The Child & The Star

Here is another short story. Enjoy!
Words: 710


A small child stands on a cliff, elevated to a breathtaking height. Her small frame is stark against a star-speckled night sky splashed in vibrant hues of blue.

Her hands are outstretched toward the heavens, cupped around a small star of glowing white-light. She draws the orb toward herself and settles onto the smooth stone. An elated smile crosses her face. She lifts one hand, letting the star hover above her fingertips. It's glorious light splays across her lap and fills the crevices of the rock around her.

There had only been joy in that child's eyes in those precious moments . . .


Now, there was only fear.

Ten years to the day since she had been granted a star by the Sky Kingdom, Miah was walking the same upward assent she had as a child. This time, the circumstances were very different.

As a child, she hadn't realized what being granted a star meant. When she reached her teen years, she started to see the changes. Her skin was pale, her hair translucent, her eyes light blue. All the other people in her homeland had dark hair and eyes, with bronze, sun kissed skin. She was an oddity in the Earth Kingdom.

And now, the Earth Kingdom didn't want her. The Star had given her the ability to heal with a touch of her fingers, and to perceive everyone's thoughts and deepest secrets. She had a star, she was different, so she couldn't be part of the Earth Kingdom.

They had tolerated her as a child, and even as teenager, but she was twenty one now. A choice had to be made. What Kingdom did she belong to? Being gifted with a Star left her with only two choices; the beautiful and aloof Sky Kingdom . . . or the dark and mysterious Night Kingdom.

She shuddered. The Night Kingdom was an unknown thing to her, a place that was elusive and shrouded with foreboding tales of horror. They said if you were to even look at a member of the Night Kingdom, you would lose your sanity and be lost to darkness forever.

She clutched the small star to her chest, letting its soft glow warm her soul. According to law, she had to give the star back to the Sky Kingdom if she wished to stay in the Earth Kingdom. She would lose her abilities and her appearance would gradually return to normal. Yet, she was willing to pay that price. She wanted to remain in the only Kingdom--the only home--she had ever known.

If the Sky Kingdom didn't take the star, then the Night Kingdom could claim her.

Trembling, Miah reached the summit. It wasn't as high as she remembered, but she had been smaller then. She lifted her chin to stare up at the night sky. The view was even more beautiful than she had remembered. The swirl of stars dancing across the night sky smiled down at her, and for a moment, her fears were forgotten. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she gently cupped her star in her hands and lifted it above her head.

"I return to you what once you gave to me," she whispered the words, expecting the star's warmth to vanish--leaving her standing alone, and redeemed, on the mountain.

Nothing happened.

Her knees felt weak as she gazed upwards, waiting for the star to slip away into the sky. Time passed, and still nothing happened. She repeated the phrase. The answer was silence.

Hours slipped away into the darkest time of night.

Her arms had gone numb, her body quivered with exhaustion, but she didn't move. She was not going to give up. "Please, please take it back!"

"It's a little too late for that," a man's voice said from behind her.

She spun with a gasp, hugging the star protectively. He stood an arm's length away, shrouded in a dark cloak. His thoughts, which should have been open to her perception, were completely concealed. It unnerved her.

"Who are you?" her heart raced in her chest. She didn't need to read this mind to know the answer--she knew before he said it.

"I'm from the Night Kingdom." His teeth flashed in the dark as he smiled, "I've come to get you."


© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Horse Talk

Well, I thought I would share some things I have learned concerning horses. I know that I am no professional in this field, but as an Equine Massage Therapist, a horse owner for over four years, and having worked in several stables, I've picked up on a few things that I think you might find helpful.

Know your horse. This is a hands-on and hands-off knowledge of what is normal for your horse. Know how he acts when he's healthy so that when there is something wrong you will be more likely to notice right away. Also, be familiar with what he feels like--his coat, legs, neck, etc. I've had clients ask me how they will know if their horse is sore from riding and I always tell them the same thing. Touch your horse. Get your hands on him and feel for any heat or swelling, those are the obvious signs that something isn't right. Go ahead and use a bit of pressure running your fingers over his major muscle groups, feel for any knots of tight muscle (you know, like those sore spots you get in your shoulders after throwing around hay bales) take note of any flinching or more subtle signs like his ears flicking back or his tail twitching. If he seems really sore consider giving him a day or two off and have an equine massage therapist come out (or use the internet and learn some basic massage techniques & stretches yourself) to give him some relief :)

Anger destroys everything. "Just don't get angry," is one thing to say and a completely different thing to actually do. Every horse person has experienced that hot summer day when nothing is going right and patience has run out a long time ago--you get mad at your horse, mad at yourself, and mad at anything else you can blame. Being angry with your horse is a very dangerous thing because if you act out in anger, just once, you can undo weeks, months, and even years of work. The best advice I can give you is to just walk away. Put the horse in his pasture or in his stall and take a break. Go punch a pillow. Cool down. Wait a few hours or until the next day when you aren't upset and try again. Another thing I like to do in those moments when you feel yourself beginning to get frustrated is to pause and get control of your mood. Just rest your head against your horse's neck and take a few deep breaths--calm yourself down. The best thing you can do for your horse is learn how to be quiet around him, both inside and out. When you are quiet you are in control of yourself and when you are in control of yourself, you will find your horse more willing to let you be the leader.

If you never try, you'll never know. Don't be afraid to try new things. Put yourself and your horse in different situations. Go ahead and ride your horse backwards, use an English saddle instead of a Western one, take the harder trail, ride without any tack and see what happens, you know that tarp?--see if your horse will stomp on it or have him wear it like a cloak, teach your horse a trick or take him swimming. Try new things, be a little daring, your horse may just surprise you! Be smart and don't push him too far, use good horsemanship, but don't be afraid to be a little crazy. Believe me, it's more fun if you are!


Other tips:

1. Keep your horse soft by switching up his bit. Use the most simple bit you can get--I use a basic loose-ring snaffle for my light riding. When you want a higher level of performance, use a slightly stronger bit. If you aren't familiar with the bit your horse is using (or bits in general), you need to do some research! Don't put it off, get some books, use the internet and learn the facts--you may just save your horse from unneeded pain and yourself from unneeded frustration.

2. Make sure your horse's bridle fits right. The bit should be resting just against the corners of your horse's lips. It shouldn't be so tight that it creates wrinkles on the side of his mouth. Check this by putting his bridle on him then grabbing a hold of either side of the bit and pulling it forward (gently) in his mouth--if you get a gap of a half inch or more between the bit and his lips it's too loose, if you aren't getting a gap at all, it's way too tight. If you use a curb chain, make sure it fits right by pulling the reins back as if telling your horse to halt, the chain should get snug against his chin only when the reins are pulled tight. Let the reins hang--there should be a two or more finger gap between the chain and the horse's chin. If the curb chain is too tight you will confuse your horse. If it's too loose it won't be any use at all. And again, if you don't know what it's for you shouldn't be using it. Do your research.

