Why Do I Write?

Why do I write?  A common question that has surfaced in the last few months about my stories.

I write because I was born and raised in American Samoa, surrounded and immersed in a rich culture. I write because my children were born and raised in Utah, listening to sporadic stories from their parents and grandparents about growing up in the islands. I write because my children, along with many Pasifika children, hold ancestry in one or more of our Pacific Islander groups, but rarely, if ever, set foot on ancestral lands. I write because these children may not hear or learn of their stories. They may be more familiar with Harry Potter, or anime, or Disney, but they may not know the story of Sina and the eel, Pele and Kamapua'a, Tu'i Tonga's bloodline leading to the gods, or the meaning behind the well-known Maori haka, Ka Mate. I write so our Pasifika children can see themselves in stories, so they, along with others, can have a better understanding of Pacific Islanders, and above all, inspire them to start learning their own stories. Hopefully, they will pick up where I leave off, and continue telling our stories, bridging the gap between their heritage and the new space in which they live.

I was asked to speak about myself at the KUED pre-launch event for PBS's The Great American Read program that officially begins next Tuesday, September 11, 2018.  Since I don't do well with impromptu, I wrote this as my introduction.  I was then asked how I learned the stories.  It's been an ongoing process.  I learned some when I was growing up, but I feel like I've learned even more recently, as I research for my books, and because I want to know more.  

Lesson of the day:  Never stop learning or telling your stories.

 

A Work In Progress

My writing is a work in progress.  In the last five months, I self published two books, one middle school reader and one picture counting book that is in English and Samoan.  I've been interviewed by KUED (the local PBS station) and will have a 5-minute episode on my writing that will air on PBS throughout the year during The Great American Read (TGAR) series.  In a couple of weeks, there will be a prelaunch for TGAR and I will be there to discuss my book and view the episode before it airs on the nationwide launch date of September 11th.  I'm slowly working on the next book which is based in American Samoa.  The writing is always a work in progress.  But I love it.

My career is a work in progress.  I love working with students.  My current position has been extremely rewarding.  I have been encouraged to do more outreach, I have been supported when coming up with new ideas, and I have been taught new things that excite me.  I have been encouraged to write, not only for the department, but for myself.  I have been introduced to a fellow writer and publisher so I can "pick" her brain.  I continue to learn and grow in my position.

My life is a work in progress.  I have two, almost three, adult children and an almost teenager.  I am trying to adjust to their independence and sometime in the near future, the empty nest syndrome.  Many parents are elated to have their children out of the house.  Some even open the door and fling their childrens' bags to them as they dance on the porch waiting for those quiet times.  I am not one of those parents.  The thought of being home without my kids makes me sad.  So I am trying to take advantage of some extra time to write more, I signed up for a Samoan language class, and I'm doing more in-person events to promote my books.  I look at pictures of when my kids were young and wonder where the time went.

My faith is a work in progress.  I have always believed in God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost.  I have always turned to him and the scriptures in times of need and in times of joy.  I continue to struggle to know what is true, though.  The ideals and actions of man cloud the goodness of worshipping and fellowshipping.  Which one is true?  How do I know?  I keep going and receive bits and pieces of confirmation that what I'm doing is working and will continue to help me grow spiritually.

My thoughts are a work in progress.  There are days where I get lost in the daily tasks that are ever present as a full time working mom.  I have an idea pop into my head as I'm washing dishes, or cleaning the shower, or walking the dog.  Sometimes I can write them down to ponder later.  Sometimes I forget what I was thinking about since I'm bombarded once I walk in the door of my home.  Maybe a machine that can record the thoughts might be helpful?  Or maybe that's dangerous because some thoughts are not so nice.  Cancel that machine order. 

We are all a work in progress.  It's a neverending process that we should enjoy on this journey through life.  I've been learning about my ancestry, trying to gather stories from aunts and uncles about their days growing up.  I didn't get to write down my Dad's stories before he passed away.  So many memories gone.  I'm hoping my Mom will start writing her stories.  She used to write.  When I was a teenager.  We would drive up to the tram and I would sit quietly as my mom wrote.  She was writing children's stories about a tram and its adventures.  Sort of like a Thomas the Train.  I don't know where the stories are, if they're tucked safely away or if they are completely gone.  We will continue working on ourselves, gathering our family stories, and strive to be better people.

