It seems as though it’s been a hot minute since I’ve had a dream significant enough to remember much past waking, so it’s notable that I’ve had two dreams this past week that have me scratching my head and wondering if they’re related. There has been a lot going on in my life lately, and I’m guessing my subconscious is trying to weigh in and give me its opinion.
In the first dream, which I had a few nights ago, I was standing at our deck door looking out into the back yard where a lot of different animals seemed to be running around and doing their thing. Rabbits, squirrels, deer, and several different kinds of birds–nothing out of the ordinary, and all animals I see on a regular basis. However, all at once, I noticed an unusually large (almost as big as me) bald eagle perched on the railing next to the door. He didn’t seem to know I was there, but seeing him, and seeing the size of him, I was terrified and shrank back to shut the door. The eagle then spread its wings and flew away.
Last night, I had another dream. In this dream, I was in my hometown of Millersburg, Pennsylvania, and I was in the park at the town square sitting on a bench and talking to a number of teens who had gathered around. I don’t remember most of the previous conversation, but we somehow came around to the topic of church. The teens mentioned that Trinity United Church of Christ, the church I’d attended while growing up, was looking for a pastor. It seemed that the congregation wanted someone who would make the children and teenagers a priority again. One of the teens asked if I would take the job if they offered. I responded with the usual “I’m not qualified, I don’t have the necessary degree, I doubt they’d want me…” The teens were still trying to convince me to consider it when I woke up.
At first glance, these seem like two completely unrelated dreams, but the more they percolated in my mind, the more I realized that they both speak to the same theme: my current employment state. I’m still quite happily employed as a substitute teacher, but I’m in a position where I need to find something full time with benefits, as my husband is nearing retirement age. I’ve submitted five or six applications in our school district in the past year or two, with no success. Three of the last four I’ve submitted have been the most promising, but I’m finding myself paralyzed with fear, not that I won’t get one of the jobs, but fear that I will. I’m truly not cut out for secretarial work, which most of the available jobs happen to be. I love being in the classroom, but alas, my teaching certification is inactive, and I’d have some work to do if I wanted to reactivate it.
So what does any of this have to do with the dreams I’ve had? Well, I was curious about what the eagle in the first dream might signify, so I did a bit of research. Eagles can, of course, signify strength and freedom, but they can also represent transformation, a crossroads in life,or God’s protection. The idea of a crossroads is an obvious application, given the decisions I’m faced with. The level of fear I felt over seeing the eagle in my dream goes right along with my anxiety over my job situation, and the size of the eagle is also significant, as these thoughts are overwhelming. The eagle flying away when I reacted in fear tells me that I will lose these opportunities if I continue to let my fear prevent me from acting.
The second dream in some ways seems like it came out of left field, because I’ve long since abandoned any thoughts of being in the ministry. However, it’s still something I think about, especially after I’ve visited my hometown and attended my home church as we did on Easter Sunday. One of my former pastors still nudges me from time to time, saying he thinks I would be an excellent fit for that congregation, since it is now quite small and sadly possibly in decline. Before I got married and moved away, I had been very active in the Christian Education Ministry, so seeing that part of the church fade away has truly broken my heart. But am I being called back to that ministry? I guess it’s possible. In that church? That would be quite a stretch due to the distance from where we live now, but at the same time, I’m unwilling to serve in the church we currently attend…because, reasons. But is that still something that lies ahead? Not a clue…
It all boils down to the fact that it’s pretty obvious where these dreams are coming from. If only, if only, I could dream up the answers I’m seeking…
I’m generally not a neat and tidy person, and I’m almost always surrounded by some level of clutter. Usually it doesn’t bother me, but at times it does get to be a bit much, and I feel the need to get rid of stuff.
I’ve been in one of those moods lately.
Whether it’s the onset of what my cousin called “Swedish death cleaning” or just a desire to not trip over junk every time I enter a room, I’m just clearing out things I don’t use anymore. I’ve set aside bags of clothes that the kids have outgrown or that I haven’t worn for months or years; toys, dishes, or small appliances that haven’t seen the light of day for ages; and of course the various pieces and broken things that someone says they’ll fix or find a use for. For the most part, the decision to toss something is easy, and I know there won’t be any regrets.
And then there’s this sweater.
It was my mom’s, part of a set that my dad bought her one Christmas. The black velvet pants have long since been discarded; they were not well made at all. But I still have this sweater that I seldom wear. Why not, you may ask. It is lovely, and very warm, and the colors fit into my preferred palettes.
