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!