The Simple Joy of Crisp Snow

My boots feel heavy on my feet, but I can't help but stomp! stomp! stomp!

I stare out the window, eyes wide, breathing fast and squirming with excitement as Mom helps pull my arms through the sleeves of my coat. Outside, the world is white and cold and snow falls from the sky. 

This morning, Mom came into my room and told me the best news--nooooo school! She said we could call my friends and see if they wanted to come over. 

Now, my tummy is full of pancakes and my mom is slipping me into my snowpants and I can already see my breath as I stand in the entryway. My friends will be here soon but I just can't wait!

Mom puts on my last mitten and opens the door. A blast of cold air wooshes in and I can feel the small, wet sparkling sensation of snowflakes hitting my cheeks. Mom laughs as I run outside and JUMP into the snow! 

After my second snow angel, a car pulls into the drive. Zach and Emily are here, and we are going to make the BIGGEST snowman. 

- LMR

A Discovery Immemorial

The crowd cheered wildly from the dock. Women waved their kerchiefs, men whistled and hollered, all had come to bid the expedition adieu. 

Jane Ellis Thatcher stood at the fore of the ship. While her crew of waved and beamed in reply to the masses, she had already turned her eyes to the horizon. She had spent years reaching this moment. From traversing the deserts of Africa, to exploring the crypts of eastern Asia, to hunting down expert etymologists in the States, she had literally been all over the world in search of the information contained within the small, worn journal she now held in her hands. Her cropped hair and loose shirt tugged in the breeze as she turned to face her helmsman, a fierce grin spreading across her face. "Set the course and increase speed. Let's make history!"

By the time the crew spotted the storm clouds on the horizon, there was nothing to do but face the maelstrom head-on. Thatcher and her crew scrambled to prepare the ship as they passed beneath the front. As the wind picked up, so did the waves. Lightning streaked across the sky and a chill rain began to beat down upon the deck. "Tie yourselves to the mast, it's going to be a bumpy ride!" she yelled over the thunder. As the storm progressed, the ship began to tilt dangerously from side to side. The crew squinted and bared their teeth as they scrambled to dump buckets of water over the edge, trying to relieve the ship from the water she was taking on.

After almost four hours, just as everyone was beginning to succumb to exhaustion and the cold, the clouds parted, revealing a sparkling night sky. The moon reflected brilliantly upon the calming waves. They had made it. 

For the first time in weeks, Thatcher spotted a bird. Soon, if her manuscript was correct, they would be able to see land. Sure enough, before the sun had even reached its halfway point, her navigator spotted mountains through their spyglass. The expedition approached the shore quickly. Within a few hours, they had anchored the boat and rowed to meet the white sand. A hundred meters or so from the edge of the water, a dense green rainforest loomed. A cacophony of unidentifiable chirps, yowls, hisses, clicks, and snorts resounded from within the tree line. Thatcher eyed the forest warily. "Let's make camp here tonight. Tomorrow, we begin our trek."

 Two crewmembers walked in front of the group, their machetes glinting as they hacked a path through the dense underbrush. Thatcher followed closely behind, compass in one hand, journal in the other. The rest followed after, sweat pouring down their faces as they shouldered backpacks that extended past the tops of their heads. Every few hundred feet, Thatcher consulted the little book in her hands--at this pace, they might be able to make the halfway point by tomorrow evening. Upon reaching a small clearing, the crew paused to fish out their canteens. One glanced upwards. "Ma'am, should we make camp for the night?" Thatcher peered at the now pastel pink sky through the gaps in the canopy and nodded. With a sigh of relief, the crew dropped their supplies and began to pitch their tents. 

Light snoring and sporadic rustling could be heard coming from within the small tents circling the campfire. Thatcher sat next to the fire, squinting at the pages of her journal as she made note of the day's events. Today's excursions had seen breathtaking waterfalls surrounded by misty rainbows, birds in a spectacular array of colors and sizes, and some particularly quick quicksand, which had claimed one person's right shoe. Consumed by her writing, Thatcher failed to notice the large cat silently prowling the tree line. Only when she heard the scream of the beast did her head snap up. She threw up her arms just in time to protect her face as the cat knocked her onto her back, pinning her to the ground. It snapped at her throat. Thinking quickly, Thatcher stuffed the journal into the cat's maw and scrambled backwards. The cat shook its head and spat out the little book before refocusing on its prey.