Well, as is the case with a lot of my clothes of late, it doesn’t fit and honestly hasn’t for a long time. It’s very snug, so much so that I’m always afraid I’ll stretch it out or tear it trying to put it on or take it off. You see, my mother was smaller than I in both stature and girth. In fact, I was already taller and bigger than her by the time I was twelve, so even as a teenager, I was reluctant to borrow it.
So why have I kept it all these years? Why is it still in my closet? The obvious response would be sentimentality. I want to keep it to remember my mother.
But let’s be honest. I did not have a good relationship with my mother. More often than not, we were at odds, and she always managed to say something scathing that left me with hurt feelings. Even now, sixteen years after her death, I still read social media posts from friends extolling the rich relationships they have with their mothers, reveling in the friendship and the shared interests they have with their mothers, and I envy and mourn what I never had. I’m not sure I’d have it even if she were still alive.
So why do I keep this sweater if not to keep alive the precious memories I have of her? The answer is, I really don’t know. I suppose in some way it seems wrong to get rid of something that was a token of my father’s love for my mother. But why should it be wrong? They’re both gone, together in their eternal rest, and neither needs the sweater to remind them of their shared love.
Maybe I’ve kept it as my own reminder, not only of my mother, but also of my parents’ marriage, which had lasted fifty-four years before my dad died. They had their share of good times, and more than their share of hard times, but they stayed together and faithful through it all. That Christmas sweater is just one such memento of something I do want to remember.
But I ask myself as I have many times before, do I need this sweater to remember my parents and their love for each other? Or is it just another piece of clutter in my closet? After all, aren’t I building my own family and my own love story, both of which come with their own souvenirs, which I know my boys will have to deal with someday.
So much in life is holding on and letting go, and knowing when to do both.
An excerpt from Outrun the Darkness, Outwalk the Light, Book 6 in the Kyrie Carter: Supernatural Sleuth series
“How are you going to remember where we left the car?” Caine asked, stopping and looking around every few steps as if trying to memorize our route.
“If it would make you feel any better, Hansel, I could leave a trail of breadcrumbs,” I quipped, glancing back to make sure he was keeping up. I mentally acknowledged that his concern wasn’t unwarranted; I’d had to park a bit further away than I would have liked, in a random spot along the shoulder where the car wouldn’t be easily visible to anyone who might drive past. Still, this section of forest had become very familiar to me. “This is starting to feel like Groundhog Day,” I mused aloud.
“Feels more like Blair Witch to me,” Caine muttered. “I swear if I see any stick people hanging from the trees, I’m outta here, Swamp Angel or not.”
His comment did nothing to ease my own nerves as we picked our way through the underbrush, and neither did the pieces of branches that hung askew from several storm-damaged trees. The atmosphere grew heavier the closer we got to our destination. Every sound seemed amplified, and in my growing unease, I found myself holding my breath as I listened for any noise that didn’t belong.
At last we reached the clearing where the fallen log lay. It seemed darker here tonight without the brightness of the moon to illuminate the small space. Still, the darkness allowed the foxfire to glow more brightly. Caine gasped and shrank back as he stepped around me and spotted the eerie bluish phosphorescence close to the ground. “Is that…”
“Yes, that’s foxfire,” I replied, my voice trembling. Even though I was now familiar with the fungus and its properties, Caine’s overt nervousness had set me on edge as well. I hesitated, looking around and wondering if Loop Hill Ike would be here in spirit form—or at all.
At last, I approached the log. I broke off a large chunk and carried it back to where Caine stood. “This should be enough. There’s still plenty left for tomorrow night,” I sad, more to myself than to Caine.
“Why do we have to do this two nights in a row? Why can’t we just give her a bunch of those mushrooms and be done with it in one night?”
Why, indeed, I grumbled to myself. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you. It’s just the way it works.” We started down the narrow path through the trees that would lead us to whatever waited at the confluence. “Actually, this had to be done three times; remember, I already did this once last night. After the third time, the Swamp Angel appears.”
“Okay, so why three nights? Why is three the magic number?” He persisted, reminding me of some of my preschoolers.