3. Your arm length is usually the same length your stirrups should be.

4. Don't neglect groundwork but don't overuse groundwork either. Lunging your horse in fifty circles either direction is useless except to bore him and tire him out. Only ask him to go in sets of three or four circles in either direction (one set for each gait), you will keep his attention better and won't kill his brain cells by running him in circles for ages. Instead of only lunging him, use your time to teach him to back up, yield his hindquarters, and yield his forehand. Teach him to halt with a verbal command and a hand signal. You'll discover your horse will respect your space much better if you do these things.

5. Ride bareback and walk, trot, and canter. This will teach you balance and will keep you warmer in the winter :)

6. Apple Cider Vinegar. Add it to his water, dilute it with water and wash him with it, use it to clean his bits & water troughs. It won't hurt him, promotes healthy skin and a soft coat, is cheep, and it works. I promise.

7. Sometimes less is more. Ten to fifteen minutes of riding or groundwork can teach your horse just as much as a 50 to 60 minute ride. And you'll keep his attention the entire time. Try it.

8. Never stop learning. Take riding lessons, volunteer at a horse rescue, read books, research for facts. Whatever you do, don't stop learning.

9. Be fit and healthy. Yes, you! A fit and healthy person has a better sense of balance and has the strength to correctly ride a horse. Your horse will thank you for it!

10. Consistency is key. Use the same cue each time you ask him for something. One cue with each command and don't change them.

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Blaze's Story

Well, some of you may know that July is a very special month for me. Four years ago on July 3rd I bought my horse, Blaze. I would like to share the story of how I came to own him. The following story was written just a few months after I bought Blaze back in 2009. 

Just to give you a bit of a setting, I was in Indiana visiting my grandparents for the summer. They had an old horse named Champion that they were going to sell and I had been saving up my money and hoping for a chance to buy a horse to keep at my grandparents farm . . .

It was the night of July second.  I lay in bed, my mind swirling with endless possibilities and numberless emotions.  I was sad to sell Champion, but I knew it was for the best and I was thrilled with the possibility of getting a horse that could potentially be mine.

            I had brought along the money I had saved up just in case we would be heading to the auctions with the hope of getting a horse.  And here I was, unable to sleep with anticipation.  My emotions ranged from tears to giddy hysteria.  I was going crazy.

            After lying in bed, thinking, for some time.  It struck me at how close, but yet how far, I was from seeing one of my biggest dreams fulfilled.  I think it was then that I broke down in tears and started praying.  First, I thanked God for everything he had done for me and blessed me with.  Then, I asked him to give Champion a good home.  And finally, I requested His guidance in finding a horse.  I clearly recall telling Him that if it wasn’t His will for me to get a horse, so be it.  Either way, I would praise Him.  Then, I finished with giving him all my worries and cares about the coming day, and fell asleep.

            Morning came quickly. I got up and dressed, then headed downstairs and outside to get Champion ready. I was up before anyone else.

            I went to his stall and brushed him until his coat shone, put a nice halter on him, then settled on the door of his stall and explained to him what was going on.  He seemed to understand in a strange way.  I felt sad to see a horse that I can say was one of my best friends go.  But I had a peace in my heart about it, and I knew it was God’s will. When I was done bidding good ol' Champ farewell, I returned to the house and ate breakfast. Then it was all business.  Grandpa and I loaded Champion in the trailer, and were on the road in no time.

            After we found a place to park at the auctions in Shipshewana, I unloaded Champion and led him to his spot in the auction pens.  Then, once he was tied securely, Grandpa and I headed out to look at the horses.

            The first horse that fit our requirements (a gelding, broke to ride, 5-10 years old) was a big stocky paint.  He wasn’t a very pretty horse, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t thrilled about him.  But, I was determined to be positive. There was nothing noticeably wrong with the paint, so we put his auction number on our pad of paper and kept looking.  We saw a lot of mares that would’ve worked, but we didn’t want a mare.  After seeing another paint that was skinny and green broke and a buckskin who was a little too old, I was close to giving up at finding a horse that really caught my eye.

            As we were leaving the pen of the Buckskin, I saw a horse being ridden down the isle away from us.  It looked like a gaited horse, but soon turned a corner and vanished from sight.  I told Grandpa, and we tried to find the horse, but couldn’t.  After walking around a bit more, and looking at a few more horses that never would have worked, I spotted the gaited horse again and this time we followed it to its pen.

            The horse’s owner got off and tied him up; Grandpa and I approached and looked the horse over.  He was a medium sized horse, with a rusty roan color, and black mane and tail.  I walked around him, lifted his feet, looked in his mouth, and ran my hands over his soft fur.  I liked what I saw.  So did Grandpa.

            Then we talked with his owner, who was quick to praise the horse (as any person selling something is) and he told us he was an eight year old Tennessee Walking Horse gelding.  Both Grandpa and I like gaited horses, so that added a plus to the Walker’s cause.  But there was one problem.  The Walker’s number was missing, and it was time for the auctions to start.  So we simply wrote ‘Roan Walker’ on our paper and thinned it down to three horses that looked the best.

            It was the big paint, the green broke paint, and the Walker that stayed on the list.  We decided that whichever of the three came in first, would be the one we would bid on.

            It took a long time for the riding horses to get into the ring, so I went to check on Champ and see if the Walker had gotten a number yet.  He had, and it was 89.  I hurried back to Grandpa and we wrote down his number, and then waited.  I think we both were secretly wishing for the Walker to come in first.

            It took forever until the riding horses came in.  One by one we watched horses that weren’t on our list come in and be sold.  Then, the horse we had been waiting for; number 89, came prancing into the ring.  Grandpa started bidding and soon it was up to $600, only one other man and Grandpa were left.  I heard the auctioneer say $650 and then announce “Sold!”  My heart stopped.  I wasn’t sure if we had got him or not, it had gone by so fast.  I looked at Grandpa and asked “Did we get him?”  Grandpa nodded with a smile and said, “We got ‘im.”

            I think I would’ve danced around laughing if we hadn’t been in a public place.  Now all we had to do is wait for Champion to sell.  I left to go find where the Walker had been tied to wait for us to get him.  It took a few tries, but I spotted him in a pen full of horses tied in a neat row.  Then I returned to see Champ sell.  He went for $200.

            Grandpa sent me to wait by the Walker as he went to pay for him.  It took me a few rounds to locate him again, but then I stood at his head outside of the pen and waited for Grandpa.  I spotted Champ in a pen not far away and I was able to see him led off by a kind looking man with his wife and a little girl around 12 years old.  I knew then that my prayers had been answered.  It took all of my strength to hold back tears of joy and thankfulness.  I was overwhelmed.

