Imagine you are someone's shadow for the day...

He walks to the edge of trees, taking one last glance over his shoulder before he goes. His family's cabin sits on a hill not far away. The leftover smoke from the fire lifts into the sky on a gentle breeze. I can still smell that smoke in the air, on his clothes. The scratchy wool jacket he wears over his threadbare cotton shirt, itches at his skin, making it red. He pulls at the collar.
The dead grasses from last fall pull at his boots as he steps over fallen branches and scrub. They rejoice in the lightness of the air, quite the contrast to the heavy snow that's plagued them all year. Tiny green shoots spring forth at their base, a hope and promise of spring.
Birds fill the forest with song. Each of them dancing to their own tune. Bringing their own personality into the world. Their wings cast shadows through the sunlit branches, still bare. He looks up as if he's admiring the different colored wings. They seem to follow him, as if they know what serious journey he is on.
The place isn't far. Just another stretch or so. But it's been a few weeks since he's visited. The place he's designed to go for some time now. He's been waiting for the right time. For the courage. For the feeling inside his chest to let him know that it's time. And this morning, he knew, with every fiber of his being, he knew that today, he would walk into the forest and ask God a simple question that held the most importance.
He recites the scripture, James 1:5, aloud. "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."
Never had any passage of scripture pierced his heart like that scripture. For how to act, he did not know. And as for wisdom, he knew he lacked, as uneducated as he was. So he decided to do as the scripture foretold, that is, ask of God.
Which brings him to this place. This forest, in upstate New York.
His pants are sticking to his legs by the time he reaches his destination. The wet dew has crawled up his legs. He rubs his hands down his arms and lets out a breath. It becomes a white puff with the chill.
The forest is alive with life, but there's a feeling, an energy, like it's holding its breath, waiting for him to kneel and ask his question.
His knees become instantly soaked as they hit the almost frozen ground. He removes his wool cap and twists it in his hands. A restless weight hangs in the air. Taking a moment to collect himself, he closes his eyes and counts to ten. The forest stills, quiets. In the back of my head, I feel a warning. But he must ask the question.
"Dear God," he begins his prayer. His words shake. His voice scratchy. Never before has he prayed vocally, and the moment is recorded in heaven.
I'm crippled. My body being ripped from limb to limb. Torment, unlike any I've known tears through my chest. I've lost my grip on reality. On myself. I can't even recall my name.
His body hits the earth with a thud.
It's a dull recollection compared to the overwhelming dark power I'm feeling inside. Fear deeper than the ocean's valleys. Pain stronger than human can bear. Hate, so bitter I can taste it. Or is that blood from biting my tongue? I struggle to grasp my thoughts. Any thought. But the power  holds me captive, bending my body in on itself. I wrestle with the darkness, trying to see, but even the forest has silenced, darkened beyond sight. What being wields this darkness? This power? How can one so evil exist?
I pry my eyes open and see that he appears to be wrestling the same darkness. For his muscles bulge at his neck. His fingers look like claws. And one hand wraps around his leg like he's trying to still a wild bull.
"Please God," he murmurs. Struggling to get the words to emerge. "Please, help me."
A pillar light so bright that it defies the sun, shatters the darkness.
His body sags in sudden relief.
The pain and anguish, suffering is gone. I'd forgotten what it felt like to feel whole. How good. Blissful, even. My body sighs in relief.
He lifts an arm to shield his eyes, for the light is blinding, then rises to look up.
Standing before him in the air are two personages, dressed in white. Their brightness and glory defy all description.
I squint against the light, trying to focus my eyes. My body is bathed in warmth. Surrounded by a tangible blanket of love and acceptance.
"Joseph," one of the men calls him by name, pointing to the other. "This is My Beloved Son. Hear him."
The boy gathers himself. So astonished by the look on his face, that he has to take a deep breath, but then words tumble out of his mouth.
"Which of the religious sects is right, so that I might know which one to join?"
The Son, gives a perceptible shake of his head before he answers. "You must join none of them."
Both he and I are taken back. His jaw drops, and my mind tumbles to a stop. How can it be? There are so many different religions upon the earth. One of them has to be correct.
The Son is still speaking and I struggle to keep up. "...they draw near to me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me, they teach for doctrines the commandments of men, having a form of godliness, but they deny the power thereof."
