The Sprightling Diaries

We're Moving!

2011-09-30T18:53:00.000-07:00

Yes, The Sprightling Diaries have graduated to their own website. We will be moving over to SprightlingDiaries.com in October. Please come visit us there. We'd love to hear from you!

Ready for Cover Art

2011-09-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

Okay, so a lot has happened in the last few weeks. I finally got the contract signed and delivered. I'll admit, that was a huge relief. Problem was that the day I finally got that contract was also the day my brother passed away tragically and unexpectedly. Needless to say, it has been a difficult time for our family.

That said, life goes on (even when you don't want it to) and progress is being made on In the Twilight. It is time for cover art. While I don't get the final say on the cover, the publisher did allow me to submit my ideas for consideration. I am fortunate to have a wonderful, talented friend and sister-in-law who took the time to listen to my ideas and transform them into a visual work of art. Jeannie Allen painted this beautiful set of wings based on my obsession with a photograph I've been carrying around for the last three years. Hopefully we will see them incorporated into the book jacket in some format.

Recent events have been bittersweet. I am grateful, however, to have had the chance to take a step back and reexamine my priorities.

I will leave you with this thought: In times of test, the family is best. Always.

Okay, I'll Spill It

2011-07-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

You've worn me down. I've tried really hard (this is of course tongue-in-cheek as I have blabbered to anyone who would ask) to stay tight-lipped on the subject. But because I don't believe in jinxing, luck or karma (just kidding, I am so superstitious), I will just go ahead and spill the beans. I have been offered a publishing contract for The Sprightling Diaries: In the Twilight. Yes. It is true. It seems my little sprightlings are finally going to get their wings.

Is there a problem?

Yes. Just one thing. I haven't signed the contract yet.
I know, I know. I want this process to go smoothly. I want things to flow, come together, and for prosperity to fall right into my lap. However, I am still learning that these things take time. Patience is not one of my strengths. (Apparently, neither is staying tight-lipped. So, a word to the wise, don't trust me with your secrets because I have a terrible poker face.)

Stay with me here. Though I know that nothing in this business is certain and that the book isn't born until it is on the shelf, I have a good feeling . . . if I can just sit tight and trust the process. Ugh. Patience is so overrated.

That said, do you want another chapter? Good. Here goes . . .

Chapter Two

As soon as the slightest light of morning slid through open slats of the wooden shutters I rose, my body stiff, my hair flattened in the back. I had never changed out of the borrowed black funeral dress, and now it was all rumpled, maybe permanently creased. I unbuttoned it and let it slide to the floor. A shower would have felt nice, but I skipped it—just for that morning—reaching into my suitcase for some yoga pants and a T-shirt. As soon as I was suitably covered, my hair hand-smoothed, I went downstairs and out the front door onto the porch—what would become my morning ritual—to mentally explore my new home.

The neighborhood was quiet, not so unlike Myrtle Point. However, it would take a while for me to get used to so many neighbors living in their two-story mini-mansions with perfectly pruned lawns. That was unlike Myrtle Point. My home had been over forty years old, the same as all the other houses on my quiet, semi-rural street. The garden had been old with overgrown hedges and patchy grass my dad had struggled to maintain. I suspected most of the residents of Tuscan Ridge hired gardeners.

The air was cool as I sat on the cement steps under the cover of the front porch. A gentle rain continued to fall dampening everything and muffling any noise. All around me signs of life were beginning to emerge. The neighbor across the street raised the garage door, allowing a small white dog to run out and onto the lawn. It sniffed and scratched around before finding a spot next to a young rhododendron to do its thing. A thin lady dressed in a tight pink sweat suit came out calling “Cutie,” which, apparently, was the dog’s name. “Cutie, come back to Mumsy.” The lady in pink patted her thighs as the little dog scampered across the grass, down the sidewalk and toward the neighbor’s house. Cutie was not an obedient dog.

The lady noticed me sitting on the porch as she cautiously stepped out on her tiptoes into the rain to chase after her dog. She glanced at me nervously, still calling after Cutie. But Cutie was distracted, noticing a jogger coming down the sidewalk. I watched as Cutie ran over to the jogger, a tall, thin guy wearing blue running shorts and a grey T-shirt. A thin, black cap covered his hair. He was young, and though it was hard to really tell from my seat on the steps, he looked attractive.

“Cutie, come back here right now!” The lady in the pink sweat suit stormed after her dog that was now jumping and nipping at the jogger.

I watched from my perch on the porch as the jogger laughed, trying to shake off the tiny dog. Just as the lady grabbed the dog, saving the jogger from the terrible beast, he looked at me—the jogger. His eyes caught mine in what felt like the longest second of my life. Unexpectedly, the air rushed out of my chest and my cheeks lit up in a crimson blush. It was a spark I’d never experienced before, and I felt it to my core—that nervous jolt of excitement. The jogger smiled, but I looked away, caught so off guard by my reaction.

When I turned to look again, he was gone. And I went inside to begin my new life.

As it turned out, on top of her job as a home stager for a high-end real estate company, Shannon was also the president of the Tuscan Ridge Home Owners Association. In my first week of living with the Woods family, I’d babysat nearly every day for about six hours while Shannon scurried about going to this meeting or to that, or working on this project or the other, leaving a trail of fabric swatches and paint chips in her wake. And by the end of the week, I’d been recruited as the family nanny, being paid minimum wage to babysit my own cousin.