            As I was waiting, I came up with a name for the Walker.  I chose Blaze, because he had a white blaze running down his face.  It wasn’t a fancy name, but it seemed to fit him.  I recall very clearly standing there and stroking his nose and muttering to myself, “that’s a nice blaze.”  And it stuck as a name which was later extended to Blazing Dream . . . he is, and was, literally a dream that came blazing into reality . . . my Blazing Dream.

            Grandpa arrived shortly after I named him, and we led him away.  It was a blessing to have Blaze walk right into the horse trailer without even hesitating.  Then we climbed into the truck, and were on our way home.

            When we arrived, I was glowing as I led Blaze out of the trailer and to his new stall.  I gave him some hay, and then just stood there for several minutes watching as he sniffed around and nibbled his hay.  I don’t think that the fact I had my own horse struck me fully until a few days later.  But I remember telling Blaze, “You are mine, boy, my very own horse.”

After he had settled down in his stall, we turned him out into the front field by himself.  He walked around a bit then started eating the grass.  He seemed to settle right in.  And I knew from then on, my life would never be the same again.

 Blaze, the day I bought him :)

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

No Mere Dragon

Not my best piece of writing and nowhere near my favorite, but I thought I would post it anyway.

Words: 1,021

           Dennis was dreaming again. It was the same thing. Every time.

 A garden of golden trees.

            A girl wearing a netted veil.

            And a dragon with blood red eyes.

            A clap of thunder sounded overhead and the bounty hunter sat up with a start. He raised a hand over his eyes to shield them from the oncoming torrent of rain. Lightening flashed across the sky as he clamored to his feet and sloshed across the camp through thickening mud.

            Three tents were erected around a damp and unlit pile of logs—three horses stood tethered to the side, twitching with irritation from the rain.  Two large hound dogs stood alert at the foot of a lone tree, shivering slightly in the cold. Dennis watched the dogs as he lifted a roll of tobacco to his lips and lit it. He drew in a deep breath, and then let it out watching the smoke dissipate in front of him. The dogs whimpered slightly, their ears twitching toward the nearby forest.

            Dennis turned a full circle, an ominous feeling falling over him. “EVERYBODY UP!” he bellowed, lunging forward to where he had left his sword laying at the foot of his tent. He snatched it, spinning toward the woods just as the dogs started barking. He narrowed his eyes against the rain, searching the dim light for a sign of their target. Something moved among the trees. He spotted a glint of red.

            “The dragon,” Pete growled, joining Dennis’ side as he shrugged into his oiled fur coat and crushed a leather hat on the top of his balding head. “It’s going to be a big ‘un,” he muttered, hefting a large spear and casting a cold glance toward the third man who scrambled out of his tent, clasping his boots and he stumbled through the mud. “Cal, get them horses ready.”

            Dennis gathered their supplies as his pulse raced hot in his veins. Six months they had been tracking the fabled ruby dragon, following it to its lair deep in the northern woods of Trevlia. He rubbed his chin, momentarily wishing for a razor to shave off the stubble that had grown overnight.

            “Let’s move!” Pete shoved past him, freeing the dogs then mounting his horse.

            Cal swung up onto the second horse, and Dennis mounted the third, gathering the eager stallion’s reins then sending him into a gallop after the barking dogs. The horse lurched through the mud, then sprang onto the firmer footing in the forest and leveled out at a steady gallop, springing over fallen logs.

            The chase went on. The dogs were hot on the dragon’s trail with the horses bearing the men following close behind them. The storm cleared as they continued deeper into the forest, slowing to navigate a portion of rocky terrain. When they broke through the cover of the trees, they were high in the wild northern hills, overlooking an endless expanse of forest. A glint of red in the distance spurred them onwards.

            Sunset came and they set up camp at the base of a cliff that they planned on scaling at sunrise. Dennis tethered the horses, ate a lump of dried meat, and then settled down in his tent for the night. His mind raced with thoughts of finally bringing down the dragon and claiming a hefty pile of gold as a reward. As the sounds of night lulled around him, he finally fell asleep and once again, he dreamed.

A garden of golden trees.

            A girl wearing a netted veil.

            And a dragon with blood red eyes.

            A roar followed by a muffled yell shook Dennis awake. He sprang to his feet, snatched up his weapon, and raced out into the gray of early morning. Thick fog hugged the ground, but he could see that the horses were gone—broken loose—and the other tents were shredded. He yelled, spotting the huge footprints of a dragon in the soft earth.

            The wine of one of the dogs drew Dennis from his shock. He turned, finding one dog remaining where it had been tied the night before. “Where is that red beast?” He growled, turning the eager hound loose and following it on foot. He would avenge his friends. Or die trying.

            Warm sunlight broke through the fog as the sun rose. Dennis found his confidence rising as the landscape became visible. The forest was beautiful in the early morning light. He was walking through a grove of tall trees with vibrant gold leaves.

The dog’s baying suddenly cut off.

Dennis sprinted toward the dog’s last sound. He drew his sword, throwing aside its heavy sheath. After a moment he spotted the dog at the foot of a tree, dead with a clean slit to its throat. He halted, stunned, No dragon can kill a dog so cleanly. He looked around, spotting something moving through the golden leaves ahead of him.

            “You there! Stop where you are!” He ran forward only to come to an abrupt halt.

            It was a woman. He could see her face through the branches. Her hair was the color of autumn, with pale skin, warm eyes, and bright red lips. A netted veil hung halfway over her face. She didn’t seem to see him, but there was the touch of a smile to her face. She moved and was gone.

            “Wait!” He dashed into the clearing where he had seen her, looking around with deflating hope. She was nowhere to be seen. His gaze fell, and he froze. He spotted footprints of a woman’s bare feet . . . and where the woman’s prints ended, the footprints of a dragon began. He turned around, studying the prints in astonishment. It is not a mere dragon which we have been hunting.

            Hot air brushed across his back, followed by a guttural rumble so quiet that he hardly heard it. Dennis turned slowly, his stomach flipping as he met the blood red eyes of a ruby red dragon. She curled her lips, revealing her glistening white teeth.

            His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

           The dragon sprang.

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Being an American

My family and I recently took a trip to Washington DC. In nine days, we stopped at every sight you can see in our nation’s capital. It was a trip that I thoroughly enjoyed and I stand reminded of the history of this amazing country.

Washington DC is a teeming city full of life and people. It smells bad, is dirty, full of crowds and congested traffic. Half the people we saw were foreign or didn't speak much English. There were large groups of junior high kids on their end of the year field trips, swarming around the monuments and creating an endless barrage of noise. The local people, for the most part, were cold and unfriendly.