Excerpt from my next book...

“Come on, Junior.  Don’t be scared,” Tai giggled and grabbed his hand.  It was dark, and they were surrounded by a jungle.  He could hear the toads croaking and the breeze moving the leaves in the trees.  He felt nervous.  He felt scared. 

            We shouldn’t be here, he thought.  It didn’t feel right.  He felt like they were intruding on a sacred space and they were not welcome.  The hair on his arms stood up and he felt a chill slide down his back.

            Tai’s hand felt soft and warm.  He could smell her ginger perfume.  She was pulling him deeper into the darkness.

            We shouldn’t be here, he thought again.  He tried to pull her back, but a force was dragging him forward.

            Tai turned to look at him, frowning, her pale blue eyes glowing in the dark.  His knees felt weak and his body began to shake as shadowy figures rose in the darkness behind her.

*****

            His eyes were burning behind his closed eyelids.  He could feel a cool, wet touch to his forehead.  Gentle hands were massaging his head which was pounding.  His body felt like it was on fire.  He kicked off the sheets then began shaking uncontrollably from the chills.  Someone put his covers back on and added a heavy blanket that pinned him to his bed.  His head was being lifted.  Cool water touched his lips and he drank thirstily.  With his head back on his damp pillow, he moaned.  He heard his mom’s voice as she stroked his hair, singing softly.

*****

            Fiti stood at the edge of the cliff.  The water below was crashing against the rocks.  Blow holes shot ocean water high in the air sending droplets to fall on them like rain.  The wind was whipping through the coconut branches nearby.  Junior was nervous.  He didn’t want them to get hit by flying debris.  He also felt a deep fear.  Fiti was standing too close to the edge.  A gust of wind in the right direction could send him over the cliffs into the swirling mass and jagged rocks below.

            “Fiti, come away from there,” Junior pleaded.  “Let’s talk about this.”

            Fiti turned and glared at his friend.  Or the person he thought was his friend.

            “You know, Junior, no one wanted to be around you.  None of the guys.  They used to tease me because I wanted to be your friend.  They told me I was crazy.  They said you were cursed.  I never believed them or those stupid stories.  You were a nice person.  Quiet, yes.  But that was okay.  I never thought you would betray me like this,” Fiti’s eyes filled with tears.  His face twisted into a scowl, fists tight at his sides.

            Junior’s shoulders slumped, and he reached his hands out, stretching toward his buddy.

            “No, Fiti.  I didn’t betray you.  You’ve always been my best friend.  Always,” Junior said sadly.  He didn’t know what else to do.  He felt powerless.

            “Give her up,” Fiti challenged.

            Junior whispered, “I can’t.”

*****

            Junior woke up in sweat covered sheets.  His mouth felt dry, his voice hoarse as he tried to call someone.  He felt movement on his right side.  Strong hands lifted his head and put a cup to his lips.  He drank deeply.  Eyes still closed, his whole body burning, he heard heavy rain pattering against the tin roof above.  Gusts of wind blew in cool air.  He heard footsteps and the closing of louvres to keep out the wind and rain.  A clap of thunder and a flash of lightening made him jump.  A hand touched his forehead.  A cool cloth took the place of the hand.  He focused on the storm outside that lulled him back into a fevered sleep.

*****

            “Junior.”

            He turned as he heard a voice he didn’t recognize.  Frozen, he stared in the direction of the sound.

            “Junior,” the voice said again.

            Mama was standing behind him.  She smiled and reached out her hand.  Silently, he took it.  Her fingers were straight, long and graceful, and her grip was strong.  Tears streamed down his face.  When did she start talking?  And how was she able to use her hands again?

            “There are many things you need to know,” she began.  She guided him to the door.  They walked out into the sunlight toward the family graves.  Junior brushed off some leaves and sat with his grandmother near his father’s headstone.

