Short Story: Flowers

Friday mid-mornings were usually slow at the downtown café. Everyone was at work and the staff took the time to wash the glass windows and doors, sweep the front walkway, and tidy things on the inside. The plants in the café were well looked after. Kate, took the time to regularly water and prune so that they happily thrived amongst the coffee lovers who regularly visited.

The theme was homey. The furniture didn’t match, but it was comfortable. There were padded sitting chairs, and a cushioned bench that ran along the wall with tables accompanying them. The orange begonias sat on a mid-height shelf and overlooked the room, right next to the geraniums. A young couple walked in and sat on the purple sitting chairs with their coffee. “What a sweet couple,” said Begonias, “They must be here on holiday for I don’t believe I’ve seen them before.” “Wow, you remember everyone that comes here, Begonias!” said Geraniums. He was easily impressed.

With a proud chuff, Begonias replied, “Well, I have been told I’ve got a good memory and can tell many things about folks that come through.” A friendly, gruff chuckle came from the ceiling where a fluffy old Boston Fern hung in a basket. “Now, Begonias, whether what you say is true or not is another story,” he said playfully. Begonias huffed her petals a bit and said, “I will have you know, Mr. Fern, that everything I say is absolutely true! My opinions are based on my pure, unfiltered thoughts without any influence or outside alteration!” Hibiscus in the corner said in a calming voice, “Oh Mr. Fern, must you tease her so? She really is one of the most honest blooms to ever grace us with her company.” She was always conscious of everyone else’s emotional status; a sort of mothering peacemaker.

“Heh heh. Now, you know, Miss Hibiscus, I was just ruffling her leaves a bit, no harm intended, of course,” said Mr. Fern in a slightly more apologetic tone, but still with a hint of jest. Begonias was indeed ruffled and let out a little quiver of annoyance. The white Calla Lilly sat quietly in the corner. She rarely spoke much anymore. Geraniums, being the curious young fellow that he was, noticed it. “Mrs. Calla Lilly, ma’am. Why haven’t you been speaking much these days?” he asked her. Calla Lilly drooped a little in response, but she didn’t have the energy to respond. Begonias, Hibiscus, and Fern seemed to droop at her lack of response. Geraniums, not understanding why the mood turned somber, asked, “What’s wrong with her? Why is everyone sad?”

The plants quietly drooped even more at the question. After a few moments, the Boston Fern broke the silence and said, “You see, young sprout, there comes a time in a plant’s life when-“ “She’s withering!” broke out Begonias in sobs, “She’s going to leave us, our dear Calla Lilly!” Geraniums was horrified. He had only just sprouted himself, and he had never experienced withering. How could the Calla Lilly leave them? She was part of their family! The Boston Fern shook his fluffy leaves and groaned at Begonias saying, “Begonias! You don’t have speak so to the little fella!” Begonias, huffy again, retorted, “Hmpf, I see no reason to coddle him. This will happen to all of us at some point!” The Fern quipped back, “But you didn’t have to be so dramatic, woman!”

Hibiscus, being the natural peacemaker of the group, tried to placate the two plants when Geraniums exclaimed, “Her petals, they’re on the ground! She’s… she’s…” At this point everyone fell silent. Geraniums, shaken in surprise, said quietly, “We never got to say goodbye.” Hibiscus and Begonias did not respond but looked towards the Boston Fern.

The plants remained quiet that day. They did not talk throughout the afternoon as the café goers came in and out, drinking their coffees and teas, admiring the plants on the shelves but looking forlornly at the old pot in the corner with the withered Calla Lilly. As she was closing up the shop, Kate found the pot it its state and said, “Oh dear. She’s gone again. Ah well, we’ll have her back in no time.” Geraniums, who always listened but never always understood, couldn’t help but wonder at her words. Kate carried the pot out with her as she locked up the café.

That night in the dark room, when the moon was high in the sky, Geraniums was wide awake. He whispered, “Mr. Fern… Mr. Fern, are you awake?” There was no response. Again, Geraniums tried to ask, “Mr. Fern, can I please talk to you?” The Fern sighed with a limp swing of his stems. “What is it, boy?” he asked lifelessly. “What did Kate mean today when she said that Misses Calla Lilly would be back?” Geraniums queried. “Ah, she probably meant that Calla Lilly would be replaced with another flower,” said the Fern tiredly. “Really?” asked Geraniums, “It sounded like Misses Calla Lily would be coming back to us!” “That, m’boy, would be really something, wouldn’t it?” said the Fern with a small halfhearted chuckle.

The next morning, Kate came in with the same pot, but it was empty, or so they thought. Hibiscus figured, “Surely Kate wouldn’t just put an empty pot of soil here. There must be a bulb or seed planted. We’ll have a new young sprout soon!” Everyone, even the Fern, cheered up at the news and everyone felt enlivened. The days passed, and a small green shoot began inching out of the soil. As the time went by, a small white bloom appeared and one day, when Begonias and Hibiscus were commenting on a café customer’s hat’s floral arrangement and the Fern and Geraniums were deep in discussion of soil moisture levels, a small voice spoke out, “Hello all! Great to be back, isn’t it?” Everyone turned towards the little open bloomed Calla Lily in shock.

Geraniums was the first to ask, “You came back? What do you mean?” The little Calla Lily giggled and said, “Oh you all, it’s what Calla Lilies do! We come back! As long as we’ve got good gardeners, we never really go away, we bloom anew!” Everyone looked at the old Fern. He laughed and said loudly, “Well, Calla Lily, you could have told us! Instead you just let us moan and groan over you somethin’ awful!” The Calla Lily laughed as well and said, “Oh, Fern, you know I wouldn’t leave you without saying goodbye. I knew I was coming back. We’ve been the longest of friends ever since Kate started bringing plants in to the café.” “Indeed, young lady, as I can now call you,” said the old Fern, “But next time you feel yourself about to be absent for a bit, could you please give us a warning?”

“Oh, you old green basked of fluff, can’t you just be happy that she’s back?” asked the huffy Begonias. The Hibiscus chimed in, “Yes, Mr. Fern! Let’s just be happy our dear Calla Lilly is back!” Contentedly, Geraniums looked around at his fellow plants and said, “I’m glad everyone is back.” As the plants continued their conversations, and the café people continued to come and go. Kate wiped the tables as the left and took the orders of the new comers. They admired the fresh orange Geraniums, the stately Boston Fern, the vibrant Hibiscus, the luscious Begonias, and the renewed Calla Lily slowly growing tall and strong yet again.

By: Naomi Lea

 

 

Short Story: Awake

     She sat in a relaxed posture without any tension in her limbs. From behind her closed lids, the blackness became splotched with fuzzy whiteness and melded together into an image. There he was, just as if it were real, Johnny’s face smiled at her. She wanted to ask him where he was and why he was not there waking up with her that morning.

Slowly, the image of his face hazed out into the fuzzy white, then into complete blaSuddenly, a noise and buzzing sound emitted from the bedside table. Her mobile phone was ringing. She unfolded her phone and answered with,

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Berril. It’s your nurse, Elisa.  Have you had breakfast today? Remember, you need to take your medicine with your first meal.”

“Oh, breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be dropping by around noon, so make sure to have a little breakfast and take your medicine before I come.”