“I don’t know, Caine. The number three must have some special significance in the spirit realm.” I paused, squinting, as I tried to keep to the path. I thought about turning on the flashlight on my phone, but I didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves in case any nearby residents were outside. “Loop Hill Ike said the Swamp Angel is a spirit, not a ghost, so maybe that has something to do with it.” As an afterthought, I quickly added, “And no, I don’t know what the difference between a spirit and
a ghost is.”
********
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Yesterday, I came home from work exhausted and not feeling the greatest, so I sat down to rest and scroll through social media and my emails. I got one email regarding a poetic memoir challenge for March. I can’t afford to pay to join the challenge right now, but I did some Googling for poetic memoir prompts just to do some playing on my own. I couldn’t find much of what I was looking for out there, but I did find one site that really sparked my creativity.
On this site, I found some examples of Where I’m From poetic memoir forms, and I decided to write my own as a springboard to starting my own poetic memoir. I really like what I have so far, and I can see quite a few poems sprouting from this. The title Confluence comes from a facination with a place I hold dear, the spot in Millersburg where the Wiconisco Creek meets the Susquehanna River–the confluence. I had the idea that much of who I am comes from the confluence of people, experiences, and ideas.
Confluence/Where I’m From
I’m from California to Pennsylvania.
I’m from March Air Force Base to Millersburg.
I’m from the Susquehanna River, the Wiconisco Creek, and Hen Hottenstein’s pond .
I’m from Berry Mountain, the Millersburg Ferry, and The MYO Park.
I’m from haunted old Victorian house to newly-built haunted two-story.
I’m from German farmers and career military men.
I’m from my first dog Fox to my first cat Crickett.
I’m from baby and only girl to elementary school aunt.
I’m from crowd-following Shaun Cassidy fan to closeted Culture Club and Barry Manilow fan.
I’m from solitary cemetery creeper and never-lonely library visitor.
I’m from straight-A student and socially-awkward teen
I’m from shy, soft-spoken people-pleaser to bold-dressing creative independent.
I’m from ghost stories and Halloween to church plays and Sunday school teacher.
I’m from judgmental Pharisee to belief-shamed outcast to doubting deconstructionist.
I’m from unwavering faith to soul-shaking doubt.
I’m from liturgy and hymns to Spirit-led and praise choruses and back again.
I’m from traditional church to pantheistic practitioner to Metaphysical Christian.
I’m from needing love and acceptance to wanting to be free and independent.
I’m from hair dyed red to camouflage dresses.
I’m from Matchbox cars to Barbie dolls.
I’m from dreams that have died to dreams that I’ve lived.
I’m from friends who became family to friends who were family all along.
I’m from damsel in distress waiting for a knight in shining armor to self-sufficient broad who donned the armor and rescued herself.
I’m from dandelions in the front yard to violets on a secluded woodland path.
I’m from lost in my mother role to strong in my family ties.
For some reason this year, I’m having the hardest time getting into the Christmas spirit. It was a struggle putting up the decorations, and I wasn’t overly motivated to do any shopping or gift making. Even now, I should be finishing up my gifts and cards for the ladies at work, but I just don’t feel like it.
And cookies. I’ve usually got my baking done by now, but I’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Today, I finally pulled a few recipes and decided to get to it. Well, I got through one batch of molasses cookies before my spatula snapped in half. I was just done after that.
So as I sat here stewing in my bah humbug, something occurred to me. I’m 53 years old. This is the age my mother was when she declared she would no longer bake Christmas cookies. She just hated doing it, and after doing it for almost thirty years and four kids (at 13, I was the youngest), she was just done.
And so at 13, I took up the spatula and continued the tradition of baking tons of cookies for Christmas. I made my dad’s favorite hermits, cutouts, chocolate chip, peanut blossoms, and others as I found recipes. For a long time, I loved doing it, and of course, I loved eating the fruits of my labor.
It seems like things have come full circle as I’m now just disenchanted with the whole mess. Is it just my age? My life circumstances? I’m not sure. My older son started college this year, and while he’s home on break, it’s obvious that he’s on the verge of spreading his wings and leaving the nest. My younger son will be 16 in a few days, and he’s ready to find a job to start saving for college or whatever he decides to do after high school.
I always vowed not to turn into my mother–something I suppose a lot of others have said at one time or another–but it seems in some ways, I have. I’m looking at the broken spatula as a harbinger of this new stage of life. I know change is inevitable, and is really the only constant in life, but I can’t help feeling a bit sad, as well as a bit apprehensive.
What will this new stage of life bring? What will my kids do with their lives? And who will carry on the tradition of baking Christmas cookies?