It crouched and snarled as it inched towards her. Thatcher backed away slowly, eyes darting as she looked for her machete. She spotted it... on the other side of the camp. With a terrible yowl, the cat lepta at her, and a bang echoed throughout the clearing. The cat landed on Thatcher, sending her back to ground, but to her surprise, the creature was limp. With a grunt, she pushed the cat off and got to her feet. One of her crew was standing on the other side of the fire, a smoking pistol in hand. They grinned at each other before Thatcher returned her attention on the dead cat. It would have almost passed for a leopard, if not for the green pelt. "How strange," Thatcher murmured. She looked for her journal, eager to record this finding. Apart from a toothy indentation in the leather cover, the journal was intact, if not a bit sticky. Without a moment's hesitation, she returned to her writing spot beside the campfire, her machete now within arm's reach. 

They stood before the cavern. The entrance was nearly 30 feet tall, but despite the expansive opening, the cave seemed to take in very little light. According to Thatcher's notes, this cave marked the last leg of their journey. Beyond this final obstacle, if her decades of research were correct, laid the ruins of the lost city of the N'täyli people. Assuming they existed in the first place, the N'täyli were rumored to be a people of immense agricultural, medicinal, and mechanical aptitude, far more advanced than any other cultures during at the height of their civilization nearly 1,500 years ago. There had even been hintings at a N'täyli attempt to reach the stars, something the modern world had yet to achieve. If Thatcher found these ruins, not only would her name go down in history, but she could help unlock the mysteries of the N'täyli's near-mythical technological feats, perhaps leading to significant ameliorations in her own day and age. "Time to get out the lanterns, ma'am?" The question from her crew brought her mind back to the present. "Yes, good idea. Let's get going," she replied, as apprehensive as she was determined. 

The lanterns did little to cut through the darkness that enveloped them. The cave, which cut into the side of the mountains they had first spied from the boat several weeks ago, proceeded at an upward angle. This proved treacherous, as not only was the uneven floor coated in a sheen of slick dampness and moss, but the walls and ceiling were covered with rocky protrusions and formations. A wrong step could spell death. Thatcher held her lantern close to her journal, re-reading the final line for the thousandth time. "Seek the stars that aren't to find the stars that are." Of all the clues she had discovered, this was the most perplexing. In any language, it sounded like nonsense. The tablet she had found it engraved upon provided no other context. She had researched constellations and spent hours in labs and libraries and planetariums. She had even placed the clue in her local classifieds, hoping someone would read it and miraculously contact her with an answer. To no avail. For this part of her journey, she was on her own. 

A yell pierced the air. Thatcher whipped her head around, looking for the source of the noise. One of the team had slipped over the side of the ledge they had all been inching along. Thatcher's heart thudded in her chest as she peered over the ledge to the chasm below. There, precariously dangling from a jutting rock by a single backpack strap, hung her crewmember. "Help me!" they called, panic lacing their voice. Thatcher immediately pulled a rope out of her pack, tossing one end to the rest of her crew and lowering the other towards the person below. With the rope only inches away from their outstretched hand, a sharp cracking noise echoed throughout the cavern. Everything happened in slow motion. Thatcher and her crewmember looked at each other for one, terrifying moment. Then, the rock formation from which they hung crumbled. They kept eye contact with Thatcher as they fell, their screaming ending abruptly with the sound of a heavy thud. 

Thatcher stared into darkness. The cave was eerily silent. "Ma'am," one of her remaining team put their hand on her shoulder, "There's nothing we can do. Let's keep going, get away from this ledge." Just as they turned to go, Thatcher threw up her hand. "No, wait," she hissed. All she could hear for a few moments was the dripping of water, until...

"Thatcher?" a weak voice rasped from below. Her heart leapt in her chest. "Are you all right?" she called. "I think my arm's broken, but ma'am, you gotta see this." 

It had taken some time, but finally Thatcher and the remainder of her crew had found a way to reach their teammate. They were bruised, and their arm was definitely broken, but as soon as she found them, they had immediately directed her attention to a small opening in the rock wall to her right. Thatcher held her lantern out in front of her as she ducked through the entrance. Then, her jaw dropped. 

She was standing in a huge cavern. A small lake filled the basin of the cave, which reflected the light of the thousands and thousands of stars set into the ceiling above. Well, not stars exactly, but something that glowed like stars. Her crew shuffled in behind her, and all were also taken aback. The sight was incredible. But even more incredible was the tiny glimpse of morning light filtering in from the ceiling on the other side of the cave. "Seek the stars that aren't to find the stars that are," Thatcher grinned. Time to go for a little swim.