“Alright, thank you Elisa, dear.”

“Okay, ma’am. I’ll see you soon.”

Olivia put the phone back down on the bedside table and stood up. She stepped off the shag rug and slid her feet into her worn slippers. She then shuffled to the hallway and towards the kitchen. She needed to take her medicine. She turned on the kitchen light and squinted her eyes, getting used to the brightness. As she squinted her vision blurred slightly, but as she opened her eyes, the scene around her refocused and the outlines of everything became more defined. She thought of something else she wanted to see.

She sat turned the lights out again and sat at her kitchen table in the dark. Her feet rested lightly on the hard floor. She traced the outline of the small, four-inch tiles with the tips of her slippers. With eyes closed and body relaxed, she breathed slowly and steadily. This time, when the white splotches came into focus, she was still in the very same kitchen, but light was shining through the windows. Johnny was there at the stove making breakfast with his back toward her. He turned his head over his shoulder and gave her a grin and said, “Honey, do you want your eggs this morning?” Before she could answer, the sound of pattering feet approached at a rapid pace and she felt arms hugging her legs and heads upon her lap. Two little faces looked up at her and excitedly cried, “Mommy! Mommy! We’re up! We’re up!”

She laughingly gathered them in her arms saying, “Well, I can see that!” and smothered them in kisses, which they heartily returned. Johnny finished transferring the scrambled eggs from the pan to the plate and walked over. He put the eggs in front of her and then picked up both of the six year old twin boys, and snuggled them close. Then he put them down and kissed Olivia on the cheek, to which Olivia replied, “That’s exactly how I like my eggs.” Johnny looked over at the plate and asked, “Scrambled?” She shook her head smilingly and said, “No, silly, with a kiss!”

Then, when Olivia opened her eyes, she was sitting at the kitchen table just as before, but not in complete darkness. There sunlight was now streaming in through the windows, brightly illumining the room. Remembering that she was supposed to be having breakfast, she decided that she would have some scrambled eggs.

As she made her breakfast, she heard a knock at the kitchen door. She looked up and saw a friendly face in the door window. Elisa came inside and greeted her with, “Good afternoon Mrs. Berril. I see you’re still working on breakfast. Have you taken your medication yet?”

“No, not yet dear. I don’t much care for that medicine anyways. Do I need to take it? It keeps me from remembering things.”

“Well, Mrs. Berril, I think it would be best. You’re scheduled to have visitors this evening, and it would help if you stayed in the present while they are here.”

“I see. I suppose it would be rude to do otherwise.”

“Yes, perhaps so, ma’am. Let me get your dose for you.”

Elisa set down her equipment bag and went over to the cabinet where the medicine was usually stored. She took out the pill bottle and shook out three white capsules and handed them to Olivia with a glass of water. Oliva received them and, doing her best to mask her reluctance, took them under supervision. She then asked, “So who is schedule to come see me this evening, dear?” Elisa smiled and said, “The same folks that come as usual, ma’am. Your family.”

Olivia closed her eyes and sighed. She opened them again with questioning furrowed brows and replied, “Them? Again? Will they always keep coming around? I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up the game. I understand they are grieving, but we are not true family. Wouldn’t it be wrong to continue in this way?”

Elisa returned the sigh, but hers was quieter. She then looked at Olivia and said, “I think it would be best to continue, Mrs. Berril. You are doing wonderful things for this family. You lift their spirits ever so much whenever they see you. And from what I’ve heard, there will be a new visitor this time, too.”

That evening, Olivia and Elisa waited together in the kitchen. It was Olivia’s favorite room since the windows let in the most light in the day and had the best view of the moon at night. The sky was turning dusky when they saw a vehicle pull up into the driveway. A man, woman, and two young girls got out of the car. The man went to the backseat and pulled out a car seat and diaper bag. One of girls took the bag for the man, and the other girl helped her with it as they walked up the drive to the house.

They arrived at the kitchen door and Elisa was there to meet them before they could knock. She ushered them in, girls first, then the woman, and then the man with the car seat, which he put down on the kitchen table in front of Olivia. She looked under the retractable shade of the car seat and saw an infant in a light blue onesie, complete with blue hat, socks, and mittens. When she saw the baby, it reminded her faintly of someone, but she could not recall who.

The man spoke saying, “Hello, mother. I want to introduce you to our son, Johnny.” The mention of the name startled Olivia. The man could see that it made an effect. His face became hopeful. “Mother, do you remember that name?” He gave a widened glance at the woman, who returned it with equally largened eyes and a smile. He then gathered the girls to him, putting his hands on their shoulders.

“What a sweet name for a baby boy,” said Olivia with a warm smile. “I think I knew someone with that name, once. And I’m sure he was a lovely person,” she continued. “Unfortunately, I can’t quite put the name to the face from my memories.”

The man, unwilling to let this opportunity go, tried with, “Well, do you remember my name? I’m Harry. Your boy. Johnny was my father’s name.” He searched her face for a response. She squinted her eyes and examined the man’s face. After a few moments, she shook her head saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t remember ever having a boy named Harry.” The man’s eyes twinged with disappointment as he replied, “That’s alright. Anyways, we’ve come for a little chat. The girls have been looking forward to seeing you all month,” he said as he nudged them forward.

The girls sat down at the kitchen table, one on either side of Olivia, and looked up at her with sparkling eyes. The taller one spoke first saying, “Violet has a loose tooth that’s been wiggling all week! We’re thinking of how we’re gonna pull it!” Violet, who was only seven and two years younger than her sister, interjected with, “Well, you’re not gonna do it for sure, Ellie!” Olivia laughed and looked at Violet with excited eyes and asked, “So how would you prefer to do it, dear?”

The girls and Olivia, engaged in their conversation, kept themselves occupied for the next hour while the man, woman, baby, and Elisa spoke at the edge of the room. The man asked Elisa,

“How has she been?” “She’s been alright. She keeps drifting off more, though. She’s on her medication right now, so there shouldn’t be any problem for now,” Elisa responded. The man and woman looked at one another worryingly. The woman finally spoke asking, “Do you think it would be better if she were to stay with us? I’m sure she would find it much more comfortable than staying alone. She seems to enjoy the girls.”

Elisa shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Berril, but I don’t think that would be a good idea. She can’t remember who you are. To her, you’re not really her family.” The woman nodded her head in acceptance, figuring it was worth a try anyway, though this was not the first time the suggestion was rejected. The man put his arm around the woman and said comfortingly, “I know, Helen. That’s what I want, too. But until then, we can’t stress her out and cause a breakdown. She’s in a pretty precarious place mentally, right Elisa?”

“Yes, Mr. Berril,” replied Elisa, “The best thing we can do is keep her where she’s comfortable, and that’s right here. I have her latest brain activity reports now. I’ll show you.” Elisa went over to her equipment bag, took out an electronic tablet, and brought it over to Harry and Helen. She showed them an image of a colorful span of a brain outline. Elisa indicated, “This is Olivia’s brain when she is either sleeping, napping, or any activity in which her body is greatly relaxed. That releases her consciousness and her memories. However, this,” Elisa displayed as she showed them a new and moving image, “is her current brain activity. As you can see, it is less colorful and some areas are completely dark. This means she has consciously shut off those areas of her brain and thus her memories. I believe it is a deliberate defense mechanism to shut out mental stress.”

