World Peace in a Box by Crystal Collier

Three boxes sat in front of Toby. Three presents. But he could only have one.

Mike, his sponsored Big Brother, had two other kids to visit tonight, but Toby knew he was the favorite and thus got first choice. That or he was the hardest hit by life and Mike felt sorry for him—not that Toby wanted anyone feeling sorry for him. Becoming an orphan at eight had been a nightmare, but bouncing between twelve different foster homes over the last seven years? He kept his bag packed. It was just the kind of karma Toby oozed. He hoped it didn’t rub off on Mike because he really liked the guy. He thanked his lucky stars every week that his current foster family had reached out to Big Brothers, Big Sisters on his behalf.

“Do you remember what you asked for?” Mike prompted.

Toby shrugged, not willing to voice the stupid wish again. World peace. Like that was going to happen any time soon. He’d mumbled it out half sarcastically when Mike asked what Toby wanted from Santa. If the world was at peace, he’d still have his parents. Both of them.

But life was never that simple.

“My wish don’t fit in no box,” Toby said.

Mike crossed his arms. “Are you sure?”

Toby eyed his mentor again and then the waiting packages.

One box, long and skinny.

One fat and wide.

One perfectly square.

“Can you give me a hint ‘bout which one I’ll like most?” Toby asked.

Mike leaned back, head cocked. “Sorry little bro, no can do. You has gots to be usin’ your own skilz on this one.”

Toby focused back on the packages, analyzing the paper. One was red and white Christmas trees against a green background. One was plaid with hints of pink between green and white stripes. The last one was white snowflakes on ice blue.

He reached for the Christmas trees, then hesitated and brushed the snowflake packaging, but the plaid pulled at him like a bug to light. He snatched the long skinny box and shook it next to his ear. It weighed almost nothing and made no noise. Maybe he’d made a mistake.

Mike was grinning at him.

If this was something stupid like a postcard of the globe with a peace sign drawn over top, Toby was going to burn the thing.

He peeled back the wrapping paper carefully, hoping the box underneath would give it away, but inside a long white Tupperware container hid its contents in tissue paper.

Toby readied to paste a fake smile on his face as he lifted the lid.

Empty. The box was empty. Toby lifted it and examined each corner closely to make sure he hadn’t missed something, but there was nothing to find. He sucked in a breath, ready to ask what kind of lame lesson Mike was teaching—a box filled with love or whatever—and gagged.

The smell. The box reeked! Lemons mixed with super body odor and something sea-foody. Was Mike trying to kill him with the smell inside the box?

Meaty fingers wrapped around the back of his neck and shoved his face inside the Tupperware, holding him there while Toby choked on the stench. He flailed backward, knocking at Mike’s arm, but he couldn’t get the jerk off. Toby gagged and sucked in the fumes. They lodged in his chest like a sick and dying puppy, scraping at his insides and begging for mercy. The nastiness dissipated from the container, but it stuck inside Toby’s nose.

He broke free and leapt to his feet, facing Mike. “What the flip, man?”

Mike was grinning still, Cheshire cat like.

Toby threw the package down and stormed away. He was wrong. All this time he was wrong. He thought Mike was his friend, that he had his back. Turned out he was in this for some perverse joke—getting his jollies off tormenting kids.

Toby pounded the wall.

The wall shook. The floor shook. The ceiling shook. The windows wobbled and one cracked. A tree outside tumbled to the ground. Toby raced to the window over trembling floors and his jaw dropped.

A crack split across the road, trundling into the neighbors’ house across the way, splitting the street, a car tumbling into the ditch.

An earthquake? In Iowa?

“So that’s what it looks like.”

Toby whirled around at Mike’s voice. His Big Brother stared out the window from behind him, watching as the destruction spread further and further away.

Toby braced himself against the wall and it stilled. The floor quit shaking. The windows quit rattling. “What what looks like?” he asked.

Mike patted him on the shoulder. “You wanted world peace, but people don’t listen to diplomatic rallies. They respond to things that happen. When nature attacks, they quit fighting each other and band together to survive.”

“Are you mental, man?” Toby grabbed his temples, rubbing Mike’s words in and trying to understand. “You think the answer to the world’s problems is causing more problems?”

“No.” Mike stared right at him. “It’s controlling the world’s problems.”

“That’s crazy talk.”

“It’s also your gift.”

Toby blinked. He blinked again. “What?”

