The Plan

*Pause for major life changes*

AAAAAAAAAAAaaand we’re back.

Hi there!  Thank you for joining me once more.  A lot has occurred in the time that I’ve spent away.  One day I’ll talk about it here.  It’s on my ever-growing list titled: “Things That Really Are Important to Me, and One Day I Swear I’m Going to Get to Them, but Not Today Because I am So Very Tired, and I’d Rather Eat Junk and Go to Bed Early. So, Tomorrow Probably, or Maybe Not.”  When I do, rest assured that it will be an eloquent summary of my innermost processing of topics that are highly relevant and connected to my purpose here both big and small. 

BUT!  Not today!  Today is for venting!  Today is shouting my pain into the internet.  (You know, the place it’s supposed to go). 

Today, like so many days in recent history, I find myself growing frustrated and impatient with adults.  This may seem easy to do, because there are so many adults that are truly garbage humans.  There are also so many adults that are trying their best, and they mean well, but are just tripping and falling all over this thing called life.  Let me be clear, my frustration and lack of patience is not for these obvious targets.  I have a surprising amount of compassion for those diverse classes of people. 

My frustration and intolerance grows evermore for the “educated” and “enlightened” adult.  The adult who doesn’t think they know better.  The adult who knows they know better because they are the grown-up, and they learned about things in school or from their healthy upbringing.  I am starting to believe that these people are more dangerous than those with obvious challenges and inadequacies.  We tell ourselves and our children that we can trust these idiots. Yet, they lead us so continually astray.

Where is this coming from?

Thanks for asking. 

So many many places. 

But, today, in particular, I found myself sitting with a 10-year-old Sad kid.  This is a child that has been through so much, and really needs the universe to give them a substantial hug.  This kid is sad.  This kid has every right to be sad.  This kid is not disruptive.  This kid is quiet, and hopeless.  This kid does not feel that they can ask questions or advocate for themselves.  Sad.  You get the picture. 

We are sitting together playing with slime (as you do) and this child spontaneously declares “my music teacher and I have a plan!”

“Oh yeah?” I respond with curiosity and naïve hope.

“Yep!” Kiddo pipes up. “If I have a good week, he has this plushy that has these squishy things in it, and he said I could have it.”

“Wow!” I join in kiddo’s excitement.  “What exactly is a good week though?”

I’m asking because I want this kid to realize that “good” is a value statement, and it has no specific expectations, or concrete information, for anyone.  “Good” is vague, and confusing, and means different things to different people.  What I consider to be “good,” can be very different from what the music teacher considers to be “good,” and it likely is very different form what the math teacher considers to be “good.”  This is confusing to kids (and me quite frankly) who are constantly looking around for some sign of what we want from them. 

“It means, if I don’t get upset, and don’t use the cool down space,” kiddo clarifies.

*Here’s where I go off the rails*

For a whole week?!  The expectation is that this child does not get upset for a whole week of music lessons, otherwise it’s not “a good week?”   Also, we’re rewarding a week in which this child does not use the identified “cool down space?” 

Step One: Don't get Upset

Step Two: if you happen to get upset (which you weren’t supposed to do), stifle it so that you can stay in class and not use the space we tell you is for going when you are upset.   

Maybe you think I’m over reacting, and admittedly I am exaggerating my response some.  I assume that this adult was well-intentioned. I assume that he meant to encourage the child to feel happy and participate in class.  I assume the best intentions.  It’s this assumption, however, that makes me angry. By attempting, in this way, to encourage happiness, this grown up is saying, uncomfortable feelings are to be discouraged, and doing something that tells me you are upset is not to be rewarded. 

This is the message we all say to kids. We are saying, we want you to feel happy.  We are saying, if you are unhappy, you are doing the undesirable.  You do not get a reward if you feel something other than happy. Ignoring for a moment that the upset feeling itself is a lack of reward. Ultimately, what this boils down to is a message that unpleasant emotions in other people make us feel uncomfortable, and therefore we must discourage their safe and appropriate expression at all costs.

