Sticky: Imagine a situation that's very sticky (ie: maple syrup or tape or glue)- and write about it

Drip. Drip. Drip.
I'm lulled awake by the sound.
Drip. Drip.
What is that?
Drip. Drip.
I'm aware of the smell first. Earthy rich. Like warmed soil beneath my fingertips. I want to dig my hands into the aroma. Taste the deliciousness of it.
I'm lying down. Face up. But it's too dark to make out any surroundings. I wonder if I am back in the underground room. But why would that horrible creature of a man bring me back there? There's nothing but mud and moss.
My fingers sink into a thick fur that's stretched out beneath me. It's warm to the touch. I revel in the softness. It's can't be the skins of a normal animal. Their fur is much too coarse. But this, this is something I could bask in forever.
My tongue is dry as I open my mouth and try to swallow. I need water. Cool, moist water. Is that what the dripping noise is? And if it is water, where can I find it?
I blink open my eyes. They're as dry as my mouth, and tiny pieces of salt grate against my lids. The sting burns my eyes and I roll to my side. It's in that movement I realize I'm naked. I gasp and grab for the fur, pulling it up to cover me. To my horror, it's stuck, somehow attached to whatever cushion is beneath. I tug at it to no avail.
Fine. Nudity it is. Not like anyone can see me in this black abyss anyway.
"Hello?" My voice is even more hoarse than it was the last time I spoke. I didn't know that was possible, sounding like a pinched frog.
Humidity washes over me. A fine sheen of moisture clings to my bare skin. A faint touch of air tickles my nose.
I take a deep breath and hold it. Listening. Waiting. The drip is my only answer.
As I swing my legs over the side of the raised makeshift bed, my feet connect with a dirt packed floor. I move them side to side, checking for holes or sharp objects. Nothing assaults me. I risk the standing position.
My limbs are numb. Shaky. They tingle as circulation pounds through my veins, bringing them back to life. I feel like I've died. Been drug behind a horse for days. Bruised. Broken. Held together by pins and needles. 
I wish I could see.
Shapes start to become discernible in the darkness. I squint and rub at my eyes. There. A table pushed against the side of the...dirt? Is that a dirt wall? I truly am stuck back in that room. My body shivers with the thought. But wait. This room is different. Larger. The rounded ceiling higher, carved with large wooden roots entwined overhead. And there, a hollowed spot where some recently burned logs are turned to ash. A small flue opens above it. That must be where the air movement is coming from. And there, on top of the table that has two chairs seated on opposite sides of it, a bucket. The dripping noise is coming from that direction. It has to be water.
My legs propel me forward. My thirst driving me like a drunken lunatic toward the bucket.
As I tip the bucket back, I realize the color is all wrong for water. Instead of clear, it's brown. Like rust. But it's too late to pull back now. The contents flush over my mouth and down my chest as I barely close my lips before the sticky liquid gets inside.
I drop the bucket. It makes a loud clang as the handle hits against the metal side and bounces away.
I wipe at my face. The brown muck doesn't want to come off. It's sticks like honey to my skin. Now the stickiness is all over my arms, my hands, and tangled in my hair.
I stop and hold my arms out, taking a few deep breaths. I must look like a scarecrow. Though it's not a post that holds my back in position. Maybe a risen corpse, standing there with my arms held out, my shoulders hunched forward.
I stare down at my body. Long streaks of whatever carve dirty rivers down my skin. Now what?
Another glance around the room. A wooden doorway is on the opposite wall. Do I chance getting out of here? Or stay put?
Since I have no idea where I am, who I am with, because clearly, someone has been with me, note the lack of clothes, I should probably either find that person, or get the heck out of here.
I stumble toward the door. Another object catches my eyes. It's a long mirror. It appears to have a latch on the side. Like a door.
I brush my fingers against my leg to try and dislodge the goo as best as I can. It proves to be much worse that I thought. The goo is drying and starting to get hard.
The mirror opens with a creak. A wardrobe is behind it. Full of long dresses in muted tones that match the landscape of an autumn forest. The material is heavily woven, made for durability. And some of the pieces have very fine stitching. I notice a strange looking belt hanging from one of the pegs. It's elegant with some sort of fine gems attached to it, enough to pin a person down to earth.
I relatch the door before beginning to hobble toward door. It is indeed, a hobble now. For my skin is held in a crusted shell. It feels like my skin is being pulled away from my muscle. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.
I cup my hands around my breasts for some semblance of modesty in the darkness and continue on my way. The crunch and crinkle of my movements against the dried glue the only sound in the darkness.
By the time I reach the door, the back of my neck prickles. The feeling that comes with being watched.
I spin and collide with a solid wall. How did that get there?
It takes me a moment to realize that wall is actually a man. Towering over me.
My jaw drops, making a popping noise as the glue cracks.
"What are you doing?" The man's voice is curious, amused. His eyes fall south of mine.
I lurch toward him to attack, my goo ridden skin making all sorts of noise as I shift under it. Some breaks off in bits and falls to the ground, others suck at my skin and tear off hair. I register the surprise in his eyes before we connect.
The impact catches him off guard and he stumbles backward. My fingers jam into his hair as I grab and get ready to snap his neck if he does anything against my will. My legs now wrap around his arms, pinning them to his sides. My face, inches above his as I tip his head back to look at me. A lesser man would've fallen, but he somehow caught his balance, and he now stands with me attached to him. Literally.
My breathing is heavy from the sudden onslaught of adrenaline. I can't believe I caught him so easily. Usually my face tells of my plans before I act on them. I must be getting even better at my attacks.
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
His eyes. They're his eyes. The man I'm bonded to. A glacial calculation held within.
"Shouldn't I be asking the questions?" He lifts an eyebrow. It's annoying and I tighten my grip in his hair, pulling a few strands from the scalp.
He tries to lift his hands as if in surrender, but I don't loosen my grip, only clamp down harder. My muscles are cramping from the sudden effort, but I tell them to shut up and obey.
"Why?"
"Because this is my hideout. And you're the one who's in my care."
"Yeah because you knocked me out, then stole my clothes. How do you think I feel waking up with nothing on, and a mouth as dry as a desert?"
He tries for a shrug. "Must've been pretty bad from the looks of it."
I register that he's smirking. Looking at me like I'm some sort of wild animal he intends to kill slowly. That's not going to happen.
I move his head back further and to the side. A necklace encircles his neck. The chain falling beneath his shirt that's...heaven forbid...I realize I'm naked, and my bare breasts are pressed up against his ample pectorals, bubbling up like two rounded hills. If he were to look down, he'd come face first with...And my legs, wrapped around him like a rope, my nether regions flush against his abs. My legs tremble. What was I thinking? Stupid. Stupid girl.
He seems to read my mind. Curse my honest face. The realization must be written all over. He takes advantage of my pause, somehow yanking his arms from beneath my legs and grabbing my forearms. I have no doubt that he can break my hold. After all, he just broke my leg hold. But now he's the one hesitating, as if he knows that by pulling me off, he will be exposed to my full nakedness. But why should that affect him, if he's the one caring for me.
"Why am I naked?" The question pops out before I can reel it back in.
He tries to tip his head to the side, but my hands hold fast. So he squints like I'm a puzzle he can't solve. "Because you were filthy, and your clothes were covered in blood and sweat. Took me two days trying to clean them before I gave up and threw them into the fire. My sister, Annaleigh, rummaged up some clothes for you. They're in the wardrobe. You could've put them on, but I see you've dirtied yourself again." He pauses, considering. "Is this some sort of habit of yours?"
A growl grows in my throat. Two days? I've already lost two days. I have no idea where I am or how I can get back to my friends. I begin to chalk up a list in my head of questions that need answering, pronto. 
Now what? Should I unleash him? Tell him to close his eyes while I'm doing it? Yeah right...that's not at all cowardly. But if he hasn't hurt me yet, that means he won't hurt me, right? I shake my head, trying to come up with the right solution to my predicament.
I look down at his face, considering him. Does he look malicious? Should I fear him? Of course I should, he's knocked me out and taken me captive. I have no idea where I am. Who he is. Anything.
His fingers tighten on my arms and I stiffen. "Are we going to stay like this all day? Because if we are, I'd like to know now."
My cheeks warm. I know I'm blushing but I doubt he can see it under the brown mess.
"Not all day, but I'm not going to release you just yet."
