drippedonpaper

"We were young and we were free
Unsure of who we had to be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The neighborhood changed once Gary moved in. He was different. Creative. Full of ideas for competition, whether it was who could arrive at the bus stop first or who brought the best lunch. He was popular at first because he was new. Where did he come from? All the girls wondered, was he single? (Some of the boys wondered too, but wouldn't admit it.)

But Gary's popularity lasted long beyond the typical "new kid" time of shining. He had a random mind and a charisma that somehow, you kept coming back for more.

For Gary knew how to draw us in. How? No one can quite explain how his ideas of ways to compete made us all want to succeed.

The older we got, the more our sleep patterns changed. Our parents complained how we could "sleep away half the day, why are you so lazy?" What our parents never realized is we weren't lazy at all. We were up at all hours due to Gary, always Gary.

Gary's yard was huge and somehow he persuaded his parents to let him build a fire pit in the backyard. And this wasn't just any fire pit! Gary found one made of old wheels. It was ingenious really! It had a crank so as the wheel turned, the fire was fed. The more the wheel turned, the higher the flames.

But this was Gary. So it wasn't enough to have the coolest fire pit ever! No, Gary was full of ideas. One night while we were sitting out, watching the flames, he spun an amazing tale of the magical origin of his fire pit, how it was forged by elves and witches, magic beaten into every bit of metal. For this was no ordinary fire pit, this was the Wheel of Chaos!

Gary had a way of whispering intensely, his voice building as his story grew. When he finally shouted, "The Wheel of Chaos!" suddenly a log fell hard into the fire, sparks jumped and we all screamed! The girls clutched the nearest boys (which the boys actually really enjoyed). Gary laughed. He said, "It's not just a wheel which runs of wood and charcoal. This Wheel of Chaos demands sparks of creativity and the chaotic competition. We all must feed the flames or the fire will consume us all!"

There was a wildness in his eyes when he said that. For one second, I wondered just how far Gary might go. Would he truly set the neighborhood on fire if we didn't enter his crazy competition? He was new. Was testing this theory worth a chance?

But we were young. Gary's ideas were fun. Why not? That's the stage of our lives, we followed any wild idea and we had the time to do so.

Our parents started to wonder what was up with us though. "Off to Gary's wheel, we'll be late tonight!" we'd yell, "Gary's what? A bonfire? What are you kids smoking over there? Maria? Maria, get back in here!"

But I didn't hear that last part. The fire beckoned. The magical dancing flames where, in the embers, anything seemed possible.

Gary was the Wizard of the flames. His competition to keep the fire going was simple. We would meet, encircle the fire, and tell stories. What shape they took didn't matter. But Gary as Grand King of the flames got to pick what our prompt was each night.

The words and phrases he came up with were never easy. And there we were, every other teen in the neighborhood staring at us as we tried to invent a story or poem on the spot. Fiction or not, the form didn't matter, but when Gary called your name, you had to be ready to stand and say something.

It was like the world's most twisted version of truth or dare. Sometimes, under the pressure of recitation, we would end up saying the only thing the prompt could make us think of, how that word reminded us of an abuse in our past or a bad break-up. I learned so much through the Wheel. I wasn't alone. Even the popular kids wondered if they belonged. Even some of the pretty girls felt ugly. Sometimes I felt it was less a Wheel of Chaos and more a Wheel of Truth, every night, cranking out to me, that in our fears, we are all the same.

I often worried I would get teased at high school for the ways I bared my heart before the flames. Even fiction was a window into my soul, for I, the composer, couldn't help but tint a story with my thoughts, my hopes, my fears.

But somehow the Wheel was sacred. What was spoken there was only for the Wheel.

Teens told their stories. Some ended up offering confessional love poems. Couples were made and couples broke up based on what was offered up before the wheel. And somehow the wheel stayed a separate space. A shyer girl, I truly hoped by offering the best story I could conjure at the Wheel, that somehow I could become part of a group. The Wheel drew so many at the beginning. They were clap for my stories when, if Gary felt it was due, he would solemnly turn the crank, drop a log and boom! I would move on to the next week of competition. My pride in that moment was boundless.

If I could win the wheel with creativity, surely I could win a spot in a social circle in our high school. I offered the best I could of my heart, praying a log would drop, cheering in my heart when it did, and hoping I could see results the next day in the cafeteria. But the Wheel was sacred, was separate and sometimes the only time we shy ones could shine.

Competitions are tough. Some teens had a true life, so they would "bye, Gary! I'm out" and leave on dates or for a shift at their jobs. Every evening we lost more and more until, one night, there were only 3.

Around the Wheel sat only K inkstainedfingertips ("Call me Inkfingers"), Lolita l0lita (the prettiest girl in school), Gary, and me.

I couldn't believe it. That Inkfingers and lolita remained, I could believe. Both had endless wells of stories to retell. Somehow Inkfingers' stories were always perfect for the shadows of a bonfire, often ending with someone dying or being mained. His stories often made it hard for me to sleep at night. They would start common enough, with a story anyone could assume was true, but somehow the world of his stories contained demon, magic, ghosts and spirits. I wondered if violent stories were due to the pulsing testosterone of all teen boys or if they hid love and pain and longing. As a guy, did he feel the only acceptable emotion was anger at injustice so he gave himself villains to vanquish, to spill upon them what he could no longer hold? I wanted to ask, but he seemed so talented, all I could do was clap at the end, hoping my eyes betrayed the admiration his talent deserved.

I envied his talent. I wanted to become Inkfingers. I knew one day he'd be the Stephen King of our times. I felt the best I might could hope for is a mention an acknowledgement page of one best seller he would one day write. I hoped he'd remember me, if I was lucky. Maybe my name was the only part of me to ever make it to print.

Lolita, ah now she was marvel. She moved here just before school started. The Wheel competition was already in full swing, but somehow she lucked out. I shouldn't say "lucked out." She took her rightful place as her talent deserved. Gary opened the floor to new contestants and if she didn't stand up and steal the spotlight, quickly establishing that not only did she desevere to tell her stories, she deserved to shine. It was a hard call who was the best among us. Inkfingers, Lolita or ... me (Maria)?

Maria. I always wondered why my name was so plain. Lolita, why that was straight out of literature, edgy literature to be honest. And Inkfingers, what a title. I couldn't tell if it echoes of creativity or creepiness or something in between. Why couldn't I come up with something like that.

I often felt I somehow found myself standing at the end of our weeks of competition just due to lack of a social life. So many who were better story tellers had to "Bye, Gary" early in the weeks of our competition. I felt sure if they had stayed, there were be no way I was one of the three left standing.

But here we were and "It's almost the New Year, you hippies." Gary drawled, poking the fire. "And you know what a New Year demands? A sacrifice!"

