Hello, my child, nice to meet you. You are a wish, did you know that, a wish made flesh? I conceived you in my mind before ever you existed in my body, before you came into this world (I remember the day you arrived, I looked outside at the people going by and thought, don’t they know that today the world changed forever?)

Your throat is bound to be sore tomorrow. This fit is an ab workout, maybe I should try it. I am tired today, I am tired every day, but your fists pound the ground, heedless of me. I won’t let you hit yourself but the carpet is fair game. The sounds you make are animal.

When I was a child a hurricane tore through and my mom took me outside in the eye and we looked at the loblolly branches on the ground and the jagged half-trunks, but I only thought hurry, hurry because I knew the storm would return

When you take a ragged breath you say, “Mom, I just want you.” I waste no time but sit and pull you onto my lap, fold my arms around your fat, warm ones and feel your frantic heartbeat and let your hair tickle my nose, I try not to sneeze

Hello, my child, it’s nice to meet you.

A year ago I loved you but I didn’t know you. You barely called goodnight before bed, and never asked for a hug and kiss. You walked into school without looking back and had friends in every grade. Wise folks told me it was a sign that you felt secure.

Why, then, did I wish so badly for the chance to give reassurance? Why did I feel like raising you was too easy, that I was missing it? Was I not exhausted every night from chauffeuring and chefing and remembering prayers and checking spelling?

I would never wish hardship on my child,

Or would I? Because I chose to move you across the country

To a new town and a school where teachers didn’t know your older siblings and I wasn’t friendly with the front desk secretaries and your father hasn’t spoken in front of the schoolboard and we don’t walk into the grocery store and say hi to three people because we can’t bump a wall without seeing someone we know.

And in this new school you didn’t know that when you walked down the hall you had to stay on the line, or when the PE teacher told everyone to run to the dots, they were the ones on the near side of the room not the far, why are you the only one over there?

You made a friend but she said bad words

You attracted a bully because there was no one to stand up for you but you

So your heart broke open and bled onto the floor of our new home, baptizing it with the fleshy bits of you. When you said, “Mom, I just want you,” my own torn heart crawled to yours and pressed itself against it until your bleeding and mine intermingled.

Your heart calmed and mine beat anew.

My child, my child, hello. It’s so good to meet you.

In the very loosest definition of the form, I wrote a free verse. A free verse something. Poem. Essay. Piece. I didn’t set out to write free verse, but I had a lot of feelings having just dealt with thirty minutes of tears from an eight year old and I’ve read a lot of Whitman and also The Red Wheelbarrow and this is what came. In the end, Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams (are W’s in a name a requirement for writing good free verse?) were sitting in my subconscious poking their way through to the page.

A Robin Pecks at the Ground

I can feel the ghost of its soft down under my fingers, having touched feathers as a child even though Mom told me they carry diseases. I didn’t catch any diseases that I know of.

Its red breast is just like in every poem, every nursery rhyme, yet though poets before me have attempted to capture it, they never quite can, which is why it’s my turn now. There’s space for me and there will be space for those that come after me because I won’t quite capture it either and we’ll just keep trying and trying, laughing at our imperfect attempts to be like the One who created the robin in the first place. We just want to create like Him.

The robin tugs a worm from the ground. Once I went to Alaska and my friend told me that at some times of the year the water retreats from the inlet, leaving quick-mud in its place and if you go in your legs get stuck and there’s no way to get you out. Anyone that tries to save you gets stuck and if a helicopter flies in and lets down a rope and pulls you up it will tear your torso from your legs, the sucking mud is that strong.

That’s what I imagine as the robin tugs and the worm stretches, band by band like tree-trunk rings or an armadillo, have I ever noticed so much about a worm?

Yes, I held them when I was a kid, and Mom told me to save them from the burning concrete. I never noticed how rough the sidewalk was until I saw the worm flipping around on it, except that’s not true: How many times did I scrape my hands on it? I’ve forgotten scabs on my hands and scars on my knees.

When the worm comes out, I’m relieved. It’s almost over for the worm. They say their brains aren’t big enough to feel pain, but I think that’s just Granddaddy’s way of assuaging his guilt for stabbing them with fish hooks.

Life’s circle has done its good work, the robin fed, finds a branch to sing from.

I echo Walt: “These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, if they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, if they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing, if they are not just as close as they are distant, they are nothing” (Whitman, Song of Myself).

I’m thinking that I started talking about a bird, but it was really about the worm, and maybe we’re all a little bit tugged and threatened but perhaps we too leave an impression, one worth encasing in words. “With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums, I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer’d and slain persons.” (Whitman, Song of Myself).

Here’s to you, here’s to the worm, here’s to the everyday, here’s music strong:

The Red Wheelbarrow

By William Carlos Williams

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

So, dear readers, take your chance with the robin, no one has described it perfectly yet. Feed me. I’ll inhale your words, your paintings, your songs, your math equations and your sewing projects and your far-out ideas. So much depends on us, everyday creatures that we are.  

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I may be the only person in the world to turn of The Great British Baking Show because I was too stressed to watch. To me, cooking=angst. Cooking is so stressful. Cooking meaning, food prep of any kind.

I come from a true melting pot of cooking tradition. My mother is Canadian and fed us Johnny Cake. Her mother grew up with farm cooking, but joined the great casserole brigade that began in the 1950s and continued until about fifteen years ago. Her father liked recipes from his Romanian heritage and from the Ukranians that lived around them in Saskatewan, as well as from the Native Americans that he grew up among. We still make his version of Bannock.

My father is American. His mother came from an upper-middle class Virginia family with Idahoan roots. Jello salads, fancy grapefruit slush, cucumber sandwiches. His father was a true Southern. A hunter who made his kids eat frog legs and liked his food fried. He once told me “You’re not a Harper if you don’t like grits.”

I have no true cooking style. I try everything, which has made me a jack of all trades, master of none, except for beans and tortillas. I can roll those things nice and tight, thanks to the wisdom my mother passed to me learned from her teenage job at Taco Time.

Last year I read, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, from which I gained awareness that I have no identifiable food culture. This was brought home to me today as I read The Best Cook in the World, which is about southern cooking. My lack of monoculture is not just from my family history, but it’s compounded by the fact that we import food from everywhere, all times of the year. There is simply too much variety. Boundaries produce creativity and we do not have food boundaries.

It’s not all bad, but it is what it is.

And what it is, is: I don’t feel defined by the food I eat. It doesn’t feel meaningful to me. It is a daily to-do. And not just that, and this is my second Very Important Reason for talking about cooking, it is a chore with a DEADLINE.

I despise deadlines.

I mean, most people do because work. Here and there they can be a good thing. In moderation. A deadline is extremely motivational.

But the thing is, I am motivated already. This is something I’ve learned about myself since getting serious about writing. I originally thought about applying to a Creative Writing MFA program but I felt strongly that I should NOT do it. So I set about learning to write on my own. It’s not been an easy path, but it is a very rewarding one. Six years of focus into it and I haven’t quit yet

In school, everything had a deadline. Every. Single. Thing. This stressed me out a lot. Like, it was a problem. Anxiety. Daily tears. The works. Looking back, I can see that I was just a motivated kid who took deadlines way too seriously. I was already going to learn the material because I was motivated to learn. The deadlines weren’t really for me, they were a by-product of en-masse learning. Public school has its perks, but deadlines are not one of them.

*Side note: My mother offered to homeschool me but I declined. I mostly regret this.

