Tomorrow is a New Day

This week, Chuck Wendig, over at terribleminds, presented this flash fiction challenge: Another Roll of The Dice. My numbers were: 16-magical realism; 5-alternate history; 5-mythological bird; 8-broken heart.

Tomorrow is a New Day

            “I really liked the idea of it breathing fire, the whole dragon-esque bit.” Billy, our special effects guru says for the third time. “My team and I would do it justice.”

            “Sure, Billy, but we have to think about how the bird is going to play into the plot of the story.” Annette, one of our head writers pipes up in her thick New York accent. “I’m telling you all,” she waves her three hands in a gesture meant to encompass the room, “the siren’s song is the way to go.”

            “Honey, if we do that then we have to change the whole look of the beast. The images we have drafted at this point don’t match up with what you’re suggesting. When you think siren’s song you think sensuality and femininity, with an edge. The bird we have now is too robust for that type of character.” Mason, our visual arts manager/cowriter crosses his legs with an air of finality as he offers his opinion.

            “I still think we are all trying to dig too deep on this one.” Vinny, another writer on the show, is always trying to reign the others in. “The world we have thus far created is a perfected version of the one we live in. Everything in it is bigger and better in its own way. Is it not enough for this bird to simply be a new and improved version of any regular bird we would find on our own planet?”

            “Oh, please.” Annette scoffs at him. “That’s too simplistic.”

            “Annette, I am simply offering an unseen solution to-“

            Their voices fall to the back of mind as I look at the one other person in the room who is not engaged in conversation. My wife is staring at the tabletop pensively. After a moment she looks up at me, and I want to jump across the table and take her into my arms when I see the hurt in her purple eyes. It was only three hours ago when I let it be known to her that I am seeking divorce. I try to remember that she brought this upon us, that hers isn’t the only broken heart in the room.

            “I agree, Vinny, that we need to create the bird based off the realm it is being created within.” She says, breaking my gaze. I wonder how she can be concentrating on work in this moment. People weren’t joking when they said don’t date those you work with. I married one of the people I work with, and look at me now, having to produce a hit television show with the woman who betrayed me. “The bird is supposed to complement the setting of the show,” she continues.

            “So you’re saying we should make the beast more reminiscent of Annolyn?” Mason smooths back his heavily gelled hair, lost in thought. “I could tie in some more earthen aspects. Change the colors, perhaps.”

            I hear Billy sigh in acceptance, and Annette glances at him and leans forward in her chair. “I like where you’re going with that, but it still has to have some sort of magical property.” Billy perks up a bit, his head hitting the ceiling.

            “Mhm, mhm.” Mason is rifling through some papers. “What do we think about hunter green?”

            “I didn’t think bronze went against traditional Annolyn aesthetic.” Vinny said, still clinging to something simpler.

            “Steve, what do you think?” The group casts their eyes upon me. I look at my wife for a moment. “Annolyn is a dark place. What about black?”   

     

            “Black?” Masons asks slowly, frowning at the papers in his hand.

            Annette purses her lips and says nothing; my wife is silent as well.

            “Sure.” I say. “Black is powerful, it could be a dark creature.”

            She is looking at me now, thinking. 

            “Black. Okay.” Billy says. “But what does it do? What is its purpose?”

            “Well, if you all insist on it being dark, it will need to have some sort of negative impact upon the realm.” Vinny sits up. He has come to terms with not having his way on this one. “It would have to be something that brings havoc or heartache, something that causes pain.”

            Numerous lips are bitten as the whole creative team brainstorms. I still feel her gaze. I look everywhere else.

            “What if it doesn’t cause the pain?” Her voice is so beautiful. “What if it holds the pain of others? What if it isn’t dark of its own volition, but has been made that way through practice?”

            “What are you suggesting?” Vinny seems intrigued. “A bird that takes a person’s pain away and carries it within itself?”

            “Yes.”

            “So it’s not an evil bird.”

            “No.”

            “The bird of broken hearts.” Annette whispers. Mason starts scribbling furiously on his notepad.

            “How does it go about doing that? Does it wipe away memories?”

            I watch my wife as she frowns a bit, her eyebrows furrowing. I can see that that idea does not appeal to her.

            “No,” I say, “no, because what if there are happy memories, too?”

            “Maybe it could just take away the burden of feeling the pain that spawned from whatever event the bird is coming to help you cope with.” She says. “It shoulders your burdens.”

            “It numbs you.” I suggest.

            “Numbs you?” Annette asks. “So then it is an evil creature.”

            “No.” My wife says, looking up. “It allows the person to move on without losing the memories that helped them grow, that made them happy.”