Outside Looks like winter. Slate gray clouds hang Low, Just above the ridge tops. Between cloud base and horizon, The magenta-orange haze Portends a chilly dawn.
Out back, A carpet of frost Dulls the still-verdant grass. Twisting paths Of darker spheres Tell of predawn visitors Crossing the yard. Raven roams, Adding her own path of prints As she sniffs the story Of night-beasts passing through.
I sip coffee and smile. Thoughts turn to the spooky souls Who will come knocking Tonight Seeking sugary treats Under cover of masks and darkness Before flocking to frightful festivities. Memories rise Of childhood parties past, And tales told in dark rooms With flashlights beneath our chins.
One reminiscence crisscrosses another, And I soon recall Superstitions whispered by elder aunts On dark October nights. I cackle into my cup; My logical, modern mind Doubts and discards The old beliefs of veils parting And souls slipping Between worlds.
Still, I watch as my breath ascends Ghostlike To vanish in the icy air, And I know That summer has slipped Beyond the veil of time, And winter will soon materialize In its place, Amid a hoarfrost veil.
That thought Makes me shiver More than the spooks And skeletons And super-villains Who will visit in the night to come. With a final glance To the gray sky, I whistle for the dog And retreat inside.
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When at last I turned out the light and snuggled down beneath the cool sheets, I did so knowing that the Swamp Angel would neither show up in my dreams nor summon me to her. She never came to me two nights in a row.
Except for tonight.
***
My heart raced as I found myself in the same section of woods I’d been in the previous night. I rubbed my arms against the chill and frantically looked around for the shape-shifting owl that had terrorized me as I searched for the Swamp Angel. The trees tonight were devoid of owls, and of anything else I could see, but that was little comfort. Knowing I’d been brought back here for a reason and resigned to the fact that this scene would repeat itself until I discovered what that reason was, I started walking toward the sound of running water.
I had just crested the hill when an unusual sound made me stop in my tracks. I cocked my head, listening and trying to separate the sound from the babbling of the creek. At times I could hear it over the rushing water, and other times the water seemed to drown it out. Over and over again, the sound rose and fell, but always with a familiar cadence that I couldn’t quite place.
All at once I realized it was a voice, a man’s voice. I knew it wasn’t Loop Hill Ike, but who else could it be? Suddenly feeling vulnerable, I pressed myself against a tree and squinted into the darkness, listening hard to figure out which direction the voice was coming from. Though I scanned the creek bed below, I saw nothing, although I was able to determine that the sound came from upstream.
I knew I had to make my way toward the voice so I could figure out who it was and why he was there, but fear kept my feet rooted where I was. Once, twice, a dozen times, I tried to make myself leave the shelter of my tree and move upstream. The sharp sting of a mosquito biting my leg made me jump and then swat it away. Come on, Kyr. You can’t stand here all night; you’ll get eaten alive by bugs…or other things.
Squashing down my fear for the moment, I began moving as quietly as I could from tree to tree as I made my way downhill toward the creek. I was only a few yards from the water’s edge when I heard the voice again. It spoke in the same rhythmic cadence as before, only this time I was able to make out a few words: “Walk…valley…shadow of death…fear no evil…”
I let out my breath in a whoosh. The 23rd Psalm. He’s saying the 23rd Psalm. It seemed unlikely that a serial killer would be quoting the Bible in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, so I took heart. “Hello? Hello, who’s there?” The voice stopped speaking, and I heard a sharp intake of breath close by, so I tried again. “Hello?”
After a moment, there was a timid reply. “H…Hello?”
I started toward the spot I thought the voice was coming from, continuing to speak and hoping for responses. “Hello? Where are you? Help me find you.”
“I’m here.” Apprehension still kept his voice low; he was as wary of me as I was of him. “I’m over here. Please don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” If I hadn’t been so frightened myself, I might have found it amusing that a man would be afraid that I might hurt him. Just ahead, I saw a figure in light-colored clothes that contrasted sharply with the dark rocks and vegetation. The only reason I hadn’t seen him before was that he was crouched down between a large rock and a double-trunked tree with his hands over his head, obviously hiding. Leaving the safety of my own source of cover, I waved both hands in the air so he would see me. “Here I am. Over here.”
The man lowered his arms and turned his head to look in my direction; then he cried out and leapt to his feet so abruptly I thought he was about to attack. I turned quickly and was about to make a run for it when he called out, “Ms. Carter? Is that you?”