I love writing on my own because I can go at my own pace. I plan to self publish simply because I do not want the pressure of traditional publishing with deadlines and such. I’m motivated. I love this stuff.

*Side note: Last night I couldn’t fall asleep so I got up and outlined my story for thirty minutes. For fun.

A friend today told me about her life on a farm. She told me about how it took a couple of years to adjust to living on a seasonal schedule. She told me how she likes to make homemade soap, but only has time in February. She plants a huge garden, and prep for it has to happen in March. Everything has a time and season. “But,” she said, “if I don’t get to it in February, it’s fine. If I don’t get the garden in on time, I don’t beat myself up about it. I can always go to the store.” I found this REMARKABLE. Her life has deadlines, but she doesn’t take them too seriously.

I’m going to take a look at my cooking aversion. Maybe dinner has to be on the table by six, and maybe I’ll fail at that. Or I’ll make the deadline but produce an inferior product. There’s always the store. There’s always beans and tortillas.

On Sunday I sat down in the pew a few minutes before services started and noticed that I didn’t recognize the woman and her son sitting near me.

I turned to them and smiled brightly. “I don’t know you! I’m Amanda.”

The woman hesitated. I had the sense she didn’t appreciate my introduction. Maybe that was just me being self-conscious. I’m new-ish here—moved in eight months ago—and sometimes when I don’t recognize someone it’s not because they are new, but because I am. After an unpleasant pause, she said, “Yes, I usually go to the 9:00 sevice.” She didn’t smile.

She’s lived in this area for fifteen plus years. She’s raised her children here and been highly involved. I got the impression that I should know her, or that she thinks I should. Nine months previous, her congregation and mine were combined, but they split due to size and so she actually knows everyone in my congregation—unless they moved in after the split, like me.

Why did she respond to me with such dissaproval? (The level of disapproval I felt is not necessarily the level she meant to exhibit, to be fair. I’m nervous talking to new people, which magnifies everything.) This question nagged at me until I realized something: In that situation at church, I represented change. The congregation she’d left behind was no longer the familiar landscape she used to know, what with new people moving in and the like.

Change. Humans hate the stuff.

My husband is a traffic engineer and his job is to make and improve roads, i.e. change roads. He presents his designs at public meetings and let me tell you, people do not like it. No matter the design, no matter how successful his past projects. If he’s putting in a new intersection or changing the flow of a current road, the public is against it. And that’s okay, at least morally, because it’s an impersonal road. But what if the change is a human?

How do we comes to terms with change—change in our culture, our neighborhood, our church congregation—when that change is a person?

If only that woman had known, I use to be her. Before moving, I lived in the same place for fourteen years. I knew who to turn to in an emergency and where to get my hair cut and which aisle had the lemon juice. I’d birthed and raised children there, been involved in the schools and the community. But I’d left all that behind and here I was, awkwardly trying to introduce myself to people.

If she’d thought to overlay this story on me, maybe we could have connected. Empathy: it’s about feeling what someone else is feeling, and, I’d like to add, assuming the best.

Did you know that reading leads to empathy? Brain science supports it. Multiple studies prove that when we read, our brains experience the story as if we are experiencing someone else’s life (even a fictional character’s life) first hand.

One particular bit of research published by the NIH delved deep, questioning the veracity of previous research and testing their hypothesis by running two different studies on fiction vs nonfiction and empathy. This is what they found: The reader can’t just read the words, they need to be transported. Narrative nonfiction gets close, but fiction is the most effective at drawing the reader to be so transported in the story that they are basically in its world. If while reading an hour goes by and to the reader it feels like a minute, that reader has a much greater chance of increasing in empathy. But, it also goes the other way, as the researchers found:

“Two experiments showed that empathy was influenced over a period of one week for people who read a fictional story, but only when they were emotionally transported into the story. No transportation led to lower empathy in both studies…

“For study 1, indeed high transportation led to increases in empathy for fiction readers, while for both studies 1 and 2 absence of transportation was associated with decreases in empathy for fiction readers. This could be explained because when a reader is not able to identify with a text and does not become transported, this might lead to disengagement, with the reader being distracted and frustrated, as suggested by Pelowski and Akiba [29]. In other words, a reader has to become fully transported into the story to change as a consequence of reading, to become more empathic.”

(© 2013 Bal, Veltkamp, https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3559433/#abstract1, emphasis added)

Not only do we need fiction, we need GOOD fiction. We need stories written in such a way that we believe them, even when they are utterly fantastical. We believe Frodo would want to save the Shire even if we don’t believe that Hobbits exist, right? That’s what I’m talking about.

That’s my goal: to write such stories. Not only for the readers, but for myself. I learn more than anyone through my writing. It’s as good as therapy, and more pleasant.

Now that woman at church, I do have some empathy for her. Perhaps she walked in feeling confident and comfortable, but having the first person she talked to say “I don’t know you” rubbed her wrong. Perhaps she was tired. Maybe she had a fight with her son on the drive over. If I see her again—likely, as she seems to be a pillar in the community—I won’t be mad. I mean, I’ll have a tiny grudge but that’s easily dealt with by one friendly conversation. Maybe we’ll never have that conversation, but also I forget her name and her face other than that she was blondish so…

Anyway. Go read books. Good ones. And gain empathy.

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Gabriella looked around the room. The lights were dimmed to allow a spotlight on a stage in the front. There was food at the back and lounge chairs with teenagers draped over them, talking to their friends and holding security sodas.

This is manageable, Gabriella thought. Since her father passed, Gabriella’s mother hated spending holidays at home. Now, they had a tradition of drowning their grief at resorts and destination vacations. To be honest, it was getting old. Places like these had “parties in a can” for teeneagers to get them out of their parents’ hair for the evening. All teenagers needed were colored lights and Doritos to make friends, right? Gabriella would rather be tucked into her bed, even though it was New Year’s Eve, but she knew the drill. She did this for her mother. She reached into her bag and pulled out “Catcher in the Rye” because there was nothing like teenage angst to get her through a party at which she expected to have exactly zero drama. She put her nose in and fell into the story.

Holden was swearing up a storm, again, how appropriately angsty of him, but a bright light interrupted him, yanking Gabriella into reality. She shielded her eyes and blinked several times but the light didn’t go away. Cheering, there was cheering, and someone was pulling her arm. She found herself somehow out of her seat, moving forward, and the book fell out of her hands. Gabriella cringed. Did it land on it’s spine? She scrunched her shoulders toward her ears as she found herself, suddenly, onstage. She took the mic that was handed to her, to have something to hold onto more than anything.

I guess we’re doing this party in can, Gabriella thought. I’m definitely going back to the room after this.

Music started and words scrolled on a screen in front of her.At least she could tell her mother truthfully that she’d participated. Then a boy on stage with her started singing.

His voice was good. Gabriella was in a choir at her school, well… she had been, at her old school. She and her mother already moved into their new house. As soon as they shoved the last box into the garage, they’d whisked away on this trip. But she’d been in choirs her whole life and she was comfortable singing. She reminded herself to relax. At least she knew she could sing: This boy up here with her was obviously not a singer. She would have to pull the heavy lifting here.

The thing was, he didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t perfect. He was confident on stage.

She took a moment and really looked at him. He was cute, straight nose, floppy hair, bronze skin despite it being winter. He must be from somewhere warm. Either that or he used tanning beds. She hoped he didn’t’ use tanning beds.

Gabriella didn’t mean to smile while she sang. Getting into it sometimes resulted in encores, and she didn’t want that. But the way the boy did a little spin, it was so… innocent. Like he was playing at being a performer, and he liked it.