A smile forms on his lips but doesn't quite open over his teeth. "You, release me?"
"I choose not to be offended by that statement." Even though in the back of my mind I know he's in charge. That at any moment he could tire of me clinging to him and break my hold. I'm grateful he's being merciful in his own way, letting me cover myself, even if it is with him.
He takes a few steps over to one of the chairs by the table and pulls it out before sitting. The position puts me in an even more precarious situation, since I am sitting on his lap now, naked.
He seems to sense the frustration fighting for release in my eyes, because he lets out a breath like a huff. "Ready to move yet?"
"Not quite." I grit my teeth. "Why am I here?"
"Because we're bonded."
"Bonded. What does that even mean?" I lessen my grip on his hair so he can look at me.
"It means, you stupid little fool, that you drank my blood and became connected to me."
"I did not drink your blood!"
"Drank. Gagged. Same thing. It doesn't matter what you call it. It only matters what you did. And you did, swallow. So now we are together."
"How can swallowing," I make sure to emphasize the swallowing part to show him my skepticism, "your blood make us connected? I've swallowed plenty of blood in my lifetime and never had this happen. What's different about you?"
"I'm not human. Despite what you think or see. And neither are you."
My brain rears back like he's slapped me. "Not human? Yeah right. I'm the most human you can find, right down to the core. Emotions, flesh, blood. All of it."
He nods. "Right."
"So what, am I some type of vampire?" I scoff at the impossibility. This man is off his rocker. "Or, oooo...let me guess...a werewolf. Rarrrr..."
He sneers at me. "You're not some unrealistic being that's never existed, nor ever will exist. Humans make up some dumb, senseless tales to frighten themselves. You've been an unlucky recipient of their stories."
"Uh huh. And so what does that make me?"
"Something you've never heard of, nor will you, from me. If you want to find out, you'll have to discover it on your own. It's not something you can be told. It's something you become through learning our ways."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah. Right. And that doesn't sound crazy at all now does it?"
"And this is why I promised myself I would never be bonded to anyone. Not in a million years. And somehow I get stuck with someone like you. Someone who will jump first and think second. You, with no imagination. Nor any sense."
My blood boils. My veins steaming from the inside out, making my body hot like lava. How can he claim to know me when we've just met? And if this is really the way he feels about me, then how could he accept a bond with me? Didn't he yell at me for stealing his blood from him? It's not like I want this. If I would've known smashing his nose was going to bring such a terrible fate, then I would've saved us both the trouble and let him kill me.
The man's complexion pales before he sucks in a breath. I smell the burning flesh before I see it. Red blisters pop and blood oozes down his shirt from where my skin connects with his. I'm burning. My skin, red. The sticky substance sizzling on my overheated skin.
I yank my body back, trying to get away from him, but my fingers somehow get caught in his hair and sizzle the ends.
I gasp, thinking of ice. Cold, cold ice. My skin freezes over. I can't move. Can't breathe. I'm freaking out, but there's nothing I can do. My body is literally frozen. Stuck in place. Attached to this monster beneath me.
"Alright! Calm this madness!" His voice pierces my shock. His hands run up and down my arms, my back, soothing. "You need to calm down. Take a deep breath. Think of something good. A happy memory. Anything."
I clamp my eyes closed and concentrate. My mind struggles to find a path through the iceblock that's lodged in my coherent thoughts. Happy memory. Something good.
Lila and me playing outside under the wide open sky. Not a cloud in sight. Only blue. Endless blue. The air, so calm and crisp in springtime. The newborn grass under my feet, painting the hillside green. A tiny tulips popping up, readying to open their faces to the sunshine. It's peaceful. There's no war. There's no pain. No loss. Just the two of us. Stuck in that moment. Content. Happy to be alive.
I hold onto the memory like a lifeline. It warms my skin again. Tingles run down my arms, all the way to my feet. I feel hot after being frozen. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it's just the adjustment from the severe cold.
"Good. Now, open your eyes."
I do as he administers. His blisters are gone. There's nothing but smooth skin peaking out from his holey, roasted clothes. How he heals himself is a mystery. One I would like to know.
He runs his hands over my face. My hair. Until suddenly his hands are stuck in the knot at the ends where the brown stickiness has captured him. He stares at his hand, then brings it closer to his face as if to sniff.
"What is this stuff?" He takes a deep breath. "Oh..."
I become aware of the heat radiating through his shirt. The way it warms my own body. How it makes me sort of breathless now that we're not fighting. And I realize I've pulled back, exposing my nakedness to him. He doesn't seem to notice or care, but I quickly cover myself as best I can.
There's a subtle dip in the middle of his top lip. And his full bottom lip is parted from the top from the last word he spoke. I'm mesmerized. I can't stop staring. It's like an invisible string is pulling me forward, urging me to take just one taste. What would he feel like? Like all the other boys I've kissed? Or something more? Like magic? Because I feel like there's some sort of magic going on here.
"What are you doing?" A female voice shakes me free from the trance. "Why are you out of bed already? You should be resting."
My gaze darts to the door where a tall woman with a braid over her shoulder is standing with her arms crossed.
Another man enters the room, leaning over the woman with an arm on the door frame. "Well darling, just take a look. It's not that hard to see. They've accepted the bond. Now she really can be everything, as he."
The woman shoots him a quizzical look before returning her gaze to us. "Huh. Doesn't look like that to me."
I don't know whether to move or stay. To correct his wrong assumption or not.
"Oh come on. You remember the way we were when we first bonded. Couldn't get enough of each other when we were left in a room alone. She's healed. Strong. Look at her. She's got him pinned, not the other way around."
"Then why is the bucket of mastic sap all over her and not him? And why is he still dressed? Well, kinda. What are those holes doing in his clothes? Do I even want to know?"
Don't these people have any revulsion to nudity? She says it as if it's just the time of day.
The man seems stumped at this revelation. He shrugs and pouts out his lower lip.
"Helam, explain." The woman is now staring at the man whose lap I am in.
I turn to question him. I want to know what just happened as much as she does. If not more. I became a beakon of fire. Then a block of ice. That can't be normal. Can it?
He's staring at me. At my eyes. Searching. Filled with their own questions. Instead of icy pools of death, they're warm summer skies. Cloudless. As if he can see me through eternity with their depths.
Again, I feel that pull. That yearning. It's deeper this time. Somewhere within my soul, not just my heart.
The room feels like it's holding its breath. So still that time doesn't dare move. Neither do I.
His hand slides up the back of my head. My hair goes with it, lifting and tangling into a bigger mess. He tips my head forward, angling it toward him. I'm so caught up in the moment, in his eyes that I barely feel his lips as they cover mine in a gentle caress. He stills for a moment, letting our skin warm against the embrace. My lips move to fit into the groove of his, the touch sending a ripple of energy through my skin, my muscles, the sinew that holds me together. Then he's pulling away, with a protest not only from my body, but also from the glue that wants to seal our lips together forever. His eyes hold mine. Still questioning. Beckoning.
"See, told you it's over. A sealed deal. They're off for eternity now." The man's voice is jovial.
"Ugh. That was a fast change for mister, 'I want to be alone for eternity.' You two can find us later." The woman sounds exasperated as she slams the door shut.
We're alone again. And the full awareness of our situation hits me again.
"Helam." I say his name, letting the word sink in.
"Jentry." He replies.
"How did you know my name?"
"Your friend. What was her name?" He pauses to remember. "Oh yeah, Remy. She shouted it as I knocked you out."
"Right before you stole me away to this hell hole?"
He smiles. The motion opens his lips over straight teeth. And his cheeks have deep parentheses plated in them. I stare, dumbfounded. Maybe I really am unimaginative, because I have never seen anyone so handsome in my life. I suddenly feel a strange urge to laugh. Or cry. Because what are the chances that I get caught up in this mess, and it is a mess, a huge one, where I can burn or freeze, and I can be bonded to someone like this? Whatever he is.
"Yes. Right before."
"Are you going to tell me where we are? Or maybe explain any of this?" I try to motion toward my body without releasing too much.
"With time."
And with that, he simply vanishes, leaving me straddling the chair, with the goo all over me, feeling hopeless and helpless. Completely incapable of navigating my life anymore.
The door opens again. This time the woman holds a towel and some soaps. "How about we get you washed up before supper?"

