(RD) Medicine Bag

Rough Draft
Assignment for Young Adult Literature

To fulfill the requirements of the assignment, real experiences/objects may have been altered. Not an academic piece.

 

 

A beautiful pouch, she claimed. Soft song erupting from bells adorning soft leather straps as she runs her fingers over the dark softness.

It is not always beautiful. My heart is in that bag.

My medicine bag.

What do I mean?

Pieces of my soul attached to significant moments since my coming of age.

I cannot show you, but understand that no one’s soul is without both darkness and light.

 

Later I dig my finger into the soft suede to remember what the pouch contains. A light caress of tanned hide strokes my nostrils. Pulling the contents out one-by-one, a metallic stench mingles with that of the satiny leather.

Fingers coax out two small, tinkling brass spheres. They warm quickly to the touch, soak up energy like shining sponges. Fairy bells. Amusing trinkets meant to attract Fae magic. Everyone has a wish. Rolling along my palm, hot and sparkling like shooting stars. Listening to the chimes peal and feeling, deep down, my wishes sigh in hope. Hope is a personal magic.

Diving again.

Precariously balanced between two fingers are coins once dull but scrubbed bare of decades of grime. One found discarded on a sidewalk, burning hot in the sun. Cool now, but inching towards the temperature of my palm. The other found abandoned atop a vending machine filled with fragile plastic toys. Most likely left because of its indeterminate origins. A Nepalese Rupee, perhaps. Both coins, foreign and domestic, stain my fingers with an acrid metallic scent. Just the same as any other coin. Objects that have been abandoned, yet retained their sameness. An item is always worth something to someone. There is always someone willing to pick up someone else’s refuse. Make it shine. Give it a purpose. My coins shine.

My ears encounter the warm rasp of paper sliding against itself. A clichéd slip of paper once excavated from within decimated cookie crumbs. “One cannot know the best that is in him.” Deeper than that: what is good one moment may over-ripen in the next. What is good to one may be blasphemy to another. What is good? This smudged and faded slip of paper is introspection. A sentence that almost demands one to stop looking, but lends a feeling of being challenged to look deeper. Rounded corners flicked too many times by mindless fidgeting, deep in thought. Selfless good or searching for oneself in another. Smudged fingerprints, trying to clear away old words to reveal the right answer. Little slip of paper that does not know what is good any better than me, but lends hope that someone does.

Bunched curl of downy hair wraps around my finger like a small hand searching for reassurance. Slightly different than the wispy dark strands I met after nine month of arduous waiting. The month my heart stopped beating, held frozen by fear, anxiety, despair, and exhaustion. Those wisps were sloughed away by crib sheets and replaced with charcoal rings. Trimmed in that fourth month when my heart started beating again. Beating only for the bright eyes hidden under the tight, grasping curls. That curl is so much of my heart.

Another dip into the velvety warmth. A gold-plated ring slides just past my second knuckle. Not warm or cold. Just there. Worn through in many places, revealing its silver innards. Underside scraped and jagged from daily wear. A loop, like a calligrapher’s swoop, branches out from the circle and swings back around the single stone. It leaves an abyss, softened only by flesh underneath. I tilt my hand. Tiger’s eye winking madly in the sunlight. Always watching. Gold circlet that was the last shackle to bind me to another. The sensation lacking, no warmth or chill. Emptiness between one half and the other. Good and bad and sad. Happiness worn away with the gold.

Brass bells sing from swinging straps, soothing from the presence of the pouch’s final possession. Dangling and chiming to remind that friends do not have to be held close to be important to the soul. Peals like laughter. They say happiness can be found here. You just have to listen.

Finally, I tug free a twisted piece of metal. He found it, living then as a paperclip, amidst leaves and crumbs in the backseat. Artistically twisted into an ornate cage meant for a quartz heart. It used to glow. Neglected, it corroded. Rust stains my fingertips as I handle the cage. Rubs off like sadness. Just a small amount of contact leaves behind flecks of decay. Small glimmers of its previous glory peek through, yet remain overwhelmed by the crumbling orange ugliness snaking about. Twisted and empty now. The heart is long gone. Slowly chipped away and broken over years of careless collisions and thoughtless actions. A cage that did not protect. Merely kept the heart in the perfect place to slowly crumble away.