Their voices blended together and she felt that sweet satisfaction that comes from good harmonies. He was not bad, definitely better than she’d expected at first. As the song ended, Gabriella wished they could keep going. Applause sounded and Gabriella remembered that she was onstage.

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For a long time, I put classical musicians on a pedestal. I mean, hours of practice, self-discipline and skill. What’s not to respect?

Also for a long time, I berated myself because I had the chance to become a skilled musician, but I didn’t take it. Like many a punk kid, I quit. Piano, viola/violin. I don’t blame anyone else for quitting (those lessons were tedious!), but I do blame myself. I’m not a quitter! Yet I quit. I’m constantly ashamed of my current level of musicianship. It could have been so much more.

Last Sunday I was set to play in a musical number during my church’s Sunday service. You see, I may not be great at violin but not many people play and quartets need second violins. So I practiced, pleading with myself to sound better and hopefully avoid the dreaded nerves—shaking hands and roiling insides—that always come when I play.

When the time came, I told myself to not worry about the audience, but my nervousness didn’t abate. I sat in my pew beside my family, awaiting the moment of doom. Before the Sacrament was passed, I asked my husband to say a prayer for me. Well. Little did I know, I was about to be granted peace.

I suddenly had a thought that I needed to forgive myself. I thought about it and realized that I needed to forgive myself for quitting private lessons. As I spoke to the Lord and to myself, sitting there on that bench in the congregation, I realized that I have been telling myself, for years, that I should be a better string player, that it’s my own fault that I’m not better at music.

I remembered that I was 13 when I quit. Does anyone make the best decisions at 13? I was young. I threw a major fit over it and wore down my parents. It was a bad choice, one that would have repercussions, but not a tragic choice. I had the impression as I sat in that pew that the Lord forgave me a long time ago and now would make up for my lack, not by suddenly giving me more skill, but by showing me that my offering, though imperfect, was still worthy to Him.

Aren’t there multiple examples in the scriptures of the Lord accepting whatever his very human children had to give, and making it work? The widow and her two mites, Moses and his slow speech, Hannah and her barrenness. He takes what we are and helps us be more when we walk with Him.

A load lifted off my shoulders. The time came and I played for Him, to give him my mite, my little drummer boy gift. I played with every nerve-laden ounce of skill I possess (because the nerves didn’t just disappear, but I didn’t mind them so much). It could’ve been more if I’d made different choices in the past but it wasn’t. That didn’t matter, it was enough. I’m so amazed that He accepts what I have to give though it’s imperfect, even though it’s my own fault that it’s less than it could be!

I actually messed up and took a whole line to get back on with the rest of the quartet, but I didn’t even feel upset. I just felt like I’d presented an offering and it was accepted.

Sue Monk Kidd, in her book Writing Creativity and the Soul, shared that she once heard Maya Angelou say about writing that you just need three things: 1. Something to say, 2. The skill to say it, and 3. Courage to say it.

I believe I have courage. I have some natural talent for writing and have added to that years of study in the craft. So I’ve got a start on 2 & 3. But I worry about #1. It’s a major disappointment I have in myself, that developing plots is so challenging. Maya Angelou claims that this is the one that is most natural, but I missed this when picking up talents. I’m a writer that loves to manipulate words but isn’t sure what to say. Do I belong? Why do I think I can be a story teller if I’m not bursting forth with glorious, fully-formed stories?

I think that if the Lord is willing to accept my offering of meager violin/viola playing and let me be enough to play for him on Christmas Sunday, then he’ll help me in the story department. You see, He is perfect. He can help my stories grow.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say except that if He is helping me in one area of my life, I know He’ll help me in another. Again, He is a holistic God. He worries about all of me. He’s got me covered from my stubbed toe to my sins that eat up my insides with regret. He even cares about my art. And if I want to be a novel writer, He will either help me get there or He’ll help me find a different path that will bring me more joy.

See, that’s why I love Jesus.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

Loneliness used to be the trial of my life, more than the regular amount. I don’t believe I was been more lonely than other people, just that it felt heavier than normal. In fact, not being lonely is what started the problem: I used to always be surrounded by people. I went from a household of five children to a dorm room of five or six at a large college full of people, comprising the first 20+ years of my life, and when all that went away, I didn’t know how to deal with it.

I spent a lot of time in my twenties alone (or with a baby—so not physically alone but intellectually alone). I found myself unequipped to deal with the loneliness. Depression and anxiety became constant companions. My recourses were exercise and books—books had always been my friend. These are great tools, but they were not enough. I was still alone and hating it.

My own thoughts were poisonous, feeding the loops that plagued me. I tried to run from them, doing anything to distract myself, but preferrably being with people which was noisy enough to bury my thoughts and had the added benefit of a spark of fun. I spent a lot of energy figuring out how to be socialize as much as possible.

All the while, I wondered if running from myself was unhealthy. (It is).

In Jane Austen’s Emma, Mrs. Elton is an awful character. Just awful. She’s heavy handed and annoying, self-important and self-involved. Her every word is an insult turned slant so you can’t quite make out if she meant offense. (She does).

Unfortunately, she changed my life. Speaking of leaving bigger city living to move to a smaller town upon her marriage, Mrs Elton bragged:

“…I honestly said that the world I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent.”

See how annoying she is?

But her words pierced me! Did I have resources within myself? I felt called out. When I am alone, when life is calm, am I content?

My answer was a resounding no… until WRITING entered my life. I don’t know exactly when the spark lit within me. As a child I said I would be an author someday, but I forgot that dream for many years. But I remember reading a book as a young mother while bouncing babies and thinking, I could do this. And so I began.

Of course, I went and scrounged up writing partners. No way was I going this alone!

Very quickly, writing became a thing I not only enjoyed, but I craved, even during the quiet times in-between critique sessions with other writers. I was so hungry for it that I wanted everyone else to go away. Just leave me alone so I can sit in peace and write, I thought. What a novel concept (ha!), to desire to be alone with just myself. At last, my imagination was enough of a companion.

Today, I can sit and imagine and be very content. I am enough. I have resources within myself, the world is not necessary to me.

(Let us lend the quote to Austen rather than to her character, because I really can’t stand the thought of being in debt to Mrs. Elton. Eww.)

I still love people and I still get a high out of a stimulating gathering, but it’s not what I live for. In fact, now I live for the Lord better than before, rather than for other people. Oximoronically, this makes me a better mother and wife. So I have Him to thank for giving me writing so I could be closer to Him and happier with myself.

Thank you, God. (And so there, Mrs Elton.)

A friend—Rachel Josephson of Blue Cloak Press—asked me today, “Did you used to daydream?”

I think the answer is yes? I remember sitting in class, bored, and thinking of other things. I remember playing imagination games by myself, which is related but not quite the same. Daydreaming is letting your mind just go where it will and doing absolutely nothing. Daydreaming is not acting. I cannot remember it clearly, but I think daydreaming was woven into the fabric of my childhood.

Do I daydream now? I cannot think of the last time I daydreamed. There’s so much to do! Even at night while I’m falling asleep, I’ll often use that time to think through something important to me.

But what if I didn’t?

Daydreaming is a skill and a tool necessary to writing. The Lord told us, “become as little children” (Matthew 18:3). How wonderful if not only does he want us to be childlike for our spiritual growth, but to make us more creative creatures as well, to enhance our minds. The Lord is a holistic god. He wants us to grow in every way.

