I filed divorce papers I was officially his widow. Entitled, or was it accompanied by, all of the hoopla and parade that goes on. </p><p>My friend, Chad, had tried to be supportive, but I had found it increasingly difficult to be around him without telling him how I felt. He was still married, and I just couldn’t bring myself to be “the other woman”. I had remained silent. And so had he. </p><p>Finally one day I couldn’t stand it any longer. I told my in-laws to go home. I tried being polite, then firm, then stern, and finally I was downright rude. Nothing worked. I even thought about bringing in my bullyboys from the local welding shop to bodily pick up their stuff and throw them out. Instead I simply packed my bag and left. I know it was cowardly, but I’d had it. Maybe without me there to play off of, they’d go home. </p><p> So I dropped my house keys and a big check on Kari’s desk, had her drive me to the airport and bought a ticket to the one place in the US that they would never go: Alaska. Alaska was the land of mosquitoes, snow that never ended, and endless night. Also things cost more in the far north. That by definition meant that my in-laws would never, ever come here. </p><p> So a year ago I had left the lower 48 and come to Alaska. The snow did end, just about the time the mosquitoes came out. I’d survived both with locally manufactured clothing and lots of calamine. I’d also survived the loneliness. That I conquered by writing. I’d sold more than two dozen short stories in the first four months. And was well on my way through my second novel. The first was still shopping publishers, but I’d conquered. </p><p>Kari had called me a while after she took me to the airport to say that the relatives had left in a huff about a week after I did. They had taken odd things from the house when they left. Photos, plants, and a couple of wedding presents. They’d also taken all of his clothes, as apparently his little brother was the same size and really liked the suits that my almost-ex-husband had worn. But they’d finally gone, lock stock and barrel, leaving behind a huge mess and mountains of garbage. Kari had called in a cleaning service, contracted with a lawn service, and had kept an eye on my home ever since. She knew that eventually I would be coming home, just not when. </p><p>We didn’t talk often, and usually when we did it was because I had finally remembered to charge my cell phone.
Then Kari called to wish me happy birthday. </p><p>I knew it was time to go home. Home! The home that I had fled after living with the grief of all of the people around me. I hadn’t felt that grief, because I hadn’t been that fond of the deceased and had come to terms with it. But the others had wallowed in sorrow and tears. But that sunny day in middle June, I knew, knew that I could go home. </p><p>Wondering if I could skip the site seeing and catch the ferry back to my hotel. I had planned on taking the last ferry of the day, but if I could make this one, I could probably get a flight out tonight. </p><p>Home.
So I began to run, purse banging against my hip as I ran down the village street. I could hear the whistle blow. My ride was leaving. I didn’t know if I could make it. Jumping over a sleeping dog, I raced down the dock, leaping packages, dodging people, only to skid to a stop. The ferry was 200 feet away already. No chance to catch them and it was a known fact that the pilot never, ever turned around for anyone. Fuel was too expensive. </p><p>Wanting to leave the island today, I looked around. A fisherman in a longboat was just making ready to dock, shouting across the closing distance I asked if he’d help me try to catch the ferry. He didn’t know if he was fast enough, but he’d try. If we hurried we might catch the ferry before it left the cove and put on full steam.
He never came to a full stop, never even touched the dock, as I jumped into his boat, nearly capsizing it. We were off, getting every bit of power from his small engine. Handing me a paddle, he tied the tiller and taking the other paddle, dug into the water. Pulling for the ferry, closing the distance. </p><p> I may never know what caused the pilot to hold off getting underway. I’d like to think he saw us and waited. We made it to the ferry a full two minutes after the place where the pilot always put on full speed. </p><p>I dug into my purse and dropped $50 into the fisherman’s shirt pocket, before jumping onto the ladder of the ferry. </p><p>I felt like Indiana Jones. I, a woman who two years before hadn’t been able to run thirty feet without panting and feeling like she’d have a heart attack, I had just run a half a mile, paddled for fifteen minutes and still had the energy to jump onto a moving ferry. </p><p>I didn’t know that this type of miracle ever happened.
I had just jumped when the cranky pilot put his vessel under full steam, and we pulled away from the fisherman, threatening to swamp his tiny boat. He managed to keep from a dunking, and waved happily as he headed back toward the dock.
The rest of the ride was uneventful, allowing my heart rate to slow back to normal except…
I was going home.
Arriving at my long term hotel where the desk clerk is also the town travel agent and postmistress, I laid $50 on the desk. </p><p> “There’s $50 more if you can get me to St. Louis before noon tomorrow. It’s my friend’s birthday and I don’t want him to spend it alone." </p><p>Ten minutes later, the desk clerk came up saying “Tommy will fly you to Anchorage if you can leave in fifteen minutes. He has a run up there anyway, but he’s on a tight schedule. I found you a flight to Seattle where you’ll change airlines. It looks like I’m able to book you to arrive in St. Louis about 11:30 tonight, give or take a few minutes, but you’ve gotta be ON Tommy’s plane in 15, oops 12 minutes.” </p><p>I had been throwing stuff into my suitcase, disregarding its cleanliness. The only thing that I took any care with were my laptop and camera gear. I left everything liquid, put my toothbrush and a spare pack of undies in my purse and dragged my luggage down the stairs. </p><p> Hugging the desk clerk and handing her the promised $50, I ran for the airport, which in this small town was all of four minutes away, by foot. As it was Tommy was ready to be underway. When he grabbed my suitcase, he wanted to know if I was carrying rocks or something. Nope, just dirty clothes & manuscripts.
And we raced off down the runway. </p><p> Home, I was going home. Tommy banked the plane for one last circle around the village where I had spent the last year escaping from my in-laws. Straightening out he made straight for Anchorage. Our flight was uneventful although he hurried because there wasn’t much time between landing and when my next leg took off. My luggage came off the plane in record time, and I was off and running for the check in desk. It wouldn’t do to miss this plane to Seattle. </p><p>The clerk was surprised to see me because she had been about to tell the stewardess that everyone was on board. She checked my luggage and I was whisked into a seat as they closed the doors behind me, strapping in for the flight to Seattle even as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. As the flight settled in and the stewards came around, she offered me a drink. I didn’t need one – I was high enough already. I could go home.
It would be a near thing for me to make my connecting flight in Seattle, and my luggage might not make it. The clerk had told me that I was lucky they had just begun a non-stop from Seattle to St. Louis that arrived late. But with just enough change over time in Seattle to make it possible. I might just arrive home today. My birthday. </p><p> I prayed that the wind was with us speeding us on our way. Arriving in Seattle twenty minutes early, I had time to get my luggage moved between planes. And time to try to get hold of someone to pick me up at the airport.