Mike lifted the Tupperware from the floor. “There isn’t anything in here to regular teenagers, but you’re not regular. You were made to keep the peace.”

The guy had officially stepped off the sanity spectrum. Toby fingered the phone in his pocket, wondering if he could pocket dial the police.

“This box had a manufactured gas in it that activates your gifts when inhaled. We’ve been looking for you for a long time, ever since your parents bit it in a battle with other powered individuals.”

“Powered?”

“Your Mom shook the earth, like you. Your dad summoned storms.”

Toby laughed weakly. “Um, no. Dad worked as a meteorologist and Mom was an army soldier.”

For once, Mike wasn’t smiling. “Is that what they told you?”

Toby’s legs shook. He slid down the wall and landed on his rump.

“I found two others,” Mike continued. “The three of you will be a team, and I’ll help you figure it out, but you three will save the world.”

“Save it from what?”

“Ourselves.”

What if superheroes are normal people and have been part our the world all throughout history? Powered individuals battle through time in the Maiden of Time series. Pick up MOONLESS today.

Crystal Collier is an author who pens fantasy, historical, and romance stories, with the occasional touch of humor or inspiration. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her HERE. 

Winter Solstice Offerings (an ELIXIR BOUND short story) by Katie L. Carroll

This takes place before the events of ELIXIR BOUND. Siblings Katora, Kylene, and Bhar Kase are performing their annual celebration of the Winter Solstice.

“Do you have the acorns and your offering for the sacrifice?” Bhar asked with an impish grin and a glint in his blue eyes.

“Sacrifice?” Katora raised her right eyebrow and thumped her younger brother on the shoulder. “You know the Great Mother doesn’t approve of sacrifices. I do have all but one of the offerings, and Kylene should be getting it right now.”

Bhar laughed as he ran deeper into the trees of Faway Forest. Katora shook her head in annoyance and wondered if Bhar would ever be serious about anything. She shifted her backpack and followed his indelicate footsteps. The trees were completely bare, their fallen leaves crunchy under her boots.

She stopped in a small clearing. Bhar stood in the center, a series of stacked rocks interspersed at regular intervals around him. She dropped her pack outside the rocks and sat inside the circle, legs crossed.

Katora had been coming to this place on the Winter Solstice for as long as she could remember. Her two older sisters used to participate in the ceremony, but they had recently moved out of the family home. They now held their own traditions. This was the first year they wouldn’t be there, and Katora wasn’t sure she wanted to be there either. Maybe she was getting too old for such traditions.

Still, Katora would honor the Great Mother with Bhar and her younger sister, Kylene. As Katora thought of her, Kylene loped into the clearing, cheeks rosy and long blond hair wild. Quick puffs of breath escaped her mouth in the crisp air.

“I’ve got it.” From her pocket, Kylene pulled a small nut ending in woody cap. “It wasn't easy, but I found a late hold-out from a young oak.”

Katora help up her hand, and Kylene tossed the acorn. Katora caught it easily and set it on the ground next to three others, each one collected during a different season. A hearty vine with withered essenberries also lay on the cold dirt. As Kylene sat, her gray cloak, the same color as the cloud covered sky, fanned out behind her and touched Katora’s cloak at the corner.

“Let’s begin.” Katora rubbed her chapped hands together, souvenirs from years of farming. “Bhar, you did bring the trowel, didn’t you?”

Bhar produced the tool from his pants pocket. “Of course. Do you even have to ask?”

She grinned and glanced at Kylene, who failed to hide a smile. They both knew Bhar needed to be asked. He took his place next to his sisters. Behind him, his cloak touched each of theirs and completed the circle.

“Please present your items,” Katora said, tapping her offering of the vine.

A playing card—the queen of hearts—appeared in Bhar’s hand, seemingly from nowhere. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed it among the acorn, the withered offerings from past seasons, and the essenberry vine. Kylene kissed a worn leather-bound book and gently placed it on the ground. The three siblings grasped hands and closed their eyes.

Katora chanted, “Mother Nature, we gather and return the fruit of the seasons. Take these and our personal offerings from our hearts to yours. As the cold of winter takes hold, offer in return safe passage to spring.”

A moment of silence passed before Bhar forced the shovel into the hard dirt and began to dig a small hole. Except for the scrape of the trowel, he worked in complete silence, the forest quiet as it fell into the sleep of winter. Katora and Kylene deposited the offerings into the hole. All three scooped the soil back over the hole and patted it down.