Despite these negative elements, I found Washington DC to be a huge reminder of the amazing country God has allowed me to grow up in and I truly enjoyed the trip. There is nothing quite like seeing the pieces of the founding of the United States—from the resting places of our greatest leaders, to the documents that formed the freedoms we cherish, I realized we have so much that we take for granted.

The one thing that stood out to me the most was seeing the “Star Spangled Banner” the flag that Francis Scott Key looked upon as he penned the words to our national anthem. In the Smithsonian Museum of American History, a whole display is set aside just for this flag. It is dimly lit, with the anthem playing in the background. You walk a short hallway; its walls display the history of the American Revolution and the events leading up to the moment when our anthem was written during the War of 1812.  Then you round the darkened corner. Lying to the side, lit in a blue tone and thin as paper, lays an enormous flag. It is tattered with holes, its threads are bare, its color has faded, but it took my breath away. I placed my hands on the cool glass and stared at this magnificent piece of our history. It was in that moment that I realized one thing; we are rich.

We are wealthy beyond compare. As Americans we are rich in ways that no other people can be. This country, its history and the principles we stand on, are a gift from God Himself.  We have freedom, land, prosperity, wealth, and rights that few other people have had preserved for such a standing span of time.

Oh, yes we have our flaws. We have history that is marred by war and hate, by bloodshed and prejudice. Our leaders have made mistakes, we tend to become too proud, and our freedoms have been infringed on. But yet, despite all of this, we have one thing that no one else has.

We are Americans.

We are free.

Our country stands as the epitome of freedom—to the people of the world, “America” and “freedom” are synonymous. We can be proud of this fact. We can wear our colors and sing our anthem and serve our country and protect our freedoms. Because that is who we are, and if we have lost this passion, then we have lost what it means to be an American.

I only pray that these monuments and reminders continue to stand—that we won’t forget the history that brought us to this land or the events that created the people we are. Our founding fathers gave up wealth, security, and even life itself to ensure the freedom of generations to come. This fact leaves me with one question; would we be willing to do the same?

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Remember the Wallpaper?

Another short story :) Enjoy.
Words: 805

Genna walked slowly through the grand old house. Her mind wandered across the memories the building held. She had grown up in this old mansion in the countryside, an only child, sheltered from the outside world. Her wealthy parents had been more absent than they were present, and she had spent many long hours alone with only her nurse maid.

She had been ten years old when the new game keeper for the estate arrived. He had been a tall, quiet man, with a stern face and a graying mustache. With the new game keeper, came his thirteen year old son—Peter, though everyone called him Pit.

With a quiet smile, Genna ascended the spiraling staircase, running her hand along the smooth, dust coated railing. Pit quickly became her best friend. As the only two children on the estate, they had run wild with little supervision. The two years they spent together at the estate had been wonderful, blissfully unaware of the world beyond their doorsteps. Pit had been her best friend. Her only friend.

And that was why she was here now, ten years later, walking the abandoned halls and remembering the beauty of the simple life they had once known.

Those days seemed like a distant dream, lost to the bustle of life. She was in law school, on the path to being a wealthy defense attorney, and hadn’t given her childhood a second thought. That is, until the letter turned up on her doorstep—penned in simple black ink and square handwriting.

Remember the wallpaper? It wasn’t a dream. I’m back. Find me. –P 

Oh, she remembered . . . she remembered every horrifying detail. It had been a hot day in July when Pit had opened the door to the room her parents said was off limits. His blue eyes had been sparkling with mischievous glee. It was the ultimate game, disobeying her evasive parents, so she hadn’t objected to Pit’s plan. They were going to hide in the forbidden room and scare her parents, since no one would expect to find them in there.

Pit had led the way in, closing the door behind her. The room was dark and bare, lacking any windows or light fixtures. The floor was dark wood, dusty and untouched. The walls were closed in a beautiful pattern of dark, swirling wallpaper. They stood in the threshold for a moment, momentarily stilled by the roaring silence that dominated the room’s atmosphere.

Then Pit had walked forward, moving slowly and quietly as if any sudden movement would cause the entire room to collapse around them. He reached the far wall, and then looked back at her, his blue eyes wide.

“It’s just like my dream,” he whispered, terror evident in his voice. Then he reached out, and touched the wall. The wallpaper shifted, absorbing him. In an instant he was gone.

Genna ran to the door, screaming, and found it locked. She then fell to the floor, screeching and weeping until a house maid had found her several hours later. Her parents had immediately packed up and left after hearing Genna’s story. Everyone believed he had been kidnaped, and her childish mind had made up an explanation for his disappearance. Genna even started to believe it.

But now she knew better.

She was facing the doorway to that same room that had terrified her as a child and haunted her youth with nightmares. She drew in a deep breath, startled at how unnerved she was. With a trembling hand, she turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. It swung wide on rusty hinges, squeaking quietly.

She took a step into the cool room, finding it no different than her childhood memories. Her shoes clicked on the dusty wood floor as she took another cautious step into the room. Then she saw him, reclining against the wall directly ahead of her, obscured by the room’s shadows.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, she peered toward the figure, her heart thudding in her chest. “Pit?”

The figure straightened and took a step forward, “you came.”

She stared at the man, noticing the resemblance he had to the boy she had once known, “is it really you?”

He nodded and held out a hand, “it’s been a long time, Genna.”

“Yeah,” she hesitated, but took his hand, not sure what he wanted.

His blue eyes flashed in the dark as his hand closed around hers. Moving backwards, he drew her forward. His back hit the wall, and sank into it, the wallpaper absorbing him just as she remembered.

“Pit!” she exclaimed, but the wallpaper was absorbing her as he drew her forward. Panic rose in her chest for a blind moment, but she squelched it. Holding her best friend’s hand, she walked resolutely forward and into the unknown

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Apologies

Wow, I guess it's been a while since I last posted!

I've been busy working on my novel and honestly completely forgot about my blog . . . until a couple days ago when my mom mentioned it to me. So, I'm sorry for my complete lack of dedication!

I'm halfway through my second time editing the fantasy adventure that I'm writing. The problem that I'm facing is that my writing has greatly improved since the first draft of this book--which I started writing when I was sixteen. So, in the editing process, I come across sections that are extremely . . . juvenile. Understandably, these sections take extra work and it has become a very time consuming process. Despite the amount of time I've been putting into it, I thoroughly enjoy the process.

Hardly a valid excuse for such negligence, but the only one I have. Perhaps I will post a section from my book in the near future.