The pouch is always there. To remind. To create hope. To caution. It is full, but far from filled. Sometimes the pouch feels nearly empty. Other times it feels as if it contains the universe. Usually just a little bag tinkling around in my presence waiting to be heard. Though some days, my medicine bag sings so loudly I cannot hear my own voice. It is just a little medicine bag, swinging with the heaviness of wished upon stars. Bearing the weight of letting go and taking on. The startling weight of loss and regret cushioned by hope and dreams and love. My medicine bag holds my heart. In it is both darkness and light.

(RD) Nightmare

Rough draft: Excerpt from in progress novel (title TBD)

A bitter wind is battering me from all sides. This isn’t right. I remember drinking wine with Sierra in the back yard, laughing into the darkness at her quips. I suppose I could have fallen asleep on the quilt we had lain out. Sure that I’ve just fallen asleep outside, I collect myself and look around. I can see nothing but bare earth and darkness all around me. There are patches of churned up soil and chunks of dark stone scattered within my view. I quickly stand up and brush away the bits of dirt clinging to my clothing. My chest tightens and I become lightheaded when I realize I have no idea where I am. My eyes glide over the horizon as I rotate in a circle. I need to find something, anything, to focus my attention on rather than this bare landscape. There aren’t even any stars in the sky. Just a veil of darkness so thick and murky it almost seems solid, a tangible force pushing in from all around making me claustrophobic. I pick a direction at random and begin wandering.

I keep travelling on, but the surroundings never change. It’s as if I’m walking on a treadmill comprised of earth and stone. My steps grow more lethargic as my energy wanes. The soles of my feet burn; I’m sure they have been cut up and mutilated by hard chunks of dirt and sharp little rocks. The air has been churning about me so fiercely that my eyes are continuously watering.  I feel as if I’m trapped inside a whirling snow globe with icicle currents. I want to find shelter from the biting cold, but my hopes are dwindling. Bewilderment suddenly overwhelms me and I come to a halt. I no longer know what to do. Mindless walking has gained me nothing but injured feet. I am ready to sit down and wait for something to happen. It may not produce any results, but it is easier than going any further. I notice a rock large enough to perch on about twelve paces away.

I try to take a step toward the rock, but my legs won’t move. Something is tangled around them. I kick my feet but my restraints only tighten. I bend to tear at whatever is wrapped around my legs, but I lose my balance and fall. From the ground, my eyes focus on my legs. My lungs instantly feel as if they are filled with cement. Wrapped around my ankles and calves are a dozen hands. Not just hands. Hands covered in grime and crusty wounds. Hands with chunks of disintegrating flesh clinging to bony fingers by shreds of tissue. I strain to kick my legs, but the hands are gripping me too tightly. I grab a set of cold fingers and try to pry them from my calf. Pale fingers dig in, the fingernails gouging into my flesh. I gasp at the pain and shudder as crescents of my blood pools beneath dirt-encrusted fingernails.

            “Let me go!” I scream, pounding my fists on the hands enveloping my calves. I realize the hands are no longer merely restraining me when I feel clumps of frozen dirt scrape my ankles. I dig my palms into the dirt to keep from being pulled down. My shoulders burn with the futile effort and small rocks scrape along my palms as my legs slowly disappear beneath the earth. My throat is on fire from my relentless screaming by the time the dirt reaches my waist. The cold weight of earth presses in around my lower half, dirt shimmying along my thighs. My mind is fuzzy and I no longer know how to react to the situation. I cannot move my lower body at all and my arms have been reduced to useless noodles from pushing down on the earth. The only discernable thought in my head is that I’m going to die. I do not want to die, but I am going to be pulled beneath the earth to my death.

            I allow my body to go limp. I no longer have the strength to struggle. More hands emerge from the black earth. Chilly fingers wrap around my arms with bruising pressure. I feel fingers inching up my torso to my shoulders. The smell of rotting flesh pervades my nose. It is so strong that my mouth fills with the taste of spoiled meat. As I am pulled down, the earth meeting my chest, I can also smell the soil. It does not smell natural. The earth here is filled with decay and sickness. I feel tears streaming down my face when my chin meets dirt. Sobs escape my throat and I gasp for air. One last scream bursts from my lungs as hands grip my skull and dirt crumbles around my face. My eyes squeeze shut against the invasive soil. The scent and flavor of decay overwhelms my senses when shifting earth disrupts my scream. There is no more air. I cannot breathe.