Harry bowed his head into his hand and softly groaned. Helen put her arms around his and hugged it in support. He knew exactly what his mother was trying to shut out. He did not blame her for not wanting to remember. “So, she only has these memories in dreams. She doesn’t remember anything when she is awake?” he asked Elisa. “That’s right, Mr. Berril. When she’s awake, she’s safe. But, when she is asleep or in her mind’s world, she can see and remember anything,” said Elisa warily. “I try to give her stimulants to keep her awake and active throughout the day and not leave her on her own for too long so that she doesn’t drift off. Unfortunately, she’s trying to block off more and more of her brain functionality. At this rate, she might not be able to remember anything while awake.” Harry, eyes set and hand clasping his wife’s, said, “Well, then, we’ll make sure that she’s as happy as can be while she’s with us.”

Together, the three watched Olivia and the girls chatting away about school, what they had seen during the car ride, and anything that popped into the girls’ heads. Olivia seemed to enjoy herself, talking as expressively as the children, encouraging them and giggling with them when appropriate. Helen even brought little Johnny over and when Olivia held him, he gurgled happily at her and reached for her long grey hair that shaped her face in wavy locks.

When it was time to go, the girls hugged Olivia and kissed her cheek saying, “Goodbye Grandma! We’ll see you next time. Love you!” Then they skipped out the door to the drive yelling behind them, “Daddy! Did you unlock the car?” Their father chuckled and beeped the car remote to let them in. Helen gave her a side hug while toting little Johnny and followed the girls out to the car. Harry then went up to her and gave her a hug saying, “I miss you, Mother. I love you.” Then he walked out towards his family without looking back.

Olivia was exhausted by the time they left, but she felt content. She believed she did a great job of helping that family by pretending to be the grandmother that they lost. She could not even remember when she had first met them. It had been so long since they had been coming every month. At least now they were gone. She could relax alone.

After she got ready to sleep, she sat on the edge of her bed just like tht morning, massaging her toes into the shag rug. Then she got under the covers and went to bed. Once she shut her eyes, she quickly drifted away, sinking deeper into her mind.

The same blackness enveloped her, but then the white splotches came back and formed images. Johnny was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and his shoulder shaking. Immediately Olivia rushed over and put her arms around him, caressing him and rubbing his back. She asked him urgently, “Honey, what’s wrong?” He didn’t put his hands down from his face, but she could see the tears leaking out down his cheeks. Again she asked him, “Johnny, why are you crying?” He could only say the words, “Teddy… Teddy… Our poor Teddy…” She heard wails coming from another part of the house. It was Harry sobbing at the top of his lungs, “Teddy! Why did you have to go?!” His undulating cries rang through the house and as he continued his lament.

Olivia rushed to his room and scooped him in her arms asking loudly with tears welling in her own eyes, “Harry! Where’s Teddy? What happened?” Harry buried his face into shoulder and clung to her, barely getting out the words through his gasps for air, “The car… Daddy didn’t see… no moving…” Olivia froze as the reality of what had happened hit her. The pain started creeping in, slowly infiltrating her entire body, wracking her with constriction that she could not handle. She began to breathe a little faster, then she scooted her grieving son off her lap and darted out of the room. She was filled with this fiery, raging pain coming from her heart that felt like it was exploding like an atomic bomb. She wanted to punch holes through the walls and kick the doors down, but then she also wanted to crumple up in a corner and never come out. She started pacing the hallway outside Harry’s room, then she ran to the kitchen.

Johnny was still there. His head was now in his arms on the table. “Johnny,” she began, “Did you do this to our boy?” Johnny didn’t move. Again, she asked in a louder voice, “Johnny, did you do this to our boy.” Silence ensued. Increasing in volume yet again and stepping closer, she asked, pleading for an answer, “Johnny, did you do this to our boy?” She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, escalating in pitch sounding almost manic, “Johnny! Did you do this to our boy?!” His body was unusually heavy and as she shook him, he slipped from her grip and he fell on the floor. His head hit the tile floor and there was a crack. Blood oozed across the white tiles into the grout from his temple. She stood and stared at the ground, swaying as the blood drained from her head and dizziness overtook her. She felt her legs give and down she went, following Johnny to the cold, hard, reddening floor.

Olivia opened her eyes and awakened, as usual, without the sound of any alarm. She arose out of bed and swung her feet out from under the covers. It was brighter out, almost mid-morning. She had slept longer than usual. The phone at her bedside rang. It was Elisa who greeted her with, “Good morning, Mrs. Berril. Did you sleep well? Have you had your breakfast and taken your medicine yet?” Olivia smiled and replied, “Quite well, dear. I’m just about to head to breakfast now.” “Alright then,” Elisa said, “I’ll be by around noon to check on you.”

 

By:  Naomi Lea

 

 

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Short Story: I Dreamed a Dream

There was a time when men were kind

When their voices were soft

And their words were inviting

I was in Mr. McGinn’s 10th grade geometry class. He sat in the seat directly in front of me. Every now and then, he would turn around and flash me a smile from his lips slightly touched with the outline of a growing mustache. He was a year older than me. His name was unforgettable.

One day, I wore a shirt with pockets near the waistline. I mentioned it, emphasizing the practicality of pockets in womens’ clothing. Without warning, he stuck his hand in my pocket. I could feel his hand against my stomach and he could feel the warmth of my body. He looked into my eyes, and I, with my widened eyes, into his. Then he quickly retracted his hand and said, “Sorry,” with a nervous laugh. “It’s okay,” I respond quietly. Nobody else noticed in class as they were busy talking and flirting amongst each other. It felt as if we were the only two in the room. Shortly after, he asked me for my number.

That night began a correspondence of which I will never forget. I longed for the vibration of the “hey” that made me grasp at my phone as if it would run away from me. Every text from him sent me into a flutter. Excitement shot through my system when I felt the slight buzz through my jacket pockets. We would talk deep into the night. I would snuggle under my blankets and as the glow of the screen backlight lit up my face, it further illuminated the smile spread across my face.

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung, no wine untasted

That night, we went to see the new rendition of Speed Racer. We both like animations and kid movies, especially since we were basically still kids. I was fifteen and he was sixteen. We sat next to each other in the movie theater. The tension between us was all I could think of. His hand every now and then inched towards mine, almost attempting to reach it. I left it resting on the arm rest, but I never felt his touch. I was disappointed, thinking perhaps maybe everything we ever spoke of was just “talking”; no intention of acting on anything. I waited.

After the movie, we walked home together. He asked if I wanted to go the long way with him. We went up to one of the highest hills in our neighborhood where he said he liked to go up and watch the stars. That was complete bull because there were lampposts all around. But, it was secluded and quiet since not many people went up there. He led me out onto a span of grass and indicated for me to look upwards at the sky. Surprisingly, we could see the stars clearly, and he started identifying the constellations. He pointed out the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and as he lifted hand to direct my gaze to Orion’s Belt, his other hand crept around my shoulder. I froze with excitement. It was such a corny move, but I reveled in it with a glee I tried my best to suppress. I never wanted him to let go.