If climbing down the rock face earlier had been difficult, then this was excruciating. One crewmember was injured, all of them were soaking wet, and Thatcher found limited purchase amongst the stones as she looked for ways to reach the exit above. At least the bit of sunlight streaming through the opening was helpful. "Let me give it a go," one of her crew suggested. "Once I get up there, I'll toss the rope down." Thatcher obliged and handed over the rope. They began to scale the wall, exhibiting a finesse that could only have come from years of experience. She knew she had put together a good team, but she was especially proud of them in this moment. She only hoped that this had all been worth their while. 

During their climb, the crewmember had a couple of close calls, their damp fingers slipping from their hold, but after about fifteen minutes, they had reached the top. They scrambled through the opening, and Thatcher waited for the rope. It didn't come. She called out to them, worry creeping over her thoughts for a moment before she heard a muffled, excited reply. She couldn't make out what they said, but moments later, the rope fell through the opening and onto the floor in front of her feet. "Okay, you guys first." 

One of her crew threw their injured teammate over their shoulder and, grunting with effort, strained to pulled the both of them up the rope. Thatcher watched them slowly proceed, her thoughts rapidly spinning. "Seek the stars that aren't to find the stars that are." That was the last clue. There were no more instructions after this, no riddles nor maps nor diagrams. The N'täyli ruins were either here, or this was a dead end. Or, the ruins would be so ravaged by time, that there was naught left to study. Or, the N'täyli had never existed. 

Thatcher took a deep breath and steadied herself. She was the leader of this expedition, and she needed to be confident and decisive in her actions. The last member of her crew was nearing the top of the rope. She took one last look at the glowing cavern behind her, and began her ascent. 

The sunlight burned her eyes. She placed a hand over her face for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She could hear the heavy breathing of her crew members, but otherwise, they were silent. That was odd. And there was something in the background--a humming noise? She wasn't sure. She once again attempted to open her eyes, doing so more slowly this time. 

Before her laid the most spectacular sight of her life. In the valley beneath the plateau on which they stood rested an enormous, glistening city. Miles and miles of tall, silver buildings shone brightly in the sunlight, nestled comfortably in between the surrounding mountains. Small specks bustled about on streets below, and the source of the humming seemed to emanate from the hundreds of glittering crafts zipping through the air amongst the structures. The N'täyli, it would seem, were alive and well. 

Thatcher sank to her knees. This discovery surpassed her wildest dreams. There, before her own eyes, was a civilization that was not only thriving, but had seemed to surpass the rest of the world. The city blurred into a silver haze as tears welled in her eyes. One of her crew punched her arm, "We did it!" Thatcher leapt to her feet, grinning from ear to ear, and laughed in giddy celebration with her team.

She peered back at the city below. She could just make out three small, shining aircrafts rising towards the plateau, each appearing to carry a single rider. Thatcher smiled one more time at her crew before pushing back her hair, yanking her shirt straight, and turning to face the oncoming vehicles. If she was going to be the first to see the N'täyli in over 1,500 years, she would be damned if she wasn't going to make a good first impression. 

- LMR

Friendly Inspiration

A raindrop plinked against the window. Charlotte batted her paw at it from the other side of the glass.

Then, another joined it, streaking down the pane. Then another. And another. Charlotte's green, saucer eyes flitted to and fro as she focused on each droplet until too many drummed against the window for her to keep up. A flash of light streaked across the sky, quickly followed by the rumbling roll of thunder. Charlotte leapt from her perch on the windowsill.

On the opposite side of the small room, Amelia stood with her arms folded over her chest, staring down at her workbench. Her brilliant amber hair frizzed out in all directions, adamantly refusing to stay in its designated ponytail. Her glasses were smudged and splotched with a spectrum of colors, as was her smock and the edges of the t-shirt it was meant to protect. Her face twisted in a slight frown.

The table before her could hardly be seen beneath the hodgepodge of items atop it. Tubes of pigment of every size and color made up the majority of the jumble. Between them laid dozens of paintbrushes, pencils in a variety of life stages, jars of muddied water, and sketches covered in eraser shavings and coffee stains. A half-eaten sandwich and a well-loved felt mouse toy sat upon a plate precariously close to the table's edge. And, nestled comfortably in the middle of the mélange, rested the object of her consternation.