Earlier this year I was talking to a 7-year-old who screamed at me and called me names.  He shouted, for all the world to hear, “you’re not making me feel better!”  He was angry, and I wasn’t taking that away from him.  How did I respond? 

I sat down.  I sighed.  I said, “that’s not my job Friend.”

He persisted. He believed it was my job to make him feel better. I was there for him because he felt “bad.”  What was I doing if I wasn’t fixing it?

 I validated that belief and his anger, and I explained “you get to be mad. It is normal to be mad, and sad, and all other feelings you can think of.  That’s normal. My job is not to take that from you.  My job is to help you know what to do with it when your feelings are so big that you don’t know what to do.  My job is to help you learn what to do with big feelings that are uncomfortable feelings.”

That’s our job folks. It’s not just my job. I can’t do it alone. It's for everyone. We have to manage ourselves, and to ask for help when we can’t.  It’s our job to know our needs and to tend to them so that we don’t take them out in ways that are unhealthy and disruptive and make us feel worse.

We send these messages so early on that what we want from others is for them not to be anything other than “good” or “happy.” 

“No more crying.”

“Don’t get mad if it doesn’t work.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Your feelings matter less than mine.

We want you to feel an emotion that doesn’t make us uncomfortable. That’s what we will reward. When you don’t, we’ll shame you and wonder why you didn’t make the right choice.  We’ll wonder what happened in your life that made it, so you turned out to be one of those garbage people or those well-meaning adults who just can’t get it together.  “What’s wrong with them?” We’ll ask ourselves, blaming you for the problems you have or cause.

The “functional”, “successful,” “educated”, and “enlightened” members of society will scream into the void at the traumas of the world and blame these people for not knowing how to behave in the ways that we told them all along they needed to.  We will do anything we can to avoid looking inward and identifying how we contributed to it.

I Am A Writer

"My blog is important to me," I have said to myself, a thousand or more times over the last few years.

"I really need to get back to my writing," I thought, kicking myself repeatedly.

I am a writer.  Ever since the littler version of me asked her mommy to help her make her own story book back in the beginning of my time, writing has been a part of who I am. I went through a melodramatic poetry phase. Then I wrote for my school news paper.  I took creative writing in college.  I kept a diary.  Then, there was this blog.  What I am saying is, I have always been a writer, until recently.

Writing has helped me to process all the thoughts, memories, and experiences that have stuck in my psyche over the years.  It has enabled me to truly witness the development of those I help, while simultaneously appreciating my own growth.

For so much of my life, I have felt like a little girl.  This sense of perpetual youth has admittedly been helped along by my stature.  However, that is not the root of the tension.  I write to process this.  I write to discover myself. I write to understand why I constantly feel that I have tricked the world into taking me seriously as an adult.  I write to understand that it might actually be the other way around.  That possibly, the world has tricked me into feeling like a child.  I write, because maybe that's not so bad.  Children are wonderful, and insightful, and should be celebrated.  Does that mean that as I grow up, I lose those things?

I write, so as not to forget myself.

My Imaginary Friend

Like many small children, I had an imaginary friend.  My imaginary friend and I did everything together.  Her name was Little Min.  She was a miniature, older version of myself.  We played together all of the time.  Then, one day she moved away with her boyfriend.  She never came back after that.

Commitment Issues

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Let me first start by apologizing for my prolonged and unexplained absence.  I had an unexpected change to my work schedule that resulted in a lot of late appointments and difficulties rearranging my day to day needs. 

This came at a bad time in terms of my writing progress.  I was feeling like I just finally got back in the swing of things.  My recent blogs were sounding and feeling less forced than they had been.  Then, bam! Change of schedule.  My routine broke up, and now I'm out of practice again.