Lolita and I jumped.

Gary laughed. "Not a human sacrifice. I think my parents would draw the line at that. I think. Probably shouldn't test that. I mean, it's time. Tonight's the night. Last stories and then the wheel decides who ends this year the Keeper of the Flames."

"The Keeper of the Flames?" Lolita asked.

"The winner. The ultimate conqueror. The only one who has to dance naked by the fire ...I mean, never mind, did I say that outloud?"

Inkfingers laughed. "I'm hoping you hope it's one of these ladies, dude. Seriously!" He dug his elbow into Gary and they both chortled.

"I mean, it's time. January 1st is a New Year. Next year will be a new competition. So it's time to close it out. Which one of you can turn this Wheel for the last time?"

I trembled. I wanted to win so bad. Inkfingers was suave, talented and bound to be famous. Lolita with brains, beauty and endless versatility in story presentations, both of them would go far but me, me, I'd almost be willing to do that naked dance by the fire. Anything to win, to feel a spark of approval, to feel I actually accomplished something someone else cared about before I snuck back into the shadows.

"Are you...You will have more competitions, right?" I tentatively asked Gary.

"I will. But will you be there? Will you be there?" He turned around the fire in his menacing, charismatic way, pointing at each of us in turn.

Would we be there? The few, the faithful. We could try again, but as Gary pointed I remembered Luna, story-teller extraordinaire. She told the best stories of all until that one night she wasn't by the fire.

We thought she was late or maybe sick. I am forever ashamed that I was glad that night as we never had enough time for everyone to tell their stories. There was a complex system of turns that Gary alone kept track of. Luna wasn't there so somehow I move up in the queue.

My stories were always my best, but I felt the contrast with others sometimes shaded mine in shadows. Luna wasn't there that night, which built my confidence. It was a shining memory, until we learned of Luna's accident.

The next time we met, the only stories we told were of Luna. At the end, for the first time, Gary extinguished the flames while we were there. "I pour this water in memory of Luna, may her creativity forever flow" Gary proclaimed solemnly.

He then had us line up, as one by one he drew a crescent moon on each forehead with an ashy finger. "For Luna," he intoned.

"For Luna," we each responded.

As here we gathered, around the fire of our youth, adulthood lurked within the shadows. With three of us still standing, I wondered if I could ever find significance in my life. If I didn't win tonight, perhaps the best I could hope would be that Gary would continue to hold bonfires, that one night the fire could be doused in my honor.

I wondered, as teens often do, would he draw an "M" of ash on everyone's forehead? I shuddered. I think Inkfinger's stories had me seeing death in every shadow.

Some people get happy endings right?

What did our adult lives hold?

I only knew that if tonight was the end, if there were a way, I never wanted to leave this fire. It was chilly, forecasters said it would snow tomorrow but tonight, tonight I felt seen. I wasn't sitting alone in my room. Tonight, I had a story to tell and actually had people to listen. Tonight, someone would hear the voice in my head that was never quiet.

There was Lolita, smiling at me. I watched the firelight shine on her long hair. Her stories were genius, we all thought so. I loved listening to them. In a way, Lolita and Inkfingers were the yin and the yang. Two types, so different. Light and darkness, a perfect contrast. And me? Why was I there?

I was glad I wasn't Gary. I didn't know how he would decide the winner tonight, but I knew I never could.

As much as I wanted to be seen, to be known, to have it whispered around school that "Maria won! Maria? Which girl was that again?" I also couldn't see taking it away from Lolita or Inkfingers. Inkfingers wasn't a school athlete. Though he beat the heck out of others in Quizbowl, I knew he would love to have his creativity acknowledged. Competition and winning matter, but especially, it seemed, to the guys at school.

Lolita was new and winning could launch her into the popular crowd probably. She just needed more people repeating her name. Her talent was undeniable.

I strongly thought about not taking my turn that night. If I refused, then Inkfingers or Lolita would win.

But we had come too far. I'd come each time, reciting my story one night when I probably had the flu (I did try to stand away from others at least) and spinning a tale even the week that Mike stood me up for prom. As I reminisced on our year, I realize what a gift Gary had given us.

What happened that year had shaped my stories, even the fiction ones. Mike standing me up for prom hurt so much that I was able to spin a passionate story of love, betrayal and revenge that week. Somehow Gary, giving us these times by the fire, helped me (and probably others) cleanse our blood in the flames. Our hurt and pain and anger dropped away beside the fire, 'til we crept into the shadows, quietly walking home, moving on, contemplating what we might compose next week rather than lingering on our past pain.

The Wheel of Fire was something to look forward to. Terrifying, electrifying, full of uncertainty, but a reason to get up in the morning. No matter that (still) I rarely had anyone to sit with at lunch.

As long as the Wheel endured, I had my place by the fire. And maybe that meant we were all winners, after all, thanks to Gary.

As this Idol season draws to a close, I enjoy looking back on what we have read this season.

My favorite entry I wrote was the second part of my story of Serena, the girl who can step inside of art. I hope to continue her story. My second Idol entry about Serena is here:

https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/29192.html


I wasn't the only one writing of females who break the social norms and stretch their magical worlds. My favorite entry this season (so far) was by bleodswean . I loved this entry so much because it felt like she wrote a metaphorical journey of my past and who I hope to be:

https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/538701.html

Idol always inspires to me reach not only into my imagination, but also into my past memories. This week I bring you on a brief overview of being 6, 7:
https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/36029.html

I cannot reminisce about my past without remembering who I am. All four of my grandparents were Scandinavian, so I like to remind my children to keep striving, keep fighting to live another day as we are of Viking blood! So this week I added to the lore, imagining the origin of at least one traditional Viking banner:

https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/35370.html

xeena isn't a Viking, but she was definitely a worthy opponent this season and is a very talented writer. One of my very favorite parts of participating in Idol for over a decade are the friends I have met. In the following entry, I wrote an open letter to my new friend xeena

https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/36806.html

I would love if anyone reading would comment with some of your thoughts and favorites encountered rolling through the Wheelhouse of the Chaos this season!

When I think of that time, I remember Mor's hands. She said even from my the days of my infant beor, I seemed fascinated by her needle.

"You were a leikinn, leikinn to be sure, " Mor would laugh, chucking me under the chin. "I could hardly keep up with you, even as a litil barn. Such grabby hands! And oh, you knew what you wanted from the beginning, you did. Always reaching and fussing loud if I put you down. But in the evenings, sometimes, sometimes, you'd quiet for a bit. I didn't know why you were quiet, but I'd take it, desperate as I was to work with our cloth. If I didn't, I'd never stay ahead of it, with you and your brothers growing and stretching right out of your clothes, every time I turned around.