As such, I trust that He will show me the way. If Christ commands me to become as a little child, then He helps me to remember what I once knew when I was young. He helps me reclaim the part of my mind that knows how to daydream, but is rusty. I’m holding onto faith, in Him and myself, to be honest. But one thing I know, when the Lord wants me to learn something, helps come. So, I take a step into the darkness with hope that I will find the realm of dreams…

It is unexpected but true that becoming like a little child will help us produce real-world products. And not just any old thing: if we follow His plan to become what He hopes we will become as people, then we will create products that are closer to what He, God of the Universe, is capable of creating. He wants us to create lovely art, great science, praiseworthy engineering, and so on. The tools to do this lie within us, if we will remember them.

To this end, might I plea with teachers to not be bothered when a child is daydreaming. Should you bring them back to earth—to math or whatever it is you are teaching—absolutely, yes. But do it with a smile on your face. And in your mind you can think, “this child was doing some good learning work just then”. If they are bored with math, well, that will produce more daydreams. May they never lose that skill.

A plea to parents: do not let your child fill all their time with videos and communication. If they don’t get bored, they won’t daydream, and if they don’t daydream, their creativity will be stunted. Learning can only take us so far. We need minds capable of great things to help us really rise.

For further reading, including stats from a NASA study on children and creativity, might I suggest:

Blue Cloak Press

My New Secret of Creativity: Close the Door

A few weeks ago, my friend Amanda Harper Brimley and I met to discuss a certain series of books. If you have been anywhere in my vicinity the last month, you may have heard me talk about them…

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8 months ago · 2 likes · 3 comments · Rachel Josephson

Also she mentions me. So that’s cool.

Westley had picked up some bad habits back on the boat. He was still her Westley, and Buttercup was still very much in love, but she felt that she didn’t know him quite as well as she once had. Or perhaps they’d never known each other as well as she’d thought? Their courtship had been quick. Quicker for her than for him: Buttercup had ignored Westley for three solid years. When she’d finally paid attention, he’d kissed her with a passion incomparable then run off to find his fortune. But, of course, he’d died—supposedly—and she found herself engaged to Humperdinck and, well, neither of them were the same person they were five years before.

One night at dinner, Buttercup broached a subject that had bothered her since their marriage six months earlier. “Westley, my dear.”

“Yes, my love?” he said as he sawed the burnt leg of lamb she’d served.

“I realize that things must be very different aboard a pirate ship.”

Black bits flew off his plate, but he didn’t slow his knife. “Different than on a farm? I should say so.”

“Or,” she hesitated, tucking her hands in her lap, “different than in a palace.”

That caught his attention and Westly looked up. “Of course different than in a palace. What do you mean by that?”

“Well, when I was engaged to Humperdinck—”

“Don’t say that swine’s name in this home,” he said.

“Just as a reminder, you were dead, dear.”

Westley nodded. “Ah yes, I remember.” The fire in his eyes died down.

“Yes, well anyway, I had to take etiquette lessons, you see. As future queen, courtly manners were a requirement.”

“My love, what tortures you endured.”

Buttercup looked at the window on the wall behind Westley. She could see their one cow having her own dinner of the yard. “Well, ah, yes, it wasn’t quite the Pit of Despair. I lived in the palace for some time, if you remember and—”

“Until I saved you,” Westley pointed out with a nod from his knife, then he turned back to his meal.

“—and I rather got used to it.” Buttercup let this last bit out in a rush, eyeing her husband to gauge his reaction.

Westley’s expression darkened. He pressed both hands against the table and leaned forward. “Are you saying you’d rather be with that, that fool of a prince?”

“No, but…” Buttercup gathered her courage and looked her dear, sweet Westley straight in the eye as he heroically chewed the meal she’d set before him. “I don’t like it when you pick at your scabs with your knife. At the table. And then cut your food with it.”

Westley froze mid-mastication, his jaw set at an unbecoming angle. Then he slowly closed it and swallowed the lump of meat he’d been working on since they’d started the conversation. “Of course, Buttercup. As you wish.” He turned back to his food.

She shook her head. She’d heard it before, a thousand times. “I’m serious, Westley. I know you love me, but…” She let her head fall into her hands and she rubbed her temples: it looked like she would have to spell it out for him. “Words are nothing without follow-through.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I haven’t done as you wished?”

With his head cocked at such an endearing tilt, it tortured her to dispute him. “No, you haven’t. I’ve asked you before to stop the scab picking. And I’ve asked you to make sure Mirabel is in the barn before dinner each night. But look—Mirabel is chewing up the yard and now you’ve reopened a scab right in front of me!” Buttercup sat back in her chair, exhausted.

A silent beat passed. Then Westley, face contrite, softly said, “Buttercup, will you get me a bandage to cover my arm? A reliable one that I won’t be tempted to remove. Please?”

Buttercup looked at Westley, a sweet smile tugging at her lips. This was the farm boy she’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Poor and less perfect than she’d thought, but trying.

She nodded. “As you wish.”

This excerpt begins after Thumbelita escapes a human, fairy jail, an amorous toad, and a clicking swarm of tree roaches. She hides, exhausted, at the base of a mesquite tree. Darkness is falling and she needs shelter, when a small mouse comes upon her…

“Oh, excuse me? Would you mind?” said a squeaky voice.

A desert mouse stood right in front of me. “Would I…,” my voice dropped off as I noticed something. “Hold on, is your face alright?’

“Oh this?” she squeaked. She patted the bulges in her cheeks that made her face look like a swollen grape. “It’s mesquite seeds! I use them when I go out. It’s all the rage. Do you think it makes me look pretty?”

“Well, I–”

“Dillo says it makes me look jazzy. Jazzy! So, I keep them stuffed nearly all the time, which isn’t a problem because I live right here and the seeds are just all around, so every time I go out I just pop! Put a few seeds in and boom, jazzy Milly, wherever I go. And Dillo always compliments me, of course.”

“‘Dillo’?” Her fast talk made me dizzy.

“Yes, Dillo! You don’t know him? That’s crazy, you must be new.” She spit the seeds out onto the ground and her cheeks deflated. “Want to come in?” She smiled when she said it, which seemed easier now with the full use of her face.

“Come in?” I couldn’t see anywhere to ‘come in’ to.

“Don’t you know you are on my doorstep? Did you just fall from the sky or what? Scootch over silly and I’ll get the door!”

I scootched, she scurried, and as she pushed on the tree trunk, I began to make out a door carved into the wood. As it opened, Milly motioned me to enter with a grand sweep of her paws.

Shelter! If she would let me stay, I could be safe for the night. Milly seemed harmless enough, even nice. I scrambled up and found my legs rested enough to walk on.

I’d seen a lot of homes on errands for Mami. There would be tipped-over chairs and dirty dishes and white powder spilled on a small table. Or there would be silks and velvets and coins dropped on the floor that I would take. But none of those houses exuded cozy warmth like Milly’s.

Stepping in was like the warm glow when someone tells you that you did something right. Nuts and seeds bulged out of a barrel in one corner and there was a bed blanketed with dry grasses in another. A table and four chairs took up the middle of the room and made for a lovely centerpiece. There was a doily for a tablecloth, crisp and white, and a little tea service sat upon it. The dirt floor was packed down and covered with the feathery fronds of the mesquite leaf. As I stepped in, the scent of herbs filled the air, especially mint and rosemary. Milly followed, closing the door behind her.