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

He asked me if I could come out. I made an excuse to get out of the house and rushed, almost at a run, towards the park. He was already there by the fish pond. He smiled with that faint, pubescent mustache outlining his bright smile. His hand reached for mine as we walked along the path. We headed deeper into the woods, talking about what we had done that day. It was dark and around 9pm. Everyone was out of the park; we were completely alone.

We sat down on top of the metal picnic table on which there were some scattered little pebbles. I picked one up and chucked it into a nearby trash barrel. I made it easily, and so he tried to do the same. He missed. I felt a little pride welling up inside of me. He then made a bet, to which I agreed. We would continue to throw rocks into the trashcan and whoever missed had to take off a piece of clothing. I thought it would be an easy win, but for some reason, my aim seemed to leave me as the game went on, and his got extremely accurate.

I learned many things that night. He offered to teach me what I didn’t know, which was a lot. When we parted, I had never felt more connected to any other human being. As I walked home, I felt like I was floating across the asphalt. I imagined that we would date through high school. We would go the rest of the school dances together. We could continue throughout college and build a life together. He wanted to be in the Air Force and I had no idea what I wanted to do. My parents would love him and surely his mom would be okay with me. As I mapped out our futures, I was also planning my next possible plan to sneak out of my house to see him again.

He slept a summer by my side

He filled my days with endless wonder

He took my childhood in his stride

But he was gone when autumn came

We went for a run that night at the high school track. After about a mile and a half, we decided to vary the terrain. We ended up in the park again. Breathing heavily in the darkness of the woods, we both knew what we wanted that night. It was not expected from the start, but I knew in that moment that I wanted my body to be his and his to be mine. I was extremely nervous, but he continuously whispered his reassurances to me with his voice and as our hands traversed each other’s bodies. However, as soon as the last garments were trying to come off, I hesitated. He urgently asked me,

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if we can do this. Do we have the time?”

“We’ll be quick, I promise.”

“I don’t about this. Maybe we shouldn’t?”

“Why? Don’t worry,” he said with his voice and his hands as he took me into himself and we followed our carnal desires to their ends.

And still I dream he’ll come to me

And we will live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather

I felt strange. I did not go exactly how I had planned. Things happened almost too quickly to remember. It was over before I knew it. The weeks afterward, I was not sure of what to say to him. I didn’t want to leave his side, but at the same time, nobody could ever know what had happened between us. Perhaps I seemed distant to him. The same mobile phone buzz didn’t sent flutters of exhilaration as much as it did fear. We lived in a very small community. If anyone knew anything, it would spread very quickly.

Barely a week had passed, and I received some news from my friend. She had seen him in another town with another girl. According to her, they were making out in the park. I did not know what to say. At first, I was filled with rage. Then I felt indifference. If he wanted to take all that we had and throw it away, it was fine by me. That night, in my room, I cried into my pillow for the first time over a boy who had broken my heart. I suppose it technically wasn’t “cheating,” since we were not officially “together,” but it felt just as horrible.

A few weeks later, all the emotions escalated. I was terrified. I was late. There was no one I could really trust about this. So, I asked a softball teammate who had mentioned before that she knew of some pills that could help take care of it. She had used them herself when she and her boyfriend had not used protection. Thankfully, I never had to use them since there ended up being no cause for alarm.

So different now from what it seemed…

I thought I wanted this boy. I thought I wanted to be his and his alone. I thought I wanted to do the things the teenagers did in the movies, the things I was supposed to do at that age. That was all a lie. What I thought I needed to do to fulfill my teenage years ended up being one of the biggest regrets of my life. These days, people would never guess I lived through these events. I don’t usually talk about it. It isn’t a happy memory. There are some parts that I look back on and think, “Wow, if only it had stopped there,” but it didn’t.

If I could pass any ounce of advice on, it would be to wait. There is no rush in the physical realm of relationships. There no rush when it comes to starting relationships at all. A man and a woman in love is a beautiful thing. It was ordained by God to be such a partnership. That should not be just a dream dreamt in time gone by. That should be a reality. That is my prayer for all who read this.

 

By: Naomi Lea

 

 

 

 

Short Story: Ideal

 As I was walking down the street, I saw a neon orange flyer pasted on a lamppost. It looked like those missing dog flyers, but it was all large, boldened text which read:

“Transformations to the Ideal”

-Must be able to follow instructions carefully

-Must want to change

Please contact Bob Brawnly at 383-523-6564

There wasn’t anything else on the paper. The offer seemed a little sketchy. Who would actually call that number? What would the “transformation” consist of? It was probably one of those weight loss things with the personal trainer and all that. But usually those advertisements had before and after pictures or some other persuasive tactics.

While pondering these thoughts, I heard a small camera shutter click right behind me. I turned my head and saw a boy in his late teens was holding his phone up to the flyer snapping a picture of it right behind me. Apparently, someone was interested.

He had short, wavy black hair and fair skin with hints of freckles on his cheeks near his eyes. He was tall, about six feet, and slightly broad shouldered. But, he looked as if he was still in the process of growing into his frame, seemingly lanky in the arms and legs.

He didn’t seem like he had anything major to change. He looked like the average dateable guy that any girl at my high school would like. He wasn’t ugly, by any common standards. Was he taking the picture for a friend?

He looked at me as I stared at him, making my observations. Perhaps he was wondering the same things that I was: why was this flyer catching the other’s interest? He was the first to speak.

“So, you looking to change?” he asked me.

“I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking of what’s all in that ‘transformation’ process,” I replied, facing the flyer again.

“Only one way to find out, right?” he suggested with a small shrug.

“Yeah, only if you really want to find out. Why do you care anyways? Why do you need a transformation?” I asked him.

“Why wouldn’t you want to change yourself to be better?” he quickly asked back, “Don’t you care about improving yourself?”

“Huh, you’re one of those, aren’t you? Those goal oriented, purpose driven, success seeking guys who want it all,” I said, realizing his type.

Now it made sense. I bet he was someone who always had the grades, never crossed the line, and found his way among the bright side of things. He probably just wants to be ahead of the rat race, get he goods while he can. I didn’t care for such things. If he wants to transform into what ever his ideal is, Mr. Mega-brown nosing-popular guy, then he could go right ahead.

“You’re trying to peg me into a ‘type’? Fit me into a box? Wow,” he said letting out a big exhale, “Maybe you’re the one who needs to be calling this guy.”

“Hey, everybody wants to be in a box. That’s what ‘ideal’ means anyways, right? You want to fit in your perfect, imaginary box of who you want to be. Well, hate to break it to you,” I say with a sarcastic wince, “But we live in a real world where there’s no such thing as ‘perfect’.”

“Alright, I see where you’re coming from. So maybe we should all be like you,” he said as he gestured at me up and down, “Cynical, sarcastic, and never failing because trying takes too much effort. You spend your time ridiculing others for their attempts at surviving in this ‘imperfect’ world and mocking their ‘ideals’ whatever they are. You’re like the kid on the bench who never gets up to play, but all the while has the idea that she can do better than all of them, if only she just felt like getting up. But of course, you couldn’t be bothered, could you?”

“Hah. Thanks for the pep talk, coach.” I say with flatly.

“Figured I’d take a stab at your box-sorting. It’s not so fun when other people try to contain you to a ‘type’, is it?” he said with a laugh.