They grasped hands again, fingernails caked with dirt, and hummed. Katora’s alto was slightly out of tune, but Kylene’s soprano rang in perfect pitch. Bhar’s solid bass completed the trio. Their melody pierced the silent forest and rose to the top of the trees and beyond. A gust of wind swirled through the clearing, lifting their cloaks in the air behind them.

Katora’s eyes widened as Kylene’s hand gripped hers tight. Bhar turned his face to the sky. Katora felt her hair fly about her face as she watched Kylene’s locks do the same. Still, they kept humming. When their tune finally ended, the wind abruptly stopped.

A long sigh escaped Katora, deflating the pressure in her chest. Nothing like that had ever happened during the ceremony.

“What was that?” Kylene asked in a whisper.

“A coincidence,” Bhar said with no trace of his playful smile.

Katora pounded her fist on the ground. “That was no coincidence. I’ve always been a bit skeptical that the Great Mother paid any attention to our little ceremony. But now…I believe she does.”

“Yes.” Kylene nodded her head repeatedly. “I always believed she did, but this is a nice confirmation of our faith.”

Bhar blew into his hands. “I’m cold. Let’s go home and heat up some milk and chocolate.”

Kylene’s brow wrinkled as she said, “It is cold. And we must be home before dark.”

“I’ll catch up with you two.” Katora gathered up the pack and waited as her siblings left the clearing.

Kylene's soft teasing of Bhar about his offering could be heard through the trees. “What is Mother Nature going to do with a playing card?”

“More than she’s going to do with a book,” Bhar said. “Definitely more than she’ll do with an essenberry vine. Katora’s offering was the worst.” Kylene laughed at the joke as their voices faded away.

Even with no one there to hear her, Katora was compelled to defend her choice. Every essenberry vine on Kase Farm was a gift from Mother Nature. The vines provided a means of wealth, and therefore survival, for the family. She said a silent prayer to the Great Mother, thanking her for all that she did to take care of them.

Just as she stepped back into the trees, Katora spotted a small bluebird perched high up on a leafless branch. Its beady eyes stared down at her. The bird opened its beak wide and let out one sharp chirp.

“You coming?” Bhar’s shout echoed through the forest.

She glanced back up at the oak tree, but the bird had vanished. As she jogged to catch up, Katora felt Mother Nature’s presence. It wasn’t only in the physical bounty of the forest, but also deep inside Katora’s own heart. She breathed deep and the winter air felt fresh instead of cold.

***

Want to read more about the Kase siblings and their adventures in Faway Forest? Check out Katie's YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND.

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and speaker. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

A Gift to Forget by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes memories are best forgotten.

***

(Source)

The parcel sat on her table, next to the previous day’s one. Small, wrapped in faded paper, she hadn’t had the heart to unwrap them. She remembered clearly the last time someone had given her any kind of parcel: it had been at work, and White Elephant gifts didn’t exactly fall into the same category. Plus, that had been years ago, long before she’d moved.

Heat curled around her shoulders, warding off the chill that still seemed to seep into her toes. The wind battled against her windows and the teacup in her hands only seemed to warm her palms.

“Another foot of snow is expected tonight, promising a white Christmas!” The weatherman was far too cheerful about this prospect. The urge to stick her tongue out at the television set was only curbed by the distraction of her oven timer sounding.

While the weather might have been frightful, her cookies smelled divine. Not that she wanted to eat all two dozen, but seeing as she knew no one in town, she figured it was a small sacrifice for some holiday cheer.

Tea, milk, Love, Actually streaming, and for a few minutes, she forgot about the storm. About the lack of any friendly faces at her new job (walking in on a business where everyone had been together for at least a decade didn’t bode well for the new person). Or about the small parcels on her table.

She really should open them. See what on earth someone had left, so carefully, on her doorstep. But, looking over at them, they made her smile. Maybe tomorrow. At least then there’d be something to look forward to.

Two movies later (A Christmas Story, and Christmas Vacation—both just for laughs), and she had a crick in her neck from the couch. With shambling steps, she made her way to her bed, turned her heating blanket to ‘high’ and fell sound asleep.

Sunlight streaming through the blinds woke her. How was it that no matter how she arranged them, somehow the light always hit her in the eyes? Curtains—she was buying some the next time she remembered.

Laying in bed, she stared up at the ceiling, it’s bright white stripped by light. Against the far wall, she’d set a couple paintings her friend had done for her, back before she’d moved. Today, she told herself, today she would hang those finally.