I made fifteen calls, and nobody was home. Even Kari didn’t answer her phone. Her cheery voice greeted me as the machine picked up the phone. They called my flight as my phone went dead. Knowing that Kari would probably order me a limo, that is IF she actually came home to listen to her messages. I was the last person on board the outbound plane.
Kicking back, I took out my laptop and attempted to write my latest project. </p><p>The stewardess offered me dinner, brown stuff or yellow stuff. I passed, had a couple of Virgin Mary’s and three packs of pretzels. My time in the boonies had taught me to go without eating every time I turned around. Besides anything that looked as unappetizing as the stuff they were serving - deserved to be skipped. Shortly before touchdown, I gave my hair and teeth a quick brushing. Grabbing my messenger’s bag with its laptop and camera. I waited to deplane. </p><p>I was home – I knew what I was going to do with my life. I was going to see if Chad was interested in going out on a date. A real date.
Tan, lean, brown hair now shoulder length; I was in a tank dress that showed my rangy figure to advantage, strong and assured. When I had left this fair city, I had had short hair, was plump and beaten down. And running away from my in-laws. </p><p> Looking around for a limo driver holding a sign with my name on it, I walked right past him. I had changed a lot in the last twelve months, so had he, and he missed seeing me as I got off the plane. Figuring out that the limo driver would be along shortly, I went to get my luggage.
I was tugging my overweight suitcase off of the carousel when a man’s hand reached for it to help me. </p><p> “Let me get that.” I looked up at his smiling blue eyes and froze; not letting go of the suitcase that threatened to topple down on top of me.
“You always were independent, but let me help you.” </p><p>Prying my fingers loose, Chad took the handle of my piece of luggage and pulled it to safety.
“Do you have any more?” at my negative nod he continued, “No, well then let’s get out of this crowd.” </p><p> Surprised to see him, I stood frozen, and he pulled me out of the way of a businessman trying to get to his two-suiter, arm around my shoulder to guide me out of the crush of people. I was an independent woman. I had battled ice and snow, pickpockets, muggers, overly sympathetic in-laws and yet this man’s matter-of-factness undid me.</p><p> “I missed you.” He said quietly, clearly audible in spite of the noise in the terminal. A wayward tear leaked out of my eye. Reaching up to brush it away, he was still holding my cheek when he bent down to softly kiss me. Straightening up he wondered if he was overstepping the bounds of our friendship. </p><p> I let out a sigh and flung my arms around him, and leaning in for a kiss. A deep passionate kiss with all the longing that I’d held at bay for years. </p><p> “I’m so glad to be home,” I said when I could breathe. </p><p>“Come on, let’s go, my kids are with my ex this weekend,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Happy Birthday.” </p><p>Gayle
P.S. <span style="font-style: italic;">[I wrote this about 4 years ago - as I was trying to see if I could write Romance Novels and enjoy the writing. I can. I do. But I like Fantasy better.]</span></p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-90905696054395583202010-01-26T06:54:00.001-08:002021-06-24T10:42:12.287-07:00Storytelling – Even If You Think You Can’t.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
She was impatient, as only a 3 year old can be. Her father was working late, and I was doing the dishes. But she wanted her story. NOW. And she had been patient all evening. It had been a nightly routine to read to her since before she could talk. With soapy hands, I couldn’t hold the book and she refused to hold the book herself. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, we’d soon have a full blown temper tantrum on our hands, and she’d be too wound up to sleep. <br />
<br />
Thinking quickly, I asked if it would be alright if I told her a story. “It will be fun; you can make up whatever pictures you want to go with the story.” The suspicious look on her face told me that she didn’t altogether trust this new idea. Finally she nodded, and then looked at me expectantly. <br />
<br />
Oh dear, what had I gotten myself into? I was not a story teller. I was not creative. I could not improvise a story on the spur of the moment. So finally I decided to tell a story I knew inside and out, Cinderella. So did she, having watched the movie over and over, in the way that preschoolers do. <br />
<br />
I started out tentatively, and any place where my story differed from the movie, she corrected me. And by the time that we were at the Ball, we were both fully into the story. Incensed at the behavior of the wicked stepsisters, she declared that they should not be allowed to be in the story at all. <br />
<br />
Typically of a three-year-old, my daughter didn’t want to hear about Cinderella dancing with the Prince. “It’s boring.” But she was very interested in the mice, the pumpkin and the magic. She knew the magic turned them into a coach and horses but still didn’t understand why they couldn’t stay that way. <br />
<br />
And when Cinderella finally made her way down the stairs in her ragged clothes to meet the handsome prince, she cheered, knowing that a happy ending was just around the corner. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiduUIq66QIkXsXl9bjeFGBPtQYMjSxo0zunHHHoLImPcVphOXTkFmKXSIHxdfclDnITNOu69a46uzdBQ8V6Sue14sl-K1_gVUpPEGZLs8RQaYlAyrr_Cm10fuaCRql7gnj6rq5dRpjOkI/s1600-h/Gayle+for+Blog+Posting.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431063284512688898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiduUIq66QIkXsXl9bjeFGBPtQYMjSxo0zunHHHoLImPcVphOXTkFmKXSIHxdfclDnITNOu69a46uzdBQ8V6Sue14sl-K1_gVUpPEGZLs8RQaYlAyrr_Cm10fuaCRql7gnj6rq5dRpjOkI/s200/Gayle+for+Blog+Posting.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 184px;" /></a> <br />
<br />
Gayle McCain, Author</div>
Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-835217544998198362010-01-03T22:12:00.000-08:002021-06-24T10:47:54.380-07:00Story - Travel Light...<p> She could feel a pulling in her chest as her eyes followed the laser light along it's path. It was made visible by the smoke rolling out from behind the backdrops. Something in her longed to fly along that line of light and come out anywhere but at the noise filled auditorium, sitting next to the date from hell.
He had asked her if she liked music. </p><p>When she'd said "yes" he'd hung up before she said she loved the symphony and Celtic music, and that she could take both Jazz and Country in small quantities.
So he had picked her up, looked at her little black dress strangely, shrugged and drove downtown to the amphitheater. </p><p> She should have taken a taxi home immediately when she saw more leather and chains in the lobby than she'd ever seen before.
But she was on a date. So, finding a set of green earplugs in her purse, she stuck it out, purse clutched in her hand to keep it from being stepped on by the enthusiastic fans all around her. </p><p> It was supposed to be fun.