Redemption

“So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” Isaiah 55:11 (NIV)

The fireworks shot off the stage, filling the arena with smoke and lights. The crowd roared in response to the final soaring notes of the performer’s concluding song. He stood on the stage, blinded by the bright stage lights, chest heaving with exertion from the song he had just sung. The thousands of people in the stadium were a blur of faces, concealed in the darkness beyond the lights that illuminated his performance.

He raised a fist, swaying slightly to the final beats of the drum, fading out with a colorful descending array of piano notes. “Thank you,” he spoke into the microphone, looking out over his faithful fans, smiling at their vigorous roar.

            Then he turned, disappearing beyond the drums and the smoke, into the backstage where his faithful support crew waited. They erupted into cheers and clapping, surrounding him with high-fives.

            “That was—hands down—the best performance of this tour,” His manager Mike, dressed in his usual jeans and suit coat combination, grinned and gave him a fist-bump. “They love that new song.”

            “Can I see top of the charts on our horizon?” Kathy, the exuberant make-up artist waved her hot-pink nails through the air. “You nailed it, Jaden.”

            Jaden nodded appreciatively, taking a water bottle from his voice-coach, Steven, and gulping half of it in two swallows. “Thanks guys,” he lifted the bottle toward them as he worked his way past the group into his dressing room.

            With a sigh, he shut the door and collapsed into a nearby chair, the darkness of his mood clouding his vision. Lethargically, he leaned forward to remove his boots, dumping them on the floor. He stood, pulling off his leather jacket. Pausing to take another gulp of water, he turned toward the mirror, frowning at his reflection as he tossed the empty bottle into the nearby trash can.

            What has my existence come to? He glared at his face; the dark smudges of make-up around his eyes gave him a haunted look. There had been a time when he thought the eye-liner defined his rebellious attitude, but now it seemed like a mask. He hid behind the make-up and costumes, never showing his real face to the world. His life was complete facade. He entered the bathroom, turning on the hot water in the sink and reaching for the makeup remover, disgusted with his own life.

            A knock sounded on the door to his room. “Hey, Jade,” Mike’s voice called from the other side of the door, “you doing OK  in there?” Not hearing a response, Mike cracked the door and peered in. Spotting Jaden, he entered, carrying an unused water bottle in his hand. Coming to a halt, he leaned on the doorframe and raised his eyebrows as he handed Jaden the water bottle.

            Jaden took the water, “Got anything stronger than this?” he growled, setting it aside.

            “You just nailed that performance,” Mike rubbed his dark goatee, his eyes showing a hint of worry. “You should be celebrating; we might top the charts again if you keep this up.”

            Jaden shrugged, ignoring him to splash the hot water on his face.

            Mike frowned, “Look, I know things haven’t been the same since Jason died, but you’ve got to get a grip. You have hundreds of faithful fans who worship you, and you don’t give them a second thought!”

            “Don’t talk to me about Jason,” Jaden snapped, turning to snatch a towel off the shelf and patting his face dry. “I was strutting around on a stage in front of my fans while he was overseas dying! Their cheers should be for people like him, not me! I wouldn’t die for anyone.”

            Mike shrugged, “I didn’t mean to tick you off. I’m just worried. It’s my job to make sure you don’t go insane, and last time I checked, it looked like you could use some moral support.”

            “Yeah, well, lay off,” Jaden brushed past him, pulling a sweater over his head.

            Mike headed for the door, shaking his head. He paused before leaving, “Some of us are going over to the club to celebrate. You want to join us?”

            “Not tonight.”

            “Well,” Mike opened the door, “get some sleep or something.”

            Jaden shook his head. Stepping into a pair of slippers, he left the room and headed to his trailer, body guards in tow. As soon as he was alone, he pulled his fridge open and snatched a cold beer. Popping the lid, he dropped onto his couch and downed several swallows. Then he closed his eyes, but the hated memories wouldn’t leave him alone.

~~~

“Jason won’t be forgotten,” the tall woman spoke softly, facing the small group of mourners at the funeral of his only sibling.

Jade sat in the back, flanked by Mike and a single body guard. He stared at the open casket, the outline of his brother’s corpse a sight he wouldn’t quickly forget. Tears didn’t wet his eyes, but the pain in his chest hurt like something was strangling him. He watched as his brother’s fiancé, Brianna, continued to speak.

            “You know,” she turned to look at the body, her gaze sad, “this person lying here, isn’t really Jason. It’s just his shell—the face we knew him by.” She paused to smooth tears off her face as she turned back to the audience, “Jason is still very much alive, because while he was overseas, he discovered a call greater than stopping the Taliban. He placed his faith in Jesus Christ, and found a new purpose for his life. It’s because of that decision, I know without a doubt that Jason is in the presence of God right now.”

            Jaden frowned; he had heard Jason had embraced religion during his time in Afghanistan. Guilt weighed down on his shoulders. Jason had been overseas for almost five years, and during that time Jaden had made little effort to communicate with him. Apparently he had a God moment . . . he recalled a long letter Jason wrote, in it he had said something about finding God, but Jaden hadn’t given it a second thought.

            “I don’t want to preach at anyone,” Brianna said, her sad eyes looking over the crowd. “But I want everyone here to know that you can see Jason again. You can enter heaven someday, too. Jason gave his life for his country—and I’m proud of him for that—but he would want you to know that Jesus died to save all of mankind. You can have the same new life that Jason had. All you have to do is put your faith in Jesus Christ . . .”

~~~

            Jaden threw the beer bottle onto the floor, it shattered, scattering pieces of glass across the room and staining the carpet. But he didn’t care. He had enough of this hopeless pain in his chest. He felt completely lost and unwanted, and performing his music for thousands of noisy fans wasn’t filling the void he felt.

            He had wondered about the words Jason’s fiancé had said, drawn to the idea of a new life and assurance that he wasn’t damned to hell. He shook his head, tottering to his feet and shuffling to his bedroom. He dropped onto the bed and threw his arm over his face. If anyone was going to hell, he was the one. He had committed innumerable sins, and cursed God’s name on a regular basis—intentionally mocking faith and religion.

            They’re all a bunch of spineless lunatics anyway. His thoughts carried him to the way Jason’s fiancé had treated him. Unlike most people, she had acted as if he were a normal person, never focusing on his wealth or fame. She had seemed sincere in everything she did, unlike the fake life he lived. She actually seemed happy. Even after Jason died . . . she had an atmosphere of peace about her.

            Jade rolled over to stare at the ceiling, “God, I don’t know if you’re up there, but I’m sick and tired of living in this lifeless shell.” He stood, frustration rising in his chest, “I don’t understand who or what you are! Where are your answers?”

            He growled at the silence that followed, a feeling of hopelessness rising to choke him again. He headed for the fridge, determined to drink away his frustration. He paused, noticing his cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter. He faintly remembered Brianna putting her number in his phone and saying something about Jason.