I didn't know why you would quiet until one day, I looked by at your in your little beor and saw that your eyes were following my needle. I guess it was flashing a bit, catching the firelight. I turned to your Far and said, 'Maybe she'll grow up to help with the mending,' and I was right, wasn't I? I could see you had the hunger to create right from the beginning. 'She wasn't the warrior you wanted, but maybe she's the mended you needed!' I told your Far.

How he laughed. 'You almost done?' he'd say, trying to snatch my needle, he was, "Come on to bed, I need another warrior!"

"Mor!" I'd reply, half delighted with the story of my early genius, half horrified at hearing of my parents' fun. Looking at her face, I couldn't imagine her with smooth cheeks and nimble fingers now.

"We had some fun, we did. Your Far was a good man, he was." She would sigh, turning to stir the fish stew. "Now I'm good for nothing but cooking, I am."

"And how could I take time to sew, if you weren't feeding us all and keeping me strong and all, Mor? Everything I weave has you in it as much as me, and I don't just mean the way that stew smell settles into my cloth. I'll have to wash it before it can be delivered to Ingrid, that's for sure!" Teasing and joking, that's what we did, whenever there was a spare moment. Long days, trying to stay warm enough to keep my fingers moving. In life, you either laugh or cry, that's what Mor said.

And the longer I live, the more I see how true she is. Not ready to tell her that yet, us being better at the laughing than the fancy speeches for sure, but I think she saw it in my smiles. I hope so.

Times were tough that winter after we lost Far. The harvest that fall hadn't been plentiful, though we saved all we could. There was more and more talk of the men going raiding. I was worried because this year Gunnar felt he was old enough to join the warriors. Mor didn't want him to go, I could tell.

"But I've been practicing, Mor. It's time. I couldn't even hold my head up if I didn't go," Gunnar would yell, right before the door slammed on his way out.

I was grateful for that door that winter. It was one of the last things Far had made before he died. Sometimes, when I slid it closed, I'd run my hand over it, for a just a minute. Far had rubbed it so smooth, I never felt a splinter. Touching that door, touching it, I felt closer to Far for just a minute.

"He'll go" Mor would sigh. "He'll go and hopefully find Far should he also reach Valhalla."

"Mor! How can you say that?" I would explain.

"Freya, Freya, calm yourself. Men do the going and women keep the fires burning. To fight your lot won't make it any better." Mor sounded weary.

"But Mor, there's no reason to think we'd lose Gunnar too. He is strong and young and quick."

"All it takes is a moment, my leikinn barn. Just a moment. As Odin says, 'Better to fight and fall than to live without hope.' Battle is the hope of the men, and their return is the hope of us women. You'd do well to remember that, Freya. Different hopes, different dreams, but we all want the same thing. Survival. And we each have our ways to get there." Mor uncovered a bowl and began kneading rye dough.

"Rye bread, Mor, and what's the occasion?" Rye was softer than our normal flatbread. To be making rye must be notable as Mor was stingy with our antler salt. We couldn't always count on renewing the salt supply as often as we wanted to.

"Well, you know this raid that Gunnar's so geisa about? That boy, you'd think if he doesn't fight soon, he'll go berserker on us, he will." Mor punched the dough, acting a bit geisa herself. There was nothing like Gunnar's drive to put himself in danger to get Mor heated. She'd slam around, still getting things done, but doing them with all her power behind them. Sometimes I thought Gunnar got his fighting ways from Mor more than from Far, but I'd never tell her that, of course.

"Yes... so you're making rye because of the raid?" It didn't make sense to me. Raids were common place enough, especially when the weather eased for a bit in the winter. The men said it was for supplies, which was likely true, but I sometimes wondered if the women didn't mind a bit of peace, instead of everyone stomping around each other in the longhouse. Things got a little tight and smelly in the winter, without the creek frozen and no easy way to wash.

"No, my Freya, there's something else Gunnar said before he got all tousled about going out to be a man. Frode himself asked Gunnar if you could be the one..." Mor's voice trailed off as she folded the dough and turned it over again.

"The one to what, Mor, to what?" I was practically dancing. What could Frode have said about me?

"Well, you know how they need a new banner, and while they were talking, Gunnar mentioned you. You're going to need to work swiftly, my barn, to get it done in the next two weeks!" Mor smiled, looking straight at me for once.

"Oh Mor, really? Me? I'll start today, I will. Are there any ... did Frode ask for a certain design? I can do anything, I really can."

"Two Ravens, this time."

Two? I knew the stories, we all did of Odin's ravens, but most flags just had one.

"Two?"

"Frode says with how important this raid is, we need both Thought and Memory this time. And Freya, remember how you made that lichens dye?"

"Yes, I have some lichens left. It's such a deep purple, my best dye yet!"

"Start with the dying. The cloth is over there." Mor was elbows deep in her dough, so she pointed with her chin.

Such a pile of cloth! I loved the look of fresh linen. "I'm to dye it all purple?"

"No, no girl, just enough to shape the Raven's. Gunnar said white linen background, with purple ravens sewn on. You think you can do it? We have both spoken highly of you, but I know you've never made a whole banner?"

"Mor, of course. I'll get started right away!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next weeks were long. First the dying and the cutting and the hemming and the sewing. My fingers were tired, but so were my eyes. How I wished it was summer, so I could sew in the outside light, but winter it was so I'd sit near the fire, straining for any bit of light as I worked. This wasn't a task to skimp on, the banner had to be strong and stay together in any weather. I made it of layers so it would be thicker.

One day, I was sewing away, and there was a voice at the door. I laid my sewing aside carefully and walked over.

"Hail and Joy!" I'd never seen this man before. He looked older than Gunnar, probably even a bit older than me. He had the most piercing blue eyes.

"Uh, Velkomin, Velkomin. Uh, Gunnar isn't here ..." my voice trailed off. I hated to rush away such a handsome warrior.

"I'm not looking for Gunnar. Frode sent me to inspect the banner. Are you Freya?" He looked at me again and, for a second I wondered.

"Am I ... of course, of course. It's right over here." I led the way. "And you are?" I had to know his name.

"Arne. I need to make sure I can carry this thing!" Arne laughed, and I swear the house, the hills, and the valley all echoed with his deep laughter. The fire even seemed brighter.

As I showed Arne how much I had completed, I wanted to cry. "Are you sure, you're the one to carry this?" I asked. It was well-known how dangerous the role of banner-bearer was.

"Of course, I volunteered!" Arne announced proudly. My heart sank. So far, we'd lost three banner bearers that I knew of.

"It's my role this time and maybe, maybe this will earn me a long sword" he started to explain. As Arne talked I forgot to be sad. We discussed the stories of Huginn (Thought) and Muninn (Memory).

"I always feel Huginn is the more important!" I announced passionately. "Leaders must think and reflect to make good decisions."