Recognizing his voice, I whirled around to face him. “Caine Michaljuk?”
“What are you doing here?” we both asked at the same time.
Before I could say another word, he took a step back toward his hiding spot. “You…you really are a witch, aren’t you? How…why did you bring me here?”
I fought the urge to pick up a rock and throw it at him. “Caine, for the last time, I am NOT a witch!” No matter what your nutcase grandmother might say.
“Then how did I get here…wherever this is?”
I shot him a scathing look I was sure it was too dark for him to see and replied, “The same way I did. The Swamp Angel.”
“The Swamp Angel?” He looked around wildly. “Then where is she? Why isn’t she here?”
“Because she tends to show up at the creek—“
“The creek is right here,” he exploded, gesturing to the water flowing next to us.
I remembered to count to ten and then amended, “A certain part of the creek. There’s a confluence upstream a ways. That’s where she usually appears. You’ve read the legend; I’m pretty sure that’s where she…drowned.”
“Well…why wouldn’t she just beam us there?” he asked, pacing between his hiding spot and the edge of the creek. “Why would she drop us here in the middle of the woods?”
I let out a huff. “Caine, your guess is as good as mine. All I know for sure is that when she transports me somewhere, it’s because she has a message for me, or there’s something she wants me to do.” I crossed my arms and gave him a pointed look. “This time, I’m guessing she’s got something for you to do as well.”
Caine continued to stand frozen, doubt clouding his features as he stared at me. “What…what will happen if I don’t do what she wants?”
Although I knew that fear was driving his distrust, my patience was wearing thin. I threw out my hands in frustration. “You know, for someone who up until recently was actively pursuing me for help with his leafy alien problem, and who was hell-bent on talking to the Swamp Angel, you’re being awfully uncooperative now that she wants to talk to you.”
Some of the stubbornness left his expression, but he still made no move to accompany me. “But—“
“Okay, look. The longer you stand there questioning me, the longer it’s going to take to get what we’re here for and get back home. I’m sure you don’t want your Gran checking in on you and finding you gone, do you?” Because Lord knows I don’t.
His eyes widened in terror at the suggestion, and he sprang into action, pushing past me to follow the creek upstream. “Okay, then, let’s go.”
It didn’t take long to reach the confluence. I had to run to catch up to him and stop him before he walked headlong into the swampy ground. “Be careful, Caine. The ground is unstable here. This is the quicksand where Orchid…where the Swamp Angel drowned.”
He froze, and we both looked around. A half moon peeked through the trees, casting just enough light to make the scene before us eerie and surreal. As if being transported across space and time weren’t surreal enough. My eyes were drawn to the shadows in the forest around us. I sensed that we weren’t alone here, and I couldn’t help feeling that whoever or whatever might be watching us wasn’t necessarily friendly.
“So where is she?” Caine asked accusingly, glaring at me as he wrung his hands. “She’s not here. There’s no one here but us.”
“Shh, keep your voice down.” I was as uneasy as he was. The Swamp Angel had never been a no-show. I continued looking around in dismay. Were we too late? Had our brief delay caused us to miss her appearance? “I don’t know, Caine. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. She wouldn’t have—“
The sound of someone—or something—moving through the underbrush off to our right interrupted me. Suddenly apprehensive, I grasped his arm and pulled him back under cover of the trees. “Quick,” I hissed. “Get out of sight.”
Stumbling over each other in our haste, Caine and I barely ducked behind a large tree before two people, a man and a woman, came into the clearing. I recognized the man, but the woman was unknown to me. “Is that the Swamp Angel?” Caine asked, trying to see around me.
I quickly covered his mouth with my hand and whispered, “No. Now be quiet.”
“Mr. Ike,” the woman said, casting a nervous glance around the clearing, “I don’t know that I can do this. What if she doesn’t come to me?”
“Who’s that guy?” Caine asked, pulling away from me and leaning in to see better.
“That’s Loop Hill Ike,” I said, low. “I don’t know the woman. Be quiet and watch; I’ll answer your questions later.” Thankfully, neither seemed to hear our exchange or otherwise be aware of our presence.
“She’ll come. This is the third night.” He motioned toward the quicksand in the point of the triangle. “Throw the foxfire into the quicksand, just like I showed you these past two nights.”