But the longer she followed the lights with her eyes the more she began to think that she was stoned from the weed being smoked all around her, she swore she was being pulled out of her chair by her chest. </p><p>Distracting herself from the noise of the hard rock concert, she allowed herself to relax and let the mysterious tug take her. She couldn't figure out how she'd ended up backstage. But the odd pulling in her chest was gone. </p><p>Convinced that she was totally stoned, she stumbled into a stagehand standing behind the backdrop. He herded her out the back door quickly, mumbling something about 'came from nowhere'. </p><p> The silence outside was such a relief. Purse already in hand, she decided not to go back. He wasn't worth it. </p><p> It took her an entire week before she figured out what had happened. And even then she had trouble believing it. Somehow she had ridden the laser light to its end. </p><p>A little bit of searching turned up the term Temporal Bi-Location, pen size Laser Pointers, and not much else. </p><p>So she began to experiment. </p><p>Trial and error proved to be a bit dangerous as she couldn't remember what she'd tried and not tried. But keeping exact records in a small spiral notebook gave her enough information to be able to determine that while any of the visible wavelengths worked, when she really focused on the feeling in her chest she could get the most distance out of the red Laser pointer. </p><p>Day after day she practiced, gaining distance until she could ride the laser light one hundred miles, even though it's label stated that it could only be seen for ten miles. </p><p> But no matter how often she practiced she couldn't seem to go further than a hundred miles, and at that she usually ended up stumbling when she landed. Sometimes dropping as much as 4-5 feet. Some of this was due to terrain differences but she finally realized that it was mostly due to the curvature of the earth. </p><p>She began experimenting. Could she interrupt the flight in the middle? Once she could do that, she tried going straight up for a few feet and then changing directions by re-aiming the pointer while falling. She learned to travel great distances by this stair-step method. </p><p>She was exposed to the weather every time she was stepping down and re-aiming the pointer. So she learned to check the weather, check the elevation and always have zippers on her pockets. </p><p>She knew that when she sped along a beam of light, she was not visible. She figured it was because she was moving too fast. </p><p>Not having the equipment she couldn't test whether she was traveling at the speed of light or not. But her travel felt instantaneous, unless she was in a course correction.
She learned to cross the mountains, and oceans, jungles and deserts. She had 3 old fashioned compasses on lanyards and four pocket sized laser pointers. </p><p> So with her passport, a pocketful of currency, and courage she learned to
Travel Light... </p><p>Gayle </p><p>Author's note - I don't know whether it works this way or not.</p><p>But I'm hopeful. I just bought my own laser pointer thingy.
; )</p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-16387182942651597792009-09-11T06:42:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:21:08.701-07:00Story - Stuck as a Bean Counter<p> <br />A new story for your reading. Does it work this way? I don't know, but there are sure a lot of people who say - rewrite the story - and come unstuck. Plus it was FUN to write. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_FVHaq78TC5pRZm4-Rjat9qfpkbl-0fansO0sZiGVymTt17cWtyyZOZU8xkH89JXdX1NsVDIiQIZe3LcC2gt7srkti4A9L72BAe-8UPaqHwa2rkzZnghsKHJ5uwvB8x0KdomiPRkwlo/s367/Bean+Counter+ToDo+List.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_FVHaq78TC5pRZm4-Rjat9qfpkbl-0fansO0sZiGVymTt17cWtyyZOZU8xkH89JXdX1NsVDIiQIZe3LcC2gt7srkti4A9L72BAe-8UPaqHwa2rkzZnghsKHJ5uwvB8x0KdomiPRkwlo/s320/Bean+Counter+ToDo+List.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>SHE was <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> lost! She was <span style="font-weight: bold;">never</span> lost. </p><p>She knew <span style="font-weight: bold;">exactly</span> where she was. </p><p>She was stuck. Stuck as a Bean Counter. </p><p>Stuck in not allowing. Not allowing money to come into her life. </p><p>Stuck, keeping joy from manifesting in her life. Stuck not moving forward in her career. Stuck not allowing love into her heart. </p><p>She was stuck.
Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. </p><p>And it had started eons ago. God only knowing how much living she had done - stuck.
<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Stuck in the act of being birthed into the life he had always dreamed of. With no money for a midwife - and unwanted to boot - his family had broken the ribs of his fragile body in order to save the life of the mother. Allowed him to die, having never lived and never accomplished the things that would save thousands upon thousands of lives. His desire to live had been so strong that he had struggled to breathe with broken ribs, lungs damaged beyond repair, until finally sometime late in the night he had given up and let go of the fragile body.
</span> </p><p>What was keeping her stuck was the idea that they had trained her to be something she was not. Trained her to count beans, when she was at heart a planet mover, a world saver. Trained her to be small, bound her up in rules and strictures that kept her from breathing.
And yet through it all, her will to live was so strong that she had continued to breathe, living shallowly. Though each inhalation was a struggle, she had kept taking breath after breath. Hoping that someday she would break through whatever it was that she needed and that someday what should have been her birthright – air – would come easily. </p><p> And finally the burden became so difficult that one day she said “Enough. ENOUGH. I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANY MORE. I’m going to change the game.” And so she did.
She re-wrote the birth story.
<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">This time his mother was laboring to birth a new fragile life into the desert that was the family’s love for each other. His father had so valued both the life of the mother and the fragile life waiting to be born that he had called for a midwife, not knowing how he would pay for her. She, generously waiving her fee, had arrived not long after to find the nearly born baby stuck, coming feet first - ready to hit the ground running. Not understanding the ways being human, he was expecting to come full into life – ready to move about and be productive. </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Gently and tenderly, this woman had talked to both mother and babe, with voice, energy and hands. And she had persuaded him to pull back his foot so that he could spend a few more uncomfortable minutes being turned. Patiently the woman had turned the babe inside the mother until clenching his fists in impatience he was finally in position to be born. Three contractions and he was out, telling the world of his arrival. </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNFSJpz0O1DaLFbJzyYvbwHXgKCO2QT1lAz1laxtC_cF_rQPZSZpLi4ONLIbR7WX66LdKRJluqxA_OYJrJjl_UWgC1rRlYWYpvSq0op7bprpiNFI0ny1MXC4WA5ecGgo4Wqj37RGQerM/s749/Gayle+McCain+-+where+is+the+instruction+manual.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="749" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNFSJpz0O1DaLFbJzyYvbwHXgKCO2QT1lAz1laxtC_cF_rQPZSZpLi4ONLIbR7WX66LdKRJluqxA_OYJrJjl_UWgC1rRlYWYpvSq0op7bprpiNFI0ny1MXC4WA5ecGgo4Wqj37RGQerM/w155-h133/Gayle+McCain+-+where+is+the+instruction+manual.PNG" width="155" /></a></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Finally relaxing his fists he allowed himself to be soothed.
This child, loved, nurtured and wanted, grew eagerly into a strong young man, creating a new irrigation system, bringing water to the fertile but dry desert. Staving off the drought that held the land in its grip for a decade, he found a way to bring water up from the depths of the earth to water their crops when the rivers ran dry. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;"> In his lifetime he became the patriarch a loving family who found creative solutions to whatever was standing in their way. He built a legacy of Joy and Prosperity that they shared with all, for the betterment of not only their own tribe but all tribes. </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">With the prosperity that came, he provided midwives for all, so that fewer children would have to be sacrificed to save the life of the mother. And because there was some thread that had known that he had been unwanted, he created a system where unwanted children could easily be matched with parents who would love and nurture the child, no matter the age. </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>
And so the woman, having dreamed a different story, began to breathe. She could feel her ribs moving, muscles relaxing that she had not even known were tense. </p><p> Letting go of angst and sadness that had kept her from building the life she truly wanted.