To be totally honest, this frustrates me.  Just a few years ago I found myself to be frustrated with my blogging peers for their own intermittent commitment to their "passion."  At the time, I was following multiple internet authors, and gaining information about the process of running a blog.  I found that I enjoyed the predictability of regularly scheduled blogs, and the writing quality seemed to improve with blogs that posted frequently.  So, when the posters I followed began to slowly trickle off the internet I declared confidently to myself: "I will never do that."

Certain I could sustain such a problem, I trudged forward with a goal of weekly posting.  Thus began Monday Musings.  And, I was fairly successful with it.  For over a year I faithfully published a post every Monday.  Then came my graduate thesis and my internship, and a hiatus seemed in order.  It was with great displeasure that I announced my break from Leaving Neverland to finalize my academic pursuits.  The plan was always to resume weekly blogs once I earned my degree.  However, I'm clearly not holding strong to that plan.  My epic writers block and jam-packed schedule have made blogging and book-writing take a back seat, and I hate how this looks.  It would seem like I no longer care about this endeavor, and the truth is far from that. 

So, I'm understandably dissappointed.  The problem is, I just don't know how to move forward.  I'm suffering from a strong case of writer's block; going on 6 months now.  The only thing I can think of is to implore my readership for ideas. I'd like to resume weekly blogs, but clearly I need a storage of ideas and topics.  Either that, or I need to readjust my schedule.  Which is where I look to you all.  What are your thoughts?

Identity Solutions

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Writing has been hard for me lately.  Sitting in front of my computer on Monday nights has turned in to pulling teeth.  I essentially have to isolate myself, and limit distractions in order to get anything out.  Even then, it's difficult to focus.  About every 1.5 sentences I stop to check my phone, pick at my split ends, or play with my cat. It's become a slow going, painstaking, process, and I've been quite distressed about it.

See, I conceptualize myself as a writer.  Clicking keys to make meaningful materials has nearly always come easily to me.  Writer's block freaks me out.  It screws with my identity, and makes me question my understanding of myself and who I am.  Writing is how I process my world.  Without writing, I feel confused and unfocused.  So, naturally I've been concerned about my most recent bout of writer's block.

Last week I began to ponder my three month long impediment.  Rather than fixate on my overwhelming sense of curiosity about why I wasn't writing, I started to think about my most prolific periods, and I discovered something peculiar.  My best writing is often regarding a topic that has given me a degree of mental anguish.  Bursts of frequent essays on a variety of topics often spring up during periods of my life characterized by transition, identity crisis, and general lifetime turmoil.  I knitted my eyebrows as I processed this information; not quite sure what to do with it.  Until it occurred to me that maybe I'm not writing because I'm happy.

Writer's Block

I am currently going through an adjustment period.  I've been coping simultaneously with a plethora of endings and beginnings.  While this is a very exciting time, and the vast majority of changes are those that I have spent several years striving for, I have noticed some rather irritating consequences.  I'm exhausted, my attention span has shortened, and my creativity has almost entirely dwindled. As a result, the blog that I intended to pick right back up is suffering.

There's nothing to worry about.  I can tell these setbacks are temporary.  I can feel ideas for new posts brewing, but putting fingers to keys is difficult when I'm faced with all these barriers.  My plan is to get into a routine.  Then, as I fully adjust to my new lifestyle I will already have a time and procedure for contributing to my weekly blog.  I feel really good about this plan.  I believe it will support the creation of new material, and the development of my writing will improve.  However, it means that even on days like today (when I feel somewhat under the weather and all I want to do is lay on the couch), I have to produce something.  This is a problem, because everything I attempt feels forced and is a clunky read.

Rather than push something inexplicable out, I figured I'd provide my readers with an explanation.  The truth is I've got a mad case of writers block that can only be alleviated.  This can only be alleviated by expelling boring unformulated thoughts to clear the way for for the insightful essays I enjoy most.  So, bear with me as I push through, and please stay tuned.