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s been a hard day.” I felt a little quivering movement against my side. I touched my hand to my bag. The kernel was shaking. Ay! She couldn’t emerge yet! Not until I secured a safe place for us. I pressed my hand against my purse to still the seed.

“Oh, those hands! Come here.” Her whiskers twitched as she sniffed around the bed, then reached under and pulled out a little chest. When she opened it, a pungent scent wafted over and I knew where the general herbal smell of the room originated. Inside were little wooden boxes. She pulled one out and opened it to reveal a salve. She put it on my scraped hands; it cooled the throbbing pain immediately.

“Do you make those yourself?” I pointed to all the little boxes that looked like they held similar salves.

“Yes! Aren’t they the most aromatic? I’ve been perfecting the recipes. Everyone says the scents are comforting, which is really the point isn’t it? The medicines heal the body, but the scents calm the soul.”

I nodded. Unexpectedly I felt like crying again. “You’re the nicest person I’ve met today. Well, maybe except for one other person. He was nice too, but too much of a stickler for rules.”

“Oooh, tell me all about it!”

It was a relief to talk to someone. I told her about running away from Mami and being tossed into the desert, and about Wyatt, and the toads, and the tree roaches.

Milly was very attentive. She sat on a chair at the table and filed her nails with a piece of tree bark. When I was done, she had no qualms spouting her opinions:

“I hate to say this about anyone’s mother, but yours is a piece of work. She used you. You don’t deserve that.

“Roy is an absolute pig head. Don’t even think about what he said. He obviously thought you were interesting but only wanted to be popular! It’s not your fault that he wasn’t a strong enough person to stand up to his friends. You don’t need that!

“Ughh, I have met that toad and he’s a total gongoozler. He’s the most selfish creature I know, and I know a lot of people in Cactus Country.

“But Wyatt… tell me more about him.”

I thought of the look on Wyatt’s face when he showed me the prickly pear blooms, but then I thought about stepping into that cold cell and I shook my head. No, my place couldn’t be with Wyatt. Perhaps I could get Milly to let me, let us, stay here for a while until the young fairy was old enough to leave?

A rap at the door cut through my thoughts. The door swung wide before Milly could cross to open it. A small armadillo stood leaning against the doorjamb, and when he spoke it was in a swinging kind of way.

“Heeeey bearcat! Milly, my number one! The Dillo is here.” He paused dramatically and I looked at Milly, unsure what to think. She jumped up and scrambled forward, a wide smile lighting up her face.

“Dillo! Get in here. I didn’t know you were coming tonight! You’ve got to meet Thumbelita.”

She pulled him over with her paw. Luckily, he was small, but still, he just barely fit through the door. My eyes followed the smooth workings of his nine-banded armor and I thought it would be nice, if you couldn’t fly, to be able to protect yourself wherever you went.

“What is this?” Dillo swept an arm in front of his chest and bowed his head in my direction. “Milly, you’ve been holding out on me. Lita, Dillo at your service.”

I smiled tightly, “It’s Thumbelita, but, um, nice to meet you.”

Milly was bouncing on her paws like she was about to burst from excitement. “Oh, I just knew you two would get along! Here, take my chair Dillo. I’ll get tea.”

I heard Milly rummaging around her herb box and hoped she would find something calming because Dillo brought a staticky, hectic feeling into the room. He stared at me intently.

“So, tell me where you come from, kiddo.”

“I crossed the river today, actually. This is my first time in Texas.”

“Jazzy,” Dillo said in his silky voice, “welcome to paradise.”

“Thank you,” I said, though it hadn’t been paradise so far.

“You haven’t seen the best this country has to offer until you’ve been to my place. Tell her, Milly.”

Milly piped in. “Dillo’s place is keen! There are rooms and rooms and rooms, and he’s always making more, isn’t that right, Dillo?”

“You know it. Lita,” he said, and I cringed at the nickname, “you were brave to come to a new place on your own.”

I thought about it. Today I’d run from Mami, entered a new country, stumbled upon a land of fae and desert animals, and done all I could to protect the corn kernel. I decided I had been brave. The thought made me smile.

“Let’s dance,” Dillo suggested.

My smile dropped. “Oh, no, I don’t–” but Dillo was already sweeping me onto my feet. Milly giggled and I heard a radio scroll through static until it landed on a saxophone wailing out a song.

Dillo was in front of me, his eyes closed, his nine bands moving to the beat. He held one of my hands and moved me along with him. I was stiff for a moment, but eventually I let myself relax and sway to the rhythm of the song.

When the music ended, Dillo opened his eyes and said, “Lita, you are a swingin’ cat. Let’s have another dance.”

He was nice, but perhaps he couldn’t tell that I was weary and sore to the bone. I shook my head. “Oh, no. But Milly, you have a turn.”

Milly jumped up from the table where she’d been sitting, sending a teacup rattling. I steadied it and poured myself some tea. Steam from the cup warmed my face. The chamomile was indeed healing. I lowered myself into a chair and let my aching body relax.

I reached into my bag to check on the kernel and my fingers brushed against the soft fibers of Wyatt’s scarf. I wondered who had knitted it. Had he? His mother? A sweetheart? I frowned at the thought of a sweetheart, then laughed at myself. I ran away from Wyatt so why should I care? But the scarf had kept the kernel cushioned so, if I ever had the chance, I would thank its giver.

I didn’t know much about the timing of the baby’s emergence. Would it be soon? The kernel was still very tiny. All I really knew was that I needed to find a place to settle soon. The movement I felt from the kernel earlier made me nervous.

The song was winding down. Dillo had Milly in a dip and she giggled in delight.

“Hey, Milly?”

Milly looked at me upside down.

“I’m so grateful you invited me tonight. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. And I haven’t ever been in a home where I felt more, well, at home. Could I stay here with you for a while? I’m good at cooking and cleaning.”

Milly popped upright and clapped her paws. “Oh, I’ve been wanting a roomie! I would love that more than anything! Dillo, did you hear? Isn't this just the cat’s meow?”

Dillo grinned broadly. “The bee’s knees!”

Their excitement warmed me. “I’m so relieved because…” I reached into my bag, smiling at what I had to show them, and pulled the kernel out from its knitted cocoon.

Milly leaned in to look closer. The moment she saw the seal, the delight on her face morphed. I watched, shocked, as her eyes widened in horror.

“Noooo! I take it back; we can’t be roomies!”

I clutched the kernel to my chest.

Dillo’s brow furrowed. “Milly? What’s got you all balled up? It’s just a corn kernel.” He came and inspected it closer. “What’s that strange line there?”

Milly spoke before I could. “It’s the seal. It means there’s a baby fairy inside and Thumbelita is going to keep it in my house, but Milly doesn’t do babies. Oh, no. My mama had 16 babies every year that I lived at home. And guess who had to babysit? But I got wise and moved out on my own. I’m no sap. I’m done with babies forever.”

I rewrapped the kernel and stuffed it back into the bag as quickly as I could. A tear had somehow formed in the corner of my eye and it sat there, burning, but I refused to let it fall. I would find a solution, I would. But, oh, why was finding a home so hard?

“Aww Lita, don’t cry, kid. Dillo will make it alright.” He sidled up to me on all four legs. “In fact, I’ve got the perfect solution: Come stay at my place for a while.”

“Of course! I told you that Dillo’s house is keen, right? It would be perfect for you!” Milly said.

“Really?” I rubbed a hand against my eye. “I wouldn’t be a bother? And the fairy, once she’s born, could she stay there, too?”

“No problem, Lita. You and the baby can even have your own wing.”