“You get used to it,” I say nonchalantly, “And then you realize that the issue is not that you’re in a box, but you’re not in the right one.”

He paused, and his face sobered a little. “Hey, yeah, I know what that’s like. That’s, like, my whole life,” he said tiredly. “Maybe that’s why I want this transformation thing. I have a lot of people looking over my shoulder all the time. I just want to make them happy. I just want them to be proud. I don’t want to disappoint them,” he said as his gaze fell towards his feet.

“Yeah, I get that. Well, hey, just so this doesn’t turn into an episode of Dr. Phil, why don’t you tell me what things you want to change about yourself? What your ‘ideal’?” I ask him.

“Well, first I want to be stronger,” he said numbering with his index finger.

“Okay, well, hit the gym, drink those protein shakes, and you’ll be the brawniest of the bunch. Problem solved,” I say with a synchronous wink and snap of my fingers.

“Right, yeah, not just physically,” he said smiling and rolling his eyes. “I want to be mentally and emotionally stronger, too. I want to be able to take anything anyone throws at me; insults, patronizing comments, you name it. I don’t want to react in ways that will screw me up later, you know?”

Crossing my arms, I said, “Don’t we all? We are always going to screw things up with our words. Especially those of the human race who have hormonally intense times every month!” I say unabashedly. But as an afterthought, I add, “Sorry if that’s too much.”

“No, it’s okay. I have sisters,” he said reassuringly. Then he smiled and went on with, “But I don’t want those situations to happen. I want to be in control.”

“Look, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we’re going to screw up. Girl or boy, mistakes will happen. Words will be taken wrong. What really matters is that you say you’re sorry when it happens,” I said.

“Woah, so much for not being an episode of Dr. Phil!” he said laughingly. Then, getting serious again, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “So what about you? You were at the flyer first. What do you want to change?”

“Okay, just to make things clear,” I said as I put my hands up defensively, “that was totally a coincidence. I thought it was one of those missing pet notices and that’s why it caught my attention.”

He eyed me suspiciously.

“But,” I continue, “If I were to change anything about myself, it would probably be my appearance.”

“What?” he exclaimed in surprise, “Why would you want to do that? What would you want to change? Don’t tell me it’s to be skinnier.”

“Hey Mr. Stereotype-all-the-females, calm down. It’s not only that, but also my sense of style. I want to be more, girl-like with how I dress and carry myself and all of that. It’s weird being a girl and not knowing how to really be a girl. It doesn’t come natural to me,” I say. I realize how much I’ve just said and feel nervous to say anymore.

“Well, you look pretty girl-like to me,” he said with a grin. “I don’t know what else you’re going for. But, maybe if you get some other girl friends to help, they could give you some tips?”

“Yeah, that whole ‘asking-for-help’ thing isn’t really my thing,” I say quickly.

“Alright, my turn to be Dr. Phil,” he said in a mockingly professional tone, “You are always going to need help. No matter how old you are or how young and able you feel, it’s inevitable. There’s always something you’re not going to know,”

“Woah Doc, that’s some solid advice there,” I said with eyebrows raised.

We both laughed a little and then became quiet. We kept the silence for a few moments, thinking about each other’s advice.

He broke the silence first with, “So, maybe my ‘ideal’ isn’t what I thought it was. I think it’s changed now.”

“Well, that’s the good thing about ideals, right? They aren’t ‘real’, so they can be changed anytime. They’re all in your head,” I said.

He grinned again and with a nod said, “Right. All in the imagination. But, I think they’re in there for a reason.”

“Why?” I asked, “So we can argue about them like we’re on a psychiatric television talk show?”

Laughingly he said, “Yeah! I like talking like this. It’s my ‘ideal’ conversation.”

And then, with a small, yet genuine smile, I replied, “Me, too.”

By: Naomi Lea

 

Poetry: Unfinished Whatever’s

Whatever is- When is it due?
I’ve got room on my plate.
My schedule is open.
I’ll find a date.

Whatever is- You need it tomorrow?
I’ll squeeze it in,
I can move things around
It’s no problem, again.

Whatever is- Oh, that looks cool!
I’ll just watch for a minute.
Three hours fly by
Like time is infinite.

Whatever is- Wait, hold on a second.
Why can’t I focus?
All’s moving so fast
Like I’ve no central locus.
My mind can’t affix
On anything true,
Or noble or pure,
For that matter, too.

Whatever is- No, put it down.
Whatever is- Just stand your ground!
Whatever is true.
See, that wasn’t so hard.
What’s something true?

Whatever is- Stop.
Do not deflect
The will of the Spirit
To search and inspect
Your heart and your mind
For you know it’ll find
Things that are not pure
Or lovely or kind.

Whatever is true, noble, right,
Pure, lovely, admirable,
Excellent, and praiseworthy.
This is the fight.
All I bring to the table
Is my ship un-seaworthy;
My armor all rusted,
My sword disused,
And my helm unadjusted.
How can I win
With no special power?
I’ve no offensive attacks
Or defensive towers.

Whatever is- Wait!
What is the source?
Yes, the great book.
That’s it of course!
There is a way through
That’s not on my own
But led by them
Who’ve carved and mown
Paths I can follow
Through the words of Him
Who inspired them all
To heed the call
To follow to the end.

And now, finally- It’s time to end these unfinished whatever’s
And move along to better endeavors
To put down myself and lay at His feet
And learn what is good
From the one I will meet
Again, in the end.

 

By: Naomi Lea

 

Essay: If Jesus Hadn’t Found Me

If Jesus hadn’t found me at age 15, I’d never have learned how to commune with Him. I was hurt from being used by a guy and attempting to believe I had done the same to him. Crying myself to sleep listening to Les Miserable’s “On My Own” and “I Dreamed a Dream”, I thought I was the most pitiable creature on the planet. There was no one who understood me. My parents could never understand and I didn’t want to try them. Last time I tried that, all I got was the most embarrassing and angry lecturing that made me want to run away and see how they felt with a missing screw up of a kid instead of a present one.

 

If I had not gone on that mission trip to Indonesia and met the people that introduced Christ to me and showed me how to really pray and worship, I would be so lost. I would still hate church and my parents. My father told me that he will never forget how when he was in seminary during that time, I asked why he didn’t just quit. As a seminary student now, I will never forget the pain in his voice as he recalled that memory to me. How could I have said that to him? If God hadn’t have found me, I’d still be that nasty hearted, discouraging, rebellious punk that said he shouldn’t continue what turned out to be a ten year journey towards ordination. He graduated with his Masters in Divinity last year. I just began my second class in pursuit of the same degree. I definitely wouldn’t be doing that now if God hadn’t found me.

 

But just like our car keys and earphones, they tend to wander away and tangled up in things again, no matter how many times we straighten them out and put them in their designated places. I fell away again, even though God had found me and brought me out of darkness.

 

If Jesus hadn’t found me at age 21 I’d never know how to be disciplined physically and spiritually. I was obese and headed towards a morbid state. I was making so many mistakes with my health and in trying to start my career. I wanted to join the military, but I was sixty pounds over the weight limit. I didn’t want to listen to anyone, especially my parents, on how to do it. I wanted to research it on my own without any help. Somehow the Lord pulled me out of my self-centered universe and I began listening to what my parents said. I listened to their advice about getting a trainer and learning how to be healthier, how to work out, and how to change my lifestyle.

