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The Sparrow – 05

He had spent his whole life bifurcating himself until his identity had become a multifraction which created a whole new man that he wasn’t sure he recognized. Being the last shard of glass that held reality together for centuries had begun to wear on him; the last piece of glass that held strong in a cracked mirror… if he let go, what would happen?

The Sparrow didn’t know who he actually was inside all of these aspects of himself. What is an identity? What makes an individual? This woman stood before him demanding an answer to a question that no one had ever asked. Hope for what?

He didn’t know the right response, and yet his spirit had demanded that she arrive here on this day. This day of all days, they all needed help from one that was truly living, someone mortal. What is life without death? 

“It’s our anniversary…” he whispered.

“Fucking anniversary of what” she spat back at him. He recoiled at the vehemence in her voice. There had been a time in his life when he would have responded in kind; but he was too tired and spoke the truth before he had time to think.”

“They were just children when she brought them down here. My wife. She brought them down here and made them drink from the well. If I had known, I wouldn’t have allowed it. The water in this well is filled with a magic that is destructive if one does not have free will when they drink of it. May 22nd, 1855.”

The woman stared at him for a long moment before she asked, “you said our anniversary.” The question clear in the statement. 

She had yet again picked up on something that none of the others had, perhaps she really was the key to the end. When he spoke again, he didn’t realize that he had been holding his breath;  as the words tumbled from him, a strong scent of lavender flowed out. He’d almost forgotten what that smell meant to him. 

“I got here just in time. I drank from the cup that she held out to me.” 

“What happened?”

Another question no one had ever asked. How many people had Bartholomew trapped down here? Hundreds, thousands? 

“I drank from the cup because I wanted to be wherever my children were.”

She waited for him to say more, when he didn’t, she repeated, “What happened?”

“We all split into different planes of existence. They found a cursed immortality, she died because she tried to manipulate the power of the well, I broke into a million pieces that only coalesce into consciousness on this date each year,” his shoulders sagged as he looked at the stone floor. 

“What do you want from me…” she whispered. 

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The Sparrow – 04

I raced into the inky hallway, too afraid to worry about where I was going. My hand trailed along the wall, a guide in an unknown land. The hallway curved to the left and I stumbled as the grade dropped sharply, a tight corkscrew spiral, going deeper into the belly of the earth. How could I explain this away? There had to be a logical reason for all of this. I had to be dreaming. I had been watching too many horror movies lately. Movies creep into your subconscious and play out old story arcs in new and bizarre ways. 

Abruptly, the ground leveled and the path straightened. A faint light, shining like a beacon of hope and safety pulsed in the distance. I allowed my hand to drop from the wall and picked up speed. My shoes began to squeak on the stone path as it grew damp. Cool, moist air soothed my ragged lungs. 

Suddenly, I became aware of a strange chittering, whooshing noise chasing me; growing closer the faster I ran. Had the draculian man morphed into a huge hawk hunting its prey? I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, the memory of those gleaming teeth and predatory stare kept me focused on the light ahead. 

Just as I reached another circular room, a swarm of sparrows rushed past me, wing tips grazing against my face and arms as they flew. When I slid into the open space I saw that the light was being emitted out of a well in the center of the room; an eerie glow erupting from the earth. My panting breath sent a crystalline fog up around me. 

I flung myself against the far wall and watched in horror as the sparrows started flying in tighter and tighter circles, eventually coalescing into a man. 

In short bursts I said, “Who… the hell… are you?” 

“I brought you here, you are the last hope,” his voice ground out of him like rusty gears that had long since been still. Forced into movement by the urgent need to communicate. 

“Hope for what? I don’t know how to fight ghosts!” I exclaimed before I thought about what I was saying. Ghosts? Is that what those… creatures had been? I didn’t believe in the spiritual world! 

“They aren’t ghosts, they are as real as you are.” The oil of use had started to loosen his tongue. Giving a sharp cough he said, “In 1855 they drank water from this well. They weren’t searching for immortality like others do, they were tricked into it,” the words rushed out of him as if there wasn’t enough time to say everything that needed to be said. 

