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The woman behind the counter, a something with bright blue eyes and a blond pony-tail high on the back of her head, smiles at us with the box open for our inspection.

Grandmother stands and peers inside. Grandmother turns to me and scowls, making a growling sound in the back of her throat, and walks toward the glass front doors of the store.

I thank the woman and pay, balancing the cake in my arms to find Grandmother sitting behind the wheel of her pale blue s Cadillac.

The windows are rolled down and her walker sits on the curb next to the car. I set the cake on the back seat, fold up her walker and place it into the cavernous trunk.

Her hands are gripping the steering wheel, making the knuckle bones look as if they will pop through her papery skin.

She is staring at a middle-aged man, plain and a bit pudgy, getting out of the white Ford sedan next to us. He returns her stare, glaring with deep-set grey eyes.

We could ignore it. I return the cake to the backseat and get her walker. The man is standing at the cake counter by the time we get inside, unaware of what is to come.

I wish I was. He is talking to the same girl we got our cake from and she is blushing and giggling in excess.

She likes him. He is wearing faded denim jeans, a button-up grey shirt, and plain brown shoes. His sandy blonde hair is balding in the back, and he has a small trimmed mustache.

Grandmother walks over to him and touches him on the arm with her left hand. He flinches and glares at her.

He is trying to recover, his voice sugary and sweet, but the fear is making him tremble and his temples are wet with sweat.

He smirks at Grandmother, the telling grin of a confident hunter, and my stomach burns with acid. Patience, I tell myself. How long has he been planning today?

How many cakes has he bought in preparation? She giggles at some joke he whispers, and I feel nauseous and sleepy. Her syrupy voice, the one she uses for this purpose, awakens the calling inside me and I find the stillness.

My training takes over. I beam at him, making myself smaller and more attractive. I sway my hips as I step into place next to him, placing my arm onto his, steadying him.

I stare into those dim eyes, past the monster, to the prey. He blinks and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

I lead him to the car. He stumbles a few times, mumbling in a voice low and wobbly. He is confused, his instincts trying to wake him.

Grandmother is waiting at the open trunk. He stares at her and tries to speak, but words are lost to him. He climbs into the trunk and lays down, his arms at his sides.

He unsnaps a hunting knife from a leather strap around his calf and hands it to me. I wrap it in a rag and put it into the glove box. Grandmother closes the trunk, stores her walker behind her seat and brings the V-8 engine rattling to life.

I do as she says, the weight of the cake box comforting. I resist the urge to open it and dip my finger into the sweet icing.

My body feels weak and hungry. She begins to sing a song from her childhood, the words as familiar to me as my own breath.

I join in and our rising voices become one. A friend of mine started a blog where she is challenging herself to write a short story from a prompt each week.

I LOVE this idea and have decided to play along. This will give me some deadlines and flex my writing muscles with different types of stories.

She stretches away the stiffness of sleep and waves hello to a yellow dragonfly waking from his perch above her.

He is flicking his two sets of wings, drying off the moisture of the night. Her nose burns and she rubs her eyes. She puts her hands on her hips and squares her shoulders.

The sun, round and golden, peaks through the clustered needles of the towering pines, spreading spotlights across the ground, promising to bring warmth with it soon.

The forest is quiet and still. She can make out the shapes of the predatory birds of night, full and resting, in the highest branches. Pulling her mossy cloak tight around her shoulders, she is grateful for its warmth.

She smooths her green pants and shirt best she can, but they remain damp and dirty from the nights of sleeping in gnarled masses of tree roots.

Her braid has loosened under her acorn cap, and she tucks the wisps of auburn curls back into place. Her boots, the ones she spent weeks crafting from a young white birch tree, are starting to wear thin, sores forming on her pinky toes.

She would have arrived yesterday, if not for a grumpy, and quite angry, little chipmunk. His hole was covered with dried leaves and she fell right through it, landing on his soft back and waking him from his hibernation.

She tried to apologize, but he chased her around the forest screeching insults at her for several hours. He was certain she was after his stockpile of hazelnuts.

A pair of goldfinch sing above her and she takes a small bite of an almond cake from her bag, it tastes bland and stale. One last climb over an ancient rotting log and she will be among sweet smelling lavender, delicious clover, five different shades of poppies, goldenrods, and daises.

Her stomach rumbles, sick of the almond cakes of Fall and Winter, ready for the bounty and joy of her Spring and Summer home. Securing her pack onto her back, she adjusts her cobweb hand wraps.

She used to race Clea here, weaving back and forth, bursting with eagerness to return to the bounty of the meadow.

The winner got the first drink of Spring. She smiles at the memory. Piper shakes her head. She has to concentrate on the climb.

The bark is loose in spots, dropping off in sheets without warning, so she must test each handhold and foothold. She cuts her knee, tearing a large hole in her pants, but she presses on.