Dear Blog,

There's this thing my mother used to say to me when I was little. She'd lower her voice to an affectionate whipser, and ask for my attention. A gentle smile would wash over her face. This was evident, even when she spoke from afar, by the warm tone in her voice. She'd sigh, then ask "have I told you yet today?" Sometimes I'd respond by explaining that she had already given me the message. Most of the time I'd impishly imply she hadn't. Then she would tilt her head, twinkle her eyes, and say "well I do." This is a ritual I have always held warmly in my heart.  To this day, remembering those tender moments when neither of us verbalized anything significant, I swell with nostalgia because I know a connection existed between us. I smile to myself at the idea that no words were ever necessary to convey my mother's love for me.

Right now, this memory seems the most appropriate way to begin what is a very bittersweet announcement for me. This, as you may know, began as a frivilous and infantile finger fidget for an angsty and unemployed post-grad. I sporadically provided humorously detailed accounts of the absurdly mundane, and  peevishly moaned about my seemingly catastrophic realities (they weren't).  Gradually, I found my voice in recounting lessons learned from less fortunate little ones. 

Oblivious to the irony, I felt so immature. It was like I had gotten stuck somewhere in my own development. The only way I could find to move myself along was to listen to these tragic tales of children in crisis or escaping duress. It seemed unfair that I, the world's youngest adult, was to help the world's oldest children. Clearly, they knew more about growing up than I did.  They had no choice but to take care of this obligation early on. Whereas I had been given all the time in the world simply to stall.

It wasn't until a few years in that I understood we were helping each other. As I noticed my emotional maturity grow, I realized this wasn't something you could force. I learned the importance of slowing down and meeting yourself where you are at. That's when I decided I didn't want to grow up, and I stubbornly dug my heels in the ground. I changed my blog. I embraced my inner Peter Pan.

That's the tone this has taken over the last year of weekly scheduled essays. Memoirs and stories have dictated my internal resistance of the never-ending drive to mature, and my outward embrace of a childish affection for life. It's been a kind of manual or cautionary tale for the coming of age. I can't even really describe just how important this has been to me. The people this has reached provided validation I didn't even know I needed. It was intended for me, but the support has been overwhelming. I appreciate that more than I can put into words.

So, it is with a heavy heart that I have decided to take a break from my routine. Don't worry, I'm not done here, nor do I ever think I will be. I love writing too much, and I enjoy the meaning others find in my words even more. However, I have recently realized I may be on the precipice of biting off more than I can chew. 

Approximately a year ago I posted a macabre satirical letter informing the powers that be of my bleak outlook. Surprisingly, I made it through that experience. In fact, not only did I survive, but I aced everything that came my way! This year, it's different. My outlook is hopeful, despite some majorly distressing obligations. That's why, I needed to really prioritze. 

The reality is, I'm almost done with grad school. I'm about to be through with my scholastic experience, and I will be embarking on a career. All in the next 6 months. This is huge! Honestly, there is a part of me, that's terrified. This part wants me to give up now, and hide in my bedroom like I did when I was less emotionally secure. However, if this last year has taught me anything it's this: The only way to truly erase fear is to face it head on. That's why I refuse to fail now.

Unfortunately, that means something has got to go. At least for now. So, after all that beating around the bush here's my plan:

I'm going to suspend Monday Musings. I refuse to give up completely. Leaving Neverland will still be up and running. If something comes to me, I'll write it down. If it seems appropriate, I'll intermittently post like I used to. However, for now I will be relieving the pressure of providing a half-prepared poorly thought out post each Monday evening. Those don't represent my true feelings, and that's not fair. It's not fair to me, and it's not fair to you.

Until I return, you are more than welcome to review my archives, share thoughts in the comments, or send me messages. I will always attend to that because you are important to me.  As a matter of fact, have I told you yet today?