Remembering there were cookies for breakfast, she wrapped a blanket around herself—the sunshine meant another drop in temperatures, though she couldn’t quite figure out how that was possible.

Downstairs, cookies and hot chocolate made for a pleasant breakfast. She stared out the window at the pristine expanse of white that stretched from her front door, across the street, and to the neighbors. The sun caught on the crystals, reflecting a sea of tiny diamonds.

Staring out the window, absently pondering the potential book she’d read later on, she noticed that the expanse of snow wasn’t exactly pristine. A set of footprints marred it, running from the house across the street in her direction.

Moving toward her own front door, she stared out at the tracks, following them across the street to her own door.

Was this the answer to who left the little packages?

Steeling herself against the chill, she opened the door just enough to peek out onto her stoop. Sure enough, another small package sat there, this time with a bright bow adorning the top.

There weren’t cameras, were there? No one in this little town would be so crewel, would they? But the single set of prints didn’t seem to lend itself to that.

Had she seen whoever lived in the little house across the street? The place had been shrouded in shrubbery when she moved to town, but the winter cold now revealed a tiny blue house with bright white shutters tucked back from the street. A wisp of smoke emerged from the the roof and the sunshine reflected off the windows. Had she ever noticed anyone inside?

The bite of the cold seeped through her PJs and she shut the door, peering down at the lumpy little package in her hands. The paper was the same type—vintage and a bit wrinkly, like unsteady hands had applied the tape.

The three of them on her plain wooden table made a cheerful pile, something she hadn’t enjoyed since her parents left, a few years back. Just the sight of it made her grin. A little part of her didn’t want to open them, fearing that by doing so some bit of the magic they held would escape, like the smoke from her neighbor’s chimney.

With a fresh supply of cookies, she settled at her table, her speakers blaring a little Trans-Siberian Orchestra (might as well). The wrapping paper was a lot thicker than what she was used to, making the modern stuff seem like tissue paper. Taking care to not rip anything, she eased the first small gift from its wrapping.

Shaking her head, a thrill ran up her back. The second and third gifts went much the same. Together, on the table, she stared at them for at least an hour.

And she knew what she needed to do. She threw on some warm clothes, and gathered up a few supplies from around the house. It didn’t take more than five minutes to put it all together, and she even found a length of ribbon to tie her makeshift gift together.

It wasn’t hard to follow the gift-giver’s footsteps across the street. A few courageous people had driven past, too, making the street a little easier to navigate. But she still got snow down her boots as she walked across the snowy lawn, up to the front door, hidden behind the bare branches of what had been lilacs.

There was no bell, so she knocked, the wooden door a crisp white she fleetingly hoped she wouldn’t accidentally smudge.

The woman who answered had a face that she’d once heard described as “apple doll”—whatever that meant. Her eyes met hers from behind spectacles, startlingly dark and intense despite the web of wrinkled that surrounded them.

For a moment, she stood there, staring down at the old woman, her mouth opening and closing with unspoken words.

“Did you like them?” The woman asked, her grin dimpling her cheeks.

“I did. Thank you so much. I brought you a few cookies I baked last night. It’s not much of a thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I hope you enjoy them.” She held out her little package, her grin pulled tight in the cold.

The woman pulled the gift against her plump bosom. “I wanted you to know that you’re not completely alone this Christmas.”

“Thanks. That’s good to know. It’s been a bit hard since I moved here.”

With a nod and a shrug, the woman patted her arm and started to scuttle back inside her little blue home. “Thank you for this.”

“No trouble at all!” With a wave and a smile, she carefully made her way back toward the street.

A rush of wind tossed a fine mist of snow into the air, and she looked up to see that storm clouds started to build on the horizon, promising more snow to come.

She hurried back into her house, pulling back on comfortable clothes and settling onto her couch to read and watch the snow start to fall.

It didn’t take more than half an hour for the woman’s tracks, and her own, to be lost to new flakes. And when the ambulance finally arrived across the street, there was no trace that she’d ever visited, except for several half-eaten cookies and three small “gifts” she hid behind her water heater until the ground thawed enough for her to burry them.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Thanks for the Smoke by Katie L. Carroll

Chuck was down to one or two cigarettes a day and about to give up on the whole damn idea of trying to quit. It was hardest first thing in the morning and in the evening after dinner. There was just nothing to keep his hands occupied during those times. Emma, his niece, gave him the idea that kept him on track.