She became the planet mover – the world saver - which she had been born to be, never counting another bean in her life, and never missing it. </p><p>She and her partner founded a dynasty of brilliant inventors and world movers who found creative, loving solutions to problems that had plagued mankind for eons. </p><p>Sharing a long life together, they lived the kind of life that had only been spoken of in myth, larger than life. She was free to generously give her time and energy, caring for those who could not care for themselves.</p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-26614780396901378752009-07-08T17:47:00.001-07:002021-06-24T11:22:34.316-07:00Story - Welcome HomeThis story was 1st published in Booksie.com 1-16-2009 - 17 people read it. No one commented. This fiction is written to help me understand the possibilities. Does it work like this? I don't know. But it feels right. I have left the story essentially unchanged though my life has changed since this was written.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_jBXhw9ycRIWhXIjEmoeTLGLLOk7rfKjpL6cVYf6NKJjT105vnI4SPuqLMezxvQOGTQ9ZgwvsvuncNlA2TDVPsQJ8lMI9YPSruQ7lbKQdNHCq_zwR1tgTaOmqKnIaytgDhx7ZhCrPKgQ/s1600-h/SM-63724-15920_MEDIA_IMAGE_.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>It was frightening for me at first, because so many could not see me. Yet I was still there. I was not dead - there was no body. But I was gone from their sight. As if by magic. I moved among them, touching and trying to comfort them. Yet all they did was brush me away, as if I were merely the touch of a fly. <br /> <br />There were a few who knew that I was there. Small children, and the very aged, but I still had a body. And the man that I loved got lost in grief for a time. But I kept leaving papers on his desk. And soon he began to read them. <br /> <br />I could not write, but I could move books from one place to another. I could pick up pieces of paper. <br /><br />‘Read this’ I’d whisper in his ear. ‘I am here. Do not grieve for me. Live your life, Love, and you will see me soon.’ His heart healed. And he let go of his grief, long before anyone expected him to do so. So he must have felt me loving him.<br /> <br />He began to devour the writings that I left for him. He began to devour the things that I had sent to him over the years, which he had kept in folders on his computer. He called my friends and asked for their help. For somehow he knew that if he could only understand one critical thing, that he could achieve all of his dreams.<br /> <br />But what was that critical thing? Did his heart long to be famous if love was not part of the picture? What use was a big house, if he was the only one in it?<br /><br />He began taking longer and longer treks into the wilderness, wilder and wilder he explored. Searching for a guide to teach him.<br /> <br /><br />Until one day, he went to the Forest of the Ancient Ones, searching for answers. Arriving shortly after dawn, he simply sat. Leaning against the rough bark, he rested quietly, allowing his mind to become still. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed partway, and his heart calmed. Peace stole over him that day. <br /> <br />He melted into the tree, feeling the life blood of the earth rising toward the treetops of the Ancient One, and his eyes widened. For finally, he could see me, sitting next to him, cross legged, leaning against the same tree, smiling my quiet smile.<br /> <br />“What do the trees say to you?” asking him the question that he had asked me so many years ago. <br /> <br />“That they are glad that I have finally come. They say that you are really here, but that usually I just cannot see you,” voice barely above a whisper, he smiled for the first time in months. Then his smile disappeared as he spoke again. “But what use is it for me to know if you are here, if I cannot touch you.”<br /> <br />“Are you sure? Take my hand.” And I reached out to touch his knee. For the first time in months he felt my hand, warm and tender. Not thinking it was merely a trickle to be brushed away. <br /><br />Fingers entwined in mine, he looked at our hands in wonder. “But you’re gone? How can you be here? I must be dreaming.”<br /> <br />“No, I have always been here, waiting for you to stop lowering your energy in grief. I have always been here, loving you. Now you must trust. Trust that you are ready for the shift that is occurring within you.”<br /><br />He leaned back against the trunk of the old tree once more, and I told him the story of ascension. How one day I was playing with the energy in a crowded room, and I just disappeared. Right in front of people. <br /><br />It had not been dramatic, except that they looked around, and then dismissed my disappearance, as though I had merely stood up and left the room. Their minds had not been ready to accept the reality of what they saw, so they simply forgot it.<br /><br />But I had still walked around. I had still moved from place to place. I found that moving by thought was easier than driving. I learned to fly again. At first it was awkward, like swimming through mud. But eventually I got the hang of it. And then I remembered him. And went in search of this delightful man, only to find him immersed in grief. For to him, I had evaporated, leaving a hole in his life. <br /><br />We talked the afternoon away, leaning against those old trees, holding hands, the other visitors of the park ignoring us completely, as though we were invisible. It was almost dark when he finally stood. <br /> <br />“I must go now. I’m supposed to be with the kids tonight,” regret filled his voice. “Will I see you again?”<br /><br />“Take my hand; I have something to show you.” And we walked off into the forest. Finally reaching a clearing, surrounded by a half dozen of the Ancient Ones, we stopped. Puzzlement filled his face as we began to glow. <br /> <br />“Children, come here,” the words were spoken at barely a whisper, and yet they carried out into the Forest, on a wave. The Forest fell quiet and one by one our children stepped out between the trees. “They have always been here, because they did not forget. Somehow they were allowed to remember that they belong here. How they lived in both worlds, I do not know, because I couldn't do it. Perhaps it was as like a game of role playing. But they are here. Now. They live with me. All of our children. Both yours and mine. And other children come and go. It is comfortable, and we are used to each other now. Though at first it was awkward, because your children did not wish to be disloyal to their mother. But we adjusted, and they have helped me to understand how to come and go between the energies, of high and low. In that way they could visit you, and then return here to recharge and renew. Though I can't seem to do it yet.”<br /> <br />“Many of our friends are here too. Not all, but the ones that we loved best are here. And I am glad that you have finally joined us.” <br /><br />He was concerned about getting out of the park before they locked the gates, still caught up in the idea of the lower energy. His children laughed, and told him that there were no gates here, and that his car would be all right. And that he should come and see our home. . Surprised that they should say our home, he was nearly overwhelmed when we arrived at a comfortably snug home. The boys climbed to their shared loft, my daughter was preparing supper. Pausing a moment in her movements my daughter hugged me, and then went to stand in front of him. ‘Welcome home,’ was all she said.<br /><br />Shaking his head, he sat at the simple table, while I got him a drink of the clearest, coolest water he had ever had. Clean and tidy, our home was not large, but it was cared for with love.