Thank you so much,
Mindy

The Resolution

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I've never put much weight behind New Year's resolutions. I don't care for them. It seems silly to even bother. Few are actually kept, and the idea of changing simply because the annual calendar is ending seems arbitrary to me. Nevertheless, I made one this year. Or, I made one last year? Whatever. I made one for 2012. That's what I'm trying to say.

As 2011 came to a close, I found myself contemplating my love of writing and the misfortune that my studies and career path had me so overworked and emotionally drained that I didn't have much time for it. After one of my numerous discussions with fellow helping professionals about the importance of taking care of yourself (much like the airplane oxygen mask rule, it's important to secure your own wellness before you can help others achieve theirs), I decided something that changed the course of this blog.

"Screw my mental and temporal restrictions!" I thought. I enjoy writing. The creative process brings me peace and clarity. So, as an exercise in productivity, and making self-care part of my routine, I determined that 2012 would be a year of weekly blogs. As I shifted my Mindy's Musings to a less identifying name, I realized I could keep the original theme going by creating Monday Musings.

For someone who barely values New Year's Resolutions for their ability to change a person, I'm incredibly surprised to announce that I kept mine. This has not always been as simple as I expected. This past year has been rife with trying experiences, research papers, scheduling challenges, and the dreaded writer's block. Sometimes, I intentionally prepared my essays ahead of time, knowing there wouldn't be time in the Mondays to come. Other times, I stayed up until nearly the last minute to publish some impulsive and disorganized posts I wasn't exactly proud of, but I had apparently committed myself to this goal.

Clearly, I have produced a lot this year. Some of it evidences my skill in a way that reinforces my confidence and makes me proud to share with others. On the other hand, some of it is utter crap, and publishing it was embarrassingly humbling. Regardless, everything I have posted this year, including the fictional experiments and novel series, came from my heart.

Though it often didn't seem like it, working toward this goal was a revealing process. I started the year off feeling like I knew who I was. I set off to detail my own adventures in growing up in the hopes that it would solidify my self concept and help someone else recognized theirs. Over the past year I learned that my original intent was somewhat misguided. I put a little bit of myself into everything I churned out. As my readers unwittingly learned more about me, I discovered how much I actually didn't know about myself.

Surprisingly, I am alright with this revelation. It's okay that I learn something new about myself each week because I doubt I'm alone in this experience. I don't think any of us truly knows ourselves. There's always something new to learn and unexpected epitomes to be realized. If there isn't, you're not looking hard enough.

I was right about one thing however. No matter how old we are, everyone is striving for the next in a series of milestones  We are all just trying to grow up while simultaneously attempting to understand what that even means.


Happy New Year kids!  Thanks for sticking with me!

Being Strong

***The following is an excerpt from Raina's Story ****  

“Good afternoon Mr. Bartle,” grunted a raspy voice to the left of the sealed entrance.

Dumbstruck, Raina stared in awe at the gargantuan owls that, moments before, she had assumed to be statues. Both had turned their heads inward to survey the pair with shrewd eyes. They towered over her each holding a radiant shields. The owl to their right had a solid white face, a creamy brown feather coat, and speckled tan patches all over its body. To their left was a somewhat aged black and grey horned owl with knowing green eyes.  Each bore hardened expressions that conveyed wisdom of struggles not even Raina had experienced. The effect of their hardened appearance was more startling than the unbelievable discovery that she had found herself standing before giant living owls inside an enormous tree.

“Alfred!” Bartle addressed the horned owl. “Good to see you back! How is your wing?”

“Healing well sir,” the owl responded raising his free wing slightly to revel a distinct bend in the tip.

“Very good! You will be back on the front lines in no time.”

“Hopefully sir.”

The speckled owl released a derisive puff of air, and rotated its head to survey the hall beyond them.

“Are you here to speak with the queen?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” replied Bartle. “It is rather important. So please excuse us for the brevity today.”

Alfred cocked his head down slightly, and scanned Raina with a wizened gaze. “Of course,” he croaked.