Hours pass, the rhythm of climb replacing all other thoughts until she reaches the top. With a final burst of strength, she pulls herself over the crumbling ledge.

Gasping, she rolls onto her side, expecting the familiar buzzing of bees to greet her. Instead, she hears nothing and finds the smell is wrong. Scanning the sky, she pulls herself into a sitting position and opens her mouth in a silent scream.

The meadow is dead. She rubs her eyes and cries, tears turning into uncontrollable sobs until she faints from exhaustion.

Piper darts to her feet, sweating and panting, her hands balled into tight fists in front of her. A brown furry creature, with translucent veiny ears, watery black eyes, pointy pink nose and a mass of long whiskers, squeaks, and darts a few inches away from her.

It curls a worm-like tail around its plump body and trembles. Piper lowers her fists and sits. These are her friends, and she is angry at herself for being so rude.

She is about to say so when it inches back toward her holding a small crumbled clover in its pink hand. Yes, yes. He bows low, his nose touching the ground.

When he stands, his whiskers twitching, he smiles at Piper, exposing his two yellow front teeth for a brief moment, before lowering his head into another bow.

Eich inches closer, grabbing both of her hands in his and blows warm breath onto her freezing fingers. He smells of fresh mint and spring, and she smiles at him.

Piper looks past Eich and sees the meadow. In the center is a hole, not much bigger than the rabbits make, but the ground around it is scorched black in an eight-foot circle.

The remainder of the meadow grass has been trampled flat, turning brown and dying. There are no flowers, rabbits, mice or bees.

Eich squeaks and points to the hole as a ring of smoke drifts out. A sharp acid smell follows. It makes her eyes sting and her head fuzzy.

Piper feels fear ripple through her body. A sound erupts from the hole, a sparking sound, like when lightning hits the ground during a large storm.

She climbs onto his back, gripping the soft fur around his neck with both hands, and he scampers down the log, along the edge of the meadow and into a bramble bush.

Eich pushes his way through a maze of brambles until they reach a small clearing. He sets Piper into a nest of fur and milkweed pods.

She can see little piles of dried flowers, berries, and nuts, and the air is warm. Eich is watching her, flashing his yellow tooth smile again in the dim light.

I need to see what destroyed my Spring, stole my Summer and drove away my friends. I have to see it. She can hear he is crying now, and his body is trembling.

He helps her through the maze of brambles to the opening, and they hug one more time before he scampers back inside.

Piper puts her hands on her hips and focuses on the hole about 10 feet away from her. The smell is terrible.

She looks in her bag and pulls out a dried rose petal. She folds it until it fits over her mouth and nose, using her cobweb hand wrap, she secures the petal to her face.

Clea would know what to do. It would listen too, or Clea would make it. She misses everything about her best friend.

A raspy voice calls from inside the hole and Piper stops. She can see a wide green nose poking over the ridge, sniffing from crescent-shaped nostrils.

Piper takes another step forward. She is surprised by her boldness, but anger makes her heart pound and her body vibrate with energy.

She takes another step forward and the thing crawls out of the hole. The eyes are the deep amber color of fresh honey. Piper imagines it must have been hard to pull from the hole.

The rose mask is working to cover the smell, so she takes another step forward. It coughs, wheezing and shaking.

Piper covers her ears against the sound, until the thing stops, eyes wide in fear, collapsing on the ground. Its body covers the gold coin and it snores, the sound like a swarm of angry bees.

Piper laughs. This is what scared everyone away? She walks over to the dragon and touches one of the golden spikes on its back. She sits. It would be amazing to tell Clea about this.

Her friend would throw her head back and laugh until tears streaked her soft face. This is the second Spring without her, since the accident.

Her nose burns and the tears come. I was supposed to be home, but I snuck in the bag because of the coin. I wanted my own hoard.

I was scared and there were so many creatures and they were so loud and…I panicked. He shifts so he can shake her hand with his scaly one, trying hard to not expose the gold coin beneath him.

Eich bursts from his bramble bush, squeaking and holding a broken twig in his mouth as he runs. He stops a few feet from them, gasping, and takes the stick into his left hand.

He tries to growl, but it sounds strange and not at all scary. With this, he steps forward and hits the dragon on the nose with the stick.

Snap bursts into tears, sneezing smoke and making a moaning sound. Eich looks from Piper to the dragon, shakes his head and lowers his stick. Growing, it bubbles and bursts until she throws her head back, howling and roaring uncontrollable, tears streaking her face.

Riding bareback through the rice fields on my horse, the chocolate-colored reins held loosely in my hands, I sing loudly to an audience of white cranes and brown ducks.

Let me crash upon your shore. I wet the leather. The sound of the letter, the shape, the history of the words and to the printing press.