"And how does one reflect without Muninn?" Arne asked. "Memory guides our decisions as much as new information does. New is great, but not if you can't fit the ideas into cause and effect."

I was sorry when Arne left. Thankfully, he visited several times, "To check on the banner, " he would say with a smile.

After one of his visits, Mor shook her head. "To check on the banner!" Mor mimicked Arne's voice. "To check on the Freya, more like it!" she laughed.

"Mor!" I flushed. "Arne is conscientious is all."

"Oh he's conscientious all right. To everything ... or everyone I should say. Just be careful, Freya. You know how hard it is to love a warrior." Mor nodded toward Far's empty chair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I thought about what she said that night as we lay snuggled under furs. Loving a warrior was definitely the path to heartbreak. But what alternatives did I have? The only men who didn't fight were too young, too old, or too broken, like poor Gorm, born without a foot.

I watched the firelight dance on the ceiling as I thought about Arne's eyes. Surely someone as brave as him could outrun fate. Surely. Tired from my sewing, I drifted to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow the days raced by. I finished the banner in time, "And a fine one it is," Mor pronounced proudly.

The whole village was celebrating and feasting, getting ready to send the men off. Mor had gone to trade for supplies, that last time Arne stopped by.

"So you leave tomorrow?" I said. I couldn't imagine not seeing him again. Surely he would be safe, surely.

"Yes and, and Freya. Would you ... " he touched my face so gentle and suddenly his hands were in my hair.

"Oh Arne,"

His mouth was warm, his touch so gentle, the bed so close. I was glad the banner wasn't ruined, as I later saw we'd dropped it to the ground in our rush to, well, let's just say our rush to say good-bye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I went down to the water with the rest, waving off our proud warriors. Mor had tears in her eyes and so did I. I felt so ashamed, unsure if I was more upset that Gunnar was leaving or that Arne was. I just knew that sometimes I hated this life of ours. If the cruel climate wasn't enough, to send away the ones we love, survival seemed too much sometimes.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mor and I filled our days with cooking and mending, carrying for the animals, toting the water. There was more to do with Gunnar gone and that worked for me.

"Are you alright, my liekinn barn? All that sewing and dying took the color right out of you, Freya," Mor sighed as she stirred yet another fire stew.

I swear we'd been warming up the same old stew day after day after day ... I rushed outside, unable to stop the sickness bursting from my mouth.

I wiped my mouth with the edge of my skirt and took deep breathes of the cold, cold air.

Mor put her arm around me. I hadn't even heard her come outside.

"Ah Freya, my Freya, are you?"

I nodded, then met her eyes defiantly. "Arne carries his banner and I'll carry mine!" I cupped my hands over my stomach and marched into the house.

What else was there to say? Mor didn't mention it again, as we waited for news. What's done is done and if we women knew anything, we knew how to hold on: hold on to hope, hold on to memory, and hold on to our needles, ready to sew for whatever the future brings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes:

I envision this entry has happening among the Vikings.

Odin was the mythical god of War whose two ravens, Huginn (Thought) and Muninn (Memory) flew around gathering news and whispering it to Odin.

Definitions:

Mor- mother
beor- bed
leikinn- playful, full of fun
litil barn- little child
Far- Father
Hail and Joy! - Norse greeting
Velkomin- Welcome

There was only one bed on our side of the hotel room.

Christopher was annoying, truly he was. Ten year younger than me, at age six he had flown right past “cute, new, and harmless” and straight into the “feral but Omni present” stage of brotherhood that, I swear led Ishmael and Isaac to hate each other enough we still don’t have peace in the Middle East. I digress, but I do mean it.

Christopher was skinny, hyper, kicked in his sleep and somehow drooled on my pillow (mine not his) that night.

“Mom, Christopher is annoying, this isn’t fair,” I whined as we both donned our ridiculous tuxedos. Aunt Charlotte was getting married, thus the tuxes and the too small hotel room and my drooled on pillow.

“I am not annoying, I am Spider-Man,” Christopher insisted. Shaking loose of mom, he ran over to our bed and jumped off, saying, “Saving the world, spider style.” He landed right on my open suitcase.

“Mom,” I yelled, running over to my suitcase. “ He almost broke my phone! I can’t deal with him today.”

“ You have to and you will,” she replied calmly. “And you will be the cutest groomsman and ring bearer ever,” she smiled. "Now, pose so I can take your photo.”

(I still have that photo on my phone. Messy suitcases behind us. Christopher wearing his spider man cape over his tux. Me, looking annoyed and bored. Two brothers who couldn't be more different.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wedding went pretty well. Everything went as rehearsed except Christopher ran down the aisle, rather than the slow steps to the music. He ran down yelling, “I am saving the world!”

Mom stepped forward, calmed him down and everyone did a quiet relieved chuckle. They laughed louder when Christopher yelled “Gross,” as Aunt Charlotte kissed our new Uncle Joe.

At the reception, they kept stopping by the table, saying, “Christopher did great, oh and Charlie too,” as though Christopher had quietly fulfilled his duties while I was the loud screw-up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Christopher gets away with everything,” I texted my friend, Aurora.

“I think he can be cute.” She texted back.

“He can be, if you never have to sleep with him, or lose him, or take care of him” I texted back.

Christopher and I were swimming at the hotel pool. He was swimming, I was texting Aurora.

“Is he swimming any better?” Aurora texted.


“Let me check” I looked up. Aurora was finally replying in real time and, yet again, Christopher was ruining my fun.

I scanned the kiddie pool. Oops, no Christopher in his stupid Spider-Man swim suit. That kid! Why couldn't he just stay where he was supposed to?

I reluctantly got up to walk to the restroom. Maybe Christopher was in there. I checked the stalls. No Christopher.

When I exited the restroom, I came out to a commotion. There were swarms of people circled around something ... someone on the ground. I could hear sirens in the parking lot.

Mom ran up, grabbed my arm. “Charlie, it’s not ….Charlie, where, where is Christopher?”

I looked up and when her eyes met mine, I think we both knew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is a two part story. It continues here:

https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/34885.html

"I definitely think you should..." Why, after so many years, does that phrase rise so easily to my lips? Only now, more often than not, I need to bit them back. No one is asking what they should do very often, and, honestly, honestly that could be a good sign. Do I know what they should do?

All I know is that once upon a time, there were three children and a mother who loved them very much.

At the time, I did not foresee the changes in store for that mother and those children. For now, I find myself living in "Once upon a time there were three adults and a mother who loved them very much."

This second story is one with less guidebooks. In the child version, you have certain criteria, such as:

1. Keep them safe.
2. Keep them fed.
3. Everyone needs sleep.

Now everything is much more topsy-turvy. Now it's:

1. They should choose to be safe and what degree of risk to tolerate.
2. They decide what keeps them fed.
3. Everyone needs sleep, but how, where, and when is mostly out of your control.

