Reblog: Christmas In The Family

It was almost Christmas, a time for holy nights of blue and white lights and Santa Claus coming to town. It was always her favorite time of year… But it’s only fair to start when things are supposed to start.

It was Christmas Eve a long time ago. Mommy had been pregnant with the baby coming in January, a three-year-old big brother bouncing around the house, and an angry Daddy. She was going to wait until after Christmas to get ready for the baby, she just needed to get through one thing at a time.

A small Christmas Eve dinner and early to bed didn’t want to keep Santa away with wide-awake eyes. The little boy laid down in bed, still and quiet, trying to be asleep so Christmas morning could hurry up and come. Down the hall, Mommy and Daddy worked on gifts.

Just after bedtime, Mommy said it was time. A neighbor watched the little boy, he was finally asleep, while Mommy and Daddy went to the hospital. The little baby girl was born just before midnight, their own little gift from God. Mommy called her Eve.

A long time later,, a little before Christmas, Mommy and Eve had a big fight. They loved each other, but they didn’t get along well. Mommy told Eve to go out. Mommy didn’t mean forever, but Eve thought she did. So Eve went away.

One, two, three, four, five, six years after Eve went away, just a little before Christmas Mommy got a present early. Some policemen came to Mommy’s door. They gave her The Most Beautiful Thing in the world and a book. Mommy read it, even though it was for me, but that’s okay, I’m a good sharer.

Mommy says the book is about Eve, that she wrote down all the stories about where she went and what she did when she left. What made her happy and what made her sad. Mommy says there are lots of letters in it I can read when I’m bigger. She cried at the end.

When I ask Mommy what The Most Beautiful Thing is, she gets a sad smile on her face and says she’ll tell me when I’m older. Everything is when I’m older and she put the book on a shelf with some dried up flowers that I can’t touch.

It was almost Christmas, a time for holy nights of blue and white lights and Santa Claus coming to town. It is always my favorite time of year because my birthday is just one, two, three, four days before Christmas. Mommy said Christmas runs in the family and that’s why she called me Holly Eve.

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RePost: Sometimes He Remembers He Loves the Sea

This is an older piece I’m sharing, still very rough. I lost my more polished revisions when my last computer died. Any and all constructive criticisms and critiques would be appreciated…


The morning is foggy, shrouded in the marine layer the sea creeps in. He lives on this island as his family has lived on this island their whole lives down the generations, as a fisherman. The shore, ever changing and ever the same bumps up against his calloused feet as he was absentmindedly down the path to the water. No matter how many times he walks the path, there is always a new stone in the moss and sand jabbing into his foot; there is no clear footing in the fog. The sea is placid, and almost always is. It is the peace of the water that holds the fog to the pathway, grows moss upon the sharp rocks, and milder in the sand. It is this peace that holds him here.

He carries the empty nets across his back, slung from shoulder to shoulder. They are heavy on his shoulder, but they remind him of his strength, so he carries them not just for his livelihood but also for his memory. He feels the sand turning icy and mucky, sucking around his feet, feels the stones beneath his feet slowly becoming round and the fog thickens around him. He absently notes that he is getting close to the water and his heart lights with the hope at the splash beckoning him.

He thinks back to those few days when he was a child and the sun drew the fog up from the earth and warmed the sea. The sweet kiss of an open sky’s freedom and the wonders of the water’s pregnant depths lighten his mind for a moment before he sees his father calling to him from the cottage to pull the nets to the shore. The sea that clashes against his skin is cold and he opens his eyes to see the gray liquid surround him, the distant splashing of fish in the waves. Now, just as then, he feels his duty to his lineage, to himself for survival. This is what his father taught him, and his father, and his father down the family line: to take from the sea what they can.

Few fish live here now. Generations had fed and gorged themselves on the plenty of the sea yet ever kept fishing, never satisfied by what the sea had offered up to them. As life drained from the sea, so the sea stilled and so the fog crept in upon them, covering their eyes and muting the music what little life left played in the wind.

He walks along in the shallow water, mirroring the shoreline while his eyes scan the water for the drop-off. The water darkens a few feet in front of him and he wonders where the fish have gone as he ties and coils the hand line around his wrist. Then he hears the water moving, sees ripples coming toward him. He grabs the net half an arm’s length down and checks for tangles as he divides it in half and rolls the top portion over his thumb.