            “Talofa e, isi ‘ou tei,” his grandmother said holding his hands.  “My sweet grandson, there is so much I need to tell you.  But time is short.  You are almost sixteen.  Have you noticed there are no men still alive in this family?  Only fafine.  Women.  Why do you think that is?”

            Junior shook his head.  He had wondered the same thing.  The idea nagged at him as he looked expectantly at Mama.

            “There is a family curse,” she began.

            Suddenly he felt an agonizing pain in his chest.  He bent over and wailed.

*****

“Every time I try to take the ula off his neck, he screams in pain.  I don’t know what to do,” his mother cried.

            Junior lay on the bed clutching his chest with both hands, protecting the boar’s tusk necklace.  He moaned.  His eyes, still closed, produced a trail of tears down the side of his face.  He could hear crying on both sides of him.  A cold piece of metal touched his chest near the tusk, so he clutched tighter making sure no one tried to move it again.

            “Junior,” a female voice said softly.  “It’s Doctor Koria.  I’m just checking your vital signs.  That’s the cold metal you’re feeling on your chest.  It’s my stethoscope.  You’ve had a very high fever for a week.”

            As the metal touched more of his fevered skin, it warmed up.  He could feel the doctors soft but strong hands checking his glands and feeling his limbs.  He tried to open his eyes.  They felt so heavy.

            “We need to get him to the hospital for some x-rays,” the doctor said.  “I’ll call the ambulance to transport him.”

            About twenty minutes later the sound of a siren broke through the normally quiet, peaceful Sunday afternoon.  Strong hands lifted Junior onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance.  He could hear Dr. Koria’s voice as she called orders to the attendants.  Mama and one of his sisters were going to follow in their car.  His other sister would stay at the house to watch over Mama.

            The ride was short since there was no traffic.  Everyone was doing what they would normally do on a Sunday.  They would be sleeping, reading, or watching television.  No children would be out playing, and no one would be working outside.  It was a day of rest.

            He felt himself being wheeled into an air-conditioned room and he began to shiver again.  A blanket was put on him as he was lifted onto a hard surface.

            “Junior, it’s Doctor Koria again,” he heard a woman’s voice say calmly.  “I know you’re cold, but we need to take off the blanket to take some x-rays.  We’ll make sure it’s quick, so we can get you covered up again.  If you understand what I’m saying to you, can you squeeze my hand?”

            Junior felt a hand holding his and he concentrated on using his muscles to do as she asked.

            “Good boy,” she said.  “Your mom is watching through the window.  We’ll get you into a room as soon as we’re finished.”

            “Doctor, are we going to take off the ula?” a male voice asked.

            “No,” the doctor answered.  “He screams in pain any time someone tries to get it off.”

            “Oka,” the male voice said.  “I hope it’s not some ‘aitu thing.”

            He felt a rush of cold air as the doctor removed his blanket.  He lay as still as possible despite the waves of chills.  As the doctor promised, the x-rays were completed quickly, and the blanket was placed on him.  As the warmth enveloped him, he fell back asleep.

(This story takes place in American Samoa during the 1980's.  I'm excited to write it as this is home to me.  Person of Shadows, my book based in Kauai using Hawaiian legends, is available on Amazon)

Black-ish Hits Home

SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!

If you are not caught up with the show, Black-ish, do not continue reading.  You have been warned.

A couple of weeks ago I was catching up on some shows I've missed this spring season.  I don't watch a lot of television due to a busy schedule that includes work, children, and trying to write/publish.  But every once in a while, there is a lull in the craziness.  I take advantage of those less busy moments to just sit and enjoy the down time.

If any of you have watched the show Black-ish, you'll know it's a sitcom that combines comedy with some serious takes on real world issues facing people of color.  Although I don't always agree with the parenting styles of Andre and Rainbow Johnson, I love the content.  Ruby and Pops remind me of the old school parenting where we graduated from the school of hard knocks and still came out okay. 