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about. How do I get out of here?”

“They’ve gone mad with time,” he whispered as if he hadn’t heard my refusal. “They all do in the end.”

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From Toilets to Virginia Woolf

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay 

“I peed standing up!” a male friend proclaimed defiantly as he walked outside holding another beer. Having lived with me for a time, he knows my predilection for the sanitary and his devious grin told me that he just might have intentionally left the situation untidy. 

What men fail to realize about their bathroom escapades is that it isn’t the drops on the seat, but rather, the ureic streaks running down the bowl of the toilet that go unnoticed. Being more observant than is pleasant, my eyes lock in on these things and won’t let go until all is put back in order. 

Isn’t that true of life? We notice what falls into the pattern of what we’ve been taught to observe. But, what about all the nuanced detail that exists in our lives? I wonder how much I fail to see. As I’ve allowed myself to be swept away by the tasks of life, my view has become more myopic, focusing in on the things in front of my face; the fabricated demands that require my attention now. 

In an effort to be more observant, I have tried to slow down, providing myself with the opportunity to absorb what is around me. It has become hard for me to be still, to just sit. I am a doer and despite myself, I’ve been caught up in the manic way of the modern world. A sense of restlessness settles over me when I’m not accomplishing something; chores, gardening, reading, writing, exercising; something, I must always be doing something. 

One of the many items on my checklist is to read more classic literature and I decided to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virgina Woolf. I got so frustrated in the first few pages by what seemed to be a distracted ramble, that I tossed the book down and headed to bed early! However, I am tenacious, I want to read and appreciate this great work. The next time I picked the book up, I slowed down and almost felt my brain click into a different gear. I race around in high gear and in order to appreciate this work a downshift was required.

Reading classical literature takes a different type of reader. I’ve been buried in fantasy books and non-fiction for some time now; the action is quick and the facts straight forward. Mrs. Dalloway is something else entirely. There are no chapters, and the pages drift from one character to the next, getting lost in their thoughts about the surroundings. To be honest, it’s been a bit hard for me to follow. 

The writing is beautiful though. There have been sentences that cause me to pause and ponder. Finding these literary gems reminds me that I ought to slow down and enjoy the splendor that is around me; not everything is an A to B dash. 

I once loved reading poems. But now they baffle my mind and I finally understand the befuddled state others have described when trying to read poetry. I trust that with practice and a little down shifting, I’ll once again be able to open the part of my mind that gaps in wonder while reading. I crave that sensation when a line hits me just right and I feel like I’ve been given a glimpse into the wonder of the universe.  Where has the magic gone? 

Why… it is all around me if I’d only take the time to appreciate it.

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Surrounded By Books

Photo by Radu Marcusu on Unsplash

I am surrounded by written words. I consistently find my bookshelves overflowing and I have to find new nooks and crannies to stash my treasures. Friends have told me I can trade my books in at used book stores, but a sense of betrayal keeps me from doing so. Books are magical creatures, and I can’t just trade them in for something new. 

I know I have too many, but it is a guilty pleasure I allow myself. I’ve always dreamed of having a library in my home. Floor to ceiling shelves, a ladder on tracks that wheels me around to different sections, new worlds. I feel even more guilty that I haven’t read all these books, and many… MANY have bookmarks in them midway through. The place I abandoned them for a different story, a fresh topic, a new adventure. 

I keep them around because they make me feel happy, secure somehow. They are organized on shelves and in various rooms by topic, like a real library. Part of the process of rearranging my house is rearranging where the books live.

If one were to pay attention, they could witness the various phases of my life based on the arrangement of books in my home. Spiritual discovery, interest in memoirs, westerns from my childhood, how to be a better leader, healing through herbal medicine, short stories to help me understand how to write them, instructional books on writing, and so on. When I am interested in something I can become obsessed for months; reading, learning, reaching for answers to questions I don’t know I have.

So, though it may not be practical and I don’t read as much as I feel like I should, I’ll keep my trove of books around, scattered all about the house. Life is about the simple pleasures after all. 