I didn’t question my good luck any more, afraid it would run out. “Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!” I was so tired of fighting. And tired of being the protector, but I’d finally found a place for us. I glanced at Dillo’s armor again. He would keep us safe.

Dillo laughed and Milly pulled out treats. We spent half the night drinking tea and eating crunchy biscuits made from ground mesquite seeds. Dillo told stories until he declared it was time to go home. I pushed my chair back and stood slowly, drooping with fatigue.

Milly rushed over and gave me a bruise-crushing hug. She wasn’t mad at me anymore. She whispered, “Dillo isn’t selfish, he doesn’t care what other people think, and he would never manipulate you. You’re safe with him.” I felt a smooth container being shoved into my hands and I smelled herbs. “For your cuts,” Milly said, and gave me a playful shove out the door.

It was only a short walk through the starlit night. We went around the tree and Dillo pointed. “Home sweeeeet home.”

When I saw the tunnel leading down, my stomach dropped and my mouth turned into a desert. When I accepted Dillo’s offer, I didn’t consider where an armadillo would live, but he probably had dozens of underground passageways. I would wither down there.

But what choice did I have? I needed shelter. My baby sister needed protection. I was lucky to have even this option.

Yet, it went against my very nature. I was born to flit about under the open sky. At least with Mami, I’d had that. I didn’t have wings, but I’d always had the sun. I couldn’t make myself take the first step.

Dillo realized I wasn’t following. “Come on kiddo, Dillo’s going to give you the ritziest room in the house.”

What else could I do? I was no match for the creatures that roam the night hours. I stepped into the tunnel with my heart pounding.

The rest of Thumbelita is published on Amazon in Bippity Boppity Boots: Southwestern Fairytale Retellings, 2023.

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The breeze skimming off the sea is cool. I zip up my windbreaker and hug myself against the chill and against all the unfairnesses heaped on teenage girls. I stomp down the beach and kick a pearly shell into the water. Yesterday’s storm may have chased away the few beach-goers left in mid-September, but it brought in my temper.

It’s either blame the storm or blame myself, and I don’t want to blame myself.

“You need a little confidence, Sweetie,” Mom said this morning at breakfast. “Think of it as practice for your future.”

My cereal turned to sand on my tongue. I swallowed hard and shook my head. “Mom, do not make me work the register at the shop. I’m terrible at it.” Mom owns a gaming store called Nexus Hub. She’s been trying to get me to work the front counter all summer, but I refused and let my brother do it. I kept myself in the back, doing inventory. But now that Silas made the soccer team, he isn’t around to work and Mom thinks the responsibility should fall on me.

“Sweetie, this could be good for you!”

I glared up through straight brown bangs as I clutched my spoon too tight. “Mom!” I spoke through clenched jaw. “It would be awful. Customers would leave because of me.” My pitch climbed, a warning that I was in danger of crying. I pushed down the tears and replaced them with anger. “It will make me the opposite of confident. You don’t get it! You’re so… it’s just… dumb!”

Mom placed both her hands on the breakfast table and leaned forward. Her expression was a roiling whitecap about to crest. “Wren, I need you to be better at talking to people. You know I need help in the shop. You may hate interacting with customers, but you need to step up. Not just for your own sake. For the family. Anything else is selfishness.”

I dropped the spoon and stood, ready to rip into Mom about how the gaming store was not my idea nor my responsibility when Silas—tall, sixteen, and smelly—walked by and whispered, “You're a disaster.” He wasn’t actually quiet. Mom definitely heard him and she didn’t correct him.

Silas knows why I hate working the shop. He sees me at school, floundering anytime I have to interact with, well anybody, but especially guys. And guess who shops at gaming stores? Guys. And half of them are from my school.

Now that he is sixteen, Silas thinks he can stand beside Mom and tell me my faults, like he is more worldly and wise than me. Well, he isn’t Dad and I wasn’t going to take it from him in that moment. My anger rose, a great black storm within me, and I clenched my fist, desperate to rip the smirk off Silas’s face. Whatever Mom saw on my face in that moment, it made her order me, in no uncertain terms, to take a walk and not come back until I’d calmed down. So basically I’m exiled to this beach for life, cold and angry, kicking shells forever.

And now I have Dad on my mind which makes me melancholy on top of it all. Dad would have called weather like today a mermaid play day —when the sea is so calm you can make out fins poking out of the ocean in the distance. He was fanciful like that, but I’m practical. All I see are the leftovers of the storm: shells, driftwood, trash. A lone shoe—a penny loafer—lounges by itself against a mound of sand. I stomp around it all. If Dad were alive, he would make me feel better and Silas wouldn’t try to act like my parent because Dad would be here, doing the job already.

Sometimes I wonder if I would be more confident if I just didn’t have an older brother. Like there’s a vicious cycle where I’m shy and Silas sees it and is ashamed of me, and so I’m embarrassed, and more shy, and everything starts all over again, but progressively worse each time.

Last week he brought his team over. I usually stay out of sight when he does this, but I was in the kitchen when they barrelled in to grab food. I pressed myself against the cool countertop, afraid to be there but afraid to draw attention to myself by leaving. They were all versions of the same thing: basketball shorts and a team shirt, hair slightly too long, smelling like too much Old Spice, and yes, I’ll admit it, cute. I’m a social disaster but I’m not dead, okay?

The countertop dug into the small of my back. I made myself as small as I could and debated whether pushing through them would cause any of them to talk to me. If they did, they would probably tease me, but I wouldn’t be sure if they were teasing because high school boy teasing is more like they are having jokes with each other, which is confusing, and I would hesitate to respond while I tried to work it out, and then they’d laugh. So obviously I stayed back, blending in with the counter under the fluorescent kitchen lights as well as I knew how, until, to my horror, one of the boys stopped in front of me and looked me in the eyes. He said, “Hey.”

He wore a Tarheels cap and a blue and white Hoggard High t-shirt. His hair swooped across his forehead. I imagined he needed to brush it back often. I drew my eyebrows together. I’m always on the defense, being Silas’s sister, but this guy didn’t look like he was about to laugh at me so I wasn’t sure what he was up to. I didn’t want to assume something, like that he wanted to talk to me. Maybe he just wanted me to get out of the way. I wasn’t in the way of anything crucial, but maybe he wanted a mixing bowl? That was likely it, actually. I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t, but his forehead creased and I realized he was confused by my silence. I stuttered, too late, “H-h-hi.”

He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. My heart jumped into double time. What was going on? “We’re taking this out to the beach. Want to come?”

I choked, half because I couldn’t believe he invited me, half because I knew Silas would have a fit if I said yes, and one-hundred percent because to reply would mean formulating a logical response, which I was incapable of. He stood there waiting, the line returning to his brow while I gaped like a fish.

Silas stepped in, his face twisted. “Forget it, Wren’s not interested.” My skin burned at Silas insinuating that I might be interested. That the boy might think I might be interested. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and pulled at the thick weave of my sweater. The only thing worse than not speaking was having Silas speak for me. I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn’t think of anything to salvage the situation.

Tarheel cap spoke first. “You don’t have to listen to Silas. None of us do.” Then he laughed, like it was a joke, but it was harsh. I couldn’t tell if it was a real joke. Silas sure didn’t seem to think it was.

I opened my mouth to answer, determined to be brave, but from behind the boy, Silas mouthed, “Go. Away.” His eyes were daggers.