After a bit more back and forth between them, Loop Hill Ike handed the woman a small pouch. Glancing at him uncertainly, she opened the pouch and took something out. She took a few uncertain steps toward the quicksand and turned to look at him. He gave her a curt nod, and she threw the foxfire into the soupy ground, where it sank quickly.
“This…this is what I read about,” Caine said excitedly, parting the bushes in front of him to see better. “This is when that woman summoned the Swamp Angel.”
Having gathered as much, I nodded. It seemed odd to me that neither seemed to hear us—especially Caine—and that Loop Hill Ike hadn’t even so much as acknowledged me. It was as though he didn’t know we were there.
A moment later, the quicksand took on a bluish-green tinge that became brighter as a figure rose from the water and took the form of the Native American woman I knew as Orchid. Even though I’d witnessed this scene several times now, a thrill of wonder still coursed through me, and goosebumps rose on my arms.
Caine obviously didn’t feel the same. “What is that?” he screeched. “What’s happening?”
“It’s the Swamp Angel,” I hissed, not taking my eyes off the scene before me. “Can’t you see her?”
“I see something,” he said, just above a whisper. He retreated behind me.
Just as the Swamp Angel began to speak to the woman, Loop Hill Ike turned toward us and met my eyes with a stern gaze, the first acknowledgement of my presence. He gave me a curt nod, and the scene before me vanished.
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*** This is the beginning of a time travel/ghost story that I hope to have time to finish someday soon***
A Gettysburg Goth in the Civil War
“Hey, look! Wednesday Addams is out the door!”
“Does that mean tomorrow is Thursday Addams?”
Xavier St. Cross shouldered her backpack and did her best to ignore the hecklers as she left Gettysburg Middle School. When will they get sick of the same tired jokes? she thought, biting back a sharp retort. She’d been dressing Goth since the fourth marking period of the previous school year; everyone should be used to her appearance by now.
Outside in the warm, late-October sunshine, she lowered the dark lenses of her flip-shades and started down Lefevre Street. At Baltimore Street, she decided it was too nice a day to head straight home, so she hung a left.
The pre-Halloween tourist crowd was thick on Baltimore Street, and Xavier kept her head down and tried to ignore the curious stares of the people she passed. One elderly woman commented to her husband, “Will you look at that, Ernie? Disgraceful!”
Xavier couldn’t help herself; she turned and removed her sunglasses to narrow her black-and-red-painted eyes at the couple, who drew back as though afraid she’d bite the head off a bat in front of them. For as many people that come here for ghost tours, she thought to herself, you’d think they wouldn’t be creeped out over someone dressed all in black.
She tossed her head to get her straight, ebony hair out of her eyes and continued past the T-shirt and souvenir shops. She briefly considered stopping by the Crystal Wand; retail therapy and a chat with Iris always lifted her spirits. With a sigh, she decided to pass.
Just past the tourist district, as Xavier called it, she turned onto Evergreen Cemetery Road. Giving a nod to the park ranger standing near the entrance, she made her way around the walkway towards the less-traveled part of the cemetery. Sometimes she liked to walk among the graves, read the names, and wonder about the lives of the people buried there.
Today, however, she didn’t want to walk. She just wanted to find a place to sit and read the book she’d just gotten out of the library. Near the center of the graveyard, she found the perfect spot beneath a maple tree with flaming yellow-orange foliage.
Tossing her backpack on the ground, she shrugged out of the heavy black leather trench coat that was much too warm for the summerlike afternoon. After spreading the trench coat on the ground, she sat down cross-legged and took a book from her backpack. She smiled as she read the title aloud. “A Beautiful, Glittering Lie.”
Xavier leaned back against the tree and sighed. Even though the book was fictional, its theme and the experiences of the characters fit right in with the Civil War unit her history class was studying. She longer to share with her teacher and her classmates all the things she’d learned from the books she’d read, but she knew she’d skip out on this oral report just as she had all the others. Stupid bullies, she thought bitterly, thinking of the years of harassment that had led to her diagnosis of anxiety and eventually to her becoming a self-proclaimed outcast.
Shaking her head to rid herself of the unpleasant thoughts, she opened her book and began reading. Soon, she became lost in the drama of the characters in the story, and she forgot about bullies, oral reports, and nosy tourists.
The afternoon was warm and unusually humid, and the steady hum of traffic going past on Baltimore Street soothed her and made her groggy. She knew she should probably be getting home soon, but a heavy lethargy had settled over her. Laying her book aside, she stared unseeingly at her ripped skull-print leggings and thick-soled Army boots until her eyelids began to droop. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute and then head home.
