“I am only one person.  I feel as though so much has been asked of me.”
“And so much will be asked.”
“I know.  I have felt it.”
“The stars have told me.”
“What do they know?”
“Much.  Much more than we could wish to.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m so curious.  There are just some things that are not meant to be known.”
“What is your Human expression?  About cactuses or something?”
“‘Curiosity killed the cat?’”
“Yes, that.  What’s a cat?”
“An animal; athletic, beautiful, exotic, too curious.”
“Are you like a cat?”
“Not at all.”
“But what of their curiosity?  Surely, you must share that.”
“Sure.  But that’s all.”
“Ah, my Ale’eal, the stars are beautiful tonight.”
“They are.  They always are.”

Dear Mom,

        I’m sure you want to hear some war stories.  You want to hear how your little Jimmy has been so brave and heroic so you can tell all your friends, “Now, my son Jimmy, he’s such a hero.  You see, he’s in Iraq.  Did you know that he...?”  Well, I’m tired of telling war stories.  Besides, once I tell you them, you’ll wish that I hadn’t.  That’s the way it always works.  I’ll be sure to take some time to make up some good ones for you so that I can tell you something great and noble when I return.
       Until then, I want to talk about the things that have been passing through my mind.  I can’t tell anyone else, so I might as well tell you.  It’s pretty philosophical.  I think you’ll like it.
        I’ve realized that of all the things I carry, the hardest thing is that which cannot be seen.  It’s heavier than the helmet and the backpack and even the weapons (although they weigh upon my conscience as well as my arms).  The most difficult thing to carry is my bravery.
        Before the war, I’d always thought that bravery was light and lofty.  That’s why I always loved those super-hero cartoons that they show on Saturday morning.  Superman, Batman, Spiderman...they all had something that I didn’t: courage.  They had this innate ability to do the heroic, self-sacrificing deeds.  I so much wanted to be them.  I wanted to be brave.
        And now I’m here and guess what?  I’m forced to be brave.  I’ve found that bravery is very different than what I had always imagined.  It weighs upon me like the heaviest of loads; it crushes my head like the strongest of vices.  I cannot lift my foot to take a step, lift my eyes to look ahead, without feeling its ever-present weight.  Bravery is one of those sweet smells that is so sugary that it’s nauseating.  It’s solid galoshes and a constricting straight jacket.  Bravery is a clawed lizard that hangs out on my back, driving me forward and never letting me forget that it’s there.  I have scars from its residence there.  Can you feel it?  It doesn’t matter because I do.
        I’ve found that bravery is a hard thing to live with because you meet it at every sunrise.  It’s required at every moment in every day.  I cannot lift my head from the pillow without succumbing to its control.  Every second is a chance for its appearance.
        You know why?  Because it takes bravery to live every day facing death.  Nothing is certain; everything’s a gamble.  One moment I could be alive and well, and then, a single second later, KABOOM! I could be dead from an enemy bomb.  What kind of life is that?  That’s a brave life.
        Bravery’s more common than I first believed.  Every time I step out of my tent, I think of Dad teaching me how to drive.  At the time, I saw a calm, collected Dad giving me directions.  I look back now and see that I had his life in my hands every single time.  How easily we could have died or been injured in that metal death trap!  And yet, he was silent about his fear.  He faced it all with such bravery.  Did his courage clutch his chest as mine does?  I can’t help but wonder.  Don’t ask him for me; I’ll ask him myself one day.
        There’s something else.  I can’t say this to anyone but you because if I did, the guys would never leave me alone about it.  I’ve had this song from that stupid Broadway show in my head; it’s “What I Did For Love” from A Chorus Line.  It’s hard to go from President of the Glee Club to a soldier without something lingering.  I guess I can’t get everything that belongs back home out of my mind.  The lyrics just won’t stop circulating in my head.  The beginning goes like this:

   
        After about a week of this song, I began to think that it really did fit my situation here.  I’m out here, carrying the weights of the war, for love.  I love my country, I love my family, and I love you.  The war wasn’t ever as clear as it is now.  I see it all from this vantage point; I see that if we pull out, every single American is at risk.  These terrorists are monsters.  I hate to say that about other human beings, but I swear it’s true.  They don’t have any morals, any sense of the value of human life.  They don’t even flinch before killing.  They kill not only us, the enemy soldiers, but their own people– civilians and all.  They even have the nerve, and cowardice, to kill themselves.  How do you catagorize people like that?  When I first saw it all firsthand, I just couldn’t take it in.  I’m still blown away by it.  I don’t think I’ll ever come to understand.  All I know is that I have to protect everyone from these people.
        You see, it is for love that I carry this weight, that I carry my bravery.  For if I’m not brave, people will suffer.  If I die, you will feel pain.  If we pull out and give up, Americans and more innocent Iraqis will feel pain.  They might even die.  In fact, they probably will.  How often I have seen the potential bloodbath in my mind’s eye!  The second we pull out, that’s what this land will become: a reservoir filled to the brim with blood.  This place will explode into a thousand different factions.  It’s just another powder keg.  As Americans, we have the ability to keep it all contained.  That’s what the people back home don’t understand, what they don’t see.  This is all so crucial, not only to the Iraqis, but to the American people.
        Now you see why I can’t put down this burden.  I long to, and I will someday, but that time is yet to come.  I’m sure that one day I’ll put it down, but that day is not today.
        I love you with all my heart.  Don’t worry about me: I’m in good hands.  I’ll leave you with the best part of the song.  Maybe it’ll catch on back home.  You could call it the theme song for the war.

                                                                                                                                                                        Love always,
                                                                                                                                                                                   Jimmy
                                       

I had forgotten how young I am. It's a very easy thing to forget when you're young.

Something my mom said yesterday has completely changed my thinking. I had given her Wuthering Heights to read (I read it over the summer for school) and she just finished it. I had written all over it (again: for school) and she said that she found most of my comments amusing but other comments were of confusion. She told me that I didn't "get" the whole book because I'm too young to completely understand. She didn't say it meanly or anything, just honestly. And I agreed with her because, heck, she's right. I didn't understand it all. She said that it wasn't my fault or because I'm dumb (which I'm not!); she said it was just because I was too young to completely understand it.

I had forgotten, until then, that I am young and that I can't understand everything. I thought that phase of not understanding everything ended when you became a teenager or when you turned 18. I was wrong. We teenagers think we know and understand everything. But, guess what? No matter what we think, we can't understand everything. Here's the only reason: our brains haven't developed that far and we haven't been living long enough. Our brains keep maturing all thoroughout our lives. My mom promises that the older you get, the clearer you think. I'm resting on that. My trains of thought can be rather cloudy sometimes. :/ Anyway, that was my lesson for the week. I know that some (or maybe a lot) of people won't agree with me, but I think it's true.

I love my mom.

Anyway, I do have some fiction for you guys! Here it is...
( And Birds Have Their Nests )

~ ~ ~
By the way, any critique is appreciated!

Love always,
~Lucy

Here's another Narnia fanfic of mine. This one takes place a few weeks after the end of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: All credit to C.S. Lewis.

( Susan Pevensie awoke in the dead of night... )

Portrait of a Vision

IV. The Wall

A delicate, sensitive princess stood before a thick, brick wall. It had long ago been overgrown by both beautiful vines and imposing thorns. The princess loved and hated the wall. It protected her from the lions and isolated her from the people of the world.

Then, one day, everything changed.

She was seated by the wall singing a soft dirge, her lavender dress floating about her like sea foam. A rustle of movement interrupted her whispered lament. She stood, instantly curious and afraid.

“Hello?” she called quietly, hesitantly. “Is anyone there?”

There came no reply.

The rustling continued and the princess’ fear increased, threatening to choke her. She felt a faint coming and was about to succumb to it when a head appeared at the top of the wall.

It was a young man, dirty and bloody from climbing the wall. He smiled at the sight of her.

“Good morning, my lady,” he began, his voice calm and cheery.

“Good morning,” she replied, confusion in her tone.

“May I continue over?” he asked. “I don’t wish to intrude.”

“Of course!” the princess answered quickly. “Come hither, good knight.”

The young man hefted the remainder of his body over the wall and jumped down.

It was then that the princess realized the extent of his injuries. He was in the worst of shape. His clothes were tattered beyond repair and deep cuts covered almost every inch of his skin. Blood ran down his face, catching on his lips and eyelids. The man didn’t seem to notice.

“I am no knight, I’m afraid,” he said. The princess was too busy taking in his visage to hear him.

“What?”

“I’m not a knight. I’m only a common boy, here to visit the princess.”

“But, why? No one visits me.”

The young man smiled.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

The princess squinted, looking very hard at the man before her. There was something familiar about him...

“I know you,” she concluded.

“Yes. It’s been a long time.”

A smile crept across the princess’ face as she finally recognized the man.

“Arthur!” She ran, embracing him tightly. Blood stained her flawless dress. In her excitement, she hardly noticed.

He smiled, wrapping bloodied arms about her. From that moment on, she began to understand what it was to share a pale shadow of his hardship.

She released her grip on him and took his hands in hers, a huge grin on her face.