I felt myself shrink. I squeaked, “No, thank you,” and pushed off the counter. My shoulder hit the boy’s elbow, but I put my head down and barreled past him, through all the soccer boys, and then ran-walked to my room.

I thought about the choice I’d made as the sea crashed beside me. I wasn’t interested in joining Silas and his friends. Was I? No, I wasn’t. As exciting as it would have been to say yes, I would have stood on the beach, not really hanging with them, just existing in a haze of self-doubt and longing, wishing I knew what to do and how to act. I am a disaster.

I decide to go to the rocks. It’s low tide and that means tide pools will be exposed between the beach rocks. I work my way there, growing warmer as I walk. I tie my jacket around my waist and let the breeze filter through my t-shirt and glance off my skin. I try not to think of the irony of going there. It was Silas who showed me the rocks back before high school. I remember his excitement when we found an old glass bottle in one of the pools. It wasn’t anything special, but I saved it and it sits on a shelf in my room. But Silas and I haven’t been to the rocks together in years.

A few dozen yards of damp sand sit between the sea and the rocks. I have plenty of time to explore before the tide comes in. I turn away from the ocean and toward the rocks. They look like bright green buttons dumped onto a ribbon of sand. Their color is from vibrant, willowy moss that grows from their porous surfaces. Tepid bowls of leftover Atlantic rest between the stones, forming tide pools where tiny fish and scuttling crabs are trapped until the tide comes in and frees them. When I reach the rocks, I jump onto the nearest one, but slide on the wet moss and my foot slips into the water of a small pool, just a few feet across and a foot or two deep. Mom will be annoyed that I got my shoe wet. The thought is less satisfying than I wish.

I’m careful as I climb over rocks, checking for treasures. The morning sun sparkles in the water, a series of inlets, jets, and small ponds that go on and on. It’s an otherworldly landscape populated by otherworldly creatures. Besides the usual small sea animals, the storm left some extra treasures: rope, jagged planks of wood, and tons of seaweed. Even mermaid’s purses-–shark eggs. The ocean had a rough night.

I lift a piece of a board as long as I am tall. It is one of several I collect on a rock, including one with “-tle Shell III” written on it. Someone today will discover that their little boat went missing in the storm. Or perhaps it was already at the bottom of the sea and the storm churned it up and spit it out. I feel like one of these boards, ripped apart and tossed around. I sigh and gingerly pull a slimy coil of fraying rope out of the water, then let it drop back in.

I’m thinking as I work, about how I’m just not ready to deal with growing up. The boys, especially. I needed another year or thirty. Maybe an all-girls boarding school wouldn’t be so bad.

I crouch on a rock and, using a piece of the -tle Shell III, poke through a mass of shells that’s clumped together, looking for anything that catches my eye. Another hermit crab pulls itself into its shell as I disturb the water. I’ve seen plenty of hermit crabs in my life, so I move on, shuffling across the slippery rocks, my gaze searching for something more interesting.

Maybe Mom could tell Silas he isn’t allowed to have friends over, ever. Or I could crawl into a hole and just stay there like a hibernating bear until I magically develop social skills. I know I’m letting Mom down, which feels awful. But I can’t believe she would expect—

I gasp and freeze.

I’ve come to the largest pool in the area, one that’s full of debris. Amidst the seaweed and trash, two eyes stare up at me. It’s a young man, his face and body submerged under the shallow water. His legs must be stuck because I can’t see them under a pile of ocean stuff and rock. He’s pale as the moon.

To be continued… in a Sea Mythos short story anthology, late 2025. Find it on Amazon!

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The incantation to save Micah must be cast by a recluse, plucked from the top of a mountain. Where to find a hermit in 21^st century America?

I climb until the wind moans and make camp. Come morning, I search. Day after day, I become familiar with the animal trails—where to set traps, where to find berries. My face blisters, I chop my hair. 

Three seasons pass before it dawns on me: I am become the recluse I seek.

I run to Micah, but he is gone. 

I… no longer care. 

Eager for solitude, I return to my mountain.

____________________________________________________________________________

This drabble (100 word story) is also published on the writing site Horrortree.com.

The speaker in this story changes, but doesn’t realize it at first. Did you notice the turning point, the moment they became the recluse?

“What time is it?” Maggie whispered. 

“Five ‘til midnight,” Claire said, too loud.

Sneaking into the library at night was perhaps the most juvenile thing we’d ever done, but I needed this: a break, an escape from not knowing how—or if—I should fix things. Jon was usually a good dad to Ethan, but I couldn’t unsee him hitting our nine-year-old for back-talk. It didn’t happen often. Surely, Jon deserved another chance? I pressed a hand against my head. 

Claire pulled out two books from the bag she held, holding them out like snacks to her toddlers. “For you,” she gave it to Maggie. “So you can see what true love looks like.”

Maggie was recently dumped by a scummy guy who leached off her generous heart. I glimpsed the title. “Don’t you dare glance in Wickham’s direction, Maggie!”

Maggie tapped the cover of Pride and Prejudice and grinned mischievously.

Before our library was built, this site was covered with fairy rings. Rumor said if you were in the library and opened a book at midnight, the magic was potent. We’d never tried it as teenagers, but now, we needed some magic. 

Claire turned to me. “For you, Kayley, I’m giving you simpler times; go play.”

She may not have known all the dynamics in my home, but always-perceptive-Claire guessed enough. I reached for the book: Peter Pan. I’d read it a million times. I smiled, envisioning myself sneaking into a hideout with the Lost Boys, hunting down beasts, and swimming in the lagoon.  

Claire’s watch beeped midnight. “Now!”

I opened the book. Quick as a page turn, the library disappeared.

The ground swayed. I stumbled and grabbed a railing, squinting against a noonday sun. Water lapped nearby—I was on a ship! But the only ship in Neverland was the Jolly Roger. My heart raced. Had I been captured?

No, I knew who I was. In the real world I was Kayley, but here I was Two-Handed Fran.

Two-Handed Fran? I had a weird name.

I looked down at myself. I wore a dirty blouse, tucked into tan britches that ended a few inches above my bare and calloused feet. A limp rag dripped in my hand. I groaned.

I was not supposed to be a pirate! I was supposed to be a kid, running through the woods while playing make-believe and flying with fairies.

“Get this deck in shipshape, ye bilge-sucking landlubbers, or I’ll cleave ye to the brisket!”

I remembered the rag. Oh.

I shivered and scrubbed as the speaker passed me. Curly, black locks fell over his ruffled, red overcoat. One arm ended in a hook. Captain Hook. A nasal shout drew me out of my fear. 

“Two-Handed Fran!” A small man in striped pants shuffled over and shook his finger in my face. “You heard the Captain! Don’t let him find you daydreaming.” It was Smee! He pushed a pair of spectacles up his nose and scurried off.

“Lost boys, ho!” The call came from the crow’s nest. Catfish Kit, that was his name.

I leaned over the railing. A group of children gathered on a rock in the cove at the water’s edge. One threw a fishing line. 

“This is pirate territory, not a nursery for children!” Hook strode aft. Huh. I knew which direction was aft. “Cannons!”

Yes! Wait, no. That was a Two-Handed Fran thought. The boys weren’t even bothering us. They were just children! But, Hook, terrifying with emotional lack, called, “Fire!”

“Fire in the hole,” answered a pirate. The cannonball burst forth with a boom. 

Sand flew and little boys scattered. I squinted at the beach, desperate to see if any were hurt.

“Here,” said a voice.