This painting was good, even by Amelia's rigorous personal standards. The oil strokes upon the linen fibers depicted a warm summer day. Two young women sat upon a blanket, sharing a basket of food and a private joke. Butterflies danced in the grass beneath their tree, and the parkgoers in the distance walked along a white gravel path, or flew rainbow-colored kites, or dipped their toes in the cool water of a fountain. Amelia had spent months carefully studying and selecting each element of her work. The sky was one of her favorites, one she had captured on the way back from a movie with her friends last July. The sturdy oak was the same one that stood in her parent's back yard, the one that held up her childhood treehouse. The sandwich next to the picnic basket looked nearly identical to the one currently sitting on her workbench, and the two women were modeled after a vivacious, giggly couple she had encountered at an art museum last month. Even the blanket upon which the two women sat was selected with care, as she had taken the colors from one of her all-time favorite paintings--Vase of Flowers (Pink Background) by Odilon Redon. 

But despite all that deliberation, all that care and attention to detail, something was still missing. 

The thunder crashed again, louder now. Behind Amelia, Charlotte mewled worriedly. This shook Amelia from her reverie, and she spun to face her cat. "Oh baby girl, it's okay," Amelia cooed, crossing the room and sweeping Charlotte into her arms. The cat began to purr as Amelia scratched at her belly. After a few minutes, Amelia dropped the cat into the paint-splattered wingback chair to the left of her workbench. Now, they could keep an eye on each other as Amelia worked throughout the storm. 

Amelia returned to her previous position, arms crossed, gazing upon the summer scene. Frustrated, she took her bottom lip between her teeth and closed her eyes. She listened to the rain, hoping to find inspiration in the steady beat it played out against her windows. Charlotte rustled in the chair, reaching one leg up to the ceiling and licking along its length. Amelia opened her eyes, distracted. Just as she was about to pick the cat up and move it to the next room, she froze. She stared at Charlotte. Charlotte stopped licking and stared back. A wry smile blossomed slowly on Amelia's face. 

With two quick steps, Amelia positioned herself back in front of her work. After a moment's thought, she picked up a brush and a tube of paint. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Her bottom lip began to chap from being chewed on, but she barely took notice. Her eyes glittered as she swirled her brush in one of the many jars of water. 

The storm was now nearing its end. The thunder was but an echo in the distance, and the sun had begun to peak through the clouds and into Amelia's apartment. With a final, flourishing flick of her paintbrush, Amelia stood back. "Aha!" She wiped her hands several times on her apron before delicately picking up the canvas. "What do you think?" she asked, turning the piece to face Charlotte. 

"Phrrp!" chirped the cat, hopping off the chair to rub up against Amelia's legs. 

"Me, too," Amelia agreed. "Come on, let's make supper." She gingerly replaced the painting amongst the chaos of the table and turned to walk out of the room. Charlotte trailed after her, tail held high. Before closing the door, Amelia flicked off the lights, leaving the freshly painted little cat, now comfortably curled up on the picnic blanket, to dry. 