“It has been too long,” she said.

“Yes.” She looked down on the hands she held and the blood there frightened her. A bloody hole was in the center of each palm, surrounded by an assortment of other cuts and wounds.

“Oh, that horrid wall,” she muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I could help you take it down,” he offered. “We could dismantle it brick by brick.”

“But what would protect me? The world is ever so dangerous. Why, there are lions and storms and murderers...”

The man smiled.

“I’m here. I can do better than any wall ever could.” The princess hesitated a moment, unsure. Then, as she looked into his eyes, she realized that he was right.

“Alright. Where do we begin?” She released her grip on him and walked the short distance to the wall. She looked at the tangle of weeds and sword-like thorns.

“It won’t be easy,” he warned her. “It will take a long time. Are you willing?”

She looked from the wall to him. Then, with a smile on her face, she said,

“I cannot remain like this any longer. This wall must be taken down, no matter the consequences or the cost.

“I am ready.”

Portrait of a Vision
III. The Undeserving Beloved

The smiling young man held out his hands as the soft music floated about us in a glowing mist, the sounds caressing my ears like the lick of a loving puppy. His eyes, the color of the mountains and the sky and the sea and the clouds on a bright blue day, were gentle and farseeing. His posture was open, ready to embrace me, ready to dance.

I stepped gingerly forward, my long dress flowing about my legs. I took his hands in mine and we began to dance.

It was awkward, our hold didn’t feel right. All I could ask myself was, Why? I’d known him for so long, my whole life, and yet...I suddenly didn’t know him. How could this be? Why couldn’t we dance like we were meant to?

He took my inability in stride, his gaze ever-loving and understanding. I bent my head in shame. I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve him.

As the heavenly, silver music continued, we began to sway slower. He placed a kiss, the fluttering of a thousand butterflies’ wings, on my lowered forehead.

I released my hold on his hands and stepped away, unable to lift my head to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

He took a step to me and, with a single finger, lifted my shameful face. The love, the eternal, unconditional love, was still there in his eyes.

“I can’t give you what you give me,” I explained lamely. “I...” I couldn’t go on. The fountain of words had run dry; there were no more.

“It’s alright,” he told me, his words comforting as velvet. “I’m giving you another chance. You’ll learn how to love me. I’ll teach you.” Then, with a spark of infinity in his exquisite eyes, he said,

“I promise.”

Portrait of a Vision
II. The Glass Man

Hold out your hands, what can I see? Do you have anything for me? I’ve come to receive, you are meant to give. Hold out your hands, let me see.

The man, dressed in a tan suit and slightly balding, stood before me. He was transparent, hollow. In his hands, he held a bowl. The bowl should have been filled; it should have been overflowing. My hands were waiting, ready to catch the runoff.

The bowl was empty. He had nothing to give because he had not received.

Portrait of a Vision

I. The Humble Warrior


Cinders, black as night, littered the ground like grass, running down the shallow slopes of the open field. A fog, dark and ominous, hung over the land, casting visions of death and desolation.

The air was empty. The last sounds of life had dissipated eons earlier, leaving only a void in their place. That horrid void of silence reigned in this land of darkness. Had a breath been released, it would have sailed across the emptiness alone, racing to join its companions who were so far away that even the dreams of them had faded to an imperceptible paleness.

And thus the land existed.


A man, strong-faced and tall, stepped out from another dominion, another realm, into the world of death. At first glance, he was common.

A second look revealed a depth of perception that denied the existence of anything that had ere lived in that place. It unmasked an inner-lying strength that could strike fear into the minds of the invisible inhabitants of that forsaken land.

Light, magnificent in its intensity, came at the man’s back. It waited, harnessing its refulgency as a lion crouches before its prey.

The man, garnished in simple armor, reflected the light back onto itself. For no light came from him; he merely stood before it. The sides of his armor bore scratches and chips, evidence of battles fought. He pulled a long sword from the sheath at his hip and held it above his head, the metal reflecting light into the dark mist. Then, with the slightest of grins, the man kneeled in the posture of complete surrender.

A wave of liquid sun swept over the man’s head and enveloped the darkness from all sides. Swallowed by its foe, the darkness gave one last shriek before it was no more.

And the man rejoiced, for the light had conquered death.


Dedicated to my Father, a great soldier

This is a Narnia fanfiction that I wrote. I don't usually put fanfiction on here but I worked really like this one.

Warning: You should only read this if you have read all seven books (or at least The Last Battle).


( Lucy Pevensie, Queen of Old Narnia, lounged on the picture-perfect grass, an issue of consequence weighing on her mind... )