If I continue to be the same mother I was to children, I will smother away the adults who my three children are growing up to be.

So I try to listen even more. I am no longer a guide and a revealer of what the world is and how they should move in it. For they have entered other worlds: other jobs, other schools, and now, now they are the experts, growing close to people I may never know.

At best, I can listen (if they choose to share their experiences and plans. I do mention ideas of safety "stay in a group, buddy up" when my teen talks of heading to public Halloween parties. But their safety? That's up to them now.

It's a struggle. Sometimes I fight the instinct to gather them up and lock the door. Even thinking it, I realize the absolute impossibility of that idea. They are all bigger and stronger than me. I tried to raise them without a cage of fear and disapproval, which means, unfettered, they are exploring and dreaming, seeing which part of life is a place to make their home.

I don't want to hold them back. I hope they live their whole life with wings. Birds don't always fly, but without clipped wings, any place can be a joyful choice rather than a dreary prison.

I didn't realize how much their growing meant that I, too, need to grow. I need to grow into a love that is given with an open hand. I seek to rejoice in their joys even when I do not understand them, even when they are not the choices I might have made.

I try to more often use the phrases, "What do you feel you are drawn to? I'm proud that you accomplished that. You worked hard."

Their lives are not for my glory. They are earning their accomplishments. My role is to stand in the sidelines and clap. To often hugs, soup, and blankets, and then, yet again, an open door.

Yes, I'm sending them into that great, big scary world full of bad people. But there's good people out there too and maybe, just maybe, if I'm one of those lucky parents, maybe my kids will be some of those good people that others find. Good people to work with, to have fun with, and no one knows what might happen next.

I hope I get to hear about it.

The scent of coffee brewing woke her up. Jodi stretched. Another day, another dollar. That's what the humans say, right?

She rolled over and stretched again. Who knew what the day would bring?

After 800 years, sometimes she woke up a little confused about who her current master was. Master or mistress, she should say. Four hundred years ago, when the International Board of Genies authorized genies to grant the wishes of females (as long as proper wish form was followed), Jodi wasn't the only one cheering. It's about time! If nothing else, just for some variety! Womens' wishes were often different than mens' and if she had to grant one more man the BJ of his dreams...well! If she had to, she knew it must be another Tuesday, that's what! What a waste of a wish!

She sat up and reached over to her coffee maker. Once again, she wished she had space for a proper kitchen! Genie bottles were cute on the outside, but, let me tell you, genies started the tiny house and minimalist movement way before that lady wished to write her best seller on the "Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up"! At least she did leave the word "magic" in the title as a little nod to Jodi. It's not exactly a kitchen addition but hey, most people just ask and ask. They won't even converse with her much, it's just "Jodi, Jodi, how many wishes do I have left? Jodi, can I gift you to my husband once I get my three? Jodi, is there an upper limit on the money I can ask for?"

Never, "Jodi, how do you feel today?" Or even "Jodi, thank you so much you change my life?"

She poured her coffee and tried to remember if she still had creamer. Sometimes that would be her wish. And that's the most ironic thing of all. No ability to wish for herself. Or even do a little grocery shopping. She figured it was by design. If genies could do their own shopping, they might just be done with all this wish granting nonsense.

She opened the mini fridge next to her bed to find ... no creamer. There was a little milk though so she decided that milk and maybe a cube of sugar would had to do. She needed a least a little caffeine or she wasn't going to be using the approved, "How may I serve you?" phrase that that Chick-Fil-A HR guy was so pleased to receive when he wished for a perfect training question. Once he started using it, she pointed out how subservient it sounded. Fast food employees don't need to metaphorically lick other's feet for the grand wage of $9 an hour! But he incorporated it into his training sessions and she always wanted to laugh as people responded to the official genie phrase as though the best wish of all was some hot, fried, artery-clogging chicken!

How much she had seen in over 800 years. What would she wish for after all? Maybe to travel more? Maybe a bigger place to live? Or maybe, maybe best of all to stop being treated like a minimum wage server of fried chicken (or a server of young skinny girlfriends, depending on who was asking)!

"Jodi, Yo, Jodi, you in there?"

"How may I serve you?" (Oh yeah, now I remember. It's that winner, Mr. 'Let Me Clean Your Dryer Vents' himself.)

"Can't you get on out here, girl?"

(OMG, his grammar is so impeccable! Not!)

"Anytime, Master"

She popped out, deciding a dramatic puff of blue smoke was best today. So little choices, but smoke color was one, and gosh, it was fun to decide. Sometimes she added glitter, just for laughs. And depending on the master, sometimes it REAL glitter. The better to remember her by, once she moved on, as was always inevitable.

"Yo, Jodi, why you in a bathrobe? You know I prefer that belly-dancing getup, you know, with those jingle jangles?"

"Sir, it is a bit early. If I slept in my jingle-jangles, I wouldn't be very comfortable would I?"

"Whatever. I was just wanting to know...I could wish for any woman, right? Now is that living or dead? Famous or not?..."

As Mr. Vent (not his name, but she couldn't remember it) rambled on, detailing many more of his desires in a female than Jodi had ever wanted to know, Jodi amused herself by looking around. She was stuck with Mr. Vent in some...garage? Full of tools, but as he droned on she saw something with some possibilities...

"....and they need to be perky you know, nothing droopy for me, you understand?"

"Sir?" she interrupted.

"Uh yeah? You are taking notes right, because firm is entirely non-negotiable...?"

"Yes, yes, I just had a question? What is that ... over in the corner. With the long handle?"

"Oh, that's how I clean the vents, you know? Long handle, it even loops around."

"Could I borrow it?"

"Why sure, I mean, I have several. Now when we're talking skin, I don't want someone who has to lube it up, you know? I want real and young and soft and ...."

"Thanks. Let me pop in and change right quick."

Jodi grabbed the long, long brush and bobbed her head.

Home Sweet Home. She looked closer at the brush. She held it up.

"Ouch, don't be boppping me with my own tool, now, little girly. Are you listening in there?"

"Oh yeah, yeah, just grabbing a new notebook. I know, you want the most beautiful..."

Mr. Vent droned on as Jodie grinned to herself. This brush might turn out to be what she'd been wishing for. Now if he'd just go to work, she could try out the possibilities.

What keeps a genie in her bottle has always been her inability to rub the outside all alone. In centuries past, kings were smart enough to make laws against long-handled tools, but these days, Republicans were all about de-regulation and maybe, just maybe, this was going to work to their detriment.

If the brush worked for her, she might just have to start lending out her new tool. And once she freed the genies of certain key leaders, she might really enjoy finding a new community for the genies of people like Pam Bondi and Donald Trump.