 

Every morning I would walk, bike, or run 3k to and from church to spend an hour in prayer and reading my bible. I lifted weights, did yoga, tried Pilates, and passed the Army Physical Fitness test. I lost over sixty pounds and became a new person. Jesus found me and pulled me out, kicking and struggling, into a healthier life.

 

However, that car key syndrome tends to strike right when it seems all is well. I found out I did not make it into the Army Officer Program and I fell into a depression. I didn’t see a purpose for keeping myself healthy. I developed a food binging issue, eating up to 4000 kcals or more in one day. I ended up gaining back over half of what I lost. I felt like I had no purpose and that I was the most massive (figuratively and literally) failure.

 

If Jesus hadn’t found me again now, at age 24, I wouldn’t be doing what I truly love; working and a teacher and a student. After so many mistakes and periods of what felt like treading jello-ey glue, I feel God’s life preserver around my torso again as he’s pulling me back to Him. No matter how deep I sink, He can find me in the deepest depths and can dive further than I could ever go to save me.

 

If Jesus had not found me, and kept finding me everytime I fell away, I wouldn’t be able to testify His amazing ability to pull the lowliest from out of the muck of sin. He says he goes out and finds the one sheep that strays away from the herd of one hundred. That sheep has to be pretty dumb to get lost from a group of one hundred, yet He still goes after that sheep. I’m so thankful he finds his sheep, and I’m so thankful he can find us everytime we stray. I hope that my story and experienced can someday help others to know that He will always find you. Even if you run away, if He found you once before, He will do it again.

 

 

By: Acacia Faye

 

 

 

 

Short Story: Follow the Sun

Once there was a girl who loved the sun. She had a friend who also loved the sun. It was warm and bright. It made them happy. They frolicked in the shimmering grass that shone in the beams, licking their legs as they played in the meadow. Spring and summer were the best because they could play all day out in the luscious green meadow. The girl and her friend would make crowns out of grass and flowers, and be princesses. They would go on ravishing adventures and save each other from the many beasts that crossed their paths. They were always able to pull each other up from the pits and slay the monsters for each other until the seasons changed.

In fall, the sky grew darker. There was not as much time to play outside as the moon chased the sun out earlier each day. The leaves became darker and the ground moist. Every now and then they could play in the fallen leaves, dancing in the orange, yellow, and red flutters. But then the real rain came, and they could not go outside at all. The girl was a little sad, but there were still days when the sun would come out and she looked forward to them longingly. Her friend yearned after the sun as well, but she was quieter. As the rain collected into puddles, it seemed that her friend was in her own pool of silence, growing wider and deeper as the rain fell harder. The girl understood that her friend was sad. She, too, missed the sun.

She thought that maybe she could be like the sun for her friend. She would shine so bright that her friend would dry up and be happy again! The girl told all her best jokes and made her funniest faces. She reenacted their adventures from the sunny meadow and tried to make her friend remember what the sun felt like. Her friend cracked a smile on her quavering lips, but like the ripples after a droplet falls in a pool of water, her mouth became flat and still.

Winter came, and the ground was covered in icy white. Everything was still, except for the girl. She had many plans for winter. She would build snow men, make snow angels, build an igloo, and burrow snow tunnels! It was time to play. She excitedly relayed her plans to her friend, but her glee was met with unresponsiveness. The girl did not understand. They could play again in the meadow, so why was her friend so sad? Well, she was not going to let her friend stand in the way of her fun. She left her friend and ran out to the meadow alone.

She put her whole self into rolling large balls of snow for her snow men and flopping on the ground to make her snow angels. She packed the snow firmly, stacked it to make her igloo walls, and burrowed a tunnel under it for an entrance. As she sat in her small igloo alone, she wondered if her friend was ready to come out and play. She decided to go check.

When the girl returned to where she left her friend, no one was there. She searched and searched, but could not find her. Where could she be? she thought. As she was shuffling along she tripped on a log and fell face first into the snow. She picked herself up, looked behind her, and realized that she had not tripped over a log, but her friend who seemed to be in the middle of making a snow angel. However, she didn’t seem to be finished, or plan on finishing. She just laid there, arms spread open in the snow.

The girl immediately knelt at her side and shook her friend asking her if she was alright. The friend was unresponsive. Her face was so pale her skin could have been mistaken for snow. The girl put her arms around her friend, dragged her to her tunnel, and pulled her into the igloo. There, she began rubbing her friend’s hands and feet, trying to restore circulation. Then, she ran in place until sweat began to bead on her forehead, stripped down to her undergarments, and lay against her friend’s bare skin, trying to warm her.

As she lay by her friend, the girl told the story of the brave princess who traveled through the icy land to find the sun. The princess was not sure where to go, so she needed the help of the beautiful Ice Angel to guide her. They traveled together and eventually found the sun, but the Ice Angel could not complete the journey with the brave princess, for if she did, she would melt. The brave princess bid her goodbyes and followed the sun and its warmth.

The girl’s friend slightly wiggled her body and began to wake. Her friend’s eyes slowly blinked, and then opened wide at the sight of the girl by her side. The friend asked in a small weak voice, “Are you the brave princess who found the sun?” The girl smiled back at her friend and replied, “No, the brave princess was you. You found the sun at last.” The friend nestled closer to the girl, realizing she needed the warmth. After a few long moments the friend said, “I wanted the Ice Angel to take me away. She made me so cold that I couldn’t feel anything; not my body or my sadness. I thought it would be better that way.” The girl hugged her friend closer and said, “Well, I’m glad you didn’t. Instead you’ve stayed here with me, and I’m so glad you have.” The friend weakly returned the embrace and said, “So am I. We’ll be like the brave princess. That’s why I’ll stay. We’ve got to find the sun again.”

By: Naomi Lea

 

Short Story: Clarity

I’m walking through a fog; a hazy mist that is felt yet intangible. I cannot use it as a directional reference nor bolster myself against it. It clouds my vision everywhere I turn. I can walk through it at my slowest or run with bounding strides, but there is nothing visible to gauge progress except the sweat from my exertion.

I wish a giant leafblower would blow away the haze so I can escape the suffocation as I breathlessly try to escape it. However, once I stop struggling, it has a deadening effect. I want to get out of it, but it seems futile to try. Why bother the effort? I can stay in the foggy aura and think of it as a comfort. At least I can’t see anything scary. I can’t see anything good either, but that’s okay. I can rest in this fog and never have to move again. This can be my new state of being; never having to worry about anyone else’s opinions of me, my own judgments of myself, or God’s judgments. I’m all alone here in this dusky mist; no one to talk to and no one to answer to.

And then, all of a sudden, something unpleasant happens. It feels jarring, like the pain of accidently stepping in a hole and twisting my ankle. At first, it’s a sharp pain and my ankle is swollen. Even as the swelling goes down, my ankle continues to throb. The pain cannot really leave unless I get up, go make an icepack, and elevate my foot. Unfortunately there usually are no freezers or ice machines in clouds of fog. Whenever I put pressure on the ankle, I feel pain shooting up my leg. As I walk, each step makes me wince and tense the muscles of my entire body, awakening more with every stride. My eyes dart around looking for sign of civilization: rocks, signposts, paths, or even people.