- LMR

Bluebell

The stalks tickle Ernst's outstretched fingers as he paces through the field. Eyes closed, he feels the warmth of dawn upon his face, smells the sweet dewy crop, listens to the symphony of crickets that surrounds him. A breeze tousles his hair, and the wheat whispers in reply.  Now Ernst sits high atop a worn, wooden bench. His wagon bumps over the gravel behind Polly and Marabel, who are as much pets as they are work horses. Maybe on today's trip into town, Mary will be working the counter again. He peers woefully down at his dusty trousers. He wished he were a little more spiffed up! Ernst's heart pounds in his chest as Mary walks slowly towards him. She marches to the beat of the fiddle, her delicate hand tucked into the crook of her daddy's elbow. The preacher smiles as she kisses her escort on the cheek. Ernst reaches out, gingerly lifting the veil to reveal her face. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.  Mary's hand is slick with sweat, but Ernst grips it tightly. It has been a long night, but it is almost over now--just a few more pushes. Mary wails, and, moments later, a small cry greets her in reply. "A girl!" the midwife exclaims. Ernst takes the small babe into his arms, tears in his eyes. "Hello, my little bluebell."  Belle grips her papa's fingers tightly. "You can do it!" Ernst encourages. Her tiny toes dig into the dirt floor, steadying herself. Then, in a moment of determination, she releases her hold on him and takes two, wobbling steps before toppling over. Her little brother claps, burbling gleefully from his mother's lap across the room. "I love it!" shrieks Belle. On hands and knees, she crawls around the miniature log cabin. Ernst had built a perfect replica of their home equipped with five corn dolls, one for Papa, one for Mama, and three smaller ones for Belle, Amos, and Charles. She leaps up and throws her little arms around Ernst's neck. "Merry Christmas, bluebell," he grins. Mary's eyes are gaunt as she stares up at Ernst from her chair beside the bed. He paces the room, looking out the window every few minutes. All he can see is billowing gusts of white. The doctor was supposed to be here days ago. Amos and Charles are tucked snugly into their beds in the next room, but Belle lies atop her sheets before him. She whimpers, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. Her eyes open a fraction, and she tries to focus on him. "Papa?" Ernst drops to his knees by her side, brushing the hair from her forehead. "Yes, my bluebell?" "I don't think he's coming." "Hold on just a little longer, bluebell. For me, for your mama." "When will I see you again?" Ernst's breath catches in his throat, his eyes meeting Mary's. "I'll be along. Just you wait. Don't you go nowhere, you hear?" "Yes, papa." Ernst tucks the little cabin under his arm. Mary can't stand to look at it anymore, but he can't bear to get rid of it. He marches to the barn, taking in the evening air. A warm gust of wind tugs at his shirt. Soon, it will be planting time. He sets the house on the workbench just inside the door. This year, he will bring the boys with him. He will teach them to sow.  Mary, Amos, Charles, and Ernst huddle together in the main room. Outside, a terrible summer storm rages on. The horses scream and the thunder crashes and the wind threatens to tear the roof clean off. It is almost dawn by the time the deluge breaks. Ernst tentatively steps outside the house to asses the damage. The barn is destroyed. One of the horses is missing, as is all of Ernst's tools. Something catches the corner of his eye. There, hidden almost entirely by splinters and hay, lies the tiny log cabin, perfectly intact. It's Thanksgiving. This year, a delightful, dark-eyed young woman accompanies Amos to the family gathering. After the wishbone has been split, Mary's wondrous cooking has been savored, and the family has sunk into a lazy post-dinner haze, Amos pulls Ernst aside. "Papa, I'm thinking of asking Flora to marry me. What do you think?" The corners of Ernst's eyes crinkle as he beams. "I think she's perfect," he laughs, embracing his son. The sinking sun sets the room ablaze in brilliant shades of tangerine. Ernst lies on the bed, surrounded by his family. Mary, grey and wrinkled and as beautiful as ever, holds his hand, and his sons in turn hold her. His breathing is shallow, barely audible over the tinkling laughter of his grandchildren playing in the yard outside. He stubbornly clings to wakefulness, yet all he wants to do is sleep. "It's okay, papa," sniffs Charles, a bittersweet smile on his face. Ernst squeezes Mary's hand; he is ready. The dying light grows brighter and brighter until it engulfs his senses. The laughter rolling in through the open window takes on a different sound, a voice he has not heard for almost 50 years. "Papa, you came! I've been waiting for you, just like you asked!" Now standing in a brilliant cocoon of light and warmth, Ernst scoops her into his arms, nestling his grizzled face into the crook of her neck. "My bluebell.” - LMR