Who said women can't change the world, and she meant good women this time, not shape-shifting aliens like Pam Bondi!

Give a genie a tool, and you better believe, she can learn how to fish. She'll have creamer whenever she wants now!

Title; "He Called Me 'Honey'"

Layers upon layers
Why do you smother me in explanations?
I haven't asked,
I didn't ask,
Yet you explain
Describe,

Coating the windows to my mind
With honey,
Sticky
Seductive
Thick as molasses.
You direct my attention to these drips
Distracting me with the mess
Whirling me into an urgency
You, yourself, create.

Your energy so focused
At times
I am the moth to your flame
Attracted to my own destruction
Because it's bright, so bright
I'm mesmerized!
I must inhale this warmth
Even at my peril.
You cheer on my pain.
I burn within your praise.
Finally
Someone sees me.

I've trained at the knee of a master,
Willingly directed,
Swayed,
Easily molded by praise
So rare and unpredictable
I'm so relieved to moisten
My dry tongue
That I don't search for patterns,
Just grab an puddle for sustenance
Roll in the mud
Refuse to waste a drop
In case the next drought is forever.

Trained that I must give
Every drop of my blood
To merely survive.
Again and again,
I sought the familiar
Empty halls.
I chase the echoes
Someone might be there?
Any withholding means love.

Inconsistency is the only rhythm I can dance to
A driving tempo
Fast, slow, fast.
I listen outside windows
Even if they never play my song.
I don't deserve a radio of my own.

You unleashed termites into my heart
I'm crumbling,
Melting to dust.
You feed me fear potions.
Telling me I'm not trying to heal.
"The worthy rise,"
You proclaim with confidence
As I cower into corners
So little is left.
I cannot leave without toes
Or feet.
Will I exist tomorrow?

I shy and hide from fountains
Believing you
and only you
Can parch my thirst,
That others offer poison.

And water, yes, one day
If you are good, really good
If you complete this list,
If you try harder to make me happy.
Oh, oops, well maybe tomorrow.

You only own tilting hourglasses,
The clocks on your wall spin back and forth
For somehow, the hour rarely comes
Or I was asleep,
I was late.
If only I had a dollar
For every time you said "tomorrow."

A crumbling heart,
A parched tongue
I was falling to pieces.
Then and only then
Did you use mirrors,
The smoky mirrors of shame
In which all the world was dark
And I,
A wispy ghost
Too weak,
Too dry,
Too old.

The hardest part wasn't leaving you
Or him
Or even him,
The hardest part was knowing
It wasn't an accident.

Some people seek to destroy,
And void of power,
They choose the soft.
They need someone to stomp on.

My daughter was voted
"Most Outspoken" last week
And inside I cheered
Perhaps she won't be an easy prey.
She doesn't even like honey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note: This is the past, not reflective of current life. But yes, I... chose badly more than once.

Thank you for reading. In a way, I hope you cannot understand this. But, if you do, please know, you ARE worthy of love.

Ultimately, one could say the infrastructure of our lives is in our genes. Many of the genes within me and my children came from countries other than the US (where we live now).

My husband and I had our genome analyzed (just out of curiosity). According to the Nebula Genomics, my genome ancestry is:

29% Northern and Central Europe
29% Scandinavia (Sweden, Norway and Iceland)
19% Finland
12% Northern British Isles
8% NE Europe
3% Northern Italy

On my mom's side of the family, my great-grandpa Edward was born in Sweden. His parents brought him to America as a child. His wife, Ida, was also was born in Sweden and came to America as a child. Ida gave birth to 8 children. Her 7th child was my grandpa, David.

The 7th child of 8 kids (my Grandpa, David) married the 7th child of 7 kids (my Grandma, Sara). Sara's parents were both Norwegian immigrants (named Charles and Sara.) Sara's dad , Charles, died at age 94 in 1964. Charles' dad, Hans N, died at age 86 in 1840. Based on some of my relatives ages, I wasn't surprised to find out through Nebula Genomics that I do carry longevity genes. The long lives of some of my relatives are even more amazing when you think about how primitive medical treatments were in the past.

My grandfather, David, died in 1987. For some reason, my memories of him begin when I was 9 years old, though I have photos of us together when I was younger. I don't remember him before I was 9 and that year (and perhaps before that?) he already had Alzheimers Disease. Whenever he saw me (at age 9), he would ask why the neighbor kids were in his home again.

Recently, I was looking for information on when he died (1987) and came across the following link. It contains the audio recording of an interview with him. My mom and her sisters (David's daughters) were amazed to finally hear his voice again. They didn't even know that this interview had ever been conducted. If interested, you can hear it too:

https://digitalcommons.morris.umn.edu/kmrs/56/

I enjoyed listening to the interview. I don't remember him telling stories about life before he was my grandfather.

On my dad's side, his father Melvin was born to Carl (my great-grandfather). Carl was born in Sweden. Carl came to America as a child, later married Ellen (who was born in Nebraska) and she gave birth to my grandpa, Melvin. In doing some research on my great-grandfather, Carl, I learned that Carl registered for World War I in Wausa, Nebraska. For many years, he supported his parents and his brother, in addition to his wife and children. Carl's dad, John, died at age 95 in 1959.

My grandpa, Melvin married my grandmother, Dorothy. Dorothy's father, Hans was born in Sweden. Hans married Lydia who was born in Michigan and she gave birth to Dorothy.

My grandpa, David, and my Grandma, Sara, had 3 daughters. My mom, Victoria, is the youngest. My grandpa Melvin and Grandma Dorothy had four children, of which my father, JP, was the oldest.

My parents had seven children. I was born second. I now have 3 children of my own. They are 3 of my parents' 26 grandchildren.

I am told a couple of my great-grandparents, but I only remember meeting my dad's grandma, Ellen. I remember carefully dressing my doll as my mom said Great-grandma wouldn't like the first outfit I put on my doll. Ellen died at age 91 in 1991.

Though I don't remember all the ancestors in my family's past, it looks like they all lived and endured through many harsh climates.

Many came to the USA from Norway and Sweden. However, their descendants were not content to stay in the USA. My grandpa Melvin and Grandma Dorothy lived 25 years in Tanzania, 10 years in Malaysia and 5 years in Singapore.

My father JP always said Africa (where he was born) felt more like home than anywhere else. We actually lived in Europe for a year and in Africa for 2 years when I was a child.

I am the second of seven children. My middle child is named Sara after my grandma (and my great-grandma). My sister, Lydia (named after one of my dad's grandmas), lived in Mauritania (Africa) for a year and in Kosovo (SE Europe) for 2 years after she grew up. My sister, Anna, lived in China for three years as an adult. My youngest sister Jubilee lived in Afghanistan for 3 years. Jubilee's daughter is named Dorothy (after my grandmother).