            “It lets you have your cake and eat it, too.” Billy grunts.

            Vinny seems exasperated “I still think it should be a memory-erasing bird. Its concept would be much cleaner that way.”

            “But what if the person the bird visits isn’t ready to let go?” I ask.

            “Well,” Vinny looks between my wife and I, “then they don’t accept its services.”

            She and I are staring openly at each other now. The rest of the room falls silent. Everybody seems engrossed in assessing their individual duties on how to make this bird come to life within the show. Nobody seems appeased.

            I smile at her, suddenly unsure of what I want. “I say we scrap the bird, think of something new. We can start fresh tomorrow.” 

“I agree.” She responds.

There is collective relief around the room as the team prepares to leave. I don’t listen to their departing words.

Don't Be Silly

The book closes and the characters breathe a sigh of relief.

                “Ugh.” Trip jumps up. “If we have to run that passage one more time, I might rip out the page.”

                “You wish.” Lucy, the other protagonist, laughs.

                “Why does she keep reading that part?” He asks.

                “It’s an interesting scene. I mean, look at all we just did!”

                “Yeah, thirteen times now. In one week.”

                “It has meaning to her.” Lucy explains. “We’re helping her through something.”

                “Yeah, right. We’re characters in a book, Luce. We don’t hold that kind of power.”

                “Of course not, but our writer knew of the impact we could make.”

                “Oh.” He looks up at her, mocking. “Our writer- I’d almost forgotten about our most amazing creator.” He laughs. “Luce, how could you let me forget?”

                “He’s real,” is all she says.

                “Why don’t you get it, Luce?” He gestures at the black and white that surrounds them, suddenly angry. “This is all there is! This is where we exist.”

                “There is so much more! Trip, why can’t you see?” She looks him in the eye, pleading.

                “We evolved from these letters.” He says with a note of finality.

                “That’s preposterous!” She cries, almost wanting to laugh. “We were lovingly, beautifully made. We have a purpose.”

                “The only love,” he starts, grabbing her hand, “is what’s between us.”

                “Our creator loves us more than we could ever imagine. It’s bigger than us. He has a plan. We just have to trust-“               

                “I have a plan!” Trip jumps down the page. “How about we go see what the others are up to. This conversation is so…”

                “Infuriating?” She storms after him and pulls him back. “Trip, it’s the number one conversation worth having.”

                “Lucy, seriously…please? Let’s just go.”

                “He gave our lives meaning. He is our entire reason for existence.”

                “Lucy, are you hearing yourself? You’re telling me,” He faces her and grabs her shoulders, “that we were specifically designed by someone-someone we can’t see, hear, or touch- who ultimately has control of our entire universe, and that he has some sort of perfect plan for us?”

                “Yes. We are His creation.”

                “We’re characters in a story Luce, characters aren’t created.” He laughs at her. “Look, we just need to concentrate on the book, and not some invisible almighty being.”

                “He ultimately is the writer of this book, Trip.”

                “Lucy, you’re insane.” He walks away, appalled at how stubborn she is being. He knows that characters don’t have writers who create them. That would make no sense at all.

temptation

The desert, dry and hot

Relentlessly surrounds me.
You tell me to hold on-
And I’ll inherit Your bounty.

I’ve never been so thirsty,
As it holds out the drink,
Glistening and beautiful-
It wills my faith to sink.

I’ve always wanted the water,
But I was content to wait for You.
Now as this offer is made,
I’m not sure what to do.

I know you say it’s poison,
That to drink it would be a waste,
But I’ve gone so far without,
I long to have a taste.

Corruption is funny,
Its orchestrator wise.
It’s always cloaked in wonder,
But then the victim dies.

Subtleties push me toward the water,
Even as you tell me to wait
Can’t You see I’m desperate?
Won’t it be too late?

How do I resist it?
How do I pull Your will from this place?
How do I make myself see You,
Instead of that beautiful face?

More Than Meets the Eye

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” – Ephesians 6:12

Evil is never blatant. The devil is smarter than that-the master of his craft. He covers his deeds with the most beautiful and intriguing masks. Our free-will and desires are putty in his hands. He hides his agenda in good-intentioned people and level-headed logic. He knows us, not as well as the Lord, but well enough to target our weaknesses and attack them with great stealth. His art is deception; he will never reveal to you his doings.

Unless you are aware of “this present darkness,” you will never recognize it. This is why we must be grateful for God’s grace and sovereignty. There is a war at place on this earth, one that must be seen –just not with our eyes. There are angels and demons, fighting and influencing.  If you know, then you can take heart that good will prosper, but that doesn’t mean there will be a lack of suffering in the meantime. It means there will be more, especially to those of us who are aware of the reason.