            I open my eyes and try one last time to pull substance into my burning lungs. I cannot see anything, but there is air. I turn my head erratically from side to side. Soft fabric brushes across my face and I quickly claw it back. A ceiling glares white in silver moonlight. I force myself to slow my breathing as my eyes wander around the room. I’m in Sierra’s bedroom. The sheets are wrapped around my legs so I struggle to kick them off. My heart is still pounding even though I’ve realized the dead hands were only a nightmare. The dream clings to me like a starving parasite. Dread and horror broil angrily around my stomach. When the edges of my vision go black and my face flushes, I realize that I’m going to vomit. I leap out of bed as quickly as my trembling limbs will allow and scamper towards the trashcan that is cozied up next to the dresser.

            Even after my stomach is empty, dry heaves send my abdominal muscles into vicious cramps. I sit on the floor, trashcan clutched between my legs, waiting for my stomach to settle back down. When I feel steady enough, I pull myself up using the dresser for leverage. I weave my way to the bathroom through the dark hallway. I run my fingertips down the wall to keep myself moving in a straight line. The light brush of the smooth wall makes my fingertips tingle. The dry, soft hiss my fingers make against the painted drywall is almost overwhelming in the overbearingly silent house. Goosebumps erupt on my arms.

            “Where the hell is Sierra?” I whisper aloud. “Sierra?” I call her name once and pause for a moment before I turn in to the bathroom. My eyes are adjusted to the darkness of the hallway so I can see clearly in the moonlit bathroom. Though it could be the light, I find my reflection startlingly pale. With shaking hands, I turn the spigot and splash cool water on my heated cheeks. Rivulets of sweat imbued water snake down my face and drip from my chin to join the water gurgling down the drain. White knuckled, I grip the counter as my head swims.

            “It wasn’t real,” I whisper, meeting my own eyes in the mirror.

            Deep breath. It wasn’t real.

            Exhale. It was an alcohol-induced nightmare, for sure.

            “Whitney?” Startled by Sierra’s sudden presence, I jump.

            “Holy shit, you scared me! Where the hell did you sneak in from?” I query breathlessly with my hand pressed to my rapidly beating heart.

            “I’m sorry. I was headed back to bed. You look ill. Are you okay?”

            With a sigh I respond, “I’m alright. I just had a really vivid nightmare. Got me a bit spooked and off-kilter.”

            “Are you okay to go back to bed, sugar? I could make you some tea. Or we could go out and get some fast food.”

            “No, no… I’m okay. Let’s just go to bed.” I reach for her hand and she weaves her cool fingers into mine. We pad our way down the hallway with our shoulders touching. Her presence helps melt some of my lingering anxiety.

            In bed, our limbs intertwine. Soft thighs sandwiched and chests pushing and pulling against each other with each breath. Sierra nuzzles into my neck and softly draws her lips under my jawline.

            “I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” she mumbles against my skin. “Maybe I can help you feel a little better?” She follows this suggestion with a girlish snicker. Her hand runs along my back, softly tracing undiscernible patterns. Part of me is filled with erotic heat, excited by her touch and her breath on my neck. The memory of the scent of decay still lingers in my nostrils, though. My legs still tingle with phantom cuts and bruises.

            “Maybe in the morning. I just…I can’t right now.” I place my hand on her cheek. “I wish I could. I’m just still so disoriented. It’s like my brain is still mixing up real with not real.”

            Sierra lightly pecks my cheek with her soft lips, and then rolls over. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into me.

            “Goodnight Whitney,” she whispers. “Sweet dreams, love.”

            “Goodnight.”

            I feel Sierra’s body grow heavy with sleep. She sort of purrs like an exhausted kitten when she’s really out. Normally a sweet and lulling sound, it grates against my jangled nerves. I truly wish to drift into the blackness of exhausted sleep. My mind keeps whirring, though. My chest still feels tight. I’m finding it impossibly difficult to relax.

            When the room begins to turn light gray in early morning sunlight, I shift my arm from under Sierra and slink out of bed. As I tumble down the hallway toward the kitchen, I hope my entire day won’t be marred by this lingering sense of dread. I could use some hot coffee and a steamy shower. Maybe some chocolate chip pancakes would help, too. While measuring coffee into a filter, I try to compile a list of things to distract my mind from the overwhelmingly terrifying dream. The list grows as Mister Coffee splutters. I begin to feel hopeful. Today is just another day. The sunlight will burn away the sticky shadows lingering in the corners of my vision. Coffee mug in hand, I find myself ready to meet the day.