He stands there mid-motion; every muscle memory paused as his thoughts slowly move about as a school of fish in winter waters. Perhaps there is life beyond the fog. If he leaves maybe he will find a sun above warm waters where fish are plentiful. His hand slides down from thumb to the net’s lag line as other men might slide their hands over a woman. But he has not known a woman. He is a fisherman on an island deserted by the others as the fog remained and thickened. All he knows is fishing. His father had refused to leave and so now he refuses to leave there is none left to refute.

His fingers feel for the lag line again and grasp the midpoint between the net halves, bringing it to his lips as his fingers follow the edges down again and grab hold of the net’s top half along the lag line. He watches for the ripples as a distant splash whispers hope in his ear through the fog. The net is salty in him ought but he is used to it, has been seasoned with the salt through and through. Holding the lag line and half of the net in one hand with the handline and net in the other, he curves his body around and swings them all out over the darker ocean. He stands in the icy water, hand line still about his wrist, and gazes over the ocean wondering when life will return, where the sun had gone to, and why nothing can permeate the fog.

The water turns mucky as the day progresses and the water shifts away from the shore. He braces himself against the rough, moss-covered edges of rock at his feet and begins hauling in the net. But the net is light and it is easy to pull in, which makes his heart heavy with disappointment. Seaweed and slimy ocean much cover the net, only two fish lie in the net, brilliant colored scales flashing sharp light into his eyes. He sighs, it will be another meager day of meals, but perhaps tomorrow the fishing will be better. He empties the net of the garbage it has dragged up from the ocean floor. He hears a splash out in the fog, yes, he thinks, life is returning.


There is no life here. She waits. She watches. The fisherman has grown from boy to man, no longer free to fancy the unknown. He has bound himself with blood ties to the shore. When he was a boy he would swim out with her and they would swim together in the sea, wondrous with life. But those waters were far, very far, from his cottage home. The older he grew the closer to the shore he stayed, not even boating while he fished now. She weeps in the sea while she waits for him in the morning.

She sees him walking down to the shore empty nets across his back like lash marks of hurts past. She calls to him in her sing-song way. He does not even look up. Her voice is lost in the fog. She pushes herself out of the water, splashing and waiving, beckoning him out to her. She sings of warmer waters where the sun shines deep into the waters and winds tickle the waves, but he is deaf to her.

She pleads over dead waters, recalling the times they had played as children in the sea. “Escape the island,” she offers, “swim the depths with me again, let us find life together.” He stares out over the sea, unseeing, un-hearing, an ocean creature himself who has been beached on the shore too long.

The sea is as lifeless as his eyes and it breaks her heart for him.

He walks along the shallow water and she swims closer to him, a satchel over her shoulder bearing gifts. For a moment, it seems he senses her and she smiles despite herself and the warning in the back of her mind. Perhaps, she thinks, he will see today. But he is readying his nets, his eyes unfocused. She says his name and he pauses. She is so close to him if only he would come back to the sea. Be with me, she beguiles, and come see where the life has gone. And it seems as if he hears her offer. Please, oh please return to me, she begs over the swamp like shallows.

But his hands are at work with the net again. She flings her satchel into the water, disturbing the glassy surface. Fury pulses through her, for his blindness, for his entrapment by those who raised him, by her inability to break him from himself. She dives under the waters and clutches the satchel to her, immediately repentant and heartbroken. Her tears mix with the sea as the net hits the surface above her. She panics and swims a short distance away, fearful of being caught in those terrible lines.

She returns to the surface, peaking out above the waters, hopeless with another attempt failed. She watches him from the sea until the tide begins to ebb. She returns to the net as he begins pulling it up. She carefully empties her satchel into it as it closes. Two fish from her homeland, and a pearl from her garden, and scales from her tail. The water is turning foul as the muck condenses. The foul waters weaken her, they sicken her a little more each day, but she continues to return for him, hoping. She swims to deeper waters and watches as he picks out the fish and disposes of her treasures, hidden by the muck. Anguished, she flings herself back into the sea and begins the long journey home.

Reblog: Christmas In The Family

It was almost Christmas, a time for holy nights of blue and white lights and Santa Claus coming to town. It was always her favorite time of year… But it’s only fair to start when things are supposed to start.

It was Christmas Eve a long time ago. Mommy had been pregnant with the baby coming in January, a three-year-old big brother bouncing around the house, and an angry Daddy. She was going to wait until after Christmas to get ready for the baby, she just needed to get through one thing at a time.

A small Christmas Eve dinner and early to bed didn’t want to keep Santa away with wide-awake eyes. The little boy laid down in bed, still and quiet, trying to be asleep so Christmas morning could hurry up and come. Down the hall, Mommy and Daddy worked on gifts.