Time ceases to exist as The Son continues. So much information, I cannot contain it all.
I find myself standing over the boy, who is lying on his back, looking up into the heavens from whence the two personages came. They appear to have left, the forest alive with life, rejoicing again in the warming day. Do the animals and plants realize the importance of the event that just took place? Do I?
The boy's lips move of their own accord. He looks dazed, as if his spirit has overcome his body. I wait next to him. Wait for him to speak. To jump up and do something. For now that he has his questions answered, from God Himself, what will he do? Where will he go? Will he change the world? Will his words be believed? Will I believe?
I know that God has restored His church upon the earth, including the power to act in His name through the priesthood. It contains the fullness of the gospel. He has called prophets and apostles. He leads and guides His children through them. All we have to do, is listen. We don't need a vision. A heavenly messenger. We only need faith. Then determination to act on that faith. To follow in the Lord's footsteps. And maybe someday, we can change the world, just like this humble, innocent, 14 year old boy. If only I could be a shadow. This is an event I would love to witness. 

What's behind the door? Why is it closed?

My fingers graze the wooden panel. A crack slivers my pointer finger. I lift my hand to examine the wound. A tiny piece of wood, so small I almost can't see it, causes more pain than it should. I try to get the sliver out, but it's stuck too deep for my nails to dig. I palm my knife, but decide against it. Too much of someone else's blood stains the blade to plunge it into my skin. Staring at the intruder, I wonder if it's an omen. An omen not to open the door.
I fill my lungs with moist, mold filled air. It's so thick I can almost taste the salt and grime on my tongue.
Waves crash into the far wall. A shudder runs through the empty room. Years of rot and decay are weakening the structure, bringing it down to the mother earth who once bore it.
 I wonder if anyone else is on the island. Alive. Am I the only one left? Will I have to bury my comrades? I cringe to think what state their bodies will be in by the time I emerge.
I keep my eyes open. Afraid to close them and see the images that have haunted my nightmares since the attack. They didn't train us for this. The mental anguish that plagues a soldier. Physical preparation is such a small part of war. Sure, you need the muscle, but you need the mental capacity to go with it.
The rhythmic water lulls me into placing my hand on the door again. I haven't heard anything other than those waves in days. Maybe I am the only one. Do I dare open the door and find out? I shuddered, imagining all the carnage awaiting me on the other side.
My stomach growls, twists, and begs me to make my decision. Either stay here and starve, or venture out and survive. If survival is an option.
The door knob is cool as I wrap my hand around it. My heart is pounding, warming my body, preparing for a fight. A trickle of sweat, mixed with the abominable humidity makes its way down my forehead. I swipe it away with my free arm. This is it. Let's go.
The door doesn't want to open. I pull on it, noticing for the first time the deep gouges in the dirt packed floor from where the door has been drug back and forth across it. Did I make any of those dents when I slammed it closed behind me? My adrenaline must've propelled my body into the room with more strength than I have.
Bracing my hand against the door frame, I give the door a firm yank. It opens with a reluctant yowl. My body tenses against the sound.
Dim light filters in. I step to the side shadows, not wanting to illuminate myself and become an easy target, and listen. No sounds. No change. Good and bad.
With as much stealth as my body can muster, I shuffle up the stairs on my weak, wobbly legs. Roots cover the hand carved walls, and I grab onto them for support, pulling myself forward.
The steps become muddy as I ascend. They pull at my shoes, beckoning me to stay where I am. Stay hidden. Am I making a mistake?
The stairs end in blinding sunlight, too bright for my eyes to adjust to after being in pure darkness for the last few days. I blink, trying to see something, anything. My ears strain to hear the shuffle of feet, the signs of life. Nothing comes to my aid.
Lifting my head just above the lip of grassy ground, I scan the area.
No wonder I couldn't hear a sound. There's no life here. No human life.
I crouch down and shimmy on my stomach out of the hidden hole I fell into, which ultimately saved my life.
Dried blood turns the blades of grass into speckled greens. The earth is soaked with the stench of death. The front of my shirt is soon soaked with someone else's life source. The sticky, red blood makes my body itch, but I keep moving.
There must be a body around here somewhere. We were falling at uncountable speeds. The call to surrender and retreat going out like a call in the night. Where have the warriors taken their foe?