I also identify a lot with Rainbow because I'm biracial (afakasi in Samoan).  It probably doesn't help that my husband and a former supervisor say I remind them of Bow with my facial expressions, tone, and sarcasm.  I remember the episode where they cover the issue of Rainbow identifying as a black woman and dealing with the feeling that she was neglecting her white (dad's) side.  I've had this same conversation with people in the past because I identify as a Samoan.  This does not discount my caucasian side one bit.  Rainbow's talk with her dad revealed him seeing her as a black woman because that's how the world saw her.  But not once did he feel as if that took away from him being her father or being a part of her life.

There have been bits and pieces of each show where I can say I've experienced some of what was going on with the characters, but these last few episodes really struck a chord on a deeply personal level for me.  It started off with the marital strife between Rainbow and Andre.  I cried at some point during every single one of these episodes because not only did I feel their pain, I lived it.  After one episode, my third daughter commented, "I thought this was supposed to be a comedy?" Every marriage takes work. Many marriages go through difficult times and sometimes, unfortunately, end in separation.  I'm happy to say, like Bow and Dre, my own marriage has suffered but we were blessed to have found our way back to each other. 

The final episode has been on my mind since I watched it last night.  This is what prompted me to write this blog entry.  The middle of the night phone call with Bow sobbing and Dre asking her what's wrong.  Her dad had passed away.  It transported me back to this past August with a 4am phone call.  Dad.  Hospital.  Not going to make it.  Nothing they can do.  I remember sobbing by myself, completely lost.  I called my husband in Kauai.  Like Bow, I cried uncontrollably.  My dad.  My rock.  I got on the earliest flight I could.  As I was getting my rental car, the agent asked what brought me to the Bay Area.  I told her I was visiting my dad.  She said, "Oh, you're his angel to come and see him."  I told her, "He will actually be our angel soon."  And the tears started to fall.  When I looked up at the agent, she shared my sorrow.  She shared my tears.  She asked if she could pray for me and my family.  I said yes.  And I thanked her.  Then she thanked me.  Not for my business.  But for sharing such a personal and painful thing with her. 

Thank you, Black-ish writers, for not sugar coating anything.  For showing us the real stuff. The good, the bad, the ugly. For showing us the pains that families go through.  For showing us the absolute love that only families can share. Thank you.

Official Published! Person of Shadows

I can't believe it!  I have a book being sold on amazon.com!  Me!  Little ol' me!  Wow!

Link to:  Person of Shadows

Desert Beauty

This desert landscape with its dry grass and few water sources never quite appealed to me. I grew up on a lush, tropical island where vibrant colors were seen year-round and the sweet smell of fragrant flowers filled the air after every rainfall. Rain happened often and during some seasons on a daily basis or for days on end. I've lived in Utah for over 20 years, mostly in the Rose Park/Westpointe area. Living in this dry heat summer and freezing cold, snowy winter for such a long time, you would think a person would get used to it. Maybe grow to love it. My heart has always longed to return to a tropical island, to put my hands in the soft, warm dirt, to feel the warm rain against my skin, to hear waves crashing along the shore during high tide. Instead, as I walk along the Jordan River, I hear the trickling of water. The croaking of frogs signal spring time. I can hear them from my window at night, calling to each other, silenced when someone passes by. Wings splashing water catches my attention. Two male ducks compete for dominance as the female floats, watching closely. All shades of brown scatter the landscape. Here and there I catch a glimpse of green, peeking through, winding its way into the sunshine. Natural vegetation sway in the breeze, its tan color contrasting with a bright blue sky. Sounds of nature drown out the modern city that lies just beyond the trees. Peace washes over me. I now understand the beauty that is the desert. The changing of the seasons? True wonders of the world from the bright fall colors to natures ice sculptures on bare branches. The summer heat encouraging child’s play to spring's promise of warmth and regrowth. My camera lens has been blessed by the tropics, spoiled by its beauty. But this time it found a new subject. One that my heart, once biased, used to see as plain and ugly, now sees as charming. The colors are there. I just had to dig deeper.