A loud BOOM! jarred her awake. She looked around, dazed. The sky had grown dark, and Xavier thought a thunderstorm had popped up, that is until she smelled the acrid odor of smoke. From somewhere in the distance came the unmistakable sound of a riot or some other disturbance—shouts, explosions, and…horses?
Had there been a car accident? She leapt to her feet abruptly and started toward Baltimore Street, but then immediately stopped. Her breath caught as she looked around, bewildered—there was no car wreck; in fact, there was no Baltimore Street. There was no Evergreen Cemetery, no friendly park ranger. There were far fewer buildings than there had been when she’d arrived, and there were no cars, no parking lots, no tourist shops.
There were, however, more trees than she recalled being in this part of Gettysburg. The tree under which she’d sat reading her book was there, but much smaller than it had been when she’d spread her trench coat beneath it a little while ago. Even more confusing, the leaves on the trees were no longer the fiery hues of autumn, but were now the vibrant green of midsummer.
Reaching up to grab fistfuls of hair, she screeched, “What’s going on? Where is everything? What am I—“
Her frantic questions were cut short by the sound of footsteps running up behind her. Hoping it was the park ranger, or even a tourist, who could tell her what was happening, she whirled around and stepped out from behind the tree…
“Gah! What in tarnation?” One of the Union Army re-enactors who looked to be about Xavier’s age dropped to his knees in front of her and covered his eyes. “Don’t look on me, Death Angel! It ain’t my time yet!”
Xavier’s head whipped this way and that, trying to see what had frightened the boy so badly. When she realized he was reacting to her appearance, she burst out laughing, despite her fear and confusion. “Boy, you re-enactors sure take your parts seriously, don’t you? You act like you’ve never seen a Goth before.”
The soldier lowered his hands just enough to peer fearfully at Xavier and responded, “What’s a re…enactor? And what’s a Goth? Is that kinda like a demon?”
Xavier bristled at the comment, but soon realized his question was serious. Not sure what to think of the strange situation she found herself in, she said uncertainly, “Look, I’m not a Death Angel, and I’m not a demon. I’m just wearing makeup, face paint. Watch.” To prove her point, she took the sleeve of her T-shirt and wiped off the black lipstick and as much of the eye shadow as she could. “See?”
The soldier’s eyes grew wide as saucers at her transformation. Staring in disbelief, he said, “Well, I’ll be…Ma’d tan my hide for sure if I’d ever painted my face, let alone painted myself like some kinda demon…not meanin’ to be rude.”
Xavier’s brows came together as the soldier’s words registered. She wasn’t an expert on life in the 1860s, but one thing she knew for certain was…”Wait a minute! Boys didn’t wear makeup during the Civil War. You’re not a soldier at all; you’re a girl!”
If the soldier had looked afraid when he…she had believed Xavier to be a demon, he…she now looked positively terrified, as well as indignant. “I most certainly am a soldier. I fight just as good as any of those farm boys! Just…just please don’t tell anyone I’m a girl. They’ll send me back home for sure.”
…To Be Continued
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Outside Looks like winter. Slate gray clouds hang Low, Just above the ridge tops. Between cloud base and horizon, The magenta-orange haze Portends a chilly dawn.
Out back, A carpet of frost Dulls the still-verdant grass. Twisting paths Of darker spheres Tell of predawn visitors Crossing the yard. Raven roams, Adding her own path of prints As she sniffs the story Of night-beasts passing through.
I sip coffee and smile. Thoughts turn to the spooky souls Who will come knocking Tonight Seeking sugary treats Under cover of masks and darkness Before flocking to frightful festivities. Memories rise Of childhood parties past, And tales told in dark rooms With flashlights beneath our chins.
One reminiscence crisscrosses another, And I soon recall Superstitions whispered by elder aunt’s On dark October nights. I cackle into my cup; My logical, modern mind Doubts and discards The old beliefs of veils parting And souls slipping Between worlds.
Still, I watch as my breath ascends Ghostlike To vanish in the icy air, And I know That summer has slipped Beyond the veil of time, And winter will soon materialize In its place, Amid a hoarfrost veil.
That thought Makes me shiver More than the spooks And skeletons And super-villains Who will visit in the night to come. With a final glance To the gray sky, I whistle for the dog And retreat inside.
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