The tawny owl, having returned to look in their direction, stretched a colossal wing out before them. With a graceful flick of the tip, the bird opened the doorway, and returned to the statuesque posture in which Raina had first observed it.

The doors slowly glided open. Eager to see what was inside, Raina stepped forward ahead of Bartle. She crossed over the threshold of the double doors and was struck instantly with a powerful floral scent. She looked around her.  It seemed more enormous than anything else she had seen in the Royal Cypress. The room must have been at the top most point of the tree because Raina saw no covering above their heads. The sun shone directly into the rotunda, saturating Raina in a pleasant warmness. All around birds tweeted, wind whistled, and yet the space echoed with the peaceful kind of silence that she had not heard for years.

It reminded her of that last camping trip she had taken with her family when Mark told her she was too small to help set up the tent.  Unsure what to do about feeling useless, Raina had lain her sleeping bag in an open area, and stared at the vibrant rays of light coming through the branches above. She had zoned out entirely as the birds around her chirped to one another quietly, and the squirrels skittered through the trees.

That’s what the Queen’s quarters sounded like to Raina. It was nothing short of magnificent. As the light came through an open ceiling, it warmed the vast space by glistening off the walls and floor, both of which seemed to be made of marble. As Raina crouched to get a closer look she realized they were made of an agate like material that reminded her of the blocks of petrified wood in Mr. Star’s science class at school.

Raina was amazed. The room was absolutely beautiful, and she had never seen anything like it before. She got to her feet and spun around slowly, scanning the room for signs of whoever might be lucky enough to call this place home. As she turned, Raina suddenly became aware of a faint but strangely familiar sound.  She had heard it all along, but originally thought it just a dove cooing in the distance.  Now that she had taken in her surroundings, the noise grew louder, and it sounded like something she had heard before.  She tilted her head slightly to hear it better. That’s when she recognized it.  The sound was familiar, but not because it came from something she had heard before.  It was a sound she knew well because it came from someone she had heard before.  Raina went pale with the realization, as all the blood rushed out of her head. 

It was the very whimpering sound her brother made when he was trying to be strong.  This was a noise that killed Raina. It beat-up her heart every time she heard it. She had spent the last four years of her life doing her best to allow him the childhood he deserved. She strived just to give him the one she did not have. Despite her best efforts, Raina could never fully protect Tam. He was too young, and yet he already had been through too much.

She tried as hard as possible to shield him, but there had been times when Tam had witnessed everything before she could usher him away.  Against her will, he had seen Mark strike her for having cold dinner on evenings he stumbled home later than usual. Tam had watched as Mark slammed butcher knives into the sink where Raina’s hands were submerged in bubbles, and as he cried out in fear Tam had seen countless glass bottles shatter on the walls around him.  The reminder of her brother’s cry forced Raina outside of herself once more. She stood and watched the memory of herself this past summer, before Tam began kindergarten. It was the moment when Raina finally realized she could not always protect him.

“Hey Tam Tam,” she had whispered one afternoon after the Mean Man had passed out on the recliner behind them.

“He-ey Wain-uh!” he grinned innocently.

“I know things aren’t always easy around here,” she began.

Tam placed his crayons atop his mystical creature coloring book, and gazed at Raina with a quizzical slant to his brown eyes. “What you mean?” he asked.

Raina sighed. The look tugged at her heart strings. She considered forgoing the entire conversation.  Why rob him of this desire to remain oblivious, she thought to herself.  But, she knew the answer. As Tam got older, he was going to see more.  In two different schools, their schedules were going to become complicated, and Raina couldn’t always be around for Tam like she wanted to be. At 13, there was only so much Raina could do to protect her baby brother. One day he would understand what was going on, and she couldn’t shield him from his feelings. She could only teach him how to continue on despite them.