Write about running away from someone or something

"Boarding flight 298, section one," the announcer's voice is a piercing blade to my heart. It makes me realize that this is not a dream. That I really am at the airport, standing next to my son.
I've dreamed about this moment many times. It usually comes across as a nightmare. Something I didn't look forward to, but knew was coming. It's not that I want him to stay home and never leave the nest, because I know he's an adult, but instead of seeing the eighteen year old young man I have raised, I still see the four year old who ran to me for kisses on his boo boos. The six year old who asked me for help with reading his papers and tying his shoes. The ten year old who secretly came to me for reassurance when he'd had a bad dream. The twelve year old with braces who cried behind the bedroom door because someone had bullied him at school. But those years are gone, replaced by my tall, strong, and handsome son, who now looks down at me instead of up. 
His voice is confident as he speaks with the attendant who runs the ticket counter. She blushes as he smiles.
I look away and ask myself the same questions that have been running through my head for the last couple days.
Did I pack him an extra pair of socks? Does he have enough white shirts? Will he be okay without me? Have I prepared him to live on his own? How will he survive the heat? Humidity? Learning a different language? Will he have good companionships? Enough food to eat?
"Have a great flight." The attendant's voice pulls me back to the present.
The luggage is gone, taken away by the moving track that circles around to grab more. I stare at it, wondering how many people have stood in my shoes and wondered where the time has gone.
It can't be time. I refuse to accept the fact that in a few steps, the last minutes of my borrowed time will be over. That I'll have to say goodbye.
"It's okay to cry." My son's face comes into view. We've made it to the end of the security line. "I'd be insulted if you didn't."
"Because if I cry, you know I love you?" I ask as I stare up at him. His brown hair is parted, compatible with the dark grey suit he is wearing. All grown up. And he looks the part.
It's time to let go. But why am I finding it so hard? I've raised him for this. Prepared him to be on his own from the time he could walk. Taught him as many life lessons as possible from the safety of our home. It's time for him to spread his wings and fly. He's no longer mine to guide.
He answers with a hug. "I love you, mom. I promise to write." He pauses and I wonder if he's collecting himself, holding back his own emotions. "It's only two years."
When he pulls back, tears hang on his lashes. "Two years." I echo.
I wish I had some amazing words of advice. Something strong enough to get him through the rough patches of his mission. But all I have are emotions. So strong they threaten to overthrow all rational and fall to my knees and beg him to stay. But I can't do that. That would be selfish. Insulting to him and his choices. I must support him. Support him in this decision. It's what I've been preparing him for for the last eighteen years. An opportunity to serve the Lord's children through humble service, and declaring the glad tidings that the fullness of the gospel has been restored to the earth, and that all mankind may be saved through the atonement of Jesus Christ.
He takes a step away. My heart go with him. I memorize his face. His features. I know he will change by the time I see him again, so I want to remember every detail in this moment.
The line carries him away. Soon, he stands at the edge of the elevator, a hand in the air. A final farewell. I mirror his gesture before I bring my hands to my lips and send him one last goodbye.
As he disappears around a corner. My heart crumbles. I can't hold in the emotions any longer. My strength is spent. My heart is gutted out. No longer inside my own chest. I turn and run away. Away from the pain. Away from the prying eyes. Away from reality.

What if your mirror started talking to you

I look forward to the mornings. To see you first out of bed, hair a mess, and dark circles under your eyes. As the natural person you are. Maybe it's because I get to see the real you all day. The way you laugh. The way you love. The way you serve. I get to see what you don't see in yourself. And no matter what is on the outside, it's the inner beauty that impresses me. The inner beauty that I admire.
I see you over there. Washing clothes. Washing kiddos in the bathtub. Wiping floors. Cleaning the room like you're going to take your next meal on the toilet. Don't think you have me fooled. I see you wash your hands before you touch your baby. Before you take a meal. It's commendable, really. And your dry, cracked hands are evidence of your dedication to cleanliness.
I see you smile at your husband. The sparkle in your eye unlike any other. Your love shining through. I see you laugh at a joke he's made. Run your fingers through his hair. Give him a kiss on the cheek. Embrace him when he needs reassurance. Or stare into the mirror as he tells you he's been laid off, searching me as I search you, wishing I could give you the answers you seek.
I see you lock the door and cry when you've lost someone you love. Or found out about a friend in need. I see your mascara make tracks down your cheeks. The display of pain, so real that I wish I had arms to wrap around you. I am always there. Yet you never see me.
I see you chasing your four year old through the house, trying to convince him to take a bath, turning it into a game. Wrapping him in a towel at the end, and carrying him to bed. I see you brush his teeth, his hair, washing his fingers and toes and face. How many times have you counted those toes and sang him funny songs? Or made him laugh with your funny faces? I watch and listen. Always waiting to see what will come next.
I see you carrying your newborn. Wrapping him in a blanket. Singing him to sleep. His soft coos an affirmation of his love for you. His chubby hands wrap around your hair and pull. Fists full. And tiny little toes that you tickle. Spit up on your shirt, that you try to wipe away.
I sit and I watch. Always still. Always silent. If only I had a voice. A voice to tell you well done. To validate you. To cheers you on. One that says the right words. One that could comfort your broken heart. If only...
I see you at the end of a long day; weary, tired. Some days, you look of accomplishment. Others, defeat. But no matter how the day ends, you're always there the next morning. With a smile. A yawn. And it's that knowledge, that you'll always be there, that keeps me hanging on. Waiting for the day when you'll realize just how special what you do for everyone else really is. Because without you, there would be no them. And life would be empty for all of us.

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.

If you could pack up and leave on vacation today, where would you be off to?

I close the computer screen and lean back on the chair. Digesting my discovery has made me excited. I feel like I need to run. Scream. Go somewhere.  Do something. But what?
The vacation package I just found would be nice. If I could pack up and escape today...would I go?
My left hand finds my enlarged belly of it's own accord. Oh yeah, that's right, there's that. And that limits my options. I mean, would I even be able to fit into any clothes right for the weather? Or would I be able to wear a swimsuit? Would I want to? Would it ruin the fun of the vacation if I couldn't?
My soul years to be free. Go somewhere warm. Sunny. Where I can relax. Enjoy alone time. But also be surrounded by people. Where is that magical place where I can forget about all my worries? And how can I get there? Is it safe to fly with only a few weeks left in pregnancy? Would my husband be up for going with me? Would my son? Would I? Is this all just a "grass is greener somewhere else" thing? Or do I really need to get away before I'm tied down to this house for the next year?
I open the computer screen. Glance at the flight prices and make a decision. If I am sacrificing everything in my life to raise another child, then being a little selfish right now, and taking my family on vacation is worth it. We deserve that. I deserve that.
I click on the vacation details and start going through the selection process. When I'm done, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. We leave tomorrow. At noon. What will I tell my hubby? Will he be excited? Or upset? Will he be okay with taking am unexpected week off work? Sure hope this all works out. Too late to change my mind now.
The hours before Ted gets home turn from hours into snails. I wish I could speed up the time.
When he finally steps through the door, I throw my arms around him and welcome him home. He's instantly suspicious. His face wrinkled in concern. 
I guide him over to the computer without a word and show him what I've done.
We're going to visit some of our favorite friends in Hawaii!

