Replayed Kind Words

      Today, as I was walking across the parking lot of a store, doing my best to step in every rain dropped puddle I could find, a woman in a large vehicle backed out directly in front of me. I stopped, of course and waited, but then she turned her head and looked at me. The surprise on her face was genuine. I expected little more from her than a hurried wave at me to continue on my way, or, perhaps, for her to continue backing up. I was neutral either way. To my very great surprise, she rolled down her window and smiled apologetically, saying kindly, "I am so very, very sorry. I didn't see you!"
      Her smile was infectious and I found myself returning the gracious gesture ( I hadn't really been paying attention, either).
      "It's no problem," I told her.   "You can go."
      "Oh no, no. You go. Get out of the rain. You go, please."
Such a short exchange between two perfect strangers, nothing more, really, than a momentary blip in my day. And yet, if it was merely a blip, and we were only strangers, why, then, did her words and smile replay over and over in my head as I continued on my way with puddles and then shopping? I don't know her and she certainly does not know me. Yet, there was a moment when the world of me and her connected and entwined.
Why? Because we live in days when walking down the street, with our eyes forward, seeing those around us, has become rare. We live in moments that we do not even see, so preoccupied are we with the electronic in our hands or the grudge against slights or the taut anxiety of an overstrung society.
      This woman's consideration, her immediate willingness to smile and speak kindly to a stranger, to make a connection beyond irritation or oblivion, was a rare moment.
       I have always been a people watcher. I watch who smiles, who cries, who grumbles and who laughs. I observe the countless passer-bys with their drawn and worried faces. I see the person with the scowl they have carried so long they do not even know they carry it. I make it a point to never stare down. I pass people by, and I smile. It is rare that anyone makes eye contact with me long enough to return the smile. And that is okay, I guess. We can't smile always, on the outside. But I smile at those I pass, and every so often, someone looks at me, sees me, and, sometimes with a startled expression, tentatively returns the smile.
      I watch people. Why are so many people oblivious to those around them? It is so easy to say something kind, to smile warmly, to nod pleasantly, to take a breath and relax and realize the world is beautiful. I admit I am not an eternal optimist and sometimes the world does not seem so beautiful. But that woman today, her in her car and me in my puddles, she made the world beautiful. She doesn't know she did it, I am sure, and I assume she was not intentionally trying to add anything to my day. But she did. She added a moment that has become so rare and far between in every day life for every day people, that I replayed her kindness again and again.
      Smile at those you pass by. See the colors of their eyes. Observe the countenance of their souls. Recognize their silent search for everyday beauty. It only take a split second to offer something beautiful to those around you. Do it enough and let it catch on until everyone is replaying kindness, not only within, but replaying it to others.
      Kindness from strangers should not be so extraordinary that it stops us in our tracks. Kindness should be a constant.



Sometimes, I do short fiction "Yellow Honesty"

Sometimes, I venture into the world of short fiction. I blame it on an amazing creative writing professor. And an amazing Brti Lit professor. Okay, mostly, I blame it on my very twisted, morbidly curious mind. Mainly, my blog has been nonfiction. However, I read a news article, I saw a news report, my soul cringed, and my imagination took off into the worlds of "how" and "why." From such, was born this.

The Color of Silence
By: Brook Marie

            They always told me to be honest with them, that the truth was better than lies no matter how painful the truth might be. “Be honest, always,” said my father in his deep, grumbling voice. “If you aren’t honest we can’t help you,” my mother spoke softly, all the good intentions of a mother resonating on the soft waves of her voice. “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” quoted my father to me one day: I was seven and had tried to explain away something or other. Tangled web. Tangled. Web. Sticky. Caught. Can’t get loose. Trapped.

            Yellow is a horrid color. Oh I know, people say – don’t ask me which people – that yellow is vibrant and alive and happy and cheerful! They say. They say. They don’t have a clue. My sister loves yellow. She would. She’s the happy child in my family. Always dancing and laughing, her blonde pigtails bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down – I race to the toilet and throw up violently. Outside the bathroom I hear my parent’s concerned voices.

            “We should take her to the doctor.” It is my mother. She thinks everything can be fixed with a Doctor’s visit.