<br /><br />After supper, my daughter hugged us both again, patted each boy on the head, and went to the door. “I’ve work to do tonight. Is there anybody you especially want me to love, mother?” <br /><br />“Why don’t you check on your father? In fact you might want to take him to a movie. I think he’s kind of lonely.”<br /> <br />“It’s getting harder to manifest a body. I’d rather he brought his energy up,” she complained. “Will he ever ‘get it’?”<br /><br />“You know that no one is kept out, except those who will not love. So sooner or later, your father will get it, though he may have to die to do it,” was the answer heard through my sigh. “If he can learn it from you, then he need not go through that pain. Good luck, you’ll need it.” Nodding, she waved as she went into the dark and closed the door.<br /> <br /><br />“Am I dead?” asked the man at my side. <br /> <br />“No,” was my reply. “You are finally vibrating high enough to shift to a new dimension. Here, we live our lives, creating that which we want, no more, no less. We live peacefully, because there is no need to take things from someone else, when we can make whatever we want.” <br /> <br />“I don’t understand.” His face reflected disbelief.<br /> <br />“We have no crime, no war, because they are caused by fear, hatred, and wanting. Those are lower vibrations, and whenever someone falls to these levels, they cannot maintain their place here, so they simply shift back to the old. But after living here for a very short while, most people are changed forever and no longer wish to live in the lower vibrations. So they work hard to elevate their energy through allowing love back into their lives. This allows them to shift back to this level. <br /><br />“You are here now, and may stay, if you wish. Or you may return to the lower vibrations, and this will seem like a pleasant dream. But sooner or later you will reach for this dream again. You may stay if you wish; you may stay in our home, with me if you wish.”<br /> <br />“Is this real? Are you real?” was his question.<br /><br />“I am as real, and as passionate, as I was in my old life. I am more loving that I was then, there. And I am still not easy. Remember that I have told you, I will never be easy. You will have to put effort into loving me. For without that, we will not be a vibrational match, and we will simply drift apart. Easily, naturally. The choice is yours.” And I sat quietly, looking into his eyes, waiting for him to decide.<br /><br />His breath became ragged, for a moment as the implications sank in, and he said “I want a purple balloon.” <br /><br />A moment later, from the loft a voice was heard – “hey, I’m trying to read… Do you mind?” And a lavender latex teardrop floated down to land on the floor next to his feet.<br /><br />“Oh my god, this is real. And you knew all along. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.<br /> <br />“I tried, but I couldn’t find words that you could understand and believe. All I could do was love you. And I couldn’t wait for you to come with me. I tried, but it just didn’t work. So I came first.” Tiredly, I smiled. Reaching out my hand, I continued. “I promise I will answer every question that I can. But let it wait till tomorrow. For now let’s just go to bed, for I have been waiting for you.” He stood, the twinkle in his eye said he knew exactly what I meant.Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-38900797173858569232009-06-25T11:35:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:29:08.021-07:00Story - The Healer<p> I had a dream that ended badly. And thus the dream came to be rewritten.
I present to you ---- </p><p><b>The Healer </b></p><p>The Healer Medic stood over the dying man, tired and frustrated. It had already been a long day by the time Anlar’s wife, Keeri, had pushed her husband through the doorway and said “You’re the Healer. Now heal him.” </p><p>She had expected the Medic to wave his hands and make it all better, as if by magic. She had not understood that the patient must be willing to do what is necessary. </p><p>Kaylar’s skills required that the patient let go of the old way of doing things, the old way of thinking. It required a great deal of trust. Trust in the process, trust that things could be better, and trust in the unseen Energy. </p><p>But Anlar was a stubborn man and not very trusting. Suspicious of this new-fangled healing, he wanted something he could put his hands on. Wanted something he could see. </p><p>Unfortunately his condition had not responded to the traditional methods of healing, and he had only come to Kaylar as a last ditch effort to save his life. </p><p> If Kaylar had been wise, he would have told them to go home and prepare for death. But at heart Kaylar was a kind, gentle man, who understood that sometimes fear of death can accomplish miracles. He could see the love that Keeri had for her life-mate, and the fear that she would lose him. As Keeri took her husband’s hand, the Medic wondered if the patient was finally willing to accept any healing. </p><p>Huddled together for comfort, they looked at Kaylar with varying degrees of trust and hope.
The Medic had spent a great deal of time listening to one complaint after another from the ill man. </p><p>Kaylar’s explanation of the process went unnoticed. As did his statement that Anlar would need to change his way of looking at the world. That the patient must begin to look for what was right with the world, one thing at a time, leaving behind complaints and negative habits. </p><p>The Healer knew that neither one of them had understood what had been said. They were grasping at straws, but in the end the couple had agreed to see the Listener, the next day. Kaylar could only affirm that the patient would accept and absorb enough Energy to make it through the night. </p><p>And thus he had begun preparing for the healing session, clearing his mind and bringing his focus back to the Energy. </p><p> It had started out as it always did, simply. Anlar laying under the clinic lights, covered with layers of blankets, shivering as his body began shutting down. His wife sitting nearby, wringing her hands, tears falling to her lap.
Kaylar stood beside the patient, feet spread, and Reached. Reached within himself opening the door to the Energy of Healing. </p><p>As the Energy flooded up through him, it filled every nook and cranny, until it expanded out to encompass the entire room. Only then did it begin to flow into the patient, being instantly absorbed. Kaylar knew that this was not HIS Energy, but that it came from the Sacred Ground upon which the clinic had been built. </p><p>His hands began to move of their own volition, following the paths of light and dark that surrounded the patient. Pushing light into the darkness. The darkness was anything that was not supportive of love and life. </p><p>The Healer unaware that it was long past sunset continued to allow the Energy to flow through his body. Using him as a conduit, filling but not consuming him.
The moon had risen at dusk, and by the time Kaylar felt that he was done, moonlight filled the room brightly through the roof window. The Healer backed away from his sleeping patient, finally allowing his hands to fall. </p><p>Still buzzing with Energy, he spoke quietly to Keeri. “I am done. You may have waited too long to bring him to me. But I have done what I can. All we can do now is wait and see whether he will allow the healing.”
Kaylar nodded toward the sleeping Anlar and added one last thing. “He must let go of his anger. Or he will die of it, and there is nothing that I can do. The Listeners have the skills to help with that, if your husband will see them. He agreed to speak with them, but the choice to speak from the heart is his. Always. But now if he is to recover he must sleep. I will return in the morning.” </p><p>Silence descended as Kaylar left the room, broken only by the sound of labored breathing.