Photos taken along the Jordan River Trail between 1800-2100 North, Westpointe Area, 84116

Outside My Window (A Year of Writing Prompts)

The rain was falling all night long.  I could hear it on our tin roof, sounding like a steel drum symphony, lulling me to sleep.  Rain, with the cool air and smell of fresh flowers, comforts me, wraps me in its peaceful arms.  I begin to wake in the morning because it’s quiet.  The rain has stopped.  I look outside my window and I see the sun shining.  The air, still cool from the night, blows softly into my room.  I open the louvres and breathe in deeply.  I can taste the salt from the ocean just down the hill.  I can hear the crashing waves, feel the fierce current pull at me, call to me.  I long to be out in my yard, digging in the soft dirt, pulling weeds and soaking in the daylight.  I am reminded of my childhood, taking a book and climbing into the guava tree, picking its fruit to be eaten while living through a story of adventures.  Outside my window stands a row of gardenia.  Its white blossoms giving off a fragrance that is comparable to none.  I turn and smile softly as I feel arms wrap around my waist, a chin settling on my shoulder, and a light kiss on my cheek.  I will venture outside my window, but for now, I will stay in the arms of the one I love.

Merlot (A Year of Writing Prompts)

          They named their baby Merlot.  Seriously?  This poor child will spend the rest of her life having to explain that her parents named her after a red wine.  I always knew my best friend and her family leaned toward a bohemian life style, which was totally cool with me.  They had this free spirit, fun loving attitude, grew their own food, and built their home from the ground up.  They even turned me into a pescatarian.  That’s saying a lot since I come from one of Texas’ royal family of cattle ranchers.  Steak and potatoes were on the menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  My family almost disowned me when I told them I no longer ate red meat.  But my best friend’s family supported my choice and even offered to adopt me.  Of course, my family learned to live with my choice, but I had to find a different path in life since running a cattle ranch and not eating the produce wouldn’t fly with our distributors or purchasers.  I became a college geology professor, which my parents thought fit right in with my new bohemian family.

            But to have my bestie name her child Merlot?  Their explanation was the child was conceived after a really great bottle of the red wine.  Okay.  I get it.  It must have been a tasty bottle and a whole lot of fun after, but do you really want your child to know that story let alone relay that to people when she gets older?  Mom and Pop, my best friend’s parents, were always very open about everything, literally everything, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  I remember I would test their openness by asking stupid questions.  Not once did they shy away from the harsh realities of explaining the mating rituals of wild geese or birthing methods of a blue whale or, my personal favorite, a queen bee’s choice in males.  The explanations were always very tasteful and biologically correct, but I got a kick out of how they were never embarrassed explaining things of nature.  And very thorough.  My own parents, even though we helped in many cow births, couldn’t explain where babies came from and left it to the cattle hands to run down the whole birds and bees stories.

            My poor goddaughter.  She will have such difficult times unless her parents, Mom and Pop, and I train her to be comfortable with herself.  I’ll probably take her on a few excursions to a boxing ring.  Just in case.  As I sit here, shaking my head, and enjoying a glass of red wine, I think about the world this beautiful baby is growing up in.  She’ll need to be tough.  She’ll need to stay grounded.  And she’ll probably need to stay away from merlot when she gets married.

Cargo

I watched as they loaded the boxes onto the truck.  Here we go again, I thought.  Another move.  At least we were here for one year.  That was longer than most places.  I shouldn’t complain, though.  There is a reason for the madness and that’s why I make sure we live as frugal and with as little as possible.  Our moving truck isn’t very big.  It’s funny how the moving guys call our boxes ‘cargo’ like we’re loading up a freight ship.  Normally it would be myself and my hubby who load everything but this time it’s different.  I’m seven months pregnant with our first child and have been ordered by the doctor to take it easy.  That is what hurts the most about this move.  I love my doctor.  But now I have to get a new one and she won’t really know who I am yet she’ll be responsible for making sure my child and I make it through the birthing process all in one piece. 

“So much cargo,” my husband chuckles from behind me.  His arms go around my swollen waist and he kisses the top of my head.

I lean back and close my eyes.  I remember our first move.  So much cargo, so many memories.  I found creative ways to get rid of cargo to move and downsize.  It was been a blessing but the moves are making me tired.  This should be the final move, I tell myself.