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The Sparrow – 03

I woke myself up with a violent sneeze. The dust had collected in a thin veil across my face, this decaying place taking me over, preparing me for a death feast. Pound the meat to make it tender, sprinkle with salt and pepper. I got to my feet unsteadily, craning my neck to look up, the ground had to be at least eight feet above me. 

A shallow ray of light fell across the room like a beam of truth, a holy spotlight over a switch on the wall. My fingers shook as I extended my hand, flipping it quickly I pulled my arm back to safety. The chandelier sprang to life. Eerie cobweb shadows cast across the bottom of the porch and dashed down, dancing around me like I was the prize catch of the day.

My eyes scanned the room in disbelief, there was a room under my house. I could explain this away; the house was old, perhaps it was part of the Underground Railroad. Except… it was spotless, it should be dusty and aged like a forgotten wine barrel. The only mess was the one I had made when I fell. 

The room was circular and hallways fanned out around me, yawning mouths, hungry and ready for a long promised meal. The smell of peppermint and lavender surrounded me, halitosis erupting from stone mouths; an enzyme ready to begin digestion before I was fully consumed. There was a single chair placed on each section of the wall between the hallways, watching, waiting for something. 

A faint noise pricked at my ears, was that footsteps? Click, click, click. I quickly turned the light switch off and raced to the shadows in one of the doorways, crouching down trying to make myself invisible. 

Two figures floated into the room with an air of ownership, as if it were an everyday occurrence that they strolled into this strange room. 

“I told you that wouldn’t hold, Bartholomew,” the woman’s voice was chiding and matter of fact as if she had said this many times before. Her skirts swept the floor as she turned in a circle looking up, the large bustle giving her a fat beatle-butt. 

“That was the point, Marrissa,” the words purred out of him. “A snare laid years ago,” his lips parted in what was meant to be a smile, teeth gleaming like a wolf’s in the half light. He removed his top hat as he knelt down, pinching dirt and pebbles between his fingers. He lifted it up to his long, straight nose and sniffed. “Ahhh, our newest little birdie has arrived.” His razor grin widened as his head swiveled and his eyes locked mine in place. 

“There she is,” his words rode out on an exhale of strong peppermint. A moment of deer-shocked-panic held me like glue. As he slowly stood up, panther grace and lion intent, a primal scream erupted from me and I bolted into the darkness. 

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Number One Fan

I’m notoriously terrible at remembering the names of authors, famous people, places, books or songs. My brain doesn’t seem to store information that way. I remember the story, but not titles. I don’t closely research or follow the people who create the stories I love, whether those be books or movies. I appreciate their work, but don’t find myself spending hours getting to know the creators themselves. 

Something has changed though, I think I might be classified as a groupie for the first time in my life. Though I don’t know if that word applies to someone obsessed with a series of books. I love Brandon Sanderson’s The Stormlight Archive. He is a phenomenal writer and I love fantasy novels. 

Brandon is very active on social media and it has made me interested, for the first time, in really following an author. I am compelled to  immerse myself in this world he has fabricated, to study all the ancillary texts and understand what everything means. If this story isn’t a video game yet… I could see it becoming one that I would actually play.

I listen to a lot of books rather than read them. It’s a great way to stay entertained while also doing chores, talk about efficiency! Through my social media stalking, I’ve learned that there are leather bound, illustrated versions of the books in The Stormlight Archive. I want them! I think about starting the series over, experiencing the story again through glorious, high quality books. Now I have to put the effort in to figure out how to get on the waiting list! 

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The Sparrow – 02

“What the hell,” my voice came out in a whisper as I stared at the chandelier. The smell of musty dirt and something long since rotten wafted up in waves as I crawled forward; lacy fingers reaching, ready to snatch me and drag me down into the earth.

I’m not one to make a habit of believing in ghost stories. The gal who sold me this house had tried to talk me out of it. She said that the couple who lived here before had vanished. After months of searching and investigation there was no trace of them. She was of the mind that the place was haunted and a single woman shouldn’t live here alone. I remember thinking, if ghosts were able to carry away two people, why does it matter if I’m only one? 