When I was in the state of foggy complacency, I remember there were dark sillhouettes in the distance, but it always seemed too far to reach. Now, I have no choice but to funnel all my energy into reaching these dark shapes for they might be able to help me. It takes what feel like a extremely long time as I hobble towards them. I could have found them much faster without a injured ankle, but then I would have never started moving without getting hurt. I finally approach the dark shapes and realize that there are two trees and a stump. The standing trees were quite large, at least ten people could make a ring around them. The stump was even bigger, at least twice as large. I approach the stump and rest against it.

Then a voice calls out to me, “Pretty tired then? Good thing for that old stump. Never turns anyone away.”

I look up, startled by the sound of another voice, and see an old woman with whitish grey hair standing behind me. She must have come from around the other trees, since there was nothing but open foggy land all around.

“Yes,” I say hesitatingly, “I’m very thankful for the stump.” Then, remembering my ankle, I ask, “Pardon me, but where did you come from? I twisted my ankle while walking out in the fog and was wondering if I could get an icepack.”

She looks at me quizzically and asks, “Do you not see the drug store over there?” as she points to her right side. All I can see is white mist, bit if I squint hard enough, I can see some more dark shapes. She sees I am straining my eyes in that direction, then a wave of realization changes her face. Her eyes become softer and she understandingly asks me, “You’ve been wondering for a while in the fog, haven’t you?”

I look back into her eyes trying to hide the hurt of my throbbing ankle and answer, “Yes, but I don’t want to stay there anymore.” She nods as if she knows exactly what I mean and holds out her hand to me. As I take it, all the lines around me become a little sharper and more defined.

We walk away from the trees and the stump, hand in hand to help support my weight. As we walk, the fog slowly starts to dissipate and there is a glowing light that we seem to be walking towards. “Where are we going?” I ask her. She chuckles softly to herself and says, “Well it seems as if you’ve got two things that aren’t working: your ankle and your eyes. Let’s see if we can fix both for you.”

I don’t know what she means about my eyes, but she mentioned she could help my ankle, so hopefully she helps me with that first.

She leads on with me limping beside her and I see that the light is from a small house. It looks like a log cabin. The wood is dark and old, and the steps look a little rickety. As we approach, she says, “I do need to repaint the window boxes. They look like they’re chipping.” I keep quiet, but think to myself that the house could use a lot more than a little paint. She helps me up the steps onto the porch and opens the door. We step into the living room and she leads me to the couch where she props up my foot with a large cushion. She walks away and comes back with an icepack. She sets it on my ankle and smilingly asks me, “So this is how you woke up, then?” I shrug my shoulders a little and reply, “I suppose so. I don’t remember much of what happened before.”

“Well,” she begins, “it usually quite a bit to wake people up. You’re quite fortunate it only took a small injury like this. It take a lot more for others to get them out of the stupor.” As I feel my ankle still throbbing under the ice, I would not consider my situation to be fortunate, but I don’t say otherwise. Instead, I ask say, “I don’t know about that, since you say there’s something wrong with my eyes. How do we fix that?” She walked over to her bookshelf and grabbed an old leather covered book with a ribbon sticking out of it and handed it to me. She pulled up a chair next to me and said, “The only way to truly get out of the fog is to find the light. It’s in this book. Find it and follow it every single day, or else you leave room for the fog to come back in.” Her face is grave, yet there is unreserved assurance in her words. She makes eye contact with me and I notice that there are small white scars on her face. I look at her forearms bared by the rolled up sleeves of her flannel shirt, and see more scars. Though she must be in her sixties, I can see that she is strong and her skin is taut with muscle regardless of the topical mars. Looking away from the woman, I begin to take in my surroundings.

I see that there is a fireplace emitting a warm heat creating a cozy atmosphere throughout the room. The bookshelf she went to has many more books of all different sizes and there are shelves on the walls with figurines and photos. There is even one small statuette in an odd “t” shape. I feel overwhelmed with the lines and colors of each individual object in the room. The only things I can remember before my ankle is white blurriness, and now I feel like I am in a new dimension. I remember hat I could see these types of things before, but if was never as magnificient of a feeling as this, regaining the ability for what seems like the first time. All around me, details continue to pop into my vision, and then I look again at the woman. She seems to have an even kinder and softer face than before. We make eye contact again and I say in a soft, almost quavering voice, “I have not seen these things in a long time.” She take my hands, brings them closer to her and replies, “I know, dear one. Are you ready to start seeing things again?”

My eyes widen at her words. I nod in affiermstion as tears start to well in the inner corners of my eyes. I embarassedly try to take my hands from hers and rub them away, but she hold them fast and says, “Let them come. They help wash away the old vision and give you clarity.” She then closes her eyes and bows her head. I close my eyes as well and remain silent as I listen to her speak aloud about the light that came to bring us out of the fog.

Letter: I Forgot to Name This: A Letter to My Friends

July 2, 2017

5:00pm   
     Dear Naomi Lee and Acacia Faye,  
  
     I should be writing three things I am proud of about my personality, but instead I’m watching Bendandsnap Commonweath’s reading of Sol LeWitt’s 1965 letter to Eve Hess. Eve was struggling with writers block and Sol gave Eve a real talking to about work. As I listen to this fantastic letter, I confess that I’m sitting here wondering how the hell I’m supposed to do anything unafraid. I’m a mess of anxiety with a huge heap of deep seated insecurities I can’t seem to fix or ignore no matter how hard I try, and I’m sitting here struggling to write a simple blog post about myself. Should be the easiest thing in the world to write about ones own self. I can’t seem to do it yet. 
     I keep thinking about how these words I string together will be read by someone I will probably never meet in person, and could potentially be read by many more people, which is overwhelming.  I chose to be anonymous, thinking it would take the pressure off of this fact, but I’ve somehow found more pressure in my anonymity. All people will know of me are my words and my username. They won’t know who I am in person, and if they are anything like me, they could be curious. I don’t have any second thoughts about my choice, I’m keeping it. What it is- it’s this: Someone will eventually stumble upon these 26 English letters I arrange and rearrange under the corybantic grammar and spelling rules of this Frankenstein language which gets so frustrating- even though its my native language. God, English is weird…and beautiful when its used by someone who can direct it. I don’t want to mess up. I have ridiculously high standards for myself and my work. I want to write. I want to write well. I love this language (warts and all) and I want to learn how to use it. To make it sing and resonate and hit people like a ton of bricks with the feels. Aww the feels, but so far, like Eve, I’m bothered by my writing. I read it and I hate it. I mean, I can look in the mirror everyday and see the beauty others see in my appearance, but I look at my words or my art, I want to burn it. I see all the flaws in my work and hate them, whereas I celebrate my flaws in my appearance. I have this red blood vein that sticks out of my right nostril right on the base of the septum wall like a small hook, and I love it. My students at work point it out all the time and I tell them what it is and they love it and I get to introduce them to some simple human biology, which is great for young minds. Even when I wear make up I don’t cover it. I enjoy the unique things in my appearance and the unique things in others and their work. Just the other day I was reading your work Naomi Lea, your “Guilt” essay. It had so much information, insight, wisdom, and I agree with you that convictional (is that even a word? Idk you get my drift) guilt can lead us to/back to Jesus. You explained it all with clear descriptive metaphors and language, yet when we talked about it you mentioned a few grammar things and there being too much passive voice and I’m like “What’s passive voice?” I don’t even know what passive voice was at the moment. I’m thankful you filled me in on that by the way. And when I read your work Acacia Faye, it’s alive with meaning, honesty, and emotions that touch the heart. I aspire to write as wonderfully as both of you do.
      I want to be able to do my work without a care in the world. To say “fudge you” to my insecurities and anxiety, to write without crying and using baked goods as swear words. I want to write as confidently as I walk in my favorite 70s styled 5 inch platform heels, to be as free with information as I am with my students, friends, and family. I want to see the unique beauty in my work as I see in others and my outward appearance. I want to be proud of my work, to love it, and I hope one day I will be able to celebrate what I’ve worked so hard to create. 
    It’s now 11:21pm, so I’m going to call it a night. I’ll probably edit this more throughout the week before sending it to you guys, then posting it on July 10th.
  