All is Not Lost, or All is Lost

My eyes struggle to focus as I complete each dragging footstep down the ruined corridor.  Tattered rugs and tattered men scatter the hallway. Flames lick the stained remnants of once-beautiful tapestries. Bits of stone skitter across the floor, cascading from crumbling walls. The scenery presents itself to me as a blur, a kaleidoscope of charcoal smoke and ashen stone, crimson blood and golden heat.  I press my hand against my side in an effort to stop the stream of hot, precious liquid from spilling down my abdomen. The pain from my wound is slowly being overcome by an aching tiredness creeping into my bones. But sleep must wait.  With effort, I focus on the faces of those I pass. Some wear expressions of determination, some of fear, some of tranquility. All are still. One body wears a strip of cloth tied around the grey, dented metal encompassing their forearm. My heart skips a beat. I stoop, grunting as I flip them over. This man's expression is contorted with horror. His eyes are permanently fixated upon the object of his final terror. This is not the one I seek. I grip the stone wall and pull myself back to my feet, but not before reaching out and gently closing his eyelids, breaking the connection between his line of sight and his final, terrible vision. Through a breach in the castle wall, I hear the faint screams of horses and men amidst the deafening bellows of our foes. For the few of those that remain, the fight goes on. Those men will take up arms until their dying breath, but the true fate of our homeland rests upon the shoulders of one person.  The battered door at the end of the passage seems to elude me. With each hard-fought step, the entrance to the tower room retreats. If I could hold on for just a little longer, if I could just reach that entrance, I could know the outcome of our sacrifice. Several paces ahead of me, I glimpse a shield bearing the visage of two deer. The wood has split, the chasm separating the once-entwined animals. A beacon of recognition cauterizes my muddled, exhausted thoughts. I am getting close.  I am nearing the door and the end of my strength. I drop my head back, taking in deep, ragged breaths. A section of the ceiling is missing here. Above me, thousands upon thousands of glimmering stars lay embedded in a canvas of velvety indigo. Perhaps somewhere up in that deep, wondrous abyss, God is watching. I close my eyes for a moment as I send up a silent prayer. Please, God. I just need to know what happened to them. I push off from the wall, one hand over my wound, one hand desperately gripping the pommel of my sword. I use it to brace myself as I take the final few steps. The heavy wooden door hangs listlessly off one hinge, its frame charred and splintered, held together by a few remaining metal embellishments. With all the effort I have left, I throw my weight against the door.  The door scrapes slowly open. Inch by inch, I gain purchase into the tower room until I am able to tumble through the opening. The sword falls from my hands as I crash onto the cold stone. For a moment, the pain from my side is so intense that it appears as a series of bright flashes that dance across the back of my eyelids. After a few, lingering minutes, the anguish subsides enough that I am able to open my eyes enough to peer about the room.  The large, circular room has been preserved against the atrocities besieging the rest of the fortress. Although surrounded by corridors of crumbling mortar and countless fallen heroes, the only sign of disturbance is a few tomes that have tumbled from their high shelves. Juxtaposed to the dirt and blood and smog outside, the rich hues of the plush emerald carpet, silken amethyst drapes, decadent ruby furniture, and glistening silver candelabrum seem a heavenly reprieve.  Everything is bathed in a warm, honey glow emanating from the marble dais in the center of the room. There, a beam of light stretches from a basin atop an alabaster pedestal to the apex of the ornate ceiling. Suspended within the glow glitters a crystal clear stone the size of an egg. Faintly, over the frenetic pounding of my own heart, I can hear a hum of power. But it is not the stone that captures my attention, but the figure that lies upon the steps beneath it.  They look like a warrior angel, their tarnished armor glistening in the light, their hair elegantly falling across their peaceful face. One arm reaches gracefully above their head, resting upon the steps above. Upon their palm, a delicate box lays open, exposing the velveteen interior. Just below, my kerchief is fastened tightly around their wrist. My shallow breath catches in my throat. They did it. The stone, now returned to its rightful place, has brought an end to the horrors that claimed so many lives. For our homeland, all is not lost. But for me, everything is. My friend, my companion, my reason for being lies cold upon the floor. At once, my heart swells with pride for all they have accomplished, but clenches for all that we have lost. I will myself to reach out, clawing at the floor with the hand not pressed to my gut. One agonizing arm length at a time, I pull myself across the room. My eyes threaten to close, but I shake my head. Almost there. Almost there.  I have no tears to shed--this damned wound has taken even that from me. After what might have been 10 minutes or 10 hours, I finally reach them. I take the box from their hand and set it aside, my blood staining the intricate wooden carvings. I press my forehead against theirs and intertwine our fingers. I am so tired. Pure, unfathomable exhaustion has seeped into every last particle of my being. My eyelids have taken on such weight, but I force them open one more time to look upon the face of my friend. In their every freckle, in their every strand of hair, in their every dark eyelash and sunken dimple and wrinkle at the corner of their eyes I feel at home. "Goodnight," I whisper, at long last sinking into blissful sleep. 

-LMR

A Timeless Morning Moment

I don't remember opening my eyes. I simply become aware of the dust motes.

They flicker in and out of existence within the clean-cut rays of sunshine pouring in through my bedroom window, sparkling silver and white. My curtains reach out as a gentle gust sends the specks into a tizzy, and they swirl and swirl until the curtains once again return to their positions on either side of my paned window. 

The faded whisper of tires on wet pavement accompanies the sunlight through my bedroom window. A bird warbles as it flits by, appearing as a glimpse of bright cerulean before darting off to deliver breakfast or find just the right twigs or visit other windows, whatever it is that little songbirds do on lazy Sunday mornings. 

My eyelids have already begun to take on weight again as I turn my head to bring my love into focus. They lie beside me on the bed. Their every curve is accounted for in the indentations they make on the mattress consisting of cumulus clouds and sheets that feel like home in the same way an old t-shirt does. I brush a few strands of hair from their face. Their eyes dart back and forth behind their eyelids as they emit a contented sigh. A good dream.