But odd things had started happening a few months after I moved in. At first, it was small things. A door left open when I was certain I had closed it, small household items being found in places that I didn’t remember leaving them. When my work consumes me I can become forgetful, or so I told myself. I’d talked myself out of being paranoid by focusing on the most logical explanation. It was only when the animals started acting strange that the hackles stood up on the back of my neck.

Slowly, I sat back on my haunches and brought my eyes level with the strange object. It wasn’t odd in and of itself, but having it propped there under my house made it seem ominous. Leaning forward, I carefully brushed the cobwebs away to get a better look. It was the exact same chandelier that hung in my living room; old and outdated, plastic with cheap bulbs, grimy fake crystals hanging off it like forgotten consolation prizes. 

My eyes scanned the wall of the house in the dim light. Searching for something that would make this all fall into place, though I didn’t know what that could be. A light switch perhaps? Some lawn chairs set about in a circle? Maybe someone had thought this was a great summer time hang out, roasting marshmallows in the glow of lamplight rather than firelight. Tucked away out of nosey-neighbor-view. Outside, but sheltered from strangers walking by wanting to talk, even though eye contact had been pointedly avoided.

The ground sank slightly as I repositioned myself to look at the other side of the chandelier. That was odd. I gently pressed my hand to the rough pebbles in a small arc around my knees. Solid, solid, a small creak wheezed up, pressing dusty air between my fingers. The faint scent of lavender and peppermint tickled my nose. With a choking grasp curiosity was replaced by a jolt of fear, some reptilian part of my brain shooting electric alarm bells through my body.

I began to scramble backwards towards the light when there was a sudden, splintering crack and I was falling! I hit the ground with a sharp thud and stared up from the floor beneath the floor of my porch. As the edges of my vision grew fuzzy I wondered where that damn sparrow had gone. 

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Morning Rumination

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

I was once more bold in sharing what I like to call my ruminations. These are sparked by a random thought and morph into mental essays that I can’t wrap my head around until I write them down. My journals are filled with such intellectual meanderings, I’m always writing; it seems to be the only way to clear my head.

I suppose, as I’ve grown older and have tried integrating myself more with society, I have become somewhat embarrassed by my willingness to be so open, so vulnerable on public forums. However, I do believe it is the responsibility of writers to be bold in bearing their souls. If one is going to write, then there ought to be meaning in it. If I’m going to write, I must write something worth reading. 

This thought came up again as I was reading Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin where she says – “Some day when I’m feeling better I’ll go back there and actually write the thing down. They should all be cheered by it, for isn’t it what they want? What we all want: to leave a message behind us that has an effect, if only a dire one; a message that cannot be cancelled out. But such a message can be dangerous. Think twice before you wish, and especially before you wish to make yourself into the hand of fate.”

That section really struck me with its truth. Once a private thought becomes a public one, there is no recalling it; no delete, no cancel, no return to sender on the envelope. But, even in the header on this website I’ve already captured the essence of my soul – Reader… Thinker… Writer…

That is my preamble as I jump off the precipice of opening myself up slightly and sharing what is really on my mind. If you enjoy these ruminations, if they strike a chord with you and you can relate, give them a like or leave a comment and I’ll know that they are going somewhere other than the void. 

Morning Rumination

I don’t know how to ignite a purpose within myself when I no longer feel one. When I lost my faith in a higher power, I lost the sense of my life having meaning. I used to feel like I was being pulled to something, a higher calling, a meaning, a purpose, a reason that my single flame in a sea of fire meant something. 

After my great fall from believing in something outside myself, I was swallowed up in a yawning depression. This lasted for years. As I slowly re-awaken to the life around me, the life in me, I wonder where to go next. I do not have a partner, I have no children, my life is mine and mine alone. When one does not live for other people, what does one live for?

I see much writing out there that starts by describing a struggle and ends with a message about how the author moved forward and steps that others can take to do the same. I don’t have any such advice. It would feel inauthentic to pretend that I do. Who am I to instruct others on what it means to live a good life? 