One of our neighbors walks by with his dog and waves.

“Good luck with the team, RJ,” he says to my husband.  He gives me a pitying smile and continues down the sidewalk.

I sigh.  We’ve worked hard to get to this point in our life.  If all goes well, we’ll stay put, buy a home, raise our children in one state and one city.  Let’s get this cargo loaded so we can head out, I say to myself.

Our landlord is making small talk with my husband.  They exchange the keys for our deposit and shake hands.  I will miss her.  I hope our new landlord is just as nice and understanding, especially now that we have this new addition coming soon.  Would we count this little one as cargo?  I chuckle to myself and walk toward the passenger side of our SUV.  I’m ready for this adventure.

Gaelic (A Year of Writing Prompts)

I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland, play on the golf courses, visit the highlands, and explore the old castles of the clans.  Today was an unseasonably warm day in the highlands, or that’s what the tour guide told us.  There were only six of us on the tour plus the guide.  We purposely planned it that way so we could get the most of our visit.  Three couples, one guide, two castles. 

The first castle was set near a loch and even with the breeze coming from the water it was still hot.  I could smell the fresh air surrounding us and imaged the place smelling of wood smoke from the fire pits, harsh soap from the laundry, and animal manure.  Without the hustle and bustle of a full time, live-in castle, the only smells were from the water way, the grass, and the dirt.

Walking inside, I was assaulted with a musty smell that almost knocked me off my feet.  As I looked at my traveling companions, I wondered if they felt the same thing but they were speaking softly to their partners and pointing at things of interest.  My brows knotted as the giant ballroom we were standing in began to shimmer.  My group’s voices started to fade away.  Suddenly, I was in the ballroom but this time I was surrounded by a clan of Scottish highlanders.  The men wore their clan colors in their kilts, standing tall and proud.  The women wore the latest in gowns, fashioned after the English elite with a little French influence in the droop of the neckline and the flirty lace around the bosom.

I couldn’t understand a word they said realizing they were speaking Gaelic.  At least that’s what I assumed.  I stood still hoping no one would notice me wearing my cargo shorts, hiking shoes, and Bob Marley t-shirt with my hoodie tied around my waist.  I had pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and my hair was pulled up in a messy bun.  So far no one looked my way and I relaxed a little, listening to this guttural language.  I tried to understand what they were saying by watching their gestures, but it was impossible.  I caught a few words that sounded like English words but it wasn’t enough to piece together the conversations.  There was one word, though, that was repeated over and over again.  Amadan.  I memorized the sound hoping to get someone to translate. 

Everyone in the room fell silent as a man and woman walked in through the entry doors from the hallway.  The crowd parted leaving an aisle in the middle leading from the entryway to the opposite side of the hall where a large banquet table sat.  Behind this table was a regal looking gentleman with a beautiful tartan of dark green with bold, bright blue lines.  Thinner brown lines cut the blue in half adding an earth tone to the cloth.  A gold brooch formed in the shape of an eagle was pinned to his starched white shirt.  The man stood slowly and nodded at the couple who had paused right inside the entryway.  Their steps echoed in the silent hall as they made their way slowly to the banquet table and the man who I assumed was the clan leader.  The people nearest me kept whispering that word.  Amadan.  Since this looked like a wedding, I wondered if the word meant love, or beautiful bride, or maybe it was an expression of joy for this union.

The soon-to-be bride was wearing a cream-colored gown with small roses in gold embroidered around her neckline and hemline.  Her bronze vest was also embroidered with simple leaf patterns, but it enhanced her pale skin and tiny waist.  She would look up at her partner then look quickly down at the ground, blushing.

The soon-to-be groom seemed a little plain, in my opinion.  His tartan looked faded and worn.  The colors were almost indistinguishable although you could tell there was possibly some red and orange in the mix.  His face was red looking freshly scrubbed but his hair was a tangled mess, wisps flying every which way and the start of dreadlocks in some areas on his head.