The ceiling fan spins in lackadaisical circles, propelled moreso by the late morning breezes than by its own volition. Rich sunlight dyes the canopy of my room shades of daffodil and curry and citrine. I reach up, dipping my hand into the golden rays. My fingers eagerly soak up the beams, their tips crowned in silhouettes of vibrant red.

A faint clinking noise accompanies the sudden absence of warmth against my toes. My dog watches my motions, perplexed and still a little sleepy. I lower my hand to rest my index finger across my lips. "Shh." My dog lowers his head and his comfortable weight once again presses against my feet.

I don't know what time it is. Tomorrow, we return to the hustle and bustle of answering emails and enduring commutes and making plans and setting goals and fulfilling quotas and meeting deadlines. But today, I will lie here just a little longer. I will listen to the gentle exhalations of my love. I will twist my toes in the soft fur of my four-legged friend. I will revel in the cool breezes carrying the smell of dew through my open window. And I will watch the morning sun dance across our small corner of the world. For just a time longer, I will dwell in this wonderful, timeless moment. 

- LMR

Wet Puddles, Wet Kisses

My toe beans slap across the wet pavement as I jump from puddle to puddle. 

The breezes send a chill through my soaked fur as I run in front of my boy. We are at my favorite park. I love this park. I love this boy. I love puddles. 

I stop to taste this puddle. It tastes like leaves! Wow! I taste the next one. Leaves again!

I swivel my ears as I hear the shrill laughter of my boy. He is running behind me, one foot in front of the other, wobbly but almost as tall as me now. I kiss his face. He tastes salty. I love him!

He sticks out his hand. Oh boy! A rock! I taste the rock. It tastes like puddle, which tastes like leaves. I chew on it for a minute. 

Out of the corner of my eye, a rabbit! I stare. It stares back. I crouch. It crouches. PEW! It darts and I fly after it. Maybe I will catch it this time?

Nope. 

"Come back!" yells my boy. I whip around, ears tucked down tight, tail streaming behind me as I race towards him. And around him. And around him. He spins and spins while I run until he topples over. I stop to give him kisses. 

I hear a voice calling. It is our mom. It is time to go. My tail droops. I love the park.

My boy pulls on my fur as he gets up, but I don't mind. I love him. Kiss kiss kiss. 

Maybe we will come back tomorrow. Maybe we will have a new adventure! Maybe he will give me more rocks to lick or toys to chew or snacks for tricks or a bath with bubbles that dissappear as soon as I catch them. I love those things!

I hop into the car. "Good boy," says mom. I wag my tail and settle into my spot and give my mom and my boy a kiss. I can't wait for tomorrow's adventure.

-LMR

A Mind’s Plea

We flourished.

We, the Kreeativs, transcended the realm of the physical long, long ago. We had transitioned from the constraints of our bodies and become beings entirely composed of thoughts. Our knowledge and imaginations we warmly shared with one another as you would an embrace with a dear friend. We learned from each other and combined our minds to overcome the deepest conundrums and oddities our home in the Milky Way Galaxy had to offer. It was curiosity and creativity we valued above all else. Our ideas lived permanently in the minds of our race, and as such, we had attained immortality. We understood each other completely. We were at our peak. We flourished.

Then, almost one Earth year ago, my entire race was brought to its knees. Whilst collectively contemplating the subtle intricacies between new elements we had found on an asteroid at the farthest reaches of our galaxy, one of our many minds went silent.

It may be hard to imagine, but even with hundreds of millions of minds, we were so interconnected that the sudden absence of even one mind brought with it a terrible cold, empty feeling of incompleteness. The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. How could we, ideas, cease to be?

We spread the tendrils of our minds across our expanse of the universe, looking frantically for the mind we had lost. Then, after a time that could have been very, very long or very, very short, we found it. And yet, we did not.

The mind was there. We could feel its familiarity, but the mind was no longer composed of the hundreds of thousands of original thoughts that had once constituted its presence. Something was horribly wrong. It was as if all of its essence had been stripped away, left only with a hollow shell that had once housed endless beautiful ideas. We opened our mental arms towards the mind, hoping to welcome it back to us, but it didn’t take notice. In fact, it noticed nothing. Not us, not the stars before it, nor the mysteries around it. We were stunned. A mind had never broken away from us before.

