I'm a writer and psychologist from Western, MA
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. In my dreams his lips form a silent plea again and again until his mouth finally stills. Other times he is quiet, eyes glassy as he watches our ship disappear, a flash of silver gone before his last breath.
The Extrovert Soon after the grays and whites of winter have acquiesced to the vivid greens of spring, in walks the garish strawberry, the perfect opening act for summer. We stow away our winter coats, stepping out unfettered, shoulders and calves exposed for the first time in months. So too, the strawberry emerges uncloaked, the only fruit that dons its seeds on the outside. The extrovert of berries.
A Measure of Peace
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Until fifteen years ago, dragons resided solely in the Southlands. Then, soon after Nola was conceived, a pair took up residence on the cliffs of Loom Mountain, high above the village. Nola could hardly conceive of a time when the skies were home to clouds and birds alone. Her eyes were perpetually trained upwards, searching for the passing shadow of a dragon or the glint of iridescent scales.
A Tough Decision
"We can't give her away," I found myself saying, eyes welling. “Maybe we can convince your parents to take her." My husband and I had never intended to adopt two, let alone one puppy during our nine months in Israel. But here we were, two adorable, rambunctious puppies chasing each other around our apartment.
The Benefits of Failure
All winter I yearned for nights like these—the air thick with humidity, redolent with pine and cut grass. But stepping out of the restaurant, my senses recede behind a single sentence: “We are so proud of you Cassie." The words, meant for my sister, tumbled from my father's mouth as he raised a glass. I am seething with jealousy, then hating myself for it, a surfer betrayed by the wave he meant to ride.
In an interview with Christopher Paolini several years ago, I asked him why he is drawn to the fantasy genre. He replied, "You get to experience and go places that would otherwise be impossible. One of the things that makes us human is that we can dream, we can dream of things that never were and never can be and fantasy allows us to tap into that." *
“Mable, my Mable” he muttered, voice raspy, palm limp in hers. He willed his eyes open, but like a door shoved by a strong wind, they inevitably slammed shut again. Then his lips quirked up ever so slightly, his eyes fixing on her one last time, red and glassy but holding a glimmer of what they always had—devotion with a hint of jest. His forehead glistened with sweat and for a moment his breath stilled. But then he tugged her arm and pulled her forward, whispering, “The floorboard. The loose one at the back of the closet. Forgive me Mable. Forgive me.”