 I turned to see a woman with long brown hair offering me a spyglass. She wore a dark blue vest over a flowy blouse. One arm ended at her elbow in a mess of scar tissue. I knew her as One-Handed Fran.

Ah.  

“Thanks.” I lifted the glass to my eye. The children had fled.

I sagged with relief, but Hook railed at the empty beach. “This is not over!” 

“Paaaan, ho!” Catfish Kit called.

A boy burst from the trees at the water’s edge and flew toward us. I fangirled a little.

He did a loop around the ship and landed on the bowsprit. Hook ran forward, sword drawn.

“Have at me, Hook,” Pan taunted, eyes ablaze.

But as the Captain drew close, Pan took off, grinning a baby-toothed grin, and landed on Catfish Kit’s head. The pirate swiped uselessly at Pan, nearly tumbling out of the nest with each movement.

A bark came from the stern, “We’re under attack!”

I rushed aft. While we’d watched the theatrics above, dozens of boys crawled onto the ship. They were grubby and dripping. Many had twinkling fairies on their shoulders. They faced me and the other pirates—motionless, except for the twitch of a finger on a stick or stone.

One-Handed Fran stalked up beside me. She handed me a knife and grinned. “Are you ready?”

“To fight? But they are children.”

“Then, we will win!” She leaped at a tall boy with curls tumbling over his eyes. She was bigger, but he was light-footed, and the fight began. I could feel Fran wanting to fight, but I held back.

Rocks flew and flashes of sunlight reflected off weapons. Smee ran back and forth at midship, calling, “All hands on deck, all hands on deck!” and more pirates joined the fray.

Something was on my leg—pain surged through my muscle as a boy in fox fur sank his teeth into my calf. Crying out, I shook him off. He dashed away with a boy who looked just like him—his twin. 

I clutched the sore spot as confusion creased my brow. Why had the twin attacked me? I hadn’t joined the battle. I hadn’t hurt anyone! But then I looked at the knife in my hand and the clothes I wore… I looked like the enemy. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t hurt the Lost Boys: I had watched as others did. 

In front of me, a pirate named Slop threw a fist at a sandy-haired child, and a Kayley-memory flashed through my mind. I shuddered to realize that I hadn’t escaped my real life at all. 

My fists clenched. There I stood, just like at home, paralyzed by fear as the pirate swung again and again, but then I remembered: I was in Neverland. And in Neverland, whatever you pretend becomes real. 

The knot in my stomach unwound. I imagined I was brave and decisive, letting the feeling expand until I believed it. Then, I took a deep breath and rushed at Slop, slamming him against the rail. I shoved him overboard. 

That felt good. I turned to the Lost Boy.

“You saved me,” he said, eyes round with shock.

I nodded.

“Why?”

I whispered, “Because I’m not really a pirate.” 

He leaned forward conspiratorially, like we were playing a game. “Then what are you?” He stared into my eyes.

“I…” I dropped my gaze. What was I? I couldn’t be a Lost Boy. I was grown-up (unfortunately), but I didn’t want to be a pirate. 

Then I knew. I smiled at the boy, “I’m a Mother.”

His face brightened. “Then, will you help us?” He paused, then added, “Mother?”

I straightened my shoulders and said, “Of course. That’s what Mothers do.” But what could I do? I thought for a moment, then had an idea. I jogged to the mainmast. 

I pretended I was very strong. Then, I clenched my knife between my teeth and climbed. Neverland obliged my imagination and I made steady progress. I ascended until I reached the lowest rope of the rigging and I sliced it.

A pirate’s ax embedded into the wood just below my left elbow, chased by the sound of the blackest of curses. I looked down into a sea of scars and sneers. If this didn’t work, the pirates would eat me alive. Beads of salty sweat pearled on my skin. I continued upward. 

I heard a tinkling of bells in my ear and it felt like encouragement. Was that a gold-limned fairy hovering in my periphery? I continued, and with each rope that snapped, the others grew more taut with the weight of the mainsail. At last, there was only one rope left. I grabbed the knife from my teeth, but my fingers, slick with sweat, dropped it.

I watched in horror as it fell. No, I thought. I was supposed to save them.

Just then a blur of leaves swept across my field of vision. Peter Pan snatched the knife out of the air and held it out to me. He smiled hopefully, like he wanted me to be proud of him. 

“Here you go, Mother!”

I took the knife. “Well done, Peter,” I said, feeling very much like a girl pretending to be a grown-up.

Peter whooped and flew off toward Hook. I smiled at his back and returned to my task. 

I sliced; the rope snapped. As the sail fell, a sparkling cloud of fairies rose and took hold of the edges. They spread the cloth wide and let it settle over the battle.

The pirates thrashed in confusion, swearing and hacking uselessly at the thick canvas. The Lost Boys simply dropped to their knees and crawled out.

I slid down the mast and landed on my toes. “To shore!” I shouted, and we ran to the edge of the ship. The children jumped into the water without hesitation. I peered over the rail. Below us were half a dozen little boats.

“Are you coming, Mother?” The sandy-haired boy was at my side. I hesitated, looking back at the Jolly Roger. I’d been a pirate all along. It just took coming to Neverland to realize it.

Air whipped my hair as Peter flew toward the island, crowing triumphantly. My heart soared; I wasn’t a pirate anymore! “Yes,” I said, and I jumped.

There was no splash.

“Kayley, Maggie!”

I opened my eyes. Claire was shaking me, her face pale. The first wisps of dawn light peeked through the library windows.

“You were here, then when you opened the book, you were gone! It worked!”

I quirked an eyebrow at Maggie. She smiled a small, private smile and said, “Bingley.”

“You chose sweet, generous, would-happily-be-cheated-by-his-servants Bingley?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t settle for anything less.”

I gasped. Magic, indeed.

My friends looked at me. How could I explain that I’d been an evil pirate who’d finally learned to side with the children? I simply said, “I helped the Lost Boys escape Hook. And I think a fairy sat on my shoulder.”

They grinned and tried to ask questions, but I motioned to the exit. “Let’s talk later. We need to get out of here.”

We slipped out the back door we’d propped open when we snuck in and headed to our cars. As we crossed the dewy grass, unusual clarity filled my mind and the courage I’d found in Neverland lingered. I needed to act before it was gone.

“Hey, Claire? Can Ethan and I stay at your house for a bit? I need to… figure out some things. With Jon. And I need to keep Ethan safe. I need to do better at that.”

Claire’s eyebrows shot up. I watched as she schooled her features and said, “Of course, Kayley. As long as you need.”

Maggie put her arm around me. “We’re here for you.”

The tension in my shoulders released. This wasn’t going to be easy. Jon needed help and probably I did, too. But I would do the work. I looked up at the sky where a few stars still laughed overhead. I didn’t know which was second to the right, but I didn’t need to. I knew I was a mother, and mothers protect children. 

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This story won third place in a 2023 local library writing contest. One challenge of this piece was filling the extensive rules ofthe prompt while keeping it under 2000 words. This story comes in at 1983 words.

Did you catch the allusions to Peter Pan, the novel? Did you catch the references to the 1953 animated Disney film?

People ask to read my writing all the time. They do this under the delusion that anyone who calls themself a writer must be good at what they do. This is simply not true. Writing takes training and practice. Just like piano! And cuisine arts and motherhood and plumbing. That’s why I’ve given this substack the name Scribe and Sprout: I’m scribbling and growing. So, if you want to read the writings of someone who is becoming, please dig in, trowel in hand. My hope is that you will find seedlings of truth and beauty amidst the words posted here.

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