Keeri slid under the covers next to her husband, and taking his hand again she settled down to sleep. The two had been so long in each other’s company that her breathing had slid easily into rhythm with his as she drifted off. Soft, gentle, harmonious, comfortable. </p><p>Unnoticed by the sleeping couple the moon slid across the sky. </p><p>Kaylar had returned to the clinic as the sun crept softly over the horizon. Standing in the doorway he relieved to note that Anlar’s breathing was no longer labored, and his color was much better. </p><p> Crossing the room Kaylar Reached for the Energy and checked Anlar’s condition. Though the patient was still weak, there was no sign of the disease which had nearly taken this man’s life. And Kaylar breathed a deep sigh of relief for he knew that the patient would recover. </p><p>Anlar snapped awake at the sound, seeking the smiling eyes of the Healer. Remembering his promise Anlar said, “I will seek a Listener, for I have much to talk about. Much to release in honesty. It is time.” </p><p> </p><p> Gayle McCain </p><p>Originally posted on Twitwall 05/11/09</p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-86402329062678492802009-06-11T19:12:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:38:48.860-07:00Overachiever or Just Really Bored?<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx5i00my-D2Pay_CXQLGLQVOrtlxWq34unVxyafNPs8-p6YKClglNxpBNHsoFugLM9HaLX0VULVkTyJZNVmvlH98kq6CEY0A-PG7Ogv3rTsd3Infb7Ey1YirYzgufxNZxdHhQDRnqt_w8/s1600-h/279055.full.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347000995264299202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx5i00my-D2Pay_CXQLGLQVOrtlxWq34unVxyafNPs8-p6YKClglNxpBNHsoFugLM9HaLX0VULVkTyJZNVmvlH98kq6CEY0A-PG7Ogv3rTsd3Infb7Ey1YirYzgufxNZxdHhQDRnqt_w8/s400/279055.full.gif" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 118px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>
My Psych major daughter and I were talking yesterday about some very interesting things that I’m doing right now, and what she said completely blew me away. </p><p>She said I was the smartest woman she knew. </p><p> Why should that surprise me? Because I have not adjusted to the fact that she’s past the phase where parents get ‘stupid.’ </p><p>When the children were little, they both thought I was brilliant. But as they become teenagers I, as their primary caregiver, became just too stupid to be believed any more. Because I had my kids so far apart, my daughter finally slipped out of that phase just as my son hit it this spring. Sigh. </p><p>I’ve had to bite my tongue for so long with my daughter that I forgot that I even had a tongue. I forgot that while I only got a bachelors degree (in general studies at that), I made extremely good grades in any class that interested me, the first college degree for any woman in my family, out to 2nd cousins. </p><p>I forgot that I had a vocabulary that most PhD’s envy, along with the ability to explain things to small children as well as my friends who didn’t graduate from high school. </p><p>I forgot that I have raised two highly gifted children, constantly on the prowl for something that would keep them entertained, and enriched at the same time. That I was always just one step ahead of my kids, keeping them out of mischief and boredom. Raising children well takes extraordinary time and talent and I’ve forgotten that in the hubbub of daily living. There’s no time left (or perhaps I should say energy) at the end of a day to study higher math. </p><p> My kids and I often poured over my college anatomy texts to explain things like why cold and flu season starts right after Halloween. Or going to their father’s physics book, that I had never opened before, so we could talk about parabolas and why a snow saucer is that shape. </p><p>We didn’t get into the calculus books until my daughter was in high school taking statistics. She was really mad that they wouldn’t let her use calculus to take the test. </p><p>One of the things that has contributed to not feeling brilliant anymore for every non-housewife that I met, approximately 80% of them had a conversation with me that went something like this:
“What do you do, Gayle?” </p><p>“I’m a housewife. I am spending my time raising my kids.” </p><p>“Oh,” he said, as his eyes glazed over and he hurried away to talk to someone more interesting, like the CPA. </p><p>What should I have said? </p><p>“I am the housewife, who is spending 18 hours a day, chasing two brilliant children, teaching them college vocabulary before they can read. </p><p>"I am the woman who successfully, as president of our Homes Association, led the fight to keep out a big box store from our backyards. Speaking in front of county commissioners, television cameras and the public, and making it look easy. </p><p>"I am the woman who organized and ran classroom parties for both my children’s classes. Parties that these kids and the other volunteers are still talking about ten years later." The information I gathered about giving a children’s party for an organization is a ½ done eBook. I got bored. </p><p>Should I have said to these people who dismissed my ‘career’ as a housewife “I am a woman who built a warm and loving home, furnished on a shoe string from estate and garage sales. That my home was as nice or nicer than that of those of you who make twice what my (now ex-) husband makes. That I decorated it with things made lovingly with care, and quality, used these things for a while and gave them away, because it was time for new things. </p><p>"I am a woman who made sure my kids were fed, and cared for. And a surprising amount of time – your kids too, because you were too busy to care for your own children.” </p><p>My home was only minimally messy. The yard was mowed, trees trimmed, gardens full of wild flowers and perennials, the dandelions dug out of the one acre yard by hand because I didn’t want to use chemicals on the land, that would flow into the nearby artesian spring. The only water for ½ a mile around that is still running in the dead of winter for the wildlife that the animals drink from. That I figured out what cleaners I could use that wouldn’t impact their water quality because our septic tank drained into the land from which the spring came. </p><p>I should have said “I am the woman who made those cookies you so gleefully snarfed up after the Xmas cookie party. I only made 90 dozen cookies this year. It was a slow year.” </p><p>I am the woman who for her daughters 3 week classroom lesson in economics spent less than 30 dollars and (with her helping) made 9,000 deep fried Swedish Rosettes. A product that not only made a profit but made what was described as a staggering profit of about $500 which was donated to the school library, liquidating our entire stock, every single day for 15 days in a row. A school record that still stands. (While entertaining her younger brother with stories, word games, and building blocks.) </p><p> I am the woman who designed and built the main flowerbed for the school, organized the planting of 550 tulip and daffodil bulbs (one for every student-planted by the students themselves). Flowering bulbs that are still gracing the school 10 years later. </p><p>I am the woman who learned how to use a database software package in an effort to combine the various different types of information previously kept in people’s heads for the school. The database structure is still being utilized today, 5 years after I handed it over to another mother. Clean simple elegant. </p><p> I am the woman who was always ready at a phone call to sit with a heartbroken friend, nurse ungrateful in-laws for weeks after surgery, cope with a mother with dementia, run a successful wrapping paper sale for the PTA sale three years in a row, attend most of the PTA meetings, listening and offering constructive suggestions. Teaching these chattering women how to keep a meeting running smoothly and moving forward, in spite of never being the president. </p><p>And this does not include the things that I've forgotten that are really too minor to mention, but which make life infinitely easier for the people involved.