Describe your memories of a piece of furniture from your childhood home

The wooden children's chair is set on top of a massive cardboard box. It's supposed to be hidden. Out of reach from my little hands. That fact alone makes me want to see it more than any other treasure hidden in the basement. How it got on top of the box, in the open, is beyond me. I must take advantage of this opportunity. Who knows when it will present itself again?
I find a smaller box and push it up against the big one. It's sturdy enough to hold my weight as I climb, my body now surging with excitement that I might get to see the chair up close.
The box holds and before I know it, the chair is sitting within my grasp. 
The polished wood is carved in an ornate style that I can't identify. It's old. I know that. And the wood is worn, chipped in some places. The back support looks brittle, like it could disintegrate under my touch. I want to run my hands across the surface. To feel what my ancestor's hands felt. To experience what they've experienced. But in the back of my head, I hear my mom's voice, telling me to never touch it, because it could break. And I don't want it to break. Not only because it would make my mom upset, and I don't like to upset her, but because I don't want to ruin something so priceless.
The chair crossed the plains with my ancestors. With how old it looks, it might've even crossed the ocean. It is one of the only things my mom was given from her family that has been in her family for generations. And it calls to me. Why do relics bring such mystery and charm? What is it about them that beckons? Is it the stories they could tell? Or because they are one of a kind? Or is it because they hold value, more than any riches could buy?
I hear footsteps coming down the front stairs and shuffle away from the chair. My admiration time is up. I need to hide, or get back upstairs without being caught snooping through my parents' old stuff.
I make it around to the back stairs and out of sight just in time. My mom is calling for me. I act like I don't hear and climb the stairs as quietly as possible.
That was fun. Thrilling. I hope she doesn't notice the chair out in the open. Or the box I moved.
My mind hums with happiness. When will I get to do that again?

Complete this thought: "Today I Hope..."

The clock on the wall reads 10:37 pm.
I lay there, staring at the red letters, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I've been looking at those numbers count up for the last hour. Why can't I sleep? My body is beyond exhausted. Growing a baby, keeping up with a three year old, and staying up with the chores has kept me busier than my last full time job. But my mind is going a thousand miles and hour. Did I do a good job at teaching Hesston something new today? Did I let him help me clean up enough? Did I let him finish his projects? Did I feed him healthy enough? Did I let him play outside for too long? Did I fulfill my duties as a wife and mother? Did I show Ted how much I love and appreciate him? Did I give him enough love? Do I show him enough support? Does he know how much I need and love him?
The questions are endless. They go in a circle, over and over. Then the scary ones come in. Like, what would I do if someone broke into the house? How would I escape? How would I keep Hesston quiet? How would I defend my family? These types of questions make me grumpy, because these are questions I shouldn't have to answer. Why can't there just be good people everywhere? Then I wouldn't have to worry about things like this and have a plan to defend my family.
The clock now reads 10:49 pm.
I've just wasted another twelve minutes of sleep. I tuck my pillow under the left side of my enlarged belly and try to find some semblence of comfort. I give up after a few tries, realizing comfort is overrated.
Burning acid rises up from my stomach into my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it keeps coming up. I keep thinking this baby must have some awesome hair growth, either that or the old wise tell is just something to keep the mind off the pain. My mom says it's my diet. Maybe I really am eating too much. Or not healthy enough. I did eat some of Hesston's Easter candy today. But how could I say no when he gave me a puppy dog look and was sharing so well?
A little grunt sounds from the other bedroom. Then a rustle of sheets.
"Daddy Lion?" A pause. "Momma?" Hesston's sleepy voice is followed by the sound of his feet hitting the floor. Then rapid footsteps as he flings his door open. "Daddy Lion? Momma?" His summoning has woken up Ted, who rolls over and lifts his tired body out of bed. I can hear his body groaning as he stands up and gently directs Hesston back to his room.
A feel a lump of guilt in my chest. Shouldn't I be the one going and putting him back to bed? After all, I don't have to go to work tomorrow. But I guess in a way I do, even if it is stay home and keep things together on the home front. A little relief eases the guilt. But then I feel bad about having relief that Ted comforted Hesston instead of me. What is wrong with me?
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Should I wait up until Ted comes back to bed? Should I show him support by staying awake until he can get back to sleep? Or should I just try to get some sleep while I can? Ha ha...if I can.
I try to round up my crazy thoughts. Taking each and every one of them and putting them in an imaginary file folder that I will lock up tonight, and reopen in the morning. It takes another ten minutes to sort through all the thoughts and file them away. But soon, my mind is clear, and the file folder is stowed in the back of my mind. The thoughts threaten to escape, but I keep the lock firmly closed. Instead, I decide to think of one thing. Something that will keep my mind off everything else. A heart comes to mind. Love. I will focus on love. Today I hope that I showed my boys how much I love them.

If you could go back in time exactly 10 years and give yourself some advice, what would you tell yourself?

The truck door slams as I pull it closed behind me. The lifted, white Ford diesel pickup was harder to get into than I thought, especially with my tight jeans. I wonder if I ripped a hole in them from the climb. I quickly check while my date rushes around to the driver's side. Nothing like making a first impression with a huge hole. Thankfully, the seams are still stitched together. Barely. Guess my social life isn't the only thing hanging by a thread.
Finding something suitable to wear was hard. I have to look just right, and it's been a while since I actually cared how I look. Dressed to impress, but not overly so. Not casual, but casual enough to be able to be prepared for anything the date could include. It's like a dance, trying to guess the move of your partner before you know what it will be.
Tonight is another one of those for me, another first date. Even though I'm only twenty years old, I've had so many first dates, I've lost track. I really wish they were over. I am ready to be done dating. My soul is ready to settle down with someone I love and who loves me in return.
A surge of anticipation and adrenaline races through my system. What if he doesn't like me? What if I do something stupid? Do something wrong? How many more of these dates can I take? I shove down my worries and paste on a smile. 
My date, Steve, jumps into the cab. He makes it look effortless. Must be because he's got about ten inches of extra height than me.
As he shifts the truck into drive, I take a moment to check him out, because come on, let's be honest, physical attraction is a big part of dating.
He's cute, in a non-assuming type of way. Athletic build. Broad shoulders. A total cowboy, complete with Wranglers and a plaid shirt.
I've dated a cowboy before. I didn't think I would do it again, especially since a true cowboy only has one thing on his mind: When's the next rodeo. Guess I will have to find out if he's a cowboy or farm boy. The two can sometimes be hard to discern from each other at first, but there is a huge difference.
His side profile is like a portrait. I want to paint it, capture how perfect it is, even though I'm not an artist. A pang of insecurity pops in my belly. My side profile is something I don't like about myself. I concentrate on keeping my gaze toward him.
He turns to look at me as he asks me where I want to go for dinner.
I can't help but add his gentlemanly manners to his good qualities. The fact that he opened the truck door for me, and how he's asking me where I'd like to eat instead of just deciding for me. I like a man who has respect and consideration for those he's around.
I ask him what he feels like, hoping that he will give me some sort of hint. I hate making the date decisions all on my own. If I am to end up in a relationship with this guy, I want it to be a joint thing, not one sided, where he or I make all the decisions. Been there. Done that. Not going back.
He takes a few moments to think before he suggests a great pizza place in town. I love the idea, and quickly agree. 
As we get into the restaurant and take our seats, I make sure to sit up straight.
My whole list of things to make sure I do on a date pops into my mind. A checklist, if you will. My date doesn't have to be perfect, but I do.
Sit up straight until conversation begins. Then lean in and engage not only with words, but with eyes, facial and body expressions. After all, body language makes up for a lot more than words.
Listen. Don't dominate the conversation. If anything, ask most the questions and then pay attention. The details are key. And stories. You can learn a lot about a person with the stories they tell.
Be polite. Thank them for their good manners. Everyone can use a little appreciation now and then, especially if they deserve it.
The list goes on and on. I won't bore you by continuing. But it's perfection. Truly. I've gotten it down to a science. Most of my first dates turn into planning second dates before the night is over. It's not something I'm cocky about, it's just that I've been here so many times, I've got it down.
As I sink into my pillows later that night, I review my evening. My heart gives a little leap in my chest, because to be honest, I had a really good night. Not only did the conversation go well, I feel a great connection with Steve. And connection is everything. If you can't connect, then how are you supposed to form a relationship?
I run my fingers over the top of my comforter, wondering how my life will go. Will I be looking back in ten years, thinking my problems were small and insignificant? Will I be regretting my choices? Will I make the right ones? Marriage is such a huge part of my future. And I want my future to be filled with happiness and success. So the decision of whom I will marry is kind of a big deal. In order to find my Mr. Right, I need to be Mrs. Right. I hope that day comes sooner than later.
************
Ten years later...
Life has turned out much better than expected. Not thanks to me, but to God and how He guided and directed my life. Not only did my Mr. Right find me, he is more than I could've ever imagined. The funny thing is, once I stopped looking for him, he found me. That's my first piece of advice. Stop looking for Mr. Right. You will find each other when the time is right. And no, my Mr. Right is not my date in this story. But Steve was a very nice young man who I am sure has made some special lady very happy in life.
Another thing I wish I could go back and tell myself is: to be myself. I tried so hard to be perfect and make everyone else happy. By trying so hard to please others, I lost myself in the mix. Forgot who I was. It wasn't until I began to just be myself that I found out who I was and what I wanted out of life, and in someone else (to love me for me, not the perfect person I was trying to be).
Lastly, I would say to hold your head high. This was an extremely rough time for me. I had just gotten out of an abusive engagement and I was trying to figure out what a healthy relationship was again. I had low self esteem, and thought that if I wasn't perfect in every way, then I wasn't worth even considering as a human being. But I realize now that no matter how beaten down you are, that you're still important. Still loved. Still have a purpose in life. Don't give up. Hold on. Life does get better.

