L. E. Mastilock
L. E. Mastilock is a lover of nature, family, and good food. She believes nothing heals better than a good cry followed by a good laugh. She is a published author and artist residing with her family in the Sierra Mountains of California.
I'm Still Standing
Some songs speak to your heart and become your own personal playlist of your life's journey. When I think back to childhood, one song stands out and, to this day, makes me cry. It's a song of hope and believing in the impossible, but, more than that, it brings back memories from long ago when I was a small child. The song 'Rainbow Connection' came out the year I was born and I remember hearing my parents sing it often. It brings memories of when things were simple. When my parents were together and happy, for the most part, and our family was whole.
The Only Way He'd Go
My heart was his, but I couldn't show it. Like a caged bird, I had to let him go. He had no idea the terror I lived with at home. I was too unworthy. Didn't I hear that every day? Hear something enough, you tend to believe it. I couldn't bring him down into despair with me. Into my world of darkness. I loved him too much. He kissed me. I wanted to stay on his lips for eternity. I broke away. Choked out, "I don't love you." It was the only way he'd go. I watched him walk away.
The Most Sorrowful Moment
Is the most sorrowful moment the last word of the last line of the last page in that old friend whose spine is worn and pages wrinkled from your fingering, whose musty smell has become a part of you through those stolen moments reading in poor light or under covers to finish one more chapter before drifting off; one more page, not sure if you're dreaming in earnest or still drifting in those pages?
I was hidden in a small, square basket on the deck in a pile of barrels, cases and cartons, filled with supplies of all sorts, when the air ship had risen, equally terrified and relieved. I had escaped one form of doom, but wasn't sure what new troubles I was getting myself into. I was a scrawny, gangly boy with sandy hair and too large nose. Not much good for anything. I had been reminded of that all too often by my father before he died. And afterward as I was passed along by the authorities on my way to an orphanage. It had been pure luck I had been able to slip away and hide in that basket on the docks, bound for a different air ship than the one destined for certain misery; the prison that was the boys home.
Girl in the Mirror
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I moved my hand and the image reflecting back made the same motion, but it wasn't me. Her face was blurred and gray, entirely monotone in color. I couldn't make out her features clearly, but I could tell she was a girl about the same age as me, twelve years old.