When I looked at the well-dressed gentleman at the head table, I caught his expression.  It was thunderous.  When the couple reached the table, the knelt in front and looked down at the ground, holding hands.  The gentleman, or clan leader, put his hands in the air.  It remained silent and some people looked like they were holding their breath.

“Amadan.”

One of the guests suddenly turned and looked directly at me.

“Babe.  Babe,” he insisted.

I shook my head and the ancient Scottish clan scene faded away.  I was looking into the eyes of my husband.  The rest of our group had gathered around me looking concerned.

“Are you okay, miss?” the tour guide asked.

“Yes,” I stammered.  I told them about my vision and the word I kept hearing.  “I was witnessing this beautiful wedding ceremony and I’m wondering what the word ‘amadan’ means.  It must be something romatic.”

I looked at the tour guide in shock as he burst out laughing.  This lasted for several minutes and I began to feel irritated.  Was he questioning my sanity?  Did he think I imagined the vision?  Did he think I was lying?  Before I could lost my temper, our guide got control of himself.

“Idiot.”  He chuckled.

I bristled, “Did you just call me an idiot?”

“No,” he answered quickly.  “The word you said, ‘amadan,’ it means idiot.  They must have been talking about the couple.”  He chuckled more as he pointed at the walls in the ballroom.

As we looked closely, we saw pictures on the walls that had faded over time.  The ones that looked older because the paint was barely visible were pictures of eagles soaring over the loch, battles of clans in their tartan colors, and royal women of the castle.  The newer paintings that weren’t as faded told a different story.  They were pictures of flower covered dragons, smiling fairies flying through fields of primrose, and Beira, the Queen of Winter, casting her freezing spell over the moss in the castle yard.

Amadan.  Idiot.  I don’t remember the rest of the visit because that’s all I could think about.  I was romanticizing about brutish Scottish clan men who fought hard and loved fiercely with their strong, independent women at their sides.  The idea of a clan leader painting fairytales on the walls would be the only memory I would keep.  The guttural, yet enchanting sounds of the Gaelic language would only be summed up in one word for the rest of my life.  Idiot.

Fern (A Year of Writing Prompts)

It was the only thing left.  Ashes covered the once lush, green landscape making it look like an apocalyptic nightmare.  The wind had died down to a soft breeze, blowing the gray-black matter softly in the wind.  Dirty snow-like flakes floated in the early morning light as the sun appeared beyond the mountain range.  All this devastation yet here it was, stretching upward, reaching toward the warmth.  How it survived, no one could imagine considering the heat of the fires.  The wind that fueled the flames was now that gentle breeze.  No green for miles.  Except.  Except the delicate leaf with its curly ends looking like exquisite lace on a ball gown made for a princess.  Tiny holes in each long-fingered leaf gave it texture so if you touched it, you expected to feel bumps.  But it was smooth to the touch.  And soft with tiny fur covering the light green surface.  Trying to straighten the leaves was like fighting to straighten a curl in someone’s hair.  The coil, pulled to its limit, bounces right back every single time.  And so, this survivor keeps its beauty.  It keeps its life.  Despite the heartache and loss, this is Mother Earth’s promise of rebirth.

No Entry (A Year of Writing Prompts)

            “Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” the large security guard blocked the entrance with his enormous body, hand on his baton.

            I looked at him confused and angry.

            “That’s my family,” I yelled balling my fists ready to try to run through him.  I knew that would be impossible.  I mean, I could run into him but certainly not through him.  The guard was built like a solid mass of flesh, bones, and muscle.  He looked like he was about 6’8”, maybe even 6’9”.  I’m not a short female.  I’m 5’10” and my older brother is 6’6” but I was almost looking straight up to see this guy’s face.  His expression left no room for arguing but I was going to take my chances.

            “That’s my family,” I tried to swallow my panic and tone down my decibel level.  I opened my hands to show I was calm but none of it worked.

            “Ma’am, I have orders to not let you in,” the guard replied with no expression.

            Good thing my arms are long because even with his height I didn’t have to tiptoe to give him a solid, open handed slap on his face.

            “I know you’re only taking orders, but you are welcome to pass that on to whomever is giving them,” I hissed. 