                                    Mom, my heart is broken/

                                                The doctor can fix that dear/

                                    Mom, my soul is crushed and ripped open, a gaping hole/

Oh, sweetheart, let’s go see the Doctor! I’m sure he can help/

            My father’s voice follows. “It’s just the flu. That time of year again, you know. Winter is setting in wet this year and everyone at work has been getting the flu. It’ll pass.”

            The cool porcelain of the toilet kisses my cheek. They don’t know a thing. They can’t fix a thing. They asked for honesty. They asked for truth. The truth is, I hate yellow. And my sister is dancing about in a new, yellow dress.

­­______________________________

            When I was six I begged to ride the school bus to school for first grade. I was a big girl. In my mind, the world was something I could conquer with tea parties and sword fights. My mother and father smiled fondly, a touch of sadness in their eyes (“Our baby is growing up”) and agreed. Take your lunch box. Be safe. Sit up front near the driver. Be safe. Don’t run around while the bus is moving. Be safe. Don’t distract the driver. Be safe. We love you so much. Be safe. Mommy will be right here at the bus stop waiting for you when you come home. Be safe. Be safe. Be safe. Be. Safe. Safe.

            At church my parent’s best friends had children that rode the same bus as me that year. They smiled fondly when my mother boasted, somewhat sadly, about how independent I was becoming. My father rubbed her back and nodded, looking over my mother’s shoulder to wink at me. I grinned back and then ran off to play tag with the other kids. How innocent was the world I lived in!

            When we were leaving, my mom looked at me and said, “Drew and David and Elizabeth will ride the bus with you. Drew will make sure you don’t miss your stop for the first week or two; just until you get the hang of it.”

            Inwardly I scowled. I was a big girl. I didn’t need Drew to help me. He was twelve. He would be bossy. Outwardly I nodded, afraid to disagree lest my parents change their minds about letting me ride the bus. They smiled at me, satisfied that they were making the right decision.

______________________________

            Drew held my hand the first day, and helped me down the steps of the bus. Through the window, Elizabeth waved cheerfully. She is one year older than me and she is my best friend. Was. She is not my best friend any longer. My mother thanked Drew and I pulled my hand away. The bus was warm and smelled funny but I had reveled in the sense of “bigness” that swept over me when I rode it.

            Field trips on the bus were always fun. The cracked leather of the grey seats itched my bare legs that stuck out, skinny and white, from my new shorts. Elizabeth wasn’t on the bus. David wasn’t on the bus. Drew wasn’t on the bus. Only first graders. We were going to the Pumpkin Patch. I loved the bus, that day. The Field Trip monitors and the teachers cracked all the windows at the top. Autumn breeze came in cool and crisp like an apple. Field Trips were the best bus days.

            Winter and my mother was worried. There was ice and snow on the road. My father said there wasn’t, my mother argued there could be. Perhaps she had better drive me to school. But the bus pulled up to the house and away I went, my mother calling out as the doors squeaked shut, “Be safe!”

            Outside the bus, the world was grey and frosty, winter had come and the world would soon be white. Now it was only cold and dreary. Inside the bus I was warm and safe and Elizabeth sat beside me and my new scarf was soft and warm and long and wrapped like a hug around my neck.

            The next day Elizabeth and David were home sick and the rain poured down. My mother again called out, “Be safe!” adding, “Drew, make sure she doesn’t slip and fall or get pushed getting off the bus.”

            I didn’t slip. I didn’t fall. But I have yet to get back up.

______________________________

            I loathe yellow but my dreams are filled with yellow. I crave honesty but honesty is harder to find the longer you wait. My tongue swells up when the truth threatens to come out and my throat gets thick. My mother smiles at me, worry and concern etched across her face. My father frowns at me, confusion over my attitude creasing the corners of his mouth. And the truth lodges tight in my chest, catching my breath in a painful grasp of ugly nettles. It’s too late. Too late. Isn’t it? The truth is ugly. Honesty is supposed to be the kindest thing you can give someone, but it only looks tainted and black to me.

            My little sister is in the kitchen, crying. I have snapped at her. She is so small and the world is so bright for her and I have spoken harshly to her, cracked a portion of her sunshine. Mom’s voice carries softly, “Oh sweetie, that wasn’t very nice of her. Here, you come help me finish dinner.”