Think about a time you were recently in public. Describe what you were doing from the point of view of a stranger observing you.

The door chime alerts me that someone has entered the bakery. I dust the flour off my hands and walk to the counter.
A little boy's voice fills the air. He's talking so fast I can barely understand him. He stands at the display shelf, staring at our selection of doughnuts. He's clearly excited about the prospect of having one by the high tone of his voice.
Pulling on the suffocating disposable gloves I'm required to wear before I handle food takes me a moment to collect myself before I greet the customers.
"How many would you like today?" I ask the lady, I presume is the little boy's mom, standing next to him.
She looks a little flustered, but wears a smile. Her eyes dart around the store, then land on the doughnuts her son is pointing at.
"Umm...we've never been here before." Not exactly the answer I was looking for. "But, umm, can we get a chocolate one?"
I glance down at the little boy. He's pointing at the chocolate glazed doughnuts. I grab one and place it on a tray.
"Anything else?" I scrutinize the mom as she looks over the rest of the doughnuts.
Her hair is in a messy pony tail, that she somehow pulls off with a trendy shirt and sweater. Her skinny jeans are tucked into cowgirl boots. She must be from out of town. Not many people wear boots like that around here. As my eyes scan back up to her face, I notice she's hiding a baby bump under her flowy shirt. I wonder how many weeks along she is. Is that what drove her into our doughnut store around lunchtime? A pregnancy craving?
My stomach twists at the thought of being pregnant. Even though I'm in college, working to pay my way, and getting good grades, having a baby would crush all my future plans. As soon as I'm done with this small town, I'm headed to the city to get a real job. Of course, making doughnuts all day isn't exactly rocket science, and the owners are more than fair with wages and hours, I do aspire to do more with my life. Being a mom can come later. Much later.
I look the woman over again. I wonder how old she is. If she planned her life to turn out the way it has. Did she always dream of being a mom? I can tell by the way she talks to her son that she loves him. Her soft replies to his demanding questions are better than I can say of most moms, mine included. Did she learn to be kind from her mom? If so, I have no chance at being a good mom. Better leave that one to someone else.
"I'll just get a chocolate one too." She interrupts my thoughts. It takes me a moment to remember that she's talking about the doughnuts.
I place the second doughnut next to the first and take it over to the register. Best get this order finished before I botch it.
The little boy is standing at the counter, his blue eyes full of anticipation. You can practically feel it rolling off him. His blond hair is gelled in a hip style, and his clothes are a cool enough to make most grown men jealous. Clearly his mom has taste.
He must take after his dad, because his mom has brown hair, and a tan complexion. But their blues eyes do match. That must be what she passed on to him, a genetic trait that connects them as each other's.
The mom grabs a chocolate milk from the fridge and sets it on the counter. Her cell phone and wallet follow. I assume she is ready to pay.
"Will that be it?"
"Yes, thank you." 
I put the order into the register, trying not to pay too much attention to the huge diamond ring on her finger. She must be married, to a generous man. The way her eyes sparkle and constant smile lights up her face, she must be happy in her marriage too. That kind of happiness you can't fake.
I wonder if I will end up as lucky as this woman, with an adorable boy to show for it. Is that what I want?
I think back over my life. Being raised by a single mom, barely able to make ends meet, let alone go out for over priced doughnuts during the middle of the day, I never imagined myself getting tied down to someone for the rest of my life. Couldn't imagine myself making that commitment. But maybe, just maybe it is worth it.
I wish I could ask her about her life. Ask her about what makes her so happy. Is it her son? Is it her husband? What makes the light in her eyes fill the store with warmth? She has the answers. I know she does. If only I could ask.

If this week had a theme to it, what would yours be?

Back in the Game
The last five months have been filled with sickness, whether from pregnancy or seasonal illness. I've been home bound, locked away in my little refuge. But this week, I've broken free. We've had more activities, and people to share them with. I feel refreshed. Energized. Like I'm finally physically back in the game of life. It's been too long. My soul yearns for the social engagement, even if my body is still fragile. My spirit is ready to be freed.

Where do you like to do your journaling? At a desk, in your bed, at the coffee shop?

I twirl the pen between my fingers. It's been too long since I've last written. I need to update my life.
The last journal entry reads like a bullet point list. I've been doing that lately, falling into the habit of just listing major events. But what I really need to write about are specific experiences, or cool things we've been doing, or maybe even neat little Hesston stories.
I read the last line of the entry and turn to the next page. The blankness stares back at me. Where to begin?
I lie back on my pillows and pull the covers up to my neck. Closing my eyes, I run through the last couple months of my life. So much has happened. How do I record it all? Gah...I need to do this more often.
My comfy bed calls for sleep. But I have a mission to do. If I don't take advantage of the quiet time now, I'll never get to it.
The clock ticks off another minute. I have about an hour before Hesston will wake up.
Taking the pen to the paper, I begin to spill my life onto the page.

Write about a memorable experience you have had staying at a hotel

It's our first night together. First day as husband and wife. First night as a couple.
A strange feeling grips my stomach. It's full of anticipation. Expectation. Fear of the unknown. And fear of being completely clueless when it comes to fulfilling the duties of a wife. Don't get me wrong, I've been looking forward to this moment for months. After all the planning, waiting, and keeping our clothes on, it's a little scary the time has finally come to reveal myself to another person in that way.
It's been one thing to open my heart, my mind, my hopes, my dreams, my emotions, and my trust to this man. Especially since he's proven himself more than worthy of all of them. But there's something about giving yourself over physically to another person. And not just out of lust or selfish desire. Out of love and mutual respect. The bringing together of two souls. To unite in love will be different than anything I've ever experienced. 
The elevator ride feels a little awkward after all the formal festivities of the day. Being surrounded by people didn't give us any alone time. Now it's just the two of us. The reality of the situation is hitting me. I'm married. Joined. Never to be parted again. This is how it will be from now on. Me and him against the world. United. Forever.
The thought gives me a thrill. I've always wanted, no, needed someone to have my back. I've had it periodically with different friends, but never in this concrete form. And never with someone so worthy of my loyalty in return.
I glance over at him, the thought of us sharing everything with each other bringing a smile to my face. I've wanted that since I realized he was the one for me.
His blue eyes are kind, gentle, calm. His shoulders relaxed. He's leaned back against the elevator's shinny crome interior, a small smile pulling his lips up at the sides. I realize just how big he is in that moment. He's like a lion, with his curly mane and broad shoulders. It's one of the many things I love about him. I feel so safe wrapped in those arms. Even though he's a giant, he's gentle. My gentle giant.
I wonder how I must look to him. Small. Scared. Maybe even a little nauseous. Is he feeling the same as me? His exterior gives nothing away.
As we arrive at the floor we're staying on, the doors slide open. I take a deep breath, tensing to enter the hallway. But my husband stops me before I can take a step, with a hand on my shoulder. He tips my head up so I look him in the eye, a finger caressing my cheek.
"Whatever happens tonight is up to you. We can take it as slow as you'd like."
His words comfort me. Remind me who I married. He's not a predator. He's my protector. I love him. I trust him. And I will give everything to him.
I lift my lips to his, standing on my toes to reach. This is the first of countless kisses. Just as this is the first of endless nights we will share by each other's side.
I  drop back down to my heels, ready to capture another first.