I’m relaxing into knowing that I simply do not know. I feel liberation in slowing down and being aware. What calls to me? Is a simple life a bad thing? Will I suddenly wake up one day and once again know how to spend my time in a way that feels worth something? 

I may, and I may not. The only way I know to be okay with the unknown is to accept that it is there and that I can’t force it to change. 

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The Sparrow – 01

Photo by Valentina Curini on Unsplash

The bird perched awkwardly on the window frame outside, just staring at me. His little chest pressed against the glass, neck tilted slightly back so his beak didn’t touch the window. The small, burnt-red bird head shifted from side to side as it eyed me. Right eye, left eye, right eye. I stared back at it until the silence became too uncomfortable. Standing up quickly, I walked across the room. Not towards the window, that wouldn’t be a hint, that would be too direct. I’m not good at being direct. At the very least I hoped the sharp movement would make the bird fly away. No luck. 

Were sparrows even supposed to act like this? I’d expect this bull-shit from a crow. But this tiny little bird had me pinned in place by its odd behavior. I could have just walked away from a crow or a raven, shaking my head at the odd way of intelligent birds. It must be hard being a smart bird. Smart enough to know you are intelligent, but not quite smart enough to carry out your grand bird-brained plans to take over the world. Maybe this little sparrow had crow friends and I’d soon find him dropping stones into a bucket to raise the water level. 

Why was this bird making me so nervous? Animals did weird things, and it was spring. Birds are always more active and strange in the spring. He was probably looking for some cozy piece of nesting material to take back to his bird-wife. Impressing her with his fatherly skills before the eggs were even laid. 

I stalked into the kitchen to get more coffee. The best way to deal with someone annoying was to ignore them, they’d eventually take the hint and go away. I decided to do the dishes while I was in there, giving my avian spy more time to take flight. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I peaked my head around the corner. The asshole was still there! His head no longer swiveling, the beady right eye focused hard on me, almost as if he had silently asked me a question and was waiting for my reply. 

“You want me to come outside you damn bird? Are you going to make me take a broom to you?” I jumped as the sound of my own voice startled me in the quiet house. The bird’s neck perked up in response, his feet scratched the window as he tried to get a better grip on the sill. 

I quickly walked towards the front of the house and threw the door open, I was done with this shit! The bird flitted up briefly and then darted down, two long hops taking it under the porch. 

“Ohhh, you aren’t getting away that easy!” I dropped to my knees and crawled part way under the eve. He stood there, looking at me and then his head swiveled so he could look up. He kept looking at me and then back up at the underbelly of the porch. Slowly, my eyes traveled up and I gasped with shock. There was a dusty chandelier hanging from the bottom of my porch.

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Serialized Story Coming Soon!

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash

Part of the thrill of writing is discovering something new, ideas that I have never seen anywhere else. It is exciting to ask the question –  “What happens next?” – and waiting to see how the story unfolds before my eyes.

It is also fun to play with how I share stories. I’ve never written a serialized piece before, but what better time to start than now! I’m working on a story titled The Sparrow and the goal is to provide new installments on Saturdays. I won’t know where the story is going until I write the next section and that is both exciting and scary! 

There are two things that happened in real life that inspired the first installment of The Sparrow. First, about a week ago, a Sparrow flapped up to my window and latched its little feet on the thin trim. It stared through the glass at me, twisting its head left and right. It flew away shortly, but I instantly knew there was a great story in this small experience. 

Second, I love the time right before I fall asleep because really bizarre thoughts and little stories float before my eyes. They are almost like dreams, but I am aware of them as they are happening. I often remember these things the next morning and feel compelled to use them as story catalysts. This is the creative space I wish I could tap into more freely. A few nights ago I had this weird little movie play out in my head where there was a chandelier hanging from the underside of a porch… that’s all I remember. Another random gem to throw into a story and see where it goes!

Two independent events come together to build the opening scene of The Sparrow. Stay tuned for the first installment this Saturday!