            The last time I was asked to help finish dinner, my mother pulled out a bag of shiny, yellow bell peppers. I screamed and howled, an animal set loose in the kitchen, and threw the repulsive vegetables across the room. I tried to find words for my torment. I was seven, then, and knew my words but my words no longer knew me. My mother sent me to my room. She never asked me what was wrong. She couldn’t have known to ask me. That’s what I tell myself. But she should have asked me. I was her child.

            Her child. No one else’s child. Hers and my fathers. They should have known that honesty was inside of me, trapped in a web, poisoned by a spider. But they didn’t ask because…because. I spilled paint purposely on my yellow shoes that Grandma sent me. Taking out the trash, one day, my father found all my yellow building bricks in the garbage bag. When I was eight, my mother received yellow flowers for her birthday. I cut the heads off. When she asked me why, I tried to tell her but how could my child’s mind find the words to explain that yellow cut me open and watched me bleed out? Sometimes honesty has no words.

            Now my father is yelling at me. I deserve it. I made my little sister cry. I shattered her perception of me, the protector, the bigger and better and stronger. My father never yells. He is a man of low, grumbling, soothing voice. I needed him to yell sooner but sooner came too late.

______________________________

            Today the sun came out, through the wintry grey of an overcast sky, and the cold, filtered light made my stomach churn. Little sister has on a pink snow coat – our mother stopped buying yellow clothing a month ago. It took her years to figure out that yellow destroys me, destroyed me, and she still hasn’t asked why. Elizabeth’s mom called my mom. She and her husband are going out of town and can my parents watch Drew, David, and Elizabeth? Why would my mother say yes? Why would my father agree? I haven’t been friends with Elizabeth in five years. Drew is old enough to watch everyone but his parents will be gone for two weeks and don’t want them alone for that long.

            They have been at my house for two days now. I cannot sleep. I lie in bed and grind my teeth, hoping the grating noise will drown out the wails inside of my head. Elizabeth has tried to be kind to me but kindness is a farce in the face of disowning honesty. I was honest with her and she turned away. I spilled out my brokenness to her and she silenced me.

            There is movement from the next room and I freeze under my covers, my hands gripping white on my chest. Everything around me slows down to a painful tick of each second on the clock by my bed. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Go. Away. Go. Away. Go. Away. The silence is loud, so loud! How can no one hear the silence? Tick. Tock. Go. Away. Silence is death. Death is the yellow glow of the hallway light that briefly flickers as honesty finds its way to my room. Tick. Tock. Time is running out.

______________________________

            There are no words for despair. Alone, now, in my tiny apartment, where I have painted the yellowed and aging walls a vicious green, I remember. The clock never stopped that night. The questions were never asked. The bus never slowed down. The screams never came. But honesty came.

            Lying naked on the shower floor, seventeen, a bottle of pills in my stomach, a patchwork of scars and cuts, old and new, revealed at last, my parents found me. They found what was left of me, the shell of me, the bottled up, broken, withheld honest part of me. I hated that hospital room where I recovered. Cheery yellow paint to wish the patients well again. In that hospital room, with a complete stranger, honesty came. She was kind and soft and understanding. Things were set in motion. But it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

            The damage is done. The break was final. Honesty only destroyed those around me when it finally came out. When I was a child, I couldn’t find the words for honesty. When I was a teenager, I choked on the wall inside of me and buried myself beneath it. As an almost adult, I let it out and watched with a detached numbness the catastrophic fallout around me. This was the result.

            This is the result. I look around me. Pristine. Clean. Neat. Spotless. Orderly. Safe. Haven. Safe. Be safe. Make safe. Isolate. Withdraw. Precaution and contain. They can’t touch me. That is the result. They won’t touch me. I am broken, beyond repair.

            The sun is coming up. Another day. Yellow light streams in a thin line through the crack in the curtains. Stand up. Walk over. Seal the curtains shut. Outside, a school bus rumbles by, a yellow coffin singing my death.

           

As Promised - Peek Into "The Grim Daughter"

I am not an expert on the rules of publishing, though we all know I wish I was. LOL! But as such, because I have just begun to query this book out to agents, I am only sharing a brief excerpt from the opening scene. Over time I hope to share various other bits for your reading curiosity and pleasure. Here it is. "The Grim Daughter"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality....
~Emily Dickinson

CHAPTER ONE

            The first funeral that Kresley Morgan ever attended was when she was three years old. As cliché’s would go, it had been a somber affair with mourners dressed in the customary black, the sky had been overcast and spitting out a pathetic grey drizzle, and the tears had been flowing. Kresley remembered holding tight to her mother’s hand while vainly attempting to lean over the open hole in the ground and see below the casket. Looking back on it, Kresley realized that she had not been clutching her mother’s hand but her mother had been clutching hers, trying to keep her precocious young daughter from pitching head first into the dark and muddy hole.