Write about the most recent gift you gave someone

I stand outside our son's bedroom and listen to the soft sound of my husband's voice as he sings our son to sleep. It is dulled by the closed door. But the lullaby is the sweetest sound I've heard all day. I can't help but share in this special moment.
A soft murmur of love comes from our son. He loves his daddy just as much as I do.
As the song comes to a close, I pull my ear away from the door.
My day has been filled with requests. I feel like a slave. A slave to a three year old. I just want to fall into bed. But the morning always comes too quickly.
There is another person in my life. A person who usually takes a back seat to the frequent requests. Or becomes the new request slave. My husband.
It takes almost a half hour, but the time finally comes when my husband joins me in bed. Even though I feel like I could close my eyes and be asleep in seconds, I know I must cherish this precious relationship. If I don't nourish it with time, what will make it continue to grow?
He must be feeling the same way as I, his eyes half closed and sleepy. I resist the urge to turn off the light and call it a night. Instead, I reach for his hand and cuddle up to his side. His free arm finds it's familiar resting place around my waist. We lay there for a moment, just relearning the planes of each other's faces. I tuck away the color of his eyes, the way his full lips tip up at the corners, the way his chin dimples, and how he has never looked more handsome to me than he does in this moment, even with his cheek pressed against his pillow and his curls a tangled mess. There's nothing sweeter than a kind and loving husband and father, and he is worth all the time in the world. A few less moments of sleep is worth him knowing how much I love him. 

What takes too long?

My head is bent forward, feet shoulder width apart, knees bent, and back folded over at the hips. My hair falls past my face. I can't see anything except the tile floor beneath my feet. My toes are white at the tips, the pressure from most my weight making them ache.
The air from the hair dryer blows my brown strands into a mini tornado. The heat warms my scalp. I rub at it to cool the skin.
"Mom? Mom? Mom? Momma? Mommmmmmmm....?" My son's voice rises above the whirl next to my ear.
"Yes?"
He comes up with a toy and tries to shout something to me.
"I'll play in a minute." I reassure him.
But he's not reassured. He stands by my side, trying to get my attention with more words. When that fails, he resorts to grabbing my hand. The hair dryer turns, giving him a windy blast.
He giggles as the air hits him in the face. The smile that's brightened his face shows he's just realized this could be even more fun than playing with his cars. What have I done? A second later, he pushes into the canopy of my hair. 
"Mine. Mine!" He grabs for the dryer again, but this time with the intent to capture it.
I stand up to give him a blast of warm air, careful not to get too close to burn him. He laughs and tucks his chin to his chest. By the time I switch the dryer off, his cheeks glow a soft pink.
"Ready, play?" He asks, his eyes luring me in with the innocent plea they hold.
I want to say yes, but only have fifteen minutes to straighten my hair, which usually takes at least twenty. On days like this, I curse my thick mane. We can't be late to church. Again.

Describe a time someone cared for you when you were sick

West Nile
I stare at the wall and see nothing. Time has no place here. Not in this agony. It's endless. Torment meant to break the human soul.
There's a knock on the door before my fiance enters. I try for a smile, but it comes out as a grimace.
His hair is a tangled mess of curls on one side, like he ran his hand through it a thousand times. The other side is flat against his head, with a hat line just above his ear. His blue eyes are bloodshot and have dark circles under them. His button down cotton shirt is wrinkled, like he slept in it. One side of the shirt is tucked into his jeans, showing he wears no belt. His socks are mismatched, a toe peeking out from a hole on the left one.
He rushes to my side and takes my hands in his. The warmth of his skin is comforting. I didn't realize how cold I was until he touched me.
"How are you?" His voice is hoarse.
"Better than you." I wish I had the strength to lift my hand and run my fingers through his hair.
He gives me a weak smile. "I just got done talking to your mom. She said your fever has gone up to 104 this afternoon, and they're trying to cool you down with cold, wet socks and wash clothes." He motions toward the one on my forehead before flipping it over to the other side. The cold is shocking. A shiver takes over my body. "You haven't been able to keep anything on your stomach, you've been in bed all day, and you haven't even gotten enough strength to walk to the bathroom on your own."
It's practically the same the report he's given me for the last five days, minus the fever. That varies between 102 and 103. But today is topped 104. My brain is swollen, taking my life with it. 
I can feel it. The pain in my head worsening. My limbs becoming weaker. My muscles disintegrating. There's no strength left in me. I'm dying. And I know it. The fact that I know I'm dying doesn't make it any easier. It only makes me feel worse. Worse that I won't be able to experience the rest of my dreams. Our dreams, I realize as my fiance looks into my face.
"Are you thirsty?" He motions toward the cup full of water on my nightstand.
The thought of taking a drink makes me stomach ache. I close my eyes.
"Do you want me to hold you?"
I open my eyes and give him my answer.
His arms are strong, wrapping me into a cocoon of muscle. His chest is solid as it presses against my back. His life force is palpable.
A shake rumbles up from his chest. At first I think he's laughing, until I hear a sob break through his lips, which rest next to my ear.
"Don't leave me. Not yet." His arms tighten around my waist. "I've finally found you. Please stay."
My eyes burn, but I'm so dehydrated no tears surface. I squeeze his hand with the last of my strength and close my eyes, turning my world into blackness.

Write about a time you or a character said no

The mittens are the perfect size. They fit around my hands like warm bundles. Not only would they keep out the cold and wind, they would save my skin from becoming stiff and cracking. I remove them and hold them tight. They will save me from so much pain. I can't wait to wear them.
I glance down at my son. He has a similar pair on his hands. A big smile lights up his chubby cheeked face as he claps his hands together and relishes the muffled sound.
"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands." Clap clap. 
His voice is as excited as his expression.
I guide him to the check out counter and take out the money I've saved for this purchase. It's taken me all year, but I know it's worth it.
The lady at the counter rings up my son's mittens, then takes mine and does the same.
As she names the price, my heart sinks. It's double what the price was last week.
"Are you sure that's the correct price?"
She checks the pricing and nods. "Yes. They were on sale, but the sale's ended. This is the original price."
"Do you think they will come on sale again?" I struggle to ask, embarrassed by the fact that I can't afford such a small, yet necessary purchase.
She shakes her head. "Not until spring. But by then you won't need them."
Picking up the mittens I've chosen for myself, I give them a final squeeze then return them to their shelf. I must wait another year.
"Mommy, what's wrong? Aren't you getting mittens like mine too?" Concern lines the sides of my son's eyes. He knows how much the mittens mean to me. He's seen me save, sacrifice.
"No. Not today, son. Mommy will have to wait for a little longer."
His brow furrows. "How much longer? I thought we were going to be twins?"
I smile my sadness away and guide him back to the counter. "We will be. Soon."
He doesn't look satisfied with my answer, but lets it drop and goes back to clapping.
I pay the lady and exit the store with my son. The wind is already picking up, biting at my exposed face and hands. I rub my hands together to retain some of the warmth from the store.
I bend down and tuck my son's hat over his ears before pulling his coat up to his chin. "Make sure you keep on those mittens. They will keep your hands nice and warm."
"Thank you, momma." He gives me a quick hug.
I clasp his gloved hand and head in the direction of our cabin. Even though my hands may be cold, my heart is warm.

Imagine your life now as a best selling book. Write the summary for the back cover.

Glimpsing Miracles
Hellen's life is picture perfect, until her husband gets laid off at work. As she goes over their accounts, trying to make ends meet, she realizes something unusual is happening. They still have enough money to cover  their expenses when there haven't been any additional deposits. There's a miracle happening. Unexplained by the human mind.
Want to know how? Then pick up this book and witness the miracles. Sometimes they happen even before you realize they're happening. And through it all, life's greatest miracles can be found in another person. The one who always stands by your side.