I dare a glance above the grass line.
The field is empty. No bodies. Only the stench of death remains.
Movement catches my eye beyond the tree line. There, a flash of silver. A sign.
I grab the mirror at my waist and signal back.
They're here! Alive! I'm not the only one who made it.
The signal is repeated back. They're coming for me.
My heart leaps in my chest. Joy filling me to the core. How many made it out alive? Did Emry? Caltina? I didn't want to harbor any hope while I waited for death to find my hideout. But now it blossoms. A beautiful rose among the thorny thoughts of doubt. I grab onto it, and let that hope fuel me forward.
Emry steps into the clearing. Her clothes are sweat stained and torn in places. But she looks whole. And she's smiling. How she can do that after what we'd just experienced, I don't know. But her look of relief pulls me to my feet.
A sharp sting bites the back of my neck, through my tangled hair. My body freezes on instinct. It's not the bite of a bug, but the bite of metal, sun warmed and poised to kill.
"If you don't want to lose your head, get your hands away from your weapons." The voice is deep, unhurried, as if killing me will be savored, a process without end.
Emry's face has become a façade of calm. Her hand rests on her blade, strapped at her side. She's too far away to help. Must she watch me fight? And possibly die?
The tree leaves sway in the distant breeze. White, puffy clouds dot the sky, parading by without a care. The grass under my feet, squishy. And my arms, they're tired from not being used. My hands refuse to open the whole way after being palmed around the hilt of my sword for the last two days, ready for an attack. Why didn't I keep my knife in hand?
"Good. Now, turn around."
If I wasn't in such a precarious situation, I would roll my eyes. By turning around, the blade will slice across my neck, right through my artery.
I don't have the advantage of sight. How many enemies stand behind me? Just one? Or many? How many can I fight off before my head is gone? I refuse to go down without a fight. I didn't survive this long, just to die in front of my friend. I must try. Try to protect her, even if it is in vain. One last gift of escape, if she can use the time of my distraction.
"Don't get any fancy ideas of martyrdom." Warmth. There's warmth in his unfamiliar voice. "Just show your face. I don't intend to kill you, unless death is what you wish."
"Then why did you pull your weapon?" My voice is harsh. Hoarse. Days with only salt water in the air to fill my thirst. And scrape my lungs.
A soft huff before the metal is removed.
I spin, yanking my knife from it's sheath, hoping to catch him off guard. But before the tip has loosed the top, I find myself on my back, a curtain of dark hair surrounding my face, as cobalt blue eyes that could freeze over hell itself, stare into mine. 
I feel the pain a moment later. His arm crushing my chest, his body pinning mine to the wet earth below.
"Ouch." I mutter.
A smile carves lines into his cheeks. I realize, in this awkward position, that he's beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful you see in paintings, but the kind of beautiful you see in a predator, as it's stalking it's prey. I refuse to be the prey.
Snapping my head forward, I catch him in the nose. I feel the crunch of bone before his muscles tighten, trapping instead of releasing me.
Blood flows down his face, into mine. I gag, trying not to inhale. If I open my mouth, I will be consuming the hot liquid.
I squirm, fighting his grip. But it's no use. He's much too powerful for me. I can feel it in every inch that he's pressed against me. Rigid, sculpted muscle. Curse the gods for making men.
He's as still as an eagle with a rabbit in it's death clutch. I'm as good as dead now.
The blood stops. Like a faucet being shut.
I dare a glance.
His nose is straight. No sign of the brokenness I'd just created.
A growl builds in his chest, rumbling. "You." It's more feline snarl than human.
I shudder, but hold my ground. If I am to die, I will go down fighting, to my last breath.
I regret hiding in that hole. I regret leaving the battlefield. Surrender, even if it was called by my battalion's leader, should never be mine. This is what makes my blood sing. Competition. The fight for life. Even if I'm on the losing team.
"How could you steal something from me? Something I've saved for nobody but myself?"
My head spins. He's talking in riddles. "Stolen?"
"My blood!" His voice booms across the meadow floor. He leans down, nipping at my ear with his teeth. "Nobody has taken my blood for a thousand years, yet you, you little human thing, who has shielded yourself from me for the last two days, who I've hunted and haven't found until you willed it so, have stolen my blood, drunk it, and bonded yourself with me." He pulls back and his smile is a snarl. A promise of death. "So now, I cannot kill you, lest I kill myself."