He had tried to quit cold turkey a couple of weeks before Emma’s fifth birthday. It had been going okay. Sure he had been grumpy most of the day, and he'd been drinking beer with dinner every night, but he hadn’t been smoking. Then he went to his sister’s house for Emma’s party where his brother-in-law produced a bunch of stogies.

Chuck thought, “Why not? It’s not a cigarette.”

So when the guys went out to the front yard to smoke, Chuck joined them. Boy was that a big mistake. After he inhaled his first unsatisfying puff, all he could think about was the taste of a cigarette on his lips.

He began to wonder why he had quit in the first place. Sure there was the whole lung cancer and emphysema aspect, but it sure as hell wasn’t helping his attitude or his physique. He had already gained ten pounds. Chuck was wondering if he still had a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment of his truck when his niece ran up to him.

“Uncle Charlie, will you come and blow bubbles with me?” she asked.

As he sat there with the sticky solution running down his arm and the taste of soap in his mouth, Chuck felt better than he had in weeks…maybe years. On his way home that night, he stopped at a toy store and bought out its entire stock of bubbles. They were great for when he was at home in his apartment. He would sit out on his front steps and just blow bubbles, watching them float. Some popped right away and others went so high up he never saw them burst. They were a harmless vice, except they didn’t work in every situation.

Like tonight when he was out with his buddy Dave. They went to a bar downtown. He was okay for a while, drinking a couple of beers and watching the baseball game on the big screen. Then he spotted a cute woman smoking by herself on the outdoor patio. That had been another reason why he had decided to quit: that law banning smoking indoors in public places, forcing those with the habit outside. He didn’t like feeling like an outcast. Being part of a group was one thing that had attracted him to smoking in the first place when it seemed like everyone he knew smoked. But not anymore.

He pointed the woman out to Dave.

“You should go ask her for a cigarette,” Dave said.

“But I’m trying to quit.”

Dave punched him on the arm and called him a not-so-nice word for the female anatomy, enough motivation for him to walk out to the patio.

“Can I bum a cigarette off you?” he asked.

“Sure,” the woman said, eyeing him. “I was just starting to think that I was the only smoker in this place.”

She looked to be in her mid thirties, at least five years younger than Chuck, but she wasn’t wearing a ring. He figured he’d give it a shot.

“I’m trying to quit,” he admitted.

“My friends are all trying to quit, too,” she said. “None of them could stand being out here with me.”

She pulled a box of slim cigarettes out of her purse. Chuck cringed at having to waste a smoke on one of those—they were barely even worth the breath used to inhale them—but it was a sacrifice he was hoping would pay off. He managed to accept the cigarette without grimacing, but he thought he saw a glint in the woman’s eye when she lit it for him.

“I’m Chuck Testa,” he said after his first drag.

“I’m Linda, Linda Blake,” she said.

He held his free hand out to shake hers and she obliged. They talked while they smoked. He found out that she ran a daycare center. He told her he customized cars for a living. His uncle owned the business, but he was hoping to buy in as an owner soon. He mentioned Emma and the bubbles, his face burning hot from embarrassment, but Linda ate it up.

“That’s adorable!” she exclaimed. Then she took the last puff of her cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray.

Chuck squished out the rest of his. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

He held the door for her and followed her into the bar. Dave gave Chuck a sideways smile when he saw Linda. Chuck steered her to the opposite side of the bar. Linda gave a little wave to a table with three women at it, her friend he supposed. She surprised him by ordering a beer.

“Make that two,” he said to the bartender.

He turned to Linda. “A woman that drinks beer and smokes slims. I’m confused.”

“I grew up with three brothers,” she said. “I got to liking the taste of beer, so I decided to smoke something a little more feminine to make up for it.”

They talked for over an hour. It was easy talking to her. She like that he worked with his hands for a living. She called it “real blue-collar work.” Then one of her friends came over.

“Linda,” she said. “We’re ready to go.”

“Oh, hey Sheri,” Linda said. “This is Chuck. Chuck, this is Sheri.”

“Great,” Sheri said, ignoring the hand he held out to her. “Are you ready?”

“I guess,” Linda answered.

She pulled her phone from her purse and asked Chuck for his number. Shortly after he recited it, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“That’s from me, so you have my number.” She produced another slim and handed it to him. “One last one on me. Then that’s it, right?”