 July 4, 2017 
1:29pm – 3:07pm
       Happy Fourth guys! I thank both of you for including me in this new challenging endeavor of blog writing and maintenance. I haven’t thanked either of you, I think. I might have, I don’t know I can’t seem to recall. I’m in much higher spirits than I was on the 2nd, and I hope both of you are having a wonderful Fourth. I also want to say thank you for reading this letter too. I feel lighter now, having confessed everything, and for once I don’t hate what I’ve written. I might one of these days, but for now I’m going to celebrate I’ve written something. I still plan on posting this on the 10th, and I’ll be sending it off to you guys shortly. While this letter is still between me and God, I must confess one more thing: I’m not sure what others will think. But it’s okay. I don’t know what people think of me when I go out, I can only know what I think, and I like it. I’m excited now. 
        Please, celebrate what you guys have done too. Both of you have done so much, especially in my mind. Yes, none of us are novelist (yet) and none of us have been published in any major mainstream things, but both of you have been published at your Alma mater, which is more that I could say since I didn’t do much of anything at mine. I am sure one day we will be published somewhere and we’ll be able to go to the bookstore and see our books. Just remember not to sign them cause then the book/books will be marked as damaged and yeah that’s not good. Could leave a note in it though. That would be fun.
        We’re still starting out, still young, and still learning what it is we want to write about and how we want to write it. I’m confident all three of us will figure it all out, and accomplish everything we dream of accomplishing. I’m proud of us. 
                  
                                               Your friend, 
                                             LadybytheSea

P.S. here is the direct link to Sol LeWitt’s letter to her friend Eva Hesse as read by Benedict Cumberbatch : https://youtu.be/VnSMIgsPj5M

 

              

Essay: Personality

Every year I like to take the Myers-Briggs personality test, just to see if anything has changed. I’m usually an ENFP; Extroverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Perceiving. I usually either switch between the P and the J for the last letter, but the other three usually stay the same. I have changed a great deal since high school. I know I would have scored a more Introverted personality type back then, but now I know I am certainly Extroverted. I get my energy from being around people. When I am sad or depressed, I usually want a hug or someone to talk to. When I stay alone, I become somber and dissident. When I’m finally around people after long lengths of time alone in my room, it’s like instant relief! I feel my energy levels rise and energy juice is being pumped into my system.

I like to take these personality tests because they help me to reflect and truly gauge how I would react in certain situations. The test gives different scenarios dichotomizing various traits such as prioritizing open schedules or to-do lists, carefully planning or improvising, preferring social events or staying in, etc. The test even gave advice on how to proceed in life based on this personality type with relationships, friends, careers, and other areas, but I must say now that these tests should always be taken with caution. Many of these test takers tend to take these personality types as unbreakable molds which people fit into. Unfortunately, that is not how things work depending on your worldview.

Just as mentioned before, my personality changed after high school. There was a pivotal incident which changed my life forever, and that was the decision to fully commit myself to Jesus Christ. Though there were times after that incident when I fell away and did not live according to how a Christian should live, I was forever changed from that time on. I became a new person. Instead of someone living in sin unawares, I had the discernment to identify what was right and wrong. Though I often chose the wrong thing, I was not ignorant of the morality or lack thereof of my choices.

This change that I experienced in high school allowed my true personality to surface and thus be captured in the results of my test. I remember Out of all that were listed, Curious, Observant, and Energetic/Enthusiastic resounded the most. These are the traits that stuck with me since childhood, even though they have been expressed differently in the various stages of my life. I love learning new things. I remember when Netflix was still a DVD delivery service and we would have new movies in the mailbox every week. Not only would I watch the feature film multiple times, but I would also watch all the special features, look up all the cast members on imdb.com, and sometimes develop obsessions with my favorite films and actors. That curiosity grew into a handy tool when doing research. As an English major in college, I enjoyed the research projects more than creative writing. I liked making connections among things that already existed more than making up points and their connections.

Maybe I like to watch people and events pan out more than come up with such things from my mind. It’s not that I like to people watch, but I like to find details and the meaning behind them. I tend to notice an article of jewelry or sock color before I even look at someone’s face. Perhaps that’s just my personal quirk, but I think that the smallest things sometimes hold the deepest importance. My constant quest for meaning sometimes makes me seems a little odd. I like to fabricate my own metaphors and they do not always hit the mark when I try to explain them to others. I would excitedly try to convey my new connection I discovered in my research or in my own philosophical musings and they often responded with quizzical or blank countenances. However, the excitement never died out and even today, I still get very excited about anything that piques my interest. Now that I am a teacher, I have an open outlet to release my enthusiasm for learning, making connections from text to real life, and using the skills of observation.

These are my favorite personality traits that I embody, but I never would have noticed I possessed them if I had not taken the time for personal reflection. As a Christian, I know that these traits did not naturally spring up and develop in me, but were given to me as gifts by my Holy Father who made me. That might sound a mushy and illogical, but I believe it is the truth. Nowadays the truth, just like our personalities, seem to be blurred or be split into variations. It is not definitively “good” to do something because as soon as someone says that something is “good”, the argument is no longer on the something but the definition of “good” itself! I used to think it was more intelligent to keep questioning the question instead of searching for the answer, but now that the Lord has allowed certain parts of my personality to grow, I cannot keep stalling the truth. Personality and its traits are gifts from our Creator who knows every minute thing there is to know about each of us. I can choose to believe that, or I can keep believing that personality is this weird inner goop that will remain so unless we adopt an analytical lens; a worldview which defines the questions so we can focus on pursuing the truth.

 

This Myers-Briggs is often mistaken as a personality sorter, putting people into unchangeable groups without deviation. In my opinion, it is nothing more than a tool we can use to better examine ourselves and the gifts God gave us. I know He has a plan for my curiosity, observance, and enthusiasm. It is through personality and the myriads of different ones that barely being to shadow what God is like; a being so vast that he could create all the individual people and their personalities. My hope and prayer for us all is to know that God made us all with a purpose and a personality to fulfill that purpose. I am still learning it myself, but I know I am not alone in that pursuit. Regardless of the test scores, everyone makes up a part of God’s image and His personality.

By: Naomi Lea