He tips his head to the side, like he's listening to someone standing next to him. "I accept the bond."
My mind reals and I think about the door. The door. And the decision to open it. I should've stayed hidden. Hidden and safe from this being.
My vision blurs before tightening. My muscles stop constricting. I feel strength. Whole. Warm. Fire in my veins. I am lethal. I am a predator now too. Not prey. Not prey. Not prey.
I yearn to flick him off me. I push against him and this time, he budges before he clamps back down.
"You are mine." He hisses before he slams his fist into my temple, turning my world to black.

Who's dancing, and why are they tapping those toes?

My feet move of their own accord. The music, pulling them from their stationary place on the foot pedals, into a rhythm that's meant for dancing. My body aches to get up. But I still can't move the way I want to.
I glance down at my leathery hands. Thick veins and age spots mar my once smooth, pale skin. Calluses brush against my fingertips as I fist them. Skin stretching across bone. Rigid and frail at the same time.
My wheelchair has held me hostage for too long.
Taking a deep breath, I will myself away. Away from this earthly chain. I must be free. Free to move as I once moved. Free to sing, dance, lift my spirit into the skies. How many more years must I wait?
My wish is endless. I've wished it a thousand times. Why haven't I learned this small lesson? No matter what we wish for, life is a reality we can't escape. And sometimes, reality stinks.
The picture frames on the wall smile down at me. Smiles from wedding days that were ages ago. Children, now grown and scattered across the globe, living their lives as mine comes to an end.
I can feel it. The end. It's closer each day. I just wish I knew when it would finally rear it's merciful head. I'm tired of suffering. Tired of feeling like a useless bag of bones. That's all I am now. Dispensable in the world's eyes.
If the nurse's rough, rushed routine that makes me feel more like a burden every day doesn't prove that, I don't know what does. It's like she's waiting for me to die so she can write me off. Put a check mark next to my name. Like I'm some task she's finally finished. I'm nothing. Not a real person anymore. My opinions, feelings, needs don't matter. A menace to society that only takes instead of contributes. Guess the seventy years of hard labor counted for nothing. 
My husband abandoned me and this world long before my body took a turn for the worst. In some ways, I'm happy he's not here to see me. Maybe, if he still sees me as the vibrant young lady I was, I can pretend to be that too.
It's been fourteen years. Fourteen years since I've seen him. Fourteen long years since we danced and sang together. Those memories are as old and dusty as I am. But now, they surface in remarkable clarity. Every detail shimmering in my mind. Replaying like I'm living them again. Their beautiful. Breathtaking, as I take in every moment.
I'm whisked into a memory of love. It's our wedding song. The one where my husband got down on one knee, put into words what mirrored my heart, then asked me to marry him. We whispered the words into each others' ears before we left the dance floor that night. The night that everything changed, and I discovered what it meant to truly love, to live. For they are one in the same. 
Life. It's so simple. Yet we try to complicate it. Why? What is wrong with simplicity?
Our song is coming to an end. I imagine his hand guiding me through the steps, not only in dance, but in life. My spirit yearns to be with him again. To see his eyes light up the way they do when he's about to tell a joke. To feel those calluses that match mine. We're a team. And I yearn to pull together again. I pray I will be yoked by his side for eternity.
My lungs give one last pull of air as I close my eyes, and sing the last line of the song. I draw out the words, ending long after the song has finished. Because I want this to be my song. The song I sing when all else is forgotten. Because just as people get old and die, so do songs. But this song will never die. I will keep it alive.
When I open my eyes, it's his face I see. Real. Solid. Welcoming. And that smile. Oh, that smile. My heart lurches in my chest, stumbling to a stop.
Tears run down my cheeks. And why shouldn't they? For just as we cry on earth, the angels weep in heaven. I lift my hands to his face and brush away the tears that have made tracks down his smile lines. He places his hands over mine. Warm. Whole. He's here. He's really here.
"Welcome home." His voice is better than I remember.
I lift myself out of my chair, and for the first time in ten years, I stand on my own and walk with my husband toward the waiting crowd.
I'm home. And earth was just a short journey.