Raina tucked the right corner of her mouth into her cheek in a sorrowful expression. Unable to answer her brother in words, she tilted the tip of her head toward their unwitting guardian laying comatose on the recliner. She shrugged her shoulders and Raised her eyebrows in an effort to say everything she could not.

Tam followed her gaze. He made it clear he understood in his prompt return to the phoenix coloring sheet. Words were not necessary. Raina knew he did not want to discuss it.  She knew he did not want to embrace their circumstances as a reality, because it was exactly how she felt.  So, she gave him a minute of frantic scribbling with focused determination. She let him savor the structure provided by the preordained boundaries of the colorless bird afire.

“Tam Tam,” she whispered again after allowing his break from reality.

His only response was to switch his purple crayon to red as if to signal a stop to the conversation.

“I know this is hard Tam Tam,” she gulped, “but I need to see your eyes.”

Still he refused. As much as she wanted to join him in his denial, Raina carried on.

“You know you can cry around me right?” Her own eyes started to well, but Raina forced the tears away. “Whatever you need to do around me, it’s okay. Okay?”

Tam sniffed, and traded his red crayon out for an orange one.

“Did you hear what I said?” She asked.                                     

His lower lip trembled and his nose wrinkled as he nodded at the colorful bird below him.

Thankful for an actual response, Raina breathed out. “It’s not always safe to cry though. Is it Tam Tam?”

His coloring slowed, and he peaked at her from beneath his long lashes as he traded once again for a yellow crayon.  Tam’s coloring slowed as his head rocked side to side.

“Yeah, I know that.” A heavy weight slowly pushed on her chest as Raina acknowledged her sweet brother’s suffering. “So, sometimes we have to pretend to be strong, and I know that feels awful. But, I promise it will only ever be for short times, and then I will come and save you.  Okay?”

“Okay,” he croaked quietly.

“I will always be there for you when you need to cry Tam Tam. No matter what.”

As Raina remembered this conversation she reentered her body.

“Tam?!”  She cried out. “Where is he?! Tam!” Her hair whipped across her face as she flipped her head erratically.

“He’s here Love,” came Bartle’s unexpectedly even voice.

She circled to her right, and discovered the portly man crouched just at the edge of the room. His gazed was aimed at something on the ground before him. She ran to his side. Before she could question Bartle, Raina became immediately concerned with what hung in the altar above his head. No longer disturbed by the mystical elements of her surroundings, Raina froze as she peered into a watery orb suspended in an iridescent spectrum of light.  She accepted it for the unknown object it was. However, she could not accept what she saw inside it. At its center, Raina saw Tam sitting on a curb.  It was dusk, and the helpless little 5 year old whimpered quietly while he waited for his sister to retrieve him from a deserted school yard.

She felt like a ton of bricks dropped from her shoulders to her belly button. She had completely neglected him. She snapped around to face Bartle.

“Stand up!" She declared authoritatively. "We need to go get my brother!”

“We will need my mother for that,” Bartle said with a curiously somber tone, his head still trained on the floor.

“Well,” she barked at the top of his balding head. “Hurry up then! Where is she?”

Bartle made an odd choking sound then sputtered, “she’s gone. They have taken the queen .” He sobbed into his hands.

Confused, Raina finally looked to the ground before her guide.  There, she saw a bloody footprint smeared on the floor. Directly beside it, Raina saw a cracked diamond dagger alongside a pair of similarly blood-soaked purple butterfly wings. Though they were crumpled and ripped, the wings were large enough to cover her own spine.

---

To be continued... 

Disoriented

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There she stood; a little girl alone in the dark stormy forest. Though she wracked her brain, she couldn't recall exactly how she had gotten there, but she knew how to get out. The path lay just before her. She had spun around multiple times, surveying every corner of these creepy woods, but the darkest and most worrisome road was the only one that seemed remotely familiar. Just as she realized it was the way out, the storm picked up. 