Chuck nodded. “Bubbles are better anyway.”

She giggled. “Yeah. Hey, thanks for the beer.”

“No problem.” He held up the phone. “Thanks for this. And for the smoke.” He watched her walk out before going back to sit with Dave for the end of the game.

On his way home, Chuck lit up the slim. It tasted terrible, but he sucked on it gratefully, thinking of Linda’s lips the whole time. It was the last cigarette he ever smoked, but it was not the last time he saw Linda.

***

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and speaker. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

Drawer Full of Memories by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes we need to be thankful for our own strength. 

***

Source

Time seemed to shudder to a stop, rocking her back on my heels, as soon as the drawer slid open. The mad scrambled search for scissors forgotten in a heartbeat. Inside the drawer was a scatter of memories, each their own small world of wonder.

Each something she’d tried to forget.

Almost by some outside force, she reached inside. Folded papers that echoed words she’d loved. She’d believed them, too, and their professions of love and apology, faith and trust. Some part of her heart still burned with the embers of what they’d meant, a part she wished she could douse with water. Reading them pooled tears in her eyes, long forgotten memories flaring to life once more. The cinch of pain around her heart tightened down, sure and steady in a way she’d learned to live with over the past year.

The other objects conjured a myriad of other thoughts. The photos were the hardest. Smiling faces and far away places. Echoes from a time when things had been so much easier. But still, it was hard to ignore the pain that each smile covered in the images. The knowledge of what led up to those posed scenes on rooftops in other countries. The harsh words. Those photos hid all of that to the outside world, but today, they rushed back, impossible to mask.

Did she want to mask them? Sometimes it was so much easier to remember the better parts. Pretend the photos captured the truth, and not just the careful façade. But the truth, it always leaked through.

Staring into the drawer, she couldn’t help thinking of the bits she tried to forget. The nights of screaming fights. Of trying to escape so he could cool off, only to be chased down, through the house, doors no obstacle to his anger. Covers ripped back so that 3am fights could be held. Words, only ever words, but the kind that knifed through her, hitting points only an intimate partner knew to target.

Always, always, the truth hung heavy on her tongue during those times. Impossible to say, impossible to acknowledge. The truth only brought down more anger. And with that anger came fear, tears, and a desperate feeling of her heart fighting to beat it’s way out of her ribs—a caged bird that she could never let free.

How had they gotten there? Things had started off so vastly different. Laughter, love, shared tastes and interests. A common base that felt promising to build their lives on. The long walks and talks in the desert that had cemented their relationship into something she’d felt could never break.

Oh, she knew she’d played a role in the downfall. It takes two to tango. Her inability to trust him, the spontaneous anger, took their toll. Lies and silence resulted. The heavy weight of the truth a millstone around her neck. She’d done wrong, been wrong, and hated herself for it all. But how could she have done differently? Even now she couldn’t see how, though surely it existed. The long shadow of anger overcast their marriage, obscuring other paths even now.

It’s stranglehold left hand-shaped bruises on her soul.

The rest of the drawers in her desk carried folders of paperwork for things she should have felt pride in. Success in her job, her creative work, awards and recognitions for things she’d done. These, too, she’d kept to herself. Lied about and covered up. Sharing only when she absolutely had to with the man she’d chosen to spend her life with. Good news was never received well. The announcement of her promotion at work—something she couldn’t contain in her excitement—led to hours of screaming. She shuddered at the memory.

No, not all things had been rosy in the past, no matter how much she tried to peer at them through rose-colored glass.

Two imperfect people. Sometimes it felt like three: the man she loved, and the man he turned into when the anger consumed him. A joke they shared, one she never found terribly funny because it hid the horrible truth: she feared the angry man. She would have done anything to avoid him. Anything. Lie. Bend over backwards. Turn into someone she hardly recognized.

None of it ever, ever helped.

The strength to break away had taken forever to grow. She doubted every move she made. Comments always followed. “Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a good man?” Her grandmother. “Dating is horrible! I just want to spare you that.” Her sister. An uphill battle every step of the way. Times when she knew her family would rather he were there, not her.

And always, always doubt.

Was she doing the right thing? Maybe it was all just a product of her imagination? Did she really want this? Could she be alone forever? Did she want to grow old by herself?

She shut the drawer, closing the memories within it once again. Someday maybe she’d be strong enough to clean it out. For now, the past could stay there. Her strength would eventually return.

For now she’d be thankful for the ability to just walk away.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!