            His pulse sped up as he lifted the phone and scrolled through his contacts, suddenly feeling like there were answers just beyond his fingertips. He froze as her name crossed the screen—Brianna Holly. Before he could change his mind, he touched the call button and lifted the phone to his ear, wondering if she would answer at such a late hour.

            It rang three times; then her voice filled his ear, “Hello, this is Brianna.” His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, suddenly unable to find his voice. “Hello?” she asked again.

            “Brianna,” he licked his lips, his heart thundering in his ears. “This is Jaden,” he paused again, wondering how to express his thoughts. “Can you tell me about Jason’s God?”

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Rain Dance

So, here is a short story I wrote for a group I'm part of on Goodreads (which is a pretty neat place for book lovers, so if you haven't checked it out, you should). This is a short, romantic story that was based on a picture, but I couldn't find the picture to put with the story . . .  anyway, this is only 500-some words so enjoy it in one sitting!



I hug my shoulders and face the wind, letting it fling my hair in dancing auburn curls behind me. The thin silk of my night robe billows and tangles around me.

The wind tastes of thunder and lightning. It carries the promise of rain. I love storms in the summertime. They are wild and free, untamed and unmarred by the passing of time--like magic and love. Their presence refreshes the land and brings life back to the withering plants. It is a beautiful thing.

Standing here on this balcony, I can see the brewing storm on the darkening horizon. The wind is strong and it beats against me, washing against the castle in which I stand like the waves of an angry sea.

A flash of lightning streaks across the sky, followed by a roar of thunder. Storms are also dangerous. Beautiful and dangerous--like everything I love most.

I am not scared as the rain reaches me in a rush of icy droplets. I relish the feel of the cool water running down my skin. Closing my eyes, I tilt my chin toward the sky.

"Naih?"

I turn toward his voice, blinking against the rain, "Come out here Khan." I smile at him, putting aside the worry written on his handsome face. He vanishes behind the curtain to the balcony, appearing a moment later.

"What are you doing out here?" He pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me.

I feel warm from inside out, "I'm enjoying the weather." I smile up at his face. The wind and rain has put his dark hair into disarray, but I'm sure it's nothing compared to the mess I must look like.

He chuckles, bending to touch his nose to mine, "What will the people say? 'The king has married a crazy woman, who stands outside during thunder storms'?"

"Oh, I think they already know I'm crazy," I lean into him, reaching up to briefly touch my lips to his. "After all, I married their King."

He smiles, smoothing soaked strands of hair off my face. His fingers linger against my cheek, "You are chilled to the bone, my Queen."

"I don't care," my soul is warm, deep inside where contentment and joy mingle. I take his hands and step away from him, drawing him forward. "Shall we dance, your Majesty?"

"In the rain?" His eyes sparkle with the grin tugging at the corners of his lips. My heart does a little flip.

I almost forget to breathe as I meet his warm gaze. He always has this affect on me. "Yes, right here, in the rain."

His laughter makes me smile, and soon I'm laughing with him as I spin around and around in the arms of the one I love. So we dance in the rain, under the stormy sky, spinning with the wind, and swaying in the rain. It's a beautiful thing.

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

April Showers...

Well, here we are in the middle of April.

The sun is shining, birds are singing, plants are growing, and . . . oh, wait, is that snow I see on the forecast?

Gotta love Wisconsin winters. This state can't make up it's mind about what type of weather it wants to have. This has to be one of the longest winters I can remember--or maybe I'm just being impatient . . . but I have to say, it's been frustrating having a complete lack of decent sunny spring weather. It has been cold and rainy for the past week. Everything is either muddy or half frozen still, snow is on the way, and I'm so ready for it to be over!

Its in times like this that I have to tell myself "patience if a virtue" and "don't worry it's going to warm up soon" almost everyday. You know, being patient is one thing I have always struggled with. I tend to get so caught up in looking ahead for things in life that I forget to slow down and appreciate the moment.

So, yeah, it's in the thirty-somethings outside; gray, rainy, and depressing. But I'm alive. This beautiful, messed up world is still spinning. And really, what's the point in complaining? I cant change the weather, so I might as well accept it for what it is and do some indoor stuff . . . like writing that essay I keep putting off.

Mermaid No Longer

Here is a short story I wrote based on a picture--I couldn't find the picture, but I thought would share it anyway. I'm not too fond of this particular story, but you might enjoy it. It's only 401 words, so it can be easily read in one sitting.


Splash.

Splash.

The waves splashed against the wall, an unyielding constant against the stone of the pier. The water shimmered with shades of gold and orange in the light of the rising sun.

"Lillian, you don't want to do this," that was what everyone had said, their endless argument against her. She smiled at the water, her toes just touching the very tips of the rhythmic waves.

Her toes. She smiled broader, wiggling them deeper into the course sand. She had gone through with it, despite their warnings and threats.

"I'm not going to regret this," she smoothed the front of her shorts, still marveling at the beauty of having normal legs.

Her sister had been the most adamant, screaming at her as she left, "you stupid girl! You aren't meant to be human! You are a mermaid! The price of giving up everything you are isn't worth it!"

Lillian laughed softly. She wasn't a mermaid. Not anymore. She walked deeper into the water, letting the cool waves wash against her knees. It was glorious feeling, the way the water felt to her new skin.

She could still hear the water's song, the rush of the ocean air, the sound of each wave running against the beach. It was alluring, the only part of the life she had given up that still called to her. To swim with the dolphins, race the currents, breath in the cool water.

There was a small part of her that missed her former life. She waded deeper into the water, the waves reached over her waist, and soon where licking against her neck and she continued deeper. A delighted smile crossed her face; she wanted to know what it was like to swim as a human.

She pushed off the sand beneath her feet, gliding forward, deeper into the water. She kicked her legs and flailed with her arms, suddenly going under. She surfaced, arms splashing, legs churning, gasping for air.

Her expression was no longer one of delight. Horror lit her pale eyes as she struggled against the water that had once been her friend. It had once caressed her and soothed her, giving her freedom and joy. But it was no longer friendly. It burnt her lungs, searing her throat. It pulled downwards at her legs, drawing her under and into its dark, unyielding grasp.

Splash.

Splash.

The waves splashed on.


© Copyright Charity K, 2013

The Horse Problem

Almost every girl who grew up dreaming of horses has wished for a bond like that seen between Alex and The Black in Walter Farley's The Black Stallion. We wish for a horse that loves us as much as we love them, for a deep and inseparable level of communication that only you and your horse understand. However, as one grows older, this dream grows more distant as reality sets in.

Your horse, as beautiful as he may be, simply doesn't love you.