We are the ones who will be tested and tried; we are the ones who will fully endure the wrath, because ignorance is, in fact, bliss. The blissful are the ones who will hurt in the end, though, if we don’t stay strong and do our best to show them otherwise. We are willing because we know we can take peace in God, knowing that He is ultimately in control and that He will never leave us.

There is a plan-His plan, grander than we’ll ever know, and this is all a part of it. So we must endure this present darkness, and be thankful to know a greater Light.

F3-Cycle 45

With Love

~This week’s prompt was to write a story about a protagonist’s determination to not be defeated, and what happens to them as a result~

                The trail behind our house that led up to our big barn was one I traveled often as a child. I used to sit for hours with my dad up in his wood workshop. The way he could sculpt and mold his materials into items of such beauty amazed me. The hum of his tools, or the hum of his voice, was peaceful when intermixed with the laughter of me and my two brothers, the only other of my 5 siblings that cared to accompany dad. The bright sunlight would stream through the cracked windows, illuminating the sparkling dust particles that floated through the air. They were always fascinating to me-how they could just hover above me and then fall so serenely to the floor.  

None of us had any idea then the detriment our summers in the woodshop would cause. I found out soon after I had my baby girl. A hefty scientific name was given to my poor respiratory condition, which had progressed through out my high school years, and then, once I had to begin living for someone other than myself, I had to fight for that freedom.

She came 8 weeks early, weighing barely more than two pounds, and being just over 13 inches long. The experience of having her pulled from my numb body was surreal, it felt so odd. My circumstances weren’t normal, and it was a wonder either of us survived at all. She was so tiny, her daddy could hold her in the palm of his hand, and she remained in the hospital for months after her birth.

When the full weight of my problems descended, I remember being greedy for my daughter’s life. She had made it home, and now I was dying. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to live at least until she was 18. The thought, though, was ludicrous. The doctor said if I made it three years, I would be lucky. Numbers and milestones I would never see swirled around my mind. Until she entered high school, when she became a teenager…13 is a good age. No, I thought, even that is hoping for too much. I finally settled on 10 years old. I wanted the bulk of her childhood.

It was that decision, the choice to live for my daughter long enough to make it count, that propelled me on through the worst and weakest times. Several instances I thought I wouldn’t make it. The exhaustion, even while doing nothing but talking, was overpowering. My disease pushed me to my limit, but my daughter raised that bar of just how much I could handle.

Even though I had fight, times were not easy. Much testing and traveling and trials and interviews resulted in my being put on the lung transplant waiting list. Once entered, I was expected to have to be on oxygen for a year before I had a donor. I spent that year being thankful for being able to watch my baby grow. The procedure came and went with minor complications. Luckily, my body took to the one lung they were able to fit in my chest. Eventually, with the aid of much medicine, many people, and countless oxygen tanks, I was able to make it through recovery.

The help didn’t cease for the rest of my life. My daughter was my love. She truly made me happy and made my reasonably short life complete. I remember the night the last ambulance came. I hadn’t been feeling well, and I knew when I was about to go down. Like always, as requested, the ambulance arrived sans sirens, and my husband ushered the men down the hall to where I was sitting on my bedside. They were efficient and wanted no delays, but I made them stop long enough to ask. She was looking on from the side of the doorway, knowing not to come any further. I couldn’t have that, not that time.

“Come here, sweetheart.” I drew her to me for what I knew might be the last. “How about a smile for Mommy?” I asked, desperate to wipe that equally desperate look off her face.

 I knew she was torn, thinking this was simply protocol, that I would be back in a couple days like normal, but also knowing what’s possible. She delivered a pretty smile, though, and seconds later I was on the stretcher watching the ceiling as I was rushed away. The alcoves really needed dusting.

”You have to take care of her.” I dumbly told my husband over and over again. She was all I could think of.

Now, I wake up from my dreams to stare at the pristinely clean white ceiling of the hospital room. At some point my husband starts talking about how our little girl is turning ten today. She won’t be opening the presents I got her yet, though. Her grandparents are with her, so I know she’s in good hands. I don’t want her seeing me like this. I want her memories of me to be free of what I am now. Someone holds my hand as I fall asleep. I wake sporadically with fits of coughing, but only long enough to absorb a few minutes of pain until the darkness takes over again.