The wind began to rock the trees around her as it whistled through the canopy above. Thunder cracked through the sky, and the thick cloud cover dumped freezing water.  The little girl wrapped her arms tightly across her core. She was thankful to be wearing her warmest winter jacket, but even still she shivered as the downpour struck her bare head and cheeks. She was not yet aware that the frigid climate was only partially to blame for her quivering.

Still she stood there, soaking wet and growing colder by the minute. She had figured out which direction to go, but something seemed to be stopping her from heading down that path.  It could have been the ominous shadows looming overhead, or the drastically poor visibility, but it seemed like more.  She had recognized those problems, and the little girl understood that there was nothing she could do about them.

"It is what it is," she reasoned to herself.  "I can only control myself."

So, she took a few small steps forward, but froze in her tracks shortly after beginning her trek.  She couldn't move anymore, because she suddenly felt so small.  She felt as if she had become a miniature version of herself standing in a world of giants.  Despite knowledge of her strengths and capabilities, the little girl cowered in the deep dark woods.  The road seemed even longer now.

With a heavy weight on her shoulders, the girl stretched out her neck and trunk. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to see more clearly, but it was of no use.  The fog had rolled in, and she could barely see her own hands in front of her face.

That's when her stomach began to turn.  Something down in her gut began flopping around, but rather than deal with it she reached up to chill her unexpectedly feverish cheeks. The two sensations combined caused her to waver in her stance. She automatically blew out a long stream of air, and crouched to her feet. 

Frustrated, the shrunken little girl couldn't take it anymore.  She was exhausted and overwhelmed from her circumstances. She closed her eyes and let her fingers rake in the damp earth below her.  The little girl knew what had to be done, and she was eager to get on with it. She hoped that an epiphany would strike her, and this sudden burst of insight would shine some much needed light on her situation.

But no amount of grounding or rationalization would get her out of this. She was alone in an unknown land. Though she told herself to move on, the little girl was stuck trapped in a body that wouldn't listen to her.

"I just want to get out of here," she thought to herself over and over.

Tears squeezed out of her tightly clenched eye lids, and her lip began to tremble. Then, a low flying gust of frigid wind knocked her off her precariously perched feet. She slammed down hard into an icy patch of dirt. Without realizing it, the little girl let loose with a wail that was just as loud as the cry of the storm.

She attempted to recompose herself, but that only lasted a couple of short seconds. Then the little girl understood that she couldn't even control herself any longer. She let go in a rare fit of unregulated emotions. She screamed and thrashed about in a way that hadn't been acceptable of her in years. The girl kicked her feet and arched her back while sobbing with every ounce her diaphragm could muster.  She knew it wasn't going to help anything, but she didn't care anymore. The little girl was distraught. She felt confused, frustrated, sad, alone, and angry.  She was overwhelmed, and she was frightened she would never make it through this.

After what felt like forever, her tantrum tapered down and her weeping faded to a whimper. The exhausted little girl slowly sat up and opened her eyes to see the unchanged world around her.  With a heavy heart and a vacant mind, she carefully shifted her weight. She wanted to slip her weight back to the ground. She craved nothing more than to just give in to the insanity that seemed to be consuming her. However, as she leaned carefully backwards, the little girl startled.

She had struck something cold and hard. She turned her body to feel it with her hands.  As she groped along the rocky surface, she found herself crawling forward. Cautiously, she moved further and further until she realized that she no longer felt the cold sting of rain drops on her skin or the burn of the wind as it rushed across her cheeks. She listened carefully, and heard droplets echo in puddles around her. Still blinded by her darkened surroundings, the little girl assumed she must have entered a cave. She got to her feet, and looked around. She had no idea what lay ahead, but, if she squinted really hard, she swore she could see a pin prick of light in the distance.

She adjusted her proportions, and returned to her normal stature. Her chest still ached from fear and her gut flipped with anxiety, but something told her she was going to be okay.  So, the little girl headed off on her journey.