I am the overachiever who everybody misses when she’s gone. But whom makes everybody uncomfortable when she’s there, because she does so much, has her fingers on the pulse of the organization. Who knows where the bodies are buried, and who to go to for information. </p><p> I am the woman who, on top of everything else, insisted on going to choir every week and church on Sundays because I had to have an outlet that was just for me. Where I could learn something new (music) and receive spiritual sustenance too. </p><p>I didn’t get to be that overachiever by being stupid. I did it because I was easily bored. And to keep from being bored, I had to stay busy. </p><p>And even though I know better, I have felt unintelligent because I didn't have an alphabet after my name, and a career making more money than I knew how to spend. I've felt stupid for a long time. </p><p>Made more so because last October, I suddenly couldn't add or subtract without using my fingers. I had to go get flash cards to relearn this simple skill. And I managed to hide this from everybody except one friend. And it only came out because I couldn't keep score when we played gin. </p><p>And yet now I'm looking at simple matrix logic problems and saying to myself "when is he going to get to something new?"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgI54jj9q5x9XZLaJH-YYfjlJmPrR7aReVgsD9aP-jcqsjTFJKm9bTDcx_GoztkyAfAthbIdFBDZLJLqobJEiImjqmJ4KuffAuHeIrS4hxSpbVKCxuGoATmqjv8nPgFTTobY3-AfyykMA/s4608/IMG_20200502_131048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgI54jj9q5x9XZLaJH-YYfjlJmPrR7aReVgsD9aP-jcqsjTFJKm9bTDcx_GoztkyAfAthbIdFBDZLJLqobJEiImjqmJ4KuffAuHeIrS4hxSpbVKCxuGoATmqjv8nPgFTTobY3-AfyykMA/w104-h139/IMG_20200502_131048.jpg" width="104" /></a><br /></p><p> I KNOW that I couldn’t have done all of those things if I’d been just
an ordinary woman, it still surprised me when my daughter recognizes
that not only am I an extraordinary mother, but that
I am
the smartest woman she knows. </p><p>I am ! </p><p>Gayle</p><p> </p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-51535602149361652652009-06-06T06:37:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:40:49.723-07:00The Value of Comments<p> You came here because someone recommended my writing.</p><p> It might have even been... me. And you will diligently read through what I have to say. Thank you. </p><p>But many of you have websites or blogs of your own, and are wondering how on earth to drive traffic to them, because you have something to say. </p><p>Here's how:
When you read somebody's blog that you like - leave a comment and leave your contact info. (And yes this seems just a smidge like leaving your 'phone number' on a bathroom wall. Get over it.) </p><p>If a reader likes what you said in your comment will copy/paste your contact info into their browser, following you back to your site. And voila, you have a hit, and everybody wins. </p><p>What about those readers that are just readers, have no website and have no need to drive traffic anywhere? </p><p>Please leave a comment anyway. Why?
Because it takes courage to put yourself and your writing out onto the superhighway of the WWW. Because writers are often concerned about whether they're making any sense, your comments help them refine their message. And this is true whether they're writing about string theory or writer's block, the benefits of organic produce or organic underwear. </p><p>Because if we care enough to publish it in a blog, we are a writer. </p><p>I also know that sometimes you don't feel like you can add any wisdom to what has already been said. The appropriate comment in that place is:
"Thanks. I liked it."
And so I invite you to comment. </p><p>Leave your URL so that we can follow you back to your 'house' and read what you have to say. </p><p> Gayle McCain </p><p>gaylemccain.blogspot.com </p><p>faithfultoyourjourney.blogspot.com
</p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-88191417570467210062009-05-31T11:37:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:44:08.617-07:00Story - Seamore and the Hot Air Balloon<p> Days passed, friendships grew as Jack and Seamore spent time exploring the beach. </p><p>They told each other stories while digging in the sand. One afternoon they were watching the seagulls dipping and soaring over the school of fish swimming through the shallows, when the sea monster sighed.
Jack wanted to know why, and pretty soon Seamore was telling the young boy all about his dream of flying. He was so sad because he was earth bound. He wanted to see what everything looked like from above. His eyes alight, he went on to imagine how it would feel to look down on his home, and the beach that the two young ones shared. </p><p>Jackie knew exactly what the sea monster was talking about. Because he felt like that himself.
One day after supper the two younglings were playing in the shallows, when a hot air balloon landed on the beach. Brightly colored, it was a magical sight. </p><p>Jackie said it sounded like a dragon when it's flame roared to life, keeping the balloon aloft, while allowing the basket to settle gently on the sand.
The two gingerly approached the contraption, as the balloonist hailed them. He said he wanted to tie off to a rock, and just float above the beach, hoping to attract riders. If the younglings would tie his balloon to the ground, he'd give them a short ride, up into the air. </p><p> Rarely have two children moved faster. And before anyone could say a tongue twister like <span style="font-style: italic;">Seamore Sits in the Shifting Sand</span> the two younglings had tied off the rope and were eagerly climbing into the waiting basket.
Deafened by the roar of the dragon flames, they briefly cowered in the bottom of the basket. But as the balloon rose gently off of the sand, Jack peered timidly over the sides of the basket. </p><p>Jack was surprised by how high they were already. The surprise on his face, followed almost instantly by a big grin, gave Seamore the courage to look around.
He had never imagined that he'd be so high. Excitement made him shout and dance a little dance, which made the basket sway. His eyes got really big as he grabbed the sides of the wicker. The balloonist patted him on the shoulder and told him he was safe, and gradually Seamore relaxed. </p><p> For the next several minutes the younglings looked down at the shining sea, sparkling in the late evening light. The water was changing from bright blue to a deeper shade as the sun crept toward the horizon, and the balloon began to sink toward the beach. </p><p> Jack was startled when the flames roared to life again, sending the brightly colored envelop shooting upward once again. But he grinned when he spotted his house, and his mother standing outside on the lawn. </p><p>Shouting and waving, the children laughed as she waved back. In moments the neighbors where drawn to the beach where they were tethered.