Letters become words, words become phrases, and phrases can change the world. I picture early printers, hunched in a dark room, carefully and secretly placing letters into the bed by candlelight, words designed to topple monarchies, to protest injustice and to fight against oppression.

My action is so small. Stamping leather bracelets for friends hardly seems worthy of mention, let alone connected to revolutionaries who changed the world with bold ideas and brave actions.

I take long baths. I sit silently for hours next to the river, rolling rocks in my hands, and watching birds.

Stamping leather has become a way to connect with lost parts of myself and to give back to those who have touched my life.

We all have to reinvent ways to conquer fear, to push away grief and to move forward in life. The bath bomb transformed the water a vibrant blue and I stared at it, silence all around me, searching for something it reminded me of.

My wrinkled stomach like a balloon deflated, yet somehow full, was shockingly white. I had to touch them to see if it was me. This is such self-centered bullshit, all of it, this blog, my life, my writing.

Chopped onions, mushrooms and garlic simmer in the pan with a little olive oil. I add a handful of spinach and push everything around with a wooden spoon.

Wearing her soft white pajamas with gold snowflakes, she points a camera at me and talks in a tumble of quick words, her sweet voice trying to mimic the cadence of the reporters she hears on NPR.

She walks closer and I turn, aware of my dirty apron and unwashed hair. The camera is on my face now. A short interview with the famous writer as she cooks dinner.

Tune in tomorrow when we interview a leprechaun about the true secrets of the rainbow. She walks into the next room and I hear her playing the video back to herself.

I wonder what she is thinking as she watches it. Can she possibly understand the enormous feelings her little interview exploded inside me as I cooked a frittata on a Monday night?

Thank goodness the answer is no. She is 10 years old, all she knows is she loves her mother and she believes I can do anything. I worry I will fail, and she will watch it, and all her hopes and dreams will crash along with mine.

I worry she will watch the video years down the road, when I am gone, sad her mother never finished those books she always talked about.

They mock me, tell me how foolish, stupid and boring I am. Famous writer. Her bouncy blonde curls hang wildly down to a soft, mustard-colored sweatshirt.

She is smiling, and her blue-green eyes, the light of her face, squint ever so slightly. We lean close, trying hard to fill the space between us with all the things which have happened since we last sat here, our favorite table in the corner, drinking matching diet cokes and sharing popcorn from a red and white bag.

Our friendship was forged years ago as young girls trying hard to be seen and heard in a sea of middle schoolers.

Something drew us close then, but we seem to have forgotten it, or maybe it lay buried under all the things. Nearly a year ago, while dodging post-hurricane waves in Florida, our hearts opened up and spilled out to one another.

Forged in the powerful surf. Tougher than the wind. We remembered. More of her. More of us. More of the space between women which is sacred and holy and fucking amazing.

More time to see her fully, all her complexities and contradictions, hopes and fears, everything. A week ago, I left for a writing retreat to this hippie camp near the ocean and the redwoods.

I wanted something to happen, sure, but I feared nothing would. Anxiety, like the proverbial devil on my shoulder, whispering all the ways I would fuck it up.

Magic became not only attainable, but real; with a fairy path leading to a yurt, a unicorn chef who cooked concoctions worthy of the Gods, and a bonfire where truth was spilled out and passed around from one to the other.

The whispers of the ancients, things I know to be true in my bones, rocked me as I stood every morning on the damp redwood deck in my wool socks, the cool wetness seeping in, a hot cup of coffee clutched tightly in my hands.

So, my friends, as I stare at you too long, hold you too tight, forgive me. Our house in the s. Lose weight fast.

Look good in a bathing suit. Feel good about yourself. I should not have gained so much weight during this pregnancy.

I should not have banked on pumping to take off the weight. I should have done better. Time to get serious again.

No more eating carbs or sugar. No more fruit. Stop being fat and lazy. You are gross. You should punish yourself for being weak. I say all this to myself…and I believe it.

All of it. I go to sleep with all the plans and all the hate. The anger prickles, goosebumps down my arms and legs, focusing daggers at my swollen middle.

My core. The center of my being. The place I grew three babies. The place of my deepest breath. I hate it. A vile snake built of guilt and shame slithers around me and stings my skin all over.

Is it possible to love me at this weight? Do they believe what they are writing? Are they happy? Even with the extra weight, this body is doing all the things I love.

But is it OK to love this fat body right now? Can I? Another school shooting. I read the details. They are so far away from me.

I hope they eat the vegetables in their lunch. I hope they remember to be kind. I hope they are safe. Enough is enough. He did. He knows what the lockdown drills at his school are about.

He feels the fear and the uneasiness. He believes those 17 minutes he sat in silence mattered. She has used the stage name Spanish Doll in modeling.

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