I made it, though. I lasted ten years longer than anyone thought I would. I overcame my disease and I pushed forward for my daughter. I am a survivor. I have been strong, and I hope some of that rubs off on her. She, and my love for her, enabled me to accomplish the impossible. I have not been conscious for at least a few days, but I know I lasted long enough. I am grateful, and my last breath is filled with triumphant thoughts, hope, and love for the one who taught me how to survive.

“If God were not entirely fair, how would he be qualified to judge the world?”

Romans 3:6

“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.”

Romans 8:28

F3 - Cycle 42 - I'm Late

Letting  Go and Letting God

Amazed by what she lost, Hannah Sharpe stares at the girl sitting across from her. Maya, oblivious to her acquaintance’s anguish, chats casually about anything that comes to mind. As she works to sufficiently contribute to the conversation, Hannah’s caught between enjoying the moment and dreading the future because she knows the moment won’t last.

                “So, what’s your major now that you’re transferring?” Maya asks.

                “English.” Hannah responds. “I always kind of had it in the back of my mind but wasn’t confident enough to declare it.” She smiles. “Do you know what you want to do?”

                “Nope.” Maya sighs. “No idea.”

                “It’ll come to you.”

                “I sure hope so.”

                Hannah wishes she knew what to say next, but then Maya simply moves on to another subject and keeps going. After a while, the room starts to fill up with others arriving at the party, and Maya soon gets lost in the throngs of people, her many friends surrounding her. Hannah, sort of out of her element and bummed out, searches the crowd for some of her own friends, if she can even call them that, and checks her phone incessantly. Eventually, they show up, and Hannah tries to have a good time, but whenever she sees Maya, her heart sinks a little.

                Hannah has never had a really close friend and she knows that Maya could have been it. Angry at herself, she tells her friends she’s heading out and makes her way, slowly, to the door. Weaving through the masses proved harder than she thought it would be. Halfway there, Maya spots her and looks at her expectantly, probably wondering where she is going.

                “I’m taking off.” Hannah yells over the music. “It was cool seeing you again!”     

                “Oh, you too, totally!” Maya yells back.

                Hannah wants nothing more than to just blurt out everything, all of her regrets, how much she wishes she could just go back in time and make things right, but the blaring music and common sense quickly dissuade her.

                “Good luck with school!” She says, making to walk away, and then inwardly kicking herself for doing so.

                “Thanks! You, too!” Maya laughs and starts dancing again. “We should meet up if we’re ever both in town again.”

                “Yeah, that would be cool.” Hannah hides any trace of excitement.

                “Alright, then, I’ll see you around!”

                “See you around!” Hannah turns and heads for the door, knowing that they will never both be in town again at the same time. Going to different colleges a country apart usually keeps people at a pretty good distance.

                Hannah she knew she was too late, that Maya was no longer the young girl who wanted Hannah’s friendship more than anything else, all those years ago. Why did it have to take so long for it to hit her that she was making such a massive mistake? The regret that plagued her now, it was futile. She couldn’t do anything about it now. She was too late. The opportunity was long gone, any potential for a friendship she ruined for herself when she denied Maya access into her life. What had her problem been?

                Hannah drove home slowly, unable to recall why she never took the last step between her and Maya. It could have been because she was shy, that Maya was sort of intimidating, but that didn’t seem right. Thinking the whole way home, Hannah gave up. She could think of no justifiable reason as to why she now had to live with this huge regret. There must have just been a wall. Thinking back, Hannah had been sort of numb to everything going on around her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be friends with Maya, it was that she didn’t particularly care to be friends…with anybody. Oh, and now, oh how she wants to go back and scream at herself to wake up. She could have had it all.

Hannah wonders where she had been all these years. She always knew she should do something about Maya, try again, but the desire was never like this. She wishes it had been when there was still a chance, because then she would have done everything possible to make up for her failure. She almost would have rather never come to this realization than come to it too late.

                Getting out of her car and quietly making her way into her parent’s house and up into her bedroom, Hannah wishes the summer were over so she could go back to school and not think about her mistakes. Lying in bed, she cries, and prays. She prays a lot, desperate, not sure why she is feeling this way all of the sudden.

                She prays to get rid of the regret, giving her burdens to God, and she prays for a friend like the one she lost for herself. She wants God’s will for her life, and eventually she starts to realize that maybe her regret over Maya is a part of it. Through her suffering, Hannah learned to lean on God, and she figured that if God could manifest this odd love in her for a friend she never had, then He could certainly help her love her actual family better than she already does. She decided to take it all as a lesson, and trusted that God has a plan for her that surpasses anything she could ever imagine, and that maybe, just maybe, Maya had already done her part.