Then we felt an unusual aura encroaching upon our combined thoughts. It started out as a mental whisper, its foreign presence brushing up against our minds. But only moments later, the presence crashed up against us as violently and abruptly as the sea crashes upon the rocks during a storm. “WE ARE THE RITERSBLŎK!” the presence thundered; we recoiled at the force. “IF YOU WISH TO SAVE THIS MIND, YOU WILL SURRENDER TO US.”

This was the first time since the Kreeativs ascended from our physical forms we had encountered an enemy that could truly threaten us. And, it was the first time since then that the Kreeativs’ minds, in their panic, loosened their connection to one another. We retreated far away from the Ritersblŏk, hoping to rally together and discern a plan.

Because it had been so long since we had last drawn arms, a great many of our minds began to worry. Should we give in to the Ritersblŏk’s request? Should we leave the lost mind behind, forever to remain a lonely, hollow shell of its former self? While we were frantically mulling over these thoughts, another mind went dark. And before we even had the chance to take in the horror of another loss, yet another Kreeativ vanished. Then another. Then another. The panic among us sparked a lack of unity between our minds, and the lack of unity, in turn, ensued chaos.

The following months were frenetic; we became disjointed. It is at this point of my story that I painfully must stop referring to our once-great race as “we,” for we were “we” no longer. Millions of minds mustered their most palpable thoughts, brazenly believing that if they conjured a thought strong enough, their minds could not be wiped blank. They rushed boldly off to breach the firm defenses of the Ritersblŏk. Each hoped to recover the ever-increasing number of hallowed minds that had gone before it, but no mind escaped our adversary’s grasp.

Then, a few weeks ago, the incredible occurred. A mind returned to us. It was beaten, broken, a remnant of its former self, but it wasn’t completely scraped clean. It came to those of us that remained, the few hundred that had not yet fallen prey to the murmurs that echoed across the galaxy: “Come to us. Save your friends. Come to us.”

I embraced the mind. Erratic joy and deep pain simultaneously battled for the upper hand within my being as the injured mind sputtered toward us on its last vestiges of mental strength. “Ideas,” the mind brushed its consciousness up against mine, “Great ideas cannot be ended.”

This was not news to me, for it was ideas that had made us (almost) immortal. But the fellow mind sensed my lack of understanding and elaborated. They had been near our enemy just long enough to grasp an understanding of their most prominent weakness. The Ritersblŏk had captured the Kreeativs in an effort to take over the Milky Way without the hindrance of minds--physical or not--that would oppose their ultimate rule. However, should a great many conciousnesses armed with creative ideas rise up against the Ritersblŏk at once, they would not be able to handle the influx and power of so many minds at the same time. The Ritersblŏk would be forced to end their conquest and limp back to whence they came.

We accepted the broken mind back into our shared consciousness and huddled the last of our race around this newfound hope. Unfortunately, the minds already captured by our enemy were beyond reparation, no longer able to conjure original ideas. What I needed to find was help. There had to be someone, somewhere who could band together in solidarity with us to assist us in overcoming our worst enemy. And so the remainder of us piled our erudition together. We no longer had the vast collection of knowledge we had once achieved when our race was whole, but we had glimmers and glimpses of what we learned from one another before this all began.

That was when I remembered you--humans. Humans, who live on a planet not unlike the one from which we originated, are the closest in thought pattern to ourselves. Even though you still maintain your physical forms, you, too, thrive upon creativity and ideas. I remembered that humans are constantly innovating, exchanging thoughts, and collaborating with one another to achieve great works. And so I know it is your kind and your kind alone who could help me to save the last of the Kreeativs and defeat the Ritersblŏk.

I have adopted a physical form in order to blend in while I learn from you. I have only been here a few days, but I must say I vastly underestimated how large a planet can feel when you occupy a physical space. However, it has not taken me long to learn about Earth’s great learning interface--the internet--where the minds of your race spend their time in quest of new, diverse ideas and thoughts. So I have come to make my plea on the social interfaces of the most familiar planet in our galaxy in order to study under you and learn how to utilize my ideas to defeat my race’s archenemy. 

The Ritersblŏk will never stop hunting my race until they have eliminated the last of us, and from there, they will move on. And while you’re not going to like it, I think I have a pretty good idea of who’s next. I come to you as a messenger, a warrior, and a student of your talent. I am in need of thousands of creative ideas, and this place is my best hope. I whole-mindedly believe that this planet can change the course of history and defeat our mutual opponent once and for all. For if the Ritersblŏk are the enemies of our liberty to think differently, then I am certain I have come to the right place.

- LMR