Write about something you or a character made by hand

The windowpane is frosted. Ice crystals form an intricate pattern across the glass surface. I press my face against it. The coolness eases the fever that has my body sweating like the summer's sun, with hair sticking to my face, and clothes moist against my skin.
Evening light casts rainbows through the window, making the room feel magical. I close my eyes. If only it were so.
The hardwood floor is warm beneath my feet. I curl my toes in my wool socks and press them to the solid surface. I must keep my feet planted beneath me. I cannot let this agony in my chest rip my world apart.
My pulse beats a steady rhythm against my temples. My body, though limp, feels like I've been lifting fifty pound bags of wheat all day. The aches drown out the chills that run down my spine. I am so hot, yet can't seem to get warm enough.
I open my eyes and snuggle deeper into the patchwork quilt my mother has tucked around me as I rest on the sofa. I'm thankful my father moved the sofa next to the window so I can at least see out of the house. The walls are closing in on me. After a week of solitary confinement, I can understand why people in jail lose their whits.
My fingers curl around the yarn in my lap. Softness encircles them. I press harder. The lumpy pile resembles my sister's hair when she fell into a mud puddle. Long strings of messiness that I had to unravel. Took me hours. And both our patience wore thin by the time the last strand was straightened.
I wonder how long I've been sitting here, staring at nothing. Has it been days? Hours? Seconds? I've lost track.
The crackling of a fire pulls my attention to the kitchen. It must be time to prepare dinner. Who will mother feed tonight? With me sick, brother married and staying at his in-laws for a couple days, and sister getting chaperoned by father to the local youth dance where she's pining over the attention of Gabe Marcam, there aren't many mouths around. I wonder why she's bothering. Surely we could rewarm some bread on the already warm potbelly stove in the bedroom and call it good.
I return my attention to the mess in my hands. The yarn must be rewound into a neat bundle so I can crochet myself a scarf. My old one is splitting at the ends. And the neighbor girls are laughing at me from my apparent state of distress. No better time than now to get started on the project. I've got time on my hands.
A few minutes later, the smell of vegetable soup wafts into the room. It reminds me of cold winter nights, not unlike the one we're experiencing. But I cannot feel the biting cold since I'm burning alive. I turn the mess over in my hands, finding the end and pulling it out. I begin to wrap it around two of my fingers, in hopes of keeping it small and tight.
It's mindless work, and my thoughts wander. How did this yarn become such a mess in the first place? I bought it from the mercantile not two weeks ago. It was the rich, burgundy color that called my name all the way from the front door. I saved my meager compensation from organizing Mr. Parrot's storage cellar the last week and bought the yarn. It was wrapped in a perfect oval, the ends tucked neatly away, ready to be woven into a masterpiece. Yet I found it this way this afternoon, almost beyond repair.
I get to a knot and begin to tug it loose. I will have to be creative in getting it undone without unraveling what I've gotten done. My fingers caress the fibers, coaxing them to obey my demands.
A knock startles me. It's firm. Strong. Demanding attention. It's gotten mine.
My mother rushes out of the kitchen, through the sitting room, and into the foyer to answer the door.
A deep voice resounds through the house. It's not entirely unfamiliar, but also not familiar. I push myself straight, lift my head from the windowpane and try to seem relaxed, even when that's the furthest from the truth.
My mother rushes back into the room, an astonished look on her face. "He's here."
"Who's here?" I struggled to comprehend her statement.
"Gabe Marcam!" She exclaims as he steps into the room.
I deadpan. Isn't he supposed to be at the dance? The dance my sister begged my father to take her to? The one where she was supposed to dance the night away with her one, true love? Although, why she has her heart set on someone so much older than her is beyond me. He's five years older than her, three older than me. And when you're only seventeen, five years makes a big difference.
I've heard the gossip about Gabe, since my sister is obsessed. She collects it, like pearls on a necklace, lining up the latest next the last. But I can't quite seem to understand what all the rave is about. Sure, he's good looking, with a chiseled square jaw and tousled black hair. His eyes are what set him apart, so says my sister. They're blue, like the sky. So clear that the color cannot be matched. But as I look up into his face, I see that his eyes are also kind, and even though the color may be clear, there's a cloud to his features, pulling his lips down at the sides and casting shadows under his cheekbones.
His lips pull up at my mother's gasped introduction, then fall.
"I...uh...um...want...wanted...to um..." He pauses, takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes locked on mine. "Stop by."
"Well, Mary has already gone to the dance with her father. You're too late if you wanted to walk with them to the hall."
A twinkle sparks his eyes, like a star appearing in the midday sky, subtle, yet impossible. The anomaly of it keeps my attention. "I...uh...well...I...um..." His stuttering betrays the surety of his deep voice. "Wanted to see...uh...Lizzy."
The shock of him using my nickname pops my mouth open. I shut it with an audible snap.
A smile softens the planes of his face and he looks boyish, much younger than his twenty two years.
"Well!" My mother exclaims, her voice having risen an octave. "This is a surprise." She casts me a nervous smile, filled with the million questions that are bouncing around in my head. "I'll just be in the kitchen. Would you like a bowl of soup? It's just finishing up. Elizabeth and I were about to eat."
The thought of eating cramps my stomach. It must show on my face, because Gabe grimaces for me. "Um...no thank you...Mrs. Sterling. I...uh...I ate...before I left home."
"Of course you did." My mother nods her reply before leaving the room like a whirlwind.
Now that my mother's gone, Gabe looks even more nervous than I feel. He bounces on his toes a couple times before coming to a rest on his heels. His hands are thrust into his pockets. His shoulders slumped forward. His tall, lean frame beckons to be reassured, but I have no words for him. I've hardly talked to him, let alone asked for his attention all these years we've known each other. It's always been the other girls in town fighting over him. Why would I want to join in when I know there's not even a tiny chance of winning?
I realize my fingers are bound so tight in the yarn that they're cramping. To distract myself, I begin to open my hands finger by finger. They tingle as the circulation restarts.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Marcam?" My voice is strong, much more steady than I feel.
His eyes betray his emotions and for a moment he looks dumbstruck. "What...what do you mean?"
I blink a couple times to clear my head. "You said you came to see me. Well, here I am. You see me. Now what can I do for you?"
"What can you do for me?" He shakes his head, his words finally coming out in a coherent sentence. Of all the things my sister raved about him, she didn't mention stuttering or incoherency as an issue. I guess girls her age don't notice things like that. There are other things to focus on. Like his full lips and the way they form a perfect heart when closed. Or his broad shoulders. Or those long legs that seem to eat up the ground as he crosses the room.
He shocks me by plopping down on the sofa, right next to where my legs rest. My body freezes, my hands gridlocked in the yarn. I feel like I couldn't move, even if I wanted to.
"I came over here tonight to see what I could do for you." His eyes dart back and forth across my face, searching for something. "Your sister mentioned you've been feverish all week. And that you would be put in the grave before the month was out if you didn't start to improve soon."
"And why would this concern you?" My voice is sharp. I rein in my surprise of his worry, soften my voice. "I mean, you're not exactly my friend. Why would you care if I go to an early grave or not?"
He looks like I've slapped him. A deep flush filling the shadows of his cheeks. He ducks his head. His hands are out of his pockets. He fidgets with a ring on his right middle finger, twisting it around and around. "Guess I haven't been much of a friend. But I want to be...a friend..." He clears his throat. "I just don't know how." His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. "It's just that...there's always so many people around...and I never know how...how to approach you...you're so...so...I don't know...unapproachable..."
"Unapproachable?" I scoff. "Wow. You sure know how to make friends."
A laugh escapes, and his shoulders shake with his amusement. "Guess I'm not very good at it...yet...but what I meant to say was...that you're...that you're...intimidating...to me...I guess...I don't know how to explain it...I don't have this issue with anyone else...just...you." His voice falls as he says the last word, like it's all my fault. He takes a deep breath. "I can talk to anyone...even old Mr. Finch, who bites everyone's head off...but with you...with you...it's like...like...my mind freezes up...it's all I can do to put together sentences."
I make him freeze up? What does that even mean? And likening me to a mean man? Not exactly scoring many bonus points right now. I raise an eyebrow, questioning.
"See?" He's lifted his head again, his eyes squinted, searching for something in mine. "You don't even realize what you're doing. But even that...that thing you're doing with your eyebrow...you do it when you're confused...or skeptical...or want someone to get one of your jokes..." He shakes his head. "You don't even realize it, but you captivate me, even with the smallest of gestures. I don't know how to act or what to do around you. But one thing I do know, is that I do want to be around you. That is...if you'll have me...as a friend..."
I stare at him. His words circle my mind. Captivate? Is that what friends do? That's a word that belongs more in a relationship than a friendship. But what do I know about relationships? I've never been in one. Never needed one. Never wanted one. At twenty, I'm an old maid, but I've never needed anyone else to make me happy. Never. Why would I want to risk that kind of dependence when I do perfectly fine on my own?
"Before you make any decisions about us being friends...just think about it...but first...what can I do for you? Is there any medicine or oils or remedies I can help with? Do you need company?" He glances down at my hands. "Do you need help with that? I'm really good with knots."
I follow his gaze and notice I've lost my hold. The mess is even worse than before. "Sure. You can help me rewind this." I smile and almost throw the pile into his lap. "If you can unravel that and wind it into a ball, then I'll consider being your friend."
He looks like he's won all his hopes and dreams. His smile is so bright, it makes me shy away like I do from the sun. "You got it."
A few weeks later, fever gone, I weave the last strands of burgundy yarn into an intricate pattern. It's something I thought I'd never do. Achieve the stitch my mother has tried to teach me since I was beginning to hold needles.
The scarf's color is perfect. It sets off the sky as I hold it above my head. It will be like sunset raging war on the noonday sun as I give it to Gabe. It will start a war with my heart. One that I'm not so sure I will win.
He's been attentive and kind. More than any other friendship of mine. I wonder if he really wants to be friends...or if he wants to be more. There's a flame growing in my heart. One that I'd always put out. But this time, I don't want it to go out. I want it to grow, become an inferno.
I've taken on a new journey. One where I'm not afraid of putting myself out there, trying new, hard, and vulnerable things. Gabe has opened my eyes to the possibilities the world holds. Who knew that someone seeing me for the first time would make me realize I was someone worth seeing? Even at my worst moment of illness.
Just as this scarf has taken shape, so have I. When I wrap it around Gabe's neck, I will open my heart. Allow him to be my friend, or maybe even more. It might just bring more warmth than even the finest woven scarf could.