Just after bedtime, Mommy said it was time. A neighbor watched the little boy, he was finally asleep, while Mommy and Daddy went to the hospital. The little baby girl was born just before midnight, their own little gift from God. Mommy called her Eve.

A long time later,, a little before Christmas, Mommy and Eve had a big fight. They loved each other, but they didn’t get along well. Mommy told Eve to go out. Mommy didn’t mean forever, but Eve thought she did. So Eve went away.

One, two, three, four, five, six years after Eve went away, just a little before Christmas Mommy got a present early. Some policemen came to Mommy’s door. They gave her The Most Beautiful Thing in the world and a book. Mommy read it, even though it was for me, but that’s okay, I’m a good sharer.

Mommy says the book is about Eve, that she wrote down all the stories about where she went and what she did when she left. What made her happy and what made her sad. Mommy says there are lots of letters in it I can read when I’m bigger. She cried at the end.

When I ask Mommy what The Most Beautiful Thing is, she gets a sad smile on her face and says she’ll tell me when I’m older. Everything is when I’m older and she put the book on a shelf with some dried up flowers that I can’t touch.

It was almost Christmas, a time for holy nights of blue and white lights and Santa Claus coming to town. It is always my favorite time of year because my birthday is just one, two, three, four days before Christmas. Mommy said Christmas runs in the family and that’s why she called me Holly Eve.

Repost: Birth of a Fae

I’m looking/hoping for some constructive criticism on this piece…


Birth of a Fae

The fae are a people of mists and fantasy. They are born of the elements into nature, the guardians of those essences which keeps Mother Nature herself in balance for she is an un-domesticated mother of those beings she has born to her God. They are the dividing force between man and nature, the keepers of the boundary that holds one another at bay so that both continue to survive.

They are not of one world or the other, wanderers of the formless and hapless borders that edge the minds of humanity and the lands of Beyond. They are stillborn into existence upon this earth, ageless, filled with wisdom born of the infinite lineage of their Father.

Every so often, the borders collide and the worlds cross over one into the other and, born into humanity from such an accidental collision, is a being encompassing both borders. As humans and fae are both born through the bloodline of Infinity, these children dually embody the timelessness of their parents. They are doomed to a lifetime of wisdom beyond their years, of eyes that see into and beyond instead of the surface and an innocent curiosity that relentlessly leads them unawares into danger.

These are the creatures that refuse to let the odds discount the possibilities, the risks outweigh the potentials. They are ageless, momentary discomfort means little to them, for a day is but a blink of an eye within their eternity though they hold moments paralyzed within them for lifetimes. They are the epitome of the paradoxes inside Humanity and Nature.

They are dark and vast and speak out of turn with no regard for age, yet quiet and deep as far off thunder. They are the muses of the human race; those that inspire art and literature, invention of the new and conservation of the old. They are the lightest and darkest of two worlds collided.

They are conceived without consideration for their existence is so greatly overlooked. These are the children whose eyes haunt their parents into the night, who stare all-seeing into an empty sky and leave you feeling as if you yourself were the student and they the teacher. Children who despite their small stature leave you feeling as if you must tilt your head back and look into the sun to see their faces full of mystery and possibilities.

Bodies contain them so little, for they are of so much more soul than either of the peoples separately. It is why they unnerve those around them, for that overflowing of their souls from behind the gentle windows panes of their eyes communicates beyond the limits of language. They pass worlds of understanding through osmosis from one soul to another, overwhelming the lesser and drawing it in to feed it with itself and fling it back out upon its own augmented understanding of life. A look, a touch, a sigh, a simple brushing of existences is all it takes, for they are created of collision and, in following in their nature, collide themselves within others.

Meeting Life One Mish-Mash At A Time

I’m having a rough time lately, there’s no getting around that. Everything that’s been going on with the husband and the kids and my health, I’m just doing my best with it all and trying to do as much damage control as I can.

My youngest has been going through some significant age regression, which isn’t at all surprising, but I’ve been getting some good advice on coping with that and trying to help support him so that he can come out of it. My daughter’s IEP is finalized and she’s getting the extra help she needs. My oldest is a whole other tangle of string but he seems to be doing well, better than he was anyway.

I”m working towards building up my portfolio of editing reviews before I start applying​ to places and/or going​ back to school to take some advanced grammar classes. My youngest is heading to school next year and I am very excited to try and find a job that can hopefully​ give me the flexibility my health requires.