The balloon sank gently back to earth and the waiting crowd of people eager for a ride. The younglings climbed from the basket, eyes shining. They stayed and talked with those waiting for their turn. Telling and retelling their exciting adventure in the sky, until finally their mothers called them home for bed. </p><p>Gayle </p><p>For the 'beginning' of the story - see May 24, 2009</p>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-17712109135417124662009-05-24T06:35:00.001-07:002021-06-24T11:47:06.369-07:00Story - There once was a Sea Monster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
My daughter was 6, when I told this story for the first time. She's 19 now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"There once was a sea monster. A not terribly big one at that. And a writer tried to tell this story about it, and couldn't."<br />
<br />
"Why not, Mommy?" asked the little girl. <br />
<br />
"Because she kept getting distracted, little one," Sara answered, peering into her daughter's eyes through the wispy blond hair. "The writer, had a little girl, just like you. And her little girl kept the mommy so busy that she never seemed to find time to write. Until one day, one very special day, the mommy discovered that she could turn on the tape recorder when she was telling a story."<br />
<br />
"OK Mommy, I have a tape recorder, so what is the story today?" pleaded the little girl. "May I please have a story?"<br />
<br />
"Are you sure you're not too tired? It's almost bedtime," said her mother, knowing what the answer would be.<br />
<br />
"I'm not too tired."<br />
<br />
"OK, settle down. Let me tell you the story of Seamore. Now, Seamore is a monster. A sea monster. He is blue and green with shiny sparkles. He is a different kind of a sea monster, because he has hands and a pocket," said her mother smiling at the image. The little girl smiled and slid down under her covers secure in the knowledge that her mother did indeed have a story for her.<br />
<br />
"Let me tell you a little about Seamore. He keeps his treasures in his pocket. Shiny sea shells, pearls from the oysters that grew in the ocean, and ruby from a jewelry chest that had fallen over board many years ago. It was old, but it was bright and shiny. He loved all of his treasures. He probably also had some string and maybe a small stick of two in his pocket. Just like human children, sea monsters keep many different things in their pockets." <br />
<br />
One day Seamore was swimming along the beach, looking for treasure when he spotted something shiny in the shallows. He was watching it so closely in the shifting waves, he didn't notice that he wasn't alone on the beach. Until his hand touched the treasure just as another hand did the same.<br />
<br />
Shocked, Seamore looked up into the wide eyes of a human. Not a full grown human, a half size one, which he knew usually meant a child. The eyes of this child looked the way he felt. But Seamore didn't want to scare anybody, so he gently pulled his hand back and smiled. The boy smiled back. And thus began the friendship between the two.<br />
<br />
Jackie was eight, and his pockets were bulging with empty sea shells and shiny rocks. He had long since learned not to put in frogs or living starfish because they wriggled and tickled. But he liked to keep buttons, and S-hooks and strong string in there. Because he never knew when he might need something. <br />
<br />
The monster didn't look scary. But one never knew. But Jackie looked down at the treasure in the water, back at Seamore and bent to pick up the shiny thing. It was a bottle cap. With a timid smile, he put out his hand to give it to the monster, since he already had one. Surprised, Seamore took the treasure gently and his grin got even bigger.<br />
<br />
In just a few moments, the two had emptied their pockets and were admiring each other's gatherings. Jack's eyes got very big when he saw the red jewel, and Seamore really wanted Jack's S-hook and buttons. And so they traded. Each quite sure that they'd gotten the better part of the deal. <br />
<br />
It was late, time to go home. But the two of them agreed to meet the next day. And they met day after day, enjoying each other, becoming fast friends, in spite of their differences. The beach rang with laughter, and splashing. <br />
<br />
Tune in for the further adventures of Seamore and Jack.<br />
<br />
<br />
Gayle</div>
Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-78976233209770614882008-05-13T20:30:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:47:41.643-07:00Questions to really think about<br />Today I discovered that I don't know the 1st thing about laying out a brochure. I had fantasized that I knew how to advertise my new packing business, but what I found out as I talked to my friend is: I don't. <br /><br />Advertising is a very different form of writing. AND to properly advertise I need to be really, really clear on what it is that I can do for my client. And what I cannot. And that was profound to think about. <br /><br />My friend had me thinking about all sorts of things that I had not thought about. Like how to handle a situation if something goes wrong. Or the movers drop a box, and stuff breaks. <br /><br />or <br /><br />What if I get a dishonest client? That's a tough one for me - because I trust nearly everybody. And how will I hold to my higher ideals if I have to watch over my shoulder in the fear that I might be ripped off. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of higher ideals? <br /><br />And so, I shall go to bed tonight, pondering these questions. Hoping for an answer as I dream.<br /><br />May you find all the answers that you're looking for tonight.<br /><br />in Joy<br />GayleGayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-64617102877086297672008-04-02T05:50:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:49:27.772-07:00Remember to Dream<br />Today --remember to dream. Really dream.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6_OHqAL6FohyZ-2IjABHW0_SpN4P3kyoU3V_Lc5mYymSuxlYxdFLfd4SWJJMa1DPtz4tEeOedHJNwKO7w0HcgVHGZNMnBAknZ2xzAY6m81nL-9Atv-kVgaWKPNuxYlwawfBqEtL6SOA/s2048/00+Sunset.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6_OHqAL6FohyZ-2IjABHW0_SpN4P3kyoU3V_Lc5mYymSuxlYxdFLfd4SWJJMa1DPtz4tEeOedHJNwKO7w0HcgVHGZNMnBAknZ2xzAY6m81nL-9Atv-kVgaWKPNuxYlwawfBqEtL6SOA/w159-h120/00+Sunset.JPG" width="159" /></a></div><br />Because that's what this is all about - us dreaming we can become something more, and then doing it.<br /><br /><br />We don't have to know very much -- only the WHAT and the WHY. All the rest will take care of itself - if we listen when intuition tells us to take action.<br /><br />Yes - that's right -- we don't have to know HOW, or WHERE, or WHEN, or WHO will help us. We just have to focus on the WHAT we want and WHY we want it and everything else will line up. I promise.<br /><br />See soapbox - stepping off now.<br /><br />So go ahead and dream today - you'll like it.<br /><br />in Joy<br />Gayle McCain<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;">Dream !</span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">It's the only way you'll ever get what you want, </span></span></span><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">so while you're at it you might as well </span></span></span><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 6;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;">Dream BIG and in <span style="color: red;">Te</span><span style="color: #033d21;">ch</span><span style="color: magenta;">ni</span><span style="color: yellow;">col</span>or!</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><div><br /></div>Gayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8761859096644129371.post-81164744569491158902008-03-20T19:43:00.000-07:002021-06-24T11:50:53.405-07:00Mom to the rescueThis afternoon I got a phone call from my daughter saying her car wouldn't start, and would I come get her. I arrived just about the time that her Dad called her back. His suggestion - jump start the car.<br /><br />Well, OK, it worked. A part of me was absolutely certain that it wouldn't, and if I'm honest that part kind of wished he was wrong too. Because he would look like a hero. Again.<br /><br />A small part of me was feeling insecure, because the good things <span style="font-weight: bold;">he</span> does for the kids get noticed, and if <span style="font-weight: bold;">I </span>do anything it slides under the radar, thus my insecurity.<br /><br />That was - until my daughter climbed into her running car and said,<br /><br />"Thank you, MOMMY."<br /><br />I haven't been 'Mommy' in a decade. What I had done, by just being a concerned mother, was ride to the rescue of the damsel in distress in the suburban mom's version of the white horse - my minivan.<br /><br />It was nice to be called 'mommy' again. Nice to know that even though she's nearly an adult, she still wants and needs me, and that I'm able to be there when that happens.<br /><br />May you have people that remind you that you are needed too.<br /><br />Gayle McCainGayle McCainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079135635766643056noreply@blogger.com0