You struggle with controlling him, he only comes to you if you have a treat. He bites...kicks...and runs away; hates being ridden, spooks away from your friends, and only nickers when it's time to be fed.

Somewhere along the way, you stare out the window at your horse as he grazes in the field and ask yourself, "what went wrong?" That bond you once dreamed of has vanished behind an ever-thickening cloud of disappointment. And you feel like giving up, selling the horse, and forgetting your equine dreams.

This is where I was at a month ago. I was so close to giving up. I avoided my horse because I was upset that no matter how hard I seemed to try, I couldn't get the results I wanted.

It was at this point when I stumbled across a trainer by the name of Klaus Ferdinand Hempfling. Videos showed his unique and amazing interaction with his horses, and once again, I was hungry to gain this type of relationship with my own horse. I asked myself, "if other people can do it, why can't I?"  Determined, I bought Hempfling's book called Dancing with Horses.

I read it and started applying what I learned to my work with my horse. Slowly and consistently, I've been gaining positive responses and already feel like my horse understands me so much better.

What changed? Well, besides rethinking the entire way I was once acting around my horse, I came to realize one simple thing. When working with horses, you can't just set your mind on a single goal and charge right at it. You're almost doomed for disappointments, setbacks, and frustration.

I learned to simply accept that with my horse, the journey is the reward.

Through a system of body language, I have been able to get my horse to respond and work with me in ways I only dreamed of a few months ago. Yes, I still have days when he doesn't do what I want, but instead of growing frustrated, I've had to learn to be patient and simply work it out. Not through more lunging, or stronger bits, or long rides. Just by simply saying to my horse through my body language that "this is what I mean, please follow my lead."

When you slow down and simply see as the time you spend with your horse as being a reward in itself, you start to see things in an entirely different light. So take your time and slow down, be patient, and establish clear communication. Once you and your horse learn to respect and communicate with each other, anything is possible.

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Being a Writer

"No story lives unless someone wants to listen."
~J.K. Rowling

This statement is painstakingly true and is one of the hardest parts of being a writer, there is always that lingering question in the back of a writer's mind; will anyone want to listen?

The most beautiful and difficult aspect of writing is sharing your work. It's like baring your very soul to the criticisms of people--raw, exposed, and easily wounded. Yet, it is a completely necessary exposure. For, as Rowling said, a story can't truly live until someone wants to listen and for anyone to listen, a story must be exposed to both praise and criticism.

A written work is like any other piece of art--a creation that connects to its creator in ways that only a true artist can understand. It's something precious. Carefully sculpted characters are part of their writer--members of a delicate and carefully constructed world that exists in the artist's head. The writer's work is a treasured thing, and it is painstakingly difficult to share one's creation.

Personally, the hardest part is starting. The first time I presented a piece of my written work to my parents, I remember my pulse racing and my eyes watching, waiting for the slightest hint of a response. After the initial exposure, it gets easier and one begins looking forward to receiving both praise and criticism on their stories.

A writer treasures the knowledge that someone read their work, liked it or noticed faults in it, and appreciated it. Writing a story is simply another branch of creativity, but never doubt that there is a writer somewhere who created it and relishes in the simple knowledge that their story lives because someone wanted to listen.

Reminiscence

A short, slightly dark, and emotionally charged story. Read it in one sitting. 473 words.

“Gold,” she whispered, “is the color of magic.”

            Kaiya leaned back against the tree’s trunk, relishing the breeze as it played across her skin. She savored the sound of the lake’s waves lapping against the shore, breathing in the peace of this tiny haven. The bark was rough through the thin material of her silken dress, but she didn’t care. Nothing was going to keep her from this place.

She had to face these memories.

“White,” she continued, staring upwards at the sky, “the color of sand.” Her body trembled at the memory--the feeling of the sand beneath her that day when Corr had first touched his lips to hers.

“Blue is the most dangerous fire.” He had said those words in the dark, lifting his hand as the azure flames had danced around his fingers. She could see the light as it flickered off his face—the playful glint in his eyes that had always made him so alive.

She let out a deep breath.

“Red,” she paused, digging her fingers into the bark as a burning tear escaped from the corner of her eye. She swallowed, “the color of blood.”

            “Black...” her voice caught and she closed her eyes, “it is the color of metal and steal, of cold chains, and of dungeons. It is the color of death.”

She could still see him that day. She still felt the way his gaze had fallen on her in that moment, his eyes—those beautiful, gold-hued eyes—had reflected the pain that wracked his body as he had collapsed before his captors.

            “Death is the payment for using magic,” the King had said, standing proudly before his audience as they watched. He looked to where Corr kneeled; his arms tied above his head, his body bruised and beaten. “Let this be an example to you.”

            Then they had cut his arms. Their razor blades flashing as three deep slices were opened on each of his wrists.

            She had felt his pain as if it were her very own. Her entire body trembled, her very soul clenched up within her, as if life itself was being wrung from her heart. The firm, unyielding touch of her mother’s hand on her shoulder had been like a chain—forcing her to stand there, watching through tear-blurred vision as the life bled out of him.

            She should have fought free, should have shoved past the guards, should have pushed the king aside, should have held him in her arms, should have...

            Kaiya screamed. She screamed until she cried, sinking to her knees on the sandy beach, gasping for air that didn’t satisfy the ache in her chest. It was an untouchable pain, deep and undiminishing.

            She had let him die that day.

            Kaiya Hastlier, the daughter of the king, had been powerless to save him.

© Copyright Charity K, 2013

Spring is Coming

Spring is in the air. It’s evident everywhere. The weather is slowly getting warmer, the birds more active—those annoying half-dead flies that randomly show up buzz in the windows. My two horses are shedding, their hair sticking all over anything I touch them with.

Yep, spring isn't far away now.

This time of year is one of my favorites. After the cold, sleepy, and seemingly endless stretch of winter everything comes back to life. Spring is like the light at the end of the tunnel, the promise of a new beginning. Just when everything seems to be dragging you down, that breeze holding a touch of warmth brushes across your cheek and you suddenly feel alive again. 

“Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"...

"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine.”

― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

Fly Away: A Short Story

         

Cold.

            The wind howled through the forest while icy sheets of rain pounded the earth and froze as diamond droplets on bare tree branches, becoming glistening spears of frozen liquid. The moon hovered as a single glowing orb crowned with the pin-pricks of star light in the frozen winter sky, leaving silver trails of light glinting off the snow that blanketed the ground.

            Hooves, pounding, churning hooves, beat on the slick, frosted earth; flaring nostrils, desperately drawing in each icy breath and heaving out clouds of hot air; muscle, bulging, releasing, lathered in crystallized drops of sweat; the horse surged forward through the darkening woods.