            Since that first somber gathering, Kresley had attended, all total, sixteen funerals. She thought it ironic that she had basically attended one for every year of her life. Death had never scared her and now, as she approached her seventeenth birthday, Kresley found that she had developed a sort of passive acceptance to the concept of dying. It was hard to fear something that had been such a dominant part of her life.

            The last funeral she had attended should have choked her up, drawn a cry of anguish from her lips, leaked bitter tears from her brown eyes, or caused her to pull brokenly at her blonde hair. Instead, Kresley had stood by the mahogany casket, eyes dry, hair in place, mouth loose with relief as the sun beat overhead and before her, her mother had been lowered into the ground. She had been aware of the furtive, questioning looks from some and the overly sympathetic glances from others but she ignored them all. They had not had to live with her mother these last few months. They, who wanted to sob over the now deceased Mary Morgan, had not had to witness Mary’s last few weeks on this earth.

Forever and a Day

Has it truly been so long since last I visited the poor wee thing known as "my blog"? For shame! And I should indeed feel ashamed. Time has flown, I don't know where, and my life has continued stepping onward - one coffee fueled, fantasy prodded, too many goals at a time hectic step at a time. The clock has continued ticking and here I sit.

        So here is the short, fast, not to be bogged down by mundane details, update. I graduated! Yes, indeed I did. I spent months studying 19th century British literature and all that it entails. In the entire time I attended grad school, there was only one class offered in my emphasis. Many suggested I switch to something I had taken more classes in such as: Shakespearean literature, Post-modernism, creative writing, or Rhetoric. Did I listen? Hmmm... My husband is a Marine, and as such, he has a saying about Marines. "We work harder, not smarter." It is self-deprecating and entirely in good humor but with my emphasis in grad school I found myself doing that very thing. I refused to comp out in anything simply because it would be "easier." I have had a long standing love affair with all things British and 19th century since I first read Oliver Twist and then Jane Eyre at the ages of 9 and 10.

      Off I went, disappeared into a world of academic studying, education fiction reading, history drenched, and imperialism soaked 19th century. And I passed! Yes I did and I could not have been happier to walk down that aisle and accept my diploma. Even if the man squeezed into the chair next to me reeked of seven day body odor, stale corn chips, and beer, and was sweating enough liquid to float the Medusa! Yes, even then, I did it, was thrilled, and am done.

       Next, I plan on pursuing my PhD. But until such time, I have re-entered, with great zest and determination, the world of all things fantasy, paranormal, and slightly horrifying. From my head to this page and, hopefully, to your hands one day, dear reader.

      I have used my temporary reprieve from schooling to once more enter the world of writing strictly for MY pleasure. And what a wonderful break it has been. I have finished two more novels. One of them may have a sequel, although I cannot be positive. What I am positive of, is this: certain characters have taken on a marvelous life of their own and have henceforth taken up residence in my conscious and subconscious thoughts. Awake or asleep, they clamor about, demanding to be heard, and driving me relentlessly to continue telling their stories. They have become exceptionally dear to me. I think I will keep them about for some time to come. :)

     And now, in closing, I am going to try something new. Because I had so much fun writing my most recent novel, and because my fun is only increased when others derive pleasure from it as well, I am going to post the beginning of chapter one in my very next blog. I don't like to wait and others should not have to, so, I shall do it immediately after this.

     I hope you enjoy it, and, if you are still around after my sudden and abrupt hiatus, I hope you will continue to check in from time to time. I love to talk to any and all about a little bit of everything. Feel free to say hello!

On Querying and Rejection

I wish I had some amazing, flamboyant, simply enlightening advice for those of you on the journey to landing an agent and getting published - I really do. But this isn't that kind of blog. This is more a "I know what you're going through if you've been rejected more times than you can count" kind of blog.