Periodically, we have tension build up in our lives that requires a release of some kind. Some people cry; others punch; some find a creative outlet. What is your relief?

I grab the keys off the counter and head for the door. There's a million things running through my mind. But I don't have the time or patience to think about any of them right now. I just need to escape. 
The pickup smells of warmed leather, courtesy of the sun beating down on the seats. It starts with a low growl, mirroring my stressful state. I jam it into reverse and shove the pedal to the floor. The diesel responds with a roar. My back tires kick up dirt and rocks, pelting the metal sides. Good thing the truck has a clear protective film. I would've chipped all the paint off by now. Black exhaust surrounds the truck as I slam on the brake then shift into drive. The smell of burned rubber fills the cab as we lurch forward on the pavement. Ah...nothing like burned rubber and diesel exhaust to clear the mind.
The steering wheel is smooth under my palms. I relish the feel of it as I turn onto an open road. I know this road like the back of my palm. It's seen me too many times to count. It provides the long, straight shot of nothingness.
I urge the truck into a steady pace, getting the feel of the divots, the way they move the truck, how to correct the movement from shoving me into the dirt barrow pit. The hum of the tires provide the background noise. That and the whistle of the diesel. I push the truck to pick up pace.  It responds by pressing my back against the seat. The gears shift down to attain the acceleration I crave.
I smile as I think of all the modifications the truck has. It's pushing over five hundred horse power. Even at fifty five miles per hour, it still feels like an airplane taking flight. We're flying. Nothing to stop us, but the end of the road.
Grain fields pass in a green blur. The yellow passing lines a long, single stripe. Black pavement, and the reflection of the sun off the shiny, black hood.
My head is clear. Stress-free. It's only me. The pickup. And the road.
I take a deep breath and relish the freedom. Sailing across the American pavement, with nothing holding me back. 
I've reached over a hundred, and I thirst for more. A slight hill provides a good view of the road in front of me. It's open, begging for me to go faster.
The pickup reaches a hundred and twenty before I ease off. There's a car in the distance, and with me doubling the speed, I will be upon it before I can blink.
The engine gurgles as it reins itself in. It's gasping for air. Just as I am.
The speed limit feels like a restrictive vice against my chest. I pass the car and regain flight. The pickup spreads it's wings. We're going so fast that I don't dare look down at the speedometer.
A stop sign is coming up. My ride is about to end. As I press on the brake and bring the truck to a stop, a sigh escapes my lips. That's more like it.

If you had lived hundreds of years ago, what kind of work do you think you would have done? What job would you have wanted to do?

The bucket sits next to the stool. I stare at it and wonder if my hands can handle another day of the cold weather, cold water, and moisture. The cracks are deep and bleeding. How much blood will get into the milking bucket today? Will my husband and children even notice? Does our cow hate me for my rough, calloused milking? Is that why she kicks at me?
I yank my hair back into a messy bun. The snarls are wound so tight that I can't get a brush through them anymore. I need a long bath. But that's not going to happen with the drought and lack of kindling to heat the water. We barely salvaged enough to heat our single room, wooden home for the winter months. The luxury of a bath must wait until spring. I dream of the day the river will melt the top ice and I can dunk in it's cool waves.
My hand stitched dress scratches against my legs as I straddle the stool and place the bucket under our cow's udder. I tuck the thick fabric close to my body to keep the heat in, and sit. There's a touch of heat radiating off Fanny's side and I lean toward her flank, soaking in the warmth.
Best get started. Time's a wasting, and I still need to get the rest of my chores done before I start on breakfast. I'm going to have to get creative with the eggs. We've had them scrambled the last week.
My husband enters the shelter with a couple buckets full of water as I'm halfway through the milking. He looks gaunt. His cheeks sunken from the lack of food, and his once bulky frame withering under his clothes. His hair is as messy as mine. A black streak of soot covers his right cheek. He must've swiped his hand there while he cleaned the fireplace, then restarted the morning fire.
He places a bucket in front of our cow, Fanny. She drinks in big gulps, her throat constricting with the swallows.
"Are the kids up?" I ask as I coax the milk into the bucket. My hands ache and my husband's presence is a welcome distraction.
"Not yet." He shakes his head. The light from the lantern casts shadows behind him. "But I'm sure they'll be up soon."
He maneuvers around the stacked straw and back into the chicken coop. A few seconds later, the front of his shirt has eggs gathered in it. I lick my lips, ready to ease the biting cramp of hunger that curls my belly.
"Maybe I'll make a fresh batch of bread today for Heber's birthday. I'll shake up some butter in a bottle, just enough for the bread, and use some of our strawberry jam. The kids would love that."
My husband smiles and crosses the room, placing the eggs next to the shelter's door. "I think sleeping in is going to the the highlight of their day. How many times do they get out of helping with morning chores?"
It takes me a moment to count. But the times are less than my fingers and toes. They work just as hard for our survival as we do.
"Did you find anything special for Heber in the village yesterday?" I can't help but wonder what surprise my husband has up his sleeve.
His face deadpans. "Nothing that we could afford with such a lean year. But I did make something I think he might like."
"When did you have time to make something?" The milk bucket is almost full. I ease my milking routine, Fanny's udder sags from the loss of milk. 
He shrugs. "Here and there."
He's being evasive, which means it's going to be something good. I shrug and let the questioning go.
This will be a great day. I refuse to let anything ruin it. Even if we have little money, little food, and barely enough supplies to last us the rest of the season, we still have our lives, our family, our animals, our farm, and a roof over our heads. We are greatly blessed.