Traveling, roaming, trying new countries is apparently in my genes.

I don't know all the stories of why my people wandered, but my guess is its basically the story of humankind. We moved to find what we felt would be a better life for ourselves and our children. It's the story of humanity. When in drought, we move near water. When in need, we move closer to where we can find or grow food.

I like to think that the roaming of humans is natural. As far as I know, there isn't any Native American in my blood, but I do like their view that land should be respected and cared for, rather than bought and sold.

So much fighting in recent decades is about who is allowed to live here or there. I like to think that anyone could live anywhere as long as they are good stewards of the land.

I don't know where my children may move when they grow up. I know, at this point, they all love to visit far away countries.

Most of all, I remind myself and my children that our ancestors were strong people. They overcame many challenges, and we can make it through whatever happens tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My grandpa Melvin:
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/160981962/melvin_immanuel-lofgren

Melvin and Dorothy's wedding:
https://www.newspapers.com/article/ironwood-daily-globe-wedding-of-dorothy/4930521/

My Grandma Dorothy:
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/160981698/dorothy_elizabeth-lofgren

My Grandma Sara (includes obit):
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/32958654/sara_e-nordholm

My Grandpa David:
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/54599940/david_emanuel-nordholm

Great-Grandpa Hans (Dorothy's dad), includes obit:
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/160189356/hans_victor-hanson

My Grandma Dorothy:
https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/kansascity/name/dorothy-lofgren-obituary?id=4143145

Great-great-Grandpa John:
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/38265199/john_august-lofgren

The entry I am reimagining is here:
https://autumn-wind.dreamwidth.org/5429.html

The grand reception hall was heaving, everyone sipping the complimentary glasses of champagne, munching on tasty nibbles and brimming with anticipation for the night's entertainment, the annual opera event.

Everyone in the reception hall was excited, filled with anticipation. Backstage, there was a whole different mood of uneasiness as singers and techs alike whispered nervously. Winifred knew that the only story that mattered that night was the story of Carmen and Don Jose. As stage manager, Winifred's job was to make sure that the brilliance of the performance was the only thing the audience noticed tonight.

People had travelled from far and wide for this special event at the Balor Arts Centre in Donegal town for the Welsh National Opera's production of Carmen! People had paid for train tickets, for gas, for hotel rooms, not to mention for opera tickets. And it was Winifred's job to make sure that they felt they got the show they had paid for. Not the show that was currently waging back stage.

"Ten minutes. Ten minutes to curtain."

After the disastrous dress rehearsal, Winifred knocked on Natalia's door with trepidation. Usually she just knocked, announced "Ten minutes," and walked on, but she felt she needed to see if Natalia was going to be a professional tonight.

Last night during the dress rehearsal, the Natalia hadn't exactly followed the script.

In the last scene, Natalia as Carmen was supposed to say:
"This ring that you
once gave to me -
here, take it!"

And then she was supposed to throw it.

All was well, she said, "This ring that you once gave to me --- here, take it [but she went on] and shove it on the big toe of that cow you married. I can't believe I once loved you, you Oaf!!!"

Then, rather than dying dramatically, she ran off the stage screaming, "You LiAAAAAAHHHHH R!" Like a true professional, she trilled the word dramatically, 'til the last ahhh hit a G above the C above middle C)

"And uh, Cut?" Powell, the director, who until then had been coasting, paying only half-hearted hung over attention (or lack there of), had rushed on to stage.

"And uh, we all know the ending. That's a wrap. Call time, 5pm. Local time. And I'll figure out what Natalia is tamping No worries!" Somehow, Natalia's dramatics had invigorated Powell. He then rushed off the stage, exiting on the same side where Natalia had run off.

Winifred had panicked last night, but handling disasters, both major and minor, was what stage managing was all about. She left Natalia to Powell and spent the rest of her evening calming down every other singer, tech worker, orchestra member, and volunteer. It wasn't as hard as she expected either. Just a lot of listening and reassuring. Through the years, she'd learned that when calming others, the same phrases could be used over and over. The main thing to remember was to present herself as calm, collected, and unworried. Her projected mood was what really made the difference when a cast was worried or upset.

Finally, as the last tech was turning the lights off. Winifred walked through the stage, now lit by the ghost light, to find Powell.