Yesterday I received yet another rejection. I tried to count in my head, to find a number for how many that adds up to, now. It was impossible. I've been querying this one book for two and a half years now. I know that some people say, "Just shelf it and move on to the next" but I simply cannot do it. I believe in the book I have written that absolute much! Is that insanity? Not to me and it shouldn't be to you, either. You should believe in your work enough that you will take a thousand rejections with grace and then prepare for a thousand more. Keep writing, in the meantime, of course. Write your heart and soul and brains out. Write until the keys fall off your keyboard. Write until your fingertips become calloused. Whatever you do, write! But also, keep querying.

If I can get rejected as many times as I have, and still have complete faith in my work, and keep seeking out representation, then you can as well. There isn't any magic formula that makes rejection feel okay. It's basically just, Suck it up buttercup! LOL! Not what you wanted to hear? I know. I don't want to say that even to myself. But that's the truth. Keep in mind that you aren't the first to get rejected more times than you can track. There are plenty of people in the world that can fill the slot of giving up easily enough. Don't be one of them. Be one of the persevering writing god or goddesses!

Here's my bottom line, because I am going to keep this short: if you don't believe in your work enough to keep learning, keep trying, to keep researching and seeking ways to be better, then why should you deserve to land an agent and ultimately a publishing deal? You need to be so certain of your work that you can take rejection for as long as you have to. That's being a writer. That's having a story to tell that you just have to get out to the world. If it doesn't mean enough to you to try even when others say stop, then it won't mean much to anyone else out there.

Oh! KEEP WRITING! You don't have just one story to tell.

Just Keep Keeping On

We all have something we are working towards in life, something that we reach for only to have it seem to take several hasty steps further away from us. This can be discouraging, disheartening, and downright frustrating. To think, "There! I can just touch it!" and suddenly our end game seems more distant than it ever was. What to do? Abandon our dream, pick a new one, find a different goal? Don't give up!

Anything worth having is worth working for. Sometimes, more often than not if you are me, the thing worth having means more work than ever dreamed of. It doesn't matter. Look at it this way. Every fumbling step you take is just a building block of experience in life. Take myself for example. I have three huge goals in life. 1.) I want to get fit again, like I was when I got married. 2.) I want a Master's degree in English Literature. 3.) I want, so very badly, to find a literary agent that will look at my writings and say "YES! I can get you published!"

I spent the past 10 years fighting what seemed to be a losing battle against constant weight gain. And then two years ago I re-assessed and looked at everything I had done WRONG. I didn't look at what I had done right. To be truthful, I hadn't done much correctly. But what am I saying? Sometimes we get so wrapped up in what we think we are doing right, that we don't even realize everything we are doing wrong that is pulling us down, down, down.

Now, this is not always the case, but let me assure you, we, as a human beings, are proud creatures! To admit we might be wrong is to admit a weakness that can be scary to face. And yet, we must look at the downside as well as the upside. The downside tells us how we can improve, where we can improve. If we are only ever right then shouldn't we have succeeded in every area of our lives by now? Yes. But we haven't (unless you are perfect and then, of reader, please let me meet you and learn from you!).

I wasted three years taking inconsequential classes as I pursued a basic bachelor's degree. Oh, I told everyone around me that I was excelling and pursuing and getting closer to my dreams, but in reality I was scared to fail and so I danced around getting down to business. This is the next thing I want to bring up.

Don't scare yourself or intimidate yourself into believing that you could possibly fail to reach your goals. It's easy to say we don't do this, but quite often, if we look deep inside, we will find that the reason our goals always seem so far away, is because we have been sabotaging ourselves. It may be unintentional, but there it is; lurking beneath the surface, so close to our skin, that we have become used to it and no longer see it for what it is. It's okay to be scared. I don't think I would want to chase something so boring that it never frightened me at least a little! Be frightened! Let your dreams and goals be that big. Just learn to control that fear.

For those of you who write, who wish to be but are  not published, who create worlds in your minds and characters that keep you company, those of you who dream of one day having your hard work acknowledged, keep on keeping on. Re-assess what you have been doing up to this point and look at the things that DO NOT work for you. Don't look at what you've done right so far. What you've done right up to this point hasn't taken you to where you hoped you'd be by now, has it? If it has, please disregard this. I am speaking to myself and to those who are still chasing that publishing dream.