            Cloaked in gray, the rider leaned over the horse’s neck, urging his steed to move yet faster. He clutched a small child to his chest and kept glancing over his shoulder, hardly daring to breathe in hope that they were not pursued. His pulse raced. His eyes and his ears were acutely aware of any disturbance—each bush that rustled, each animal startled, every drop, shift, and sound. With a quick glance to his left he saw them; three riders, dressed in dark imperial garb and heavily armored, riding atop huge fanged beasts that snarled in eager anticipation of their catch.

            A whimper escaped the child’s lips as she watched with ever-widening eyes. Her tiny, frail form shivered despite the thick layers of clothing she was so lovingly wrapped in. Her thoughts, racing faster than the horse beneath her, struggled to fully grasp the intensity of the situation.

            She could feel the fear; it permeated the air and tried to strangle her. How could one not feel it? She could smell the smoke; it too filled the air, no longer a faint scent from the distance. Its source, though, was lost to her.

Understanding, it seemed, was not to play in her favor. Being a child, she hadn't yet come to realize the huge complexity of her world, nor did she understand the wickedness mankind was capable of committing. Her knowledge was only of what she had seen. Her comprehension, a montage of fleeting moments.

~~~

            Warning was in the air; tension enveloped the castle. The king had not dined. The soldiers patrolled the walls with apprehensive vigor, watchful and ready.

            Snuggled deep under silken layers of blankets, the little child sighed in simple delight as any would after a long day of lessons and play. Contented to lie in her bed and let her thoughts wander over her childlike imaginations, the princess pulled the blankets to her chin and stared into the dancing flames in the fireplace.

            Nurse sat near the hearth sewing, as she hummed a tune that beckoned sleep and new tomorrow. With a worry-lined expression, the nurse glanced toward the child and smiled wearily at the huge, curious eyes that glittered back toward her with delight. One could not expect the child to understand.

            The princess, though, understood more than one would assume. In an innocent childlike way, she had understood. And when the nurse suddenly hurried to the doorway to answer rapid knocking, the child’s worries were renewed.

            She sat up in her bed, observing the frantic conversation at the doorway. Her auburn hair hung limply, framing an innocent face and big, green eyes. The nurse hurried back toward her and gently dressed her in her warmest clothing, wrapping her in a fur-lined cloak.

            “You’re going on a little adventure tonight,” the woman’s voice faltered as she struggled to hide undertones of fear from her words.

            The princess watched her nurse and clung to her favorite doll. She now was sure something was wrong; something was very wrong.

            She related it to the time her mother wasn’t feeling well. The queen had been ill for as long as the child could remember, but that night was different.  Her daddy had been anxious and worried, pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Then, his face stricken with sorrow, he came to her and knelt before her, pulling her into his arms.  Mother never got up. That was the only time she ever saw daddy cry.

            In her childish way, the princess had been aware that something was not right for several days now.  Her daddy, the king, had been gone often and her nurse was always looking out the windows as if she expected to see something coming over the hills to the east.  Tonight, something was coming.

            A huge army approached on giant, snarling dogs. Not like her daddy’s dogs. She shivered with growing awareness that the bad feeling inside her must be something close to horror. She returned her troubled attention to her nurse. The woman was frantic now. She lifted the child in her arms and hurried out of the room and down a long, twisting flight of stairs.

            The king waited at the foot of the steps, fully clad in armor save the helmet he held in his left hand. His lean face was lined with worry much beyond his years. He took the princess from the nurse’s arms and desperately, but oh, so gently, cradled her against his chest.

            He brushed his nose against hers and smiled, trying to hide his agony for the child’s sake, “Be brave, little bird.” He pulled her against him to shield her from the tears that rose in his eyes and cradled her there for several moments.

            The princess, silent with the knowledge that something wasn’t at all right, leaned against him. Her elfin thoughts focused on why her nurse was getting her up in the middle of night and why her daddy was so sad.

             Regaining control, the king released the child and, kneeling, he kissed her forehead, “I love you, little bird. Always know that I loved you.”

            The child placed her mitten-clothed hand on his clean-shaven cheek, “I love you too, daddy.” She tilted her petite face to the side and frowned, suddenly feeling desperately insecure. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with you, daddy.”

            He took her tiny hand in his and nodded, looking down, “I know, I know.” He motioned to the nurse and stood as she lifted the child.

            The child reached for her father as the nurse took her, “Daddy!”

            Tears escaped the king’s eyes as he watched his child being carried away. He lifted a hand, “Fly away little bird.  Fly away.”

            The princess knew better then to scream out for him, but she almost did anyway. She sniffed back tiny teardrops and shivered as the nurse hurried out into the frozen courtyard of the castle. She headed to the farthest corner, where a cavalry officer stood waiting beside a tall brown stallion.  The horse stomped and tossed its head, snorting small gray clouds. The soldier helped place the child on the tall horse’s back, and then turned to the nurse.

            She gripped his arms. “Ride will all speed. Don’t slow.  Go to the west, through the forest and over the mountains. Whatever you do, don’t stop. She must survive.”

~~~

            Cold.

            Everything was ice cold.

            The freezing torrents of rain had ceased and in their wake came a stunningly cold wind that stole all warmth from everything in its path. Crisp and biting, it stung against the princess’s cheeks as frightened tears escaped her eyes.

            Every muscle straining, lungs gasping in the sharp air, hooves flinging up clods of snow, the horse galloped onward; but escape became a fading hope as the snarling beasts drew closer. With a sudden jolt, the horse fell as a huge snarling beast sprang against it. The soldier was knocked away; the horse collapsed from beneath her. She was thrown from the saddle into the icy snow. After a single, deathly silent moment, the child stirred.

            Tears swelled in her eyes. She sat up, blinking against the howling wind and shuddering more from fear than cold. Everything had fallen quiet. The horse and lay several feet away, beside the carcass of the huge wolf-like animal. Its rider lost amongst the drifts of snow.

            With painful effort, her soldier crawled through the snow, clutching a bloodied arm to his chest. As he neared the child's side, he straightened and took her in his good arm.

            “Shhh, now little princess,” he murmured, stumbling to his feet. “I’ll see you safely through this if it’s the last thing I do. Don’t you worry.” Paying his wound no heed, the man courageously pressed onward.

~~~

            Cold.

            The cold crown settled onto the princess’s head. She shivered. The weight, and its reality, drew her thoughts back to the present moment. Escape was no longer an option; the fleeing years were behind her, as was her childhood. Now, a kingdom needed rebuilding. The trust of loyal citizens, who had sheltered and nurtured her for this day of liberation, would not be misplaced. This time, she faced not a cold death, but duty, not a blade, but a crown.

            Look at your little bird now, daddy. With a cold smile, she rose to face the cheering crowd.



THE END

© Copyright Charity K, 2012