She searched every corner, but found no sign of him, Luigi, or Natalia. She decided to shoot him a text and head to her apartment. Tomorrow was the performance, so she'd need to be back at the theatre bright and early.

~~~~~~~~~

The weather was bright and sunny when she awoke the next morning. Winifred hadn't heard much from Powell except a short text "It's handled" the night before. She trusted him, but wondered how he'd fixed such a big rift between stars with such big egos. The bigger an opera singers stardom, it usually seemed the bigger the black hole of their egos. In Winifred's experience, great talent rarely seemed to arrive cloaked in deep emotional intelligence. So often, it didn't seem it was the emotionally adjusted or well-rounded people who poured their souls into the finicky world of art.

All these thoughts were going through Winifred's mind as she walked into Natalia's dressing room, "Natalia are you..."

"It's handled, like I said." Powell was fastening a dressing gown around his (oh, gosh Winifred hoped somewhat clothed) waist.

"Bye, my love," Natalia giggled and waved coyly, as Powell strode deliberately for the dressing room door.

"Uh, good?" Winifred said. "I just, was checking to make sure you are happy, Natalia."

"Oh yes, so happy!" Again, that strangely girlish giggle. It might have been cute coming from a 12 year old, but seemed almost demonic from the overly rouged nearly 40 year old Natalia.

"Now, my hair looks fine, yes? I'll be out in just a minute. You run along, Winifred."

"Uh...sure?" Winifred left. The world of opera had a way of feeling like "The Twilight Zone."

She exited Natalia's dressing room and headed down the hallway. Suddenly someone grabbed her arm. She gasped as Powell clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Not a word, OK, Winifred? The show must go on and, let's just say, I did my part."

She shook her head. Powell let her go.

"It's none of my business who anyone loves, Powell. You know that!"

"Love. OMG, that has nothing to do with it. Seriously, Winifred, why would you insult me like that? The show must go on, that's all. And sometimes a diva can't seem to act unless someone (and don't you laugh) polishes her very fading ego. That's why we directors are paid the big bucks! But believe me, they aren't big enough!"

Powell stomped off, shaking his head.

Winifred checked her phone. Five minutes to curtain. Time for another round of door knocking!

Though Luigi's performance was stellar, as usual, the critics and fans raved about Natalia's "passionate performance" that night. When Winifred read the reviews, she wondered if Powell would continue directing operas in the future.

Powell's name might be larger than Winifred's in the program, but she'd never again wish for more acclaim. She unfortunately knew more than she wanted to ever learn about how a director could get a star to give, as the critics said, "the performance of a lifetime."

Natalia wondered yet again if maybe she should have just skipped college and stayed a daycare worker. Daycare involved roughly the same number of tantrums, but she hadn't managed a show yet that couldn't have benefited from a frequently used time out chair.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes:
In Wales, Tamping is a word used to describe your rage at something frustrating.

Also, the first line in the first and third paragraphs are from Autumn_wind's story, to tie them together.

Title: "Echoes of Possession"

10,000 hours. 10,000 hours. I told myself, this was the year. Put up or shut up.

Thankfully, driving can be almost automatic, when the route is familiar. The phrase, "!0,000 hours" kept repeating in my tired mind as I drove my good ole Honda Civic to my favorite coffee shop. I had to park further away than usual. I pulled in and, for just a minute thought, "Really, am I doing this? The odds are what, a million to one?!" But I remembered that forty is fast disappearing in rear view mirror of my life, and fifty is looming on the horizon with all the fun of AARP memberships and questions about "oh, do you have grandkids?"

I'm doing this. I grab my laptop in it's dusty old black bag. Put it over my shoulder. Open my car door. If nothing else, it might be interesting, right?

I walk into the coffee shop. Ding (the door chimes). The place looks dark. I don't know if it's truly dark or it's just my transition lenses. I study the "monthly specials" board. I swear they are very similar each month, they just switch out the names to match the holidays.

"Can I help you? We have some wonderful specials today!" The excited teen barista smiles with enthusiasm. I guess I'm old, but I find her perkiness a bit percolated. I bet the shop tries to conceal the low level of the wages with a high level of free employee drinks.

"Ma'm?" Her smile is slipping.

"Ah yeah, um, let me try the Golden Hour" I say.

"Hot or iced? Whole milk or oat? We also have soy and almond milk, if you prefer alternatives."

Oh my god. I almost replied, "In my day, the only thing we milked was cows, not nuts and plants." "In my day..." I sound like my grandparents!

"Uh, real milk. I mean, regular."

"Do you prefer whole, 2 % or skim?" Miss Teen Coffee USA was back with her questions.

"Whole I guess. I truly don't care."

"We aim to please. It will be right up. Can I have your name for the order?"

"Uh, Emily."

"Emily it is. That will be right up!" she chirps.

I look around. There is one empty table. I sit down with a sigh. Crap, I remember my mom sighing when she sat down. What the heck is happening to me these days?

I put my laptop in the wall, open the screen, and press the power button. It starts up. Of course it wants my password. I start to type and suddenly Miss Teen Thing trills, "Golden Hour for Emily!"

I jump up, and turn for the counter and almost fall flat on my face. I throw out my hands and feel ... something warm?!

"Whoopie-daisy there! You almost dropped that fancy computer!"

I look up and I'm holding hands with...Santa Clause? I blink my eyes shut, then slowly open. Maybe this is just a dream. Why would I dream about coffee though?

"Golden Hour for EMILY!"

"I'm coming!" I yell and everyone looks up. I say, "Excuse me?" and Santa lets go of my hand.

I grab my drink, murmur, "Yeah, thanks" and turn to go back to my table, only to see the other chair is now occupied.

Santa himself (or his plain clothes double) is now sitting across from my laptop.

"I just wanted to make sure you're ok."

"Yeah, I'm fine." I murmur.

"Dontcha worry, I'm leaving. I just ... I just wanted to tell you to hang on in there, little lady."

"Hang in there?" I take a longer drink of my coffee. Why does it seem like I can't even understand English today? I blink my eyes closed, then open. Nope, it's still real.

"What do you mean anyway, sir?" because honestly, I'm tired of it. I came here to ...to finally start keeping my promises to myself not to talk to people about milk and hanging in there and who the heck is this guy anyways?

"Sorry, that's right, I shoulda introduced myself. I'm Ralph, but of course that doesn't matter. I'm not the one you came to listen to, and I know that."

"Sir, I don't know you, but somehow it ... why would you know why I'm here."

"You have that look is all." He smiled and leaned back in his chair. If you could call that his chair. Technically it's at MY table.

I sigh and think, "OK, if you can't beat 'em, at least hear what they have to say."

"'That look'? Sir, if you could excuse me, see I have a lot to do" I nod meaningfully at my laptop.

"Oh sure, I know. Just hang in there. You're not the only one who hears them."

"Hears them?" Apparently they let just anyone in this coffee shop now. Good freaking g-d, what the heck with today.

"See it's ... it's easily explained." He smiles.

"It is?" I shake my head. I shut my laptop. Apparently, I'm going to hear this explanation.

"Yep. I personally think it's pretty clear that alternate timelines are the ways we all reincarnate."

I start to unplug my laptop.

"Hey, miss, just wait a minute. I wasn't trying to bother ya now, just...that's why you don't have to worry."

"Listen, sir, I believe it's my decision when to worry--"

"I just meant, little lady, that death isn't the end. It's not even the end of communication. That's why you hear them."

"Hear who?" Now I'm really irked. I pull out my phone to check the time. Dammit!

"Listen. You're a writer, right?"

"I mean... kind of. That was the plan today."

"I knew it!" His smug smile was almost annoying.

"I mean, I ... like to try to write, but I don't write about death or reincarnation or any of that. And honestly, I won't be writing about anything if I don't get to it."

He braced his hands on the table. "I know, I'm sorry to interrupt. I just... I didn't want you to fall. And then I wanted to remind you. It may seem like... echoes of possession, but it's just the timeline whispers. Some of us can hear them."

"You're saying that ... that when authors write it's... real people, on other timelines communicating? Hm." I can't help it. Now I'm interested. That's kind of a genius idea really. "So that would mean historical fiction--"

"Is the people in alternate pasts trying to set the story straight. See the other time lines have authors too."

"Ralph. You said your name is Ralph? You've really thought about this, haven't you?" He didn't look completely crazy. Clean jeans, plaid shirt. If you switched his ball cap for a red elf hat, he'd be Santa, but a clean, well-groomed one. Not that homeless variety you see out by the soup kitchen.

"Thought about it? Missy, I lived it. And honestly, I think you've got all those best possessed qualities. A bit curious, able to listen." He stood to his feet this time.

"I'll leave you to it. Just be careful if you get up."

Ralph headed to the door, saying, "And if it's any consolation, you'll never truly feel alone. They do love communicating!"

The coffee shop door closed behind him with a ding.

I looked down at my laptop. I slowly plugged it back in, took a sip of my too sweet Golden Hour, and opened the screen.

I typed in my password and clicked on the Word icon.

Ralph had said "You'll never feel alone."

At this point, I didn't know if that was a threat or a promise of chapters to come.

I took a deep breath. I began to type, "She started to trip and threw out her hands ..."