Stop letting fear keep you from learning from those who have succeeded. Stop thinking that what you do right is the only way to improve. Take your faults, shortcomings, downsides, and excuses, line them up, list them out, and tackle them one by one. Eventually, you will succeed. It will be worth every hour of heartache and pain, frustration and tears, sweat and agony that you go through. I find that there is little satisfaction in easy, handed to me, success. When I succeed, I want to look back and see the trail of me I have left behind - because behind me are the parts I did not need. I shed them like an unwanted layer of faults and shortcomings and became better and stronger.

Growing and learning should be a never ending experience. So make mistakes, be scared, be humble, take advice, concede to the fact that we do not know everything, and always keep keeping on.



*I graduate with my Master's degree in English Romantic and Victorian Literature in the Fall of 2016
*I have shed almost 70 pounds in the past 16 months
*I have two academic pieces being published and am still chasing the elusive literary agent for my fiction. :)

The Terror of Trumpkin: Part One

Trumpkin. That was his name. Or, its name. Trumpkin. Two small syllables dreamed up in the mind of a nine year old girl that could strike terror into the hearts of her siblings. Trumpkin. Who is Trumpkin, you ask? Let me tell you.


Long ago, before there were ten of us, there were five, and of those five, there were three who ran through the woods behind their house. Laughter bounced off the sunlight dappled trees, and shouts of imaginary conquest sent the wildlife scurrying for cover. To one side of the edge of this wood lie a large lawn topped by our home and to the other side of the wood ran a singing, bubbling creek. We were children with no worries beyond what our young imaginations could muster up. For the most part, the limit of terrifying in our minds was nothing more dreadful than to be caught in the woods after the sun set. Why the dark trees might scare us, we could not say. But that is the thing about the dark, one can never be certain what hides beneath the black and shadowy veil. But I digress.

There ran us three, James, Jeneva, and myself. From towering rock walls that loomed to life with groans and lurches, to towers that bent low to whisper spells in our ears, to the waters of the creek that offered healing powers, all the way down the smallest animal burrow in which resided creatures known only to us, we surrounded ourselves in those woods with imaginary play. All was beautiful and exciting, bright and thrilling. Until one day...

"Trumpkin came to my window last night," whispered Jeneva as we stood at the edge of the wood.

"He told me that I had to bring you in to meet him."

Something cold tickled my spine, a sensation new and unfamiliar to me. Beside me, James had fallen silent, his ever turning mind expressed in the skeptical twist of his brows.

"What's a Trumpkin?" inquired James.

He didn't appear nervous. Never one to be left behind, I mustered up my best brave and bored voice. "Yeah. What's a Trumpkin? No one came to your window, Jeneva!"

At this point, somewhere in the woods a loud crack could be heard. Irony? Perfect timing? Coincidence? You tell me. At the sudden sound, Jeneva jerked her head to peer nervously over her shoulder. When she looked back at us, there was a hint of urgency in her face.

"Just come meet him," she insisted. "He's, uh, he's not very big. He lives in the hole by the old bush and rotted tree. He wants to play with us."

A person might consider what I am saying and convince themselves that they would never fall for such a trick. A seven year old, however, as James and I were at that time, has a harder time ignoring the excitement of a the fantasy realm. After all, we lived out our most exciting fantasies in these woods, day after day. This constant play only added to fuel our suspicions that perhaps Jeneva had met something outside her window.

Still, we chose caution. We were iron children and could handle anything but iron still bends to the new and inviting. James and I peered more closely into the woods where Jeneva had just been looking. She had looked nervous. There might be something there after all.

"Tell him to come meet us right here," demanded practical James. He folded his arms over his chest to emphasize the point of his skepticism. "If you saw him at your window then he can come out here and see us."

"No, no, no!" Jeneva was shaking her head furiously. "He doesn't like the light! It's better in the woods. He won't hurt you...he just wants to play."

I caught the hesitation in her voice, the pause between words. But how could I say no? This Trumpkin character preferred the shadows to the light. I glanced up at the mid-morning sun: I preferred the shadows to the sunlight. Perhaps this thing, whatever it was, would not be so bad. Already my mind was gone, chasing another daydream of my perfection in a world that circled around my every whim:Trumpkin would be grey - because he could not be too appealing. His eyes would be kind and soft. I would meet him and he would choose me as his number one playmate! Why? Because I was the most fun but also because I was mysterious. I prided myself on being mysterious. Others would be scared of him and those who were not frightened, well, that would be because they had no imagination and could not see him. But Trumpkin would be my friend. My parents would hear me talking to someone late at night and yet they would never see him. He would be my friend, my secret. He had only come to Jeneva because I was such a deep sleeper. Yes! That was it. Surely it was not because she had a better thought than me? No. Never. My parents would worry I was going crazy. They would take me to doctors. Doctors would discover that I had an unexplainable connection to a second world. Soon, the government would hear of me and they would want to study me. I would have to go on the run. Nowhere would be safe! But Trumpkin would take my hand in his long, wrinkly one, and he would open a hidden door in the rotting tree. I would follow him in and there I would find..."I'm going to find him!" I announced firmly. Jeneva smiled and stepped aside.