            I smelled his cologne before I heard his voice behind me.

            “Will you follow me, please?” his formal British accent made me picture one of the royal family members with a designer suit, perfect hair, and pale skin.  When I turned around I found I was correct about everything except his skin, which was brown, with an added groomed goatee.  His sympathetic ebony colored eyes weakened my resolve to somehow move the bulldozer of a guard and rush through the doors.  I followed him silently not looking back. 

We walked down the hallway then turned right at the next intersection.  The whole building was bright with artificial lighting and I felt my skin glimmer eerily.  I wondered if we entered a dark room whether I would glow.  That would be kind of fun, I thought.  I don’t know how long I had been in this building with its cold lighting, endless hallways, and locked doors but I was starting to go crazy.

I watched this polished man as he walked with precision, back straight, eyes forward, total confidence exuding from every pore.  His cologne reminded me of going to the dance clubs and meeting some of the wealthier patrons.  Their colognes were subtle, but the scent stuck to your cheek after they kissed it.  It was comforting to smell nice the rest of the night although a little difficult to explain to the husband when I got home.  It didn’t help that I worked as a bartender. I could almost sympathize with the security guard I slapped.  Our poor bouncers would have to deal with wannabe patrons, most of whom couldn’t even afford more than one drink in our establishment, but wanted to be able to tell their friends they rubbed elbows with the elite.  Our bouncers were actually giant teddy bears, but they had a job to do and they did it well despite the abuse they endured.  Their paychecks certainly made up for everything and they were happy.  I started to feel bad that I slapped the guard until we reached a large, glass window. 

My tour guide stopped, and I looked inside to see a family huddled together in a corner.  Their eyes were round saucers.  My heart stopped as I thought about my family just on the other side of that door just down the hall.  Instinct told me to run and take the security guard by surprise, but my guide must have sensed my plans because he touched my elbow lightly and nodded toward a green door just a few steps away.  Confused, I followed him again.  The sign on the green door said, “No Entry,” yet the guide took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it.  I heard a series of bolts sliding throughout the door and just as suddenly, the sound stopped.  The door opened slowly on its own.  My refined guide gestured for me to enter.

“Is this where my family is being held,” I asked naively. 

He didn’t answer, just smiled and continued to point me in the direction of the room he just unlocked.  I knew there was nothing more I could do so I walked into the darkness beyond.  The green door closed softly behind me and everything became pitch black.  I didn’t have to wait for my eyes to try to adjust as lighting on the floor illuminated a hallway and I could barely see another door at the end.  I couldn’t go back through the green door as there was no door handle on my side.  Even though the floor looked flat, I found myself hiking upward.  By the time I reached the door at the other end, I was panting from the exercise.

This door was black and in white letters a warning read “No Entry.”  Having no other choice, I turned the knob and threw open the door.  If there was anyone on the other side, they would be surprised and hopefully stunned by the force.  I heard the door hit a wall and by some miracle it didn’t swing back to hit me in the face.  Good thing, too, since I was too stunned to move.

The sun was shining brightly, I could hear waves crashing a short distance away, and the smell of gardenias was heavy in the air.  I stumbled on the small set of stairs leading out.  As soon as I was clear of the building, the black door slammed shut.  Then there was nothing.  No door, no steps, no building.  Nothing.  I fell to my knees crying.  My family!

“Hon,” I heard a voice just above me.  I looked up in disbelief and saw my husband standing there, smiling, with his hand held out to help me up.  My girls were just behind him, also smiling, with towels in their hands and their bathing suits on. 

“Come on, Mom!  We’re ready to go swimming!”

My husband looked at me concerned.  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly as he dried my tears with his towel.

I nodded silently, took his outstretched hand, and followed them to the beach.  When I looked back to where the black door was located just a few seconds before, I saw our van.  Just beyond, in the tree line, a sign read, “No Entry.”

My husband smiled.  “This is our private beach, now.  The sign is to keep people away.”

I put my head on his shoulder as we reached the sand and our girls dropped their towels as they rushed to jump into the gentle waves.  My family.  I thought I had lost them.  But they were right here all along.