"Just follow that trail we use for the sword fights. He'll be waiting for you down there."

This gave me pause. She wasn't going with me? "Aren't you coming?" I asked, trying to sound brave.

James laughed. "You're scared," he teased. To Jeneva he stated, "There's no such thing as a Trumpkin. I'm going to catch craw-daddies in the creek." Off he went. Jeneva called after him, "Don't make him mad! He isn't nice when he is mad!"

I later realized that these words were purely for my benefit. I had been hooked by her imagination and mine. Trumpkin was already taking shape in my mind. Only, now he was not the kind-eyed creature of my previous mental musings. Now, his eyes had become slits, suspicious and cunning. Did I really want to go into the woods alone?

Sensing my hesitation, Jeneva trotted past me. "Come on, Brook! I'll lead the way. If we find him, it will be so much fun." With that, she turned and sprinted ahead.

I hurried to keep up, but, like the bad luck of a horror movie, she rounded a bend in the trees, and when I followed, she was gone. There I was, seven years old, a puppet to whatever diabolical scheme my imagination could come up with, completely alone, surrounded only by tall trees, and thick, tangled vines.

"Jeneva!" I called. "Jeneva, wait!"

Silence. Eerie, cold, creeping silence. Not even a bird. My heart began to flutter. "NO!" I said loudly to the shadowed trees. "She's just trying to scare me. Jeneva! I know you're hiding. Come out."

She did not come out. A brilliant thought came to me. Smiling to myself I placed my hands on my hips. "If you don't come out and show me Trumpkin, then I'm going to know it's all fake!"

Satisfied with my ultimatum, I waited. And waited. All around me, the shadows seemed to grow longer, the trees taller and more menacing. Still, I waited, even as my breath came in shorter puffs. Just as I was about to call for my sister one more time, a scream broke the silence!

"Jeneva?" My voice was a squeak, barely there. That scream had been hers.

A second later, on the heels of the scream, came Jeneva's voice from what seemed to be a great distance away. "Help me! Brook. Runnnn!!!

I didn't stop to think. My imagination was free. I tore through the woods, in the wrong direction I might add, from the house, and crashed through the trees and bushes. Behind me, my imagination followed:Run, little girl. I'm coming for you! It was Trumpkin! He had murdered my sister - or taken her prisoner in his smelly, rotting, old lair - and now he was coming to steal my heart! I was sure of it. Even now, as I ran, I could hear his large, scaled, bare feet scampering behind me, drawing closer, and closer. No! He wouldn't catch me. I picked up my speed. Where was I? This was a new part of the woods. I could hear the creek, somewhere. Faster, I flew through the woods. Faster, behind me, came Trumpkin. Now he had wings like a bat, but they were torn, and rotted. His tongue was a piece of rope that lashed after me, seeking to trip me up. There! Up ahead I saw the creek. With my breath coming in painful gasps, I broke free from the cover of the trees and reached the edge of the clear waters. Behind me, the wood fell quiet, with no sound or sign of the evil that had pursued me. "Stop it!" I ordered my mind. "There isn't anything there."

There was a popping sound to my right and when I glanced over I saw, some distance away, my sister peering at me from behind a tree. Her eyes were large and she looked terrified. "Brook," she called out hoarsely. "He's in the water!" And just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

Slowly, painfully, inch by inch I turned to look down at the creek running by my feet. The water rippled and circled, dark and foreboding. No longer did the waters sing and bubble. Darkness swirled at my feet, and, inch by terrifying inch, I watched as a face emerged!

To Be Continued...


Note* This is all true. The italics indicate where I am inside my mind and I allow you, the reader, to understand how my mind worked at that particular time. The rest are actual events as I remember them from my childhood.