“We’re having an HOA meeting and pool party tonight at the club house,” Shannon announced brightly over a breakfast of fruit and toast the following Friday morning. The wind and rain that had lasted almost all of my first week in Tigard had finally let up and the morning had dawned with fresh, blue skies.

“Have you put the cinnamon on it yet? You have to do it before the butter totally melts,” Savi blathered, totally ignoring her mother as she grabbed a shaker filled with cinnamon and sugar and began shaking it violently over my plate of toast.

“It’ll be a great opportunity for you to meet some of the neighborhood kids. There are a few here your age.” Shannon used a tiny knife to slice and section a grapefruit while she spoke. “School just got out and I’m sure all the kids will be ready for a pool party. Sounds fun, huh?”

I shrugged. Truth be told, I’d never been swimming before. Ever. It’s kind of hard to hide a pair of iridescent blue wings stitched to your back while wearing a bathing suit. I’d have to find a way to politely excuse myself from the pool party, I resolved. But as the day wore on, it became apparent that there would be little chance of me escaping the awkward social scene at the neighborhood pool party that evening.

Shannon rushed out the door leaving a small list of instruction for the day: Mop, vacuum, clean microwave after each use, no TV for Savi until after lunch . . . It was the same list almost every day. I added wiping down the table, chairs and countertops to the list and busied myself. It was through these tedious tasks, these mindless chores, that I tried to reassemble my life.

Just before five that day, Savi, already dressed in a pink polka dot two-piece bathing suit, towel in hand, once again crossed the threshold into what I was beginning to accept as my bedroom. “Can you swim?” she asked.

I glanced away from my work refreshing the purple polish on my fingernails just long enough to look at her spindly legs. She still had the pot-bellied figure of a young child. “I don’t know,” I answered. “I’ve never tried.”

I cringed inwardly as soon as I uttered the words. I had left myself open to the possibility of swimming. I should have been more definite in my answer. I should have told her that I was allergic to pool water, or something.

“You’ve never tried? How is that even possible?” She slapped the side of her face dramatically.

“I’m sure there are a lot of non-swimmers in the world.” I shrugged, going back to my fingernails.

“Do you even have a swimming suit?” She came closer to where I sat at the small desk painting my nails.

To me her question was preposterous; of course I didn’t have a swimming suit. I also didn’t own any backless dresses, spaghetti-strapped tops, of off-the-shoulder gowns. In fact, nearly everything in my wardrobe was there for one purpose: to hide my wings.

“Nope. I don’t even have a swimming suit,” I answered her.

She turned from my room, yelling to her mother as she made her way down the hallway. “Mom, Brit doesn’t have a swimming suit. She can’t go to the party tonight.”

To my chagrin, Shannon came to my room next, still dressed in her slacks and high-heal shoes from her workday. I capped the bottle of nail polish and listened to her.

“You don’t have a swimming suit?” She asked with an amused look on her face, her arms across her narrow chest. She had the same thin, almost frail figure my father had; the same figure I’d inherited from him. “Well, you can use one of mine for tonight. But we’ll have to go shopping to find one for you. I wouldn’t want you to miss an entire summer of swimming just because you don’t own a swimming suit.”

“No, really, that’s okay,” I began to say, but she turned and was gone, apparently busying herself in her closet trying decide which of her bathing suits was appropriate for a shy, shapeless teenage girl.

I sighed with exasperation, pushed myself away from the desk and made my way down the hall to Shannon’s over-size master suite. I had to think of an excuse for not swimming—and I’d have to think fast. Shannon had already selected two suits from her wardrobe, holding them up in front of me, appraising the cut and color of each.

“I know you like purple,” she said, holding a purple one-piece out in front of her. “But I think this suit will make you look amazing.” She held up a turquoise tankini with small silver grommets along the plunging neckline.

I blushed as she placed the suit over my chest, apparently to see if it added curves to my thin figure. “Shannon,” I began explaining, gently pushing the suit away, “I won’t be swimming tonight.” She looked at me with concern as I wrapped my arms over my stomach and cringed for dramatic effect. “I think it might be all the stress—you know, the funeral and everything—but my stomach kind of feels funny.”

She put the swimming suits down to place a hand on my forehead, checking for signs of a fever. “You know, you have been through a lot lately. Why don’t you go rest for a while? I’ll just call for you when we’re ready to leave.”

I went back to my room, closing the door behind me, relieved that I’d successfully averted that crisis.
I lay on my bed, staring up at the blank white ceiling, hand behind my head. But my insides felt twitchy, restless; I had to move. I sat up, reaching behind me to scratch my back, and felt the wings there. I was again reminded of my differences. I was a winged freak orphan girl. And, inside I knew that if I went to this pool party tonight I’d end up sitting the corner, an outcast.

But in the end, I had no choice.

“Okay, girls. It’s time to go on over to the cabana.” Shannon walked into the kitchen, fastening a barrette in her wavy, red hair. “I can’t be late.”

“Um,” I began, wanting to graciously back out of going to the pool party. But Shannon interrupted before I could object.

“Oh, Brit, I hope you’re feeling better because I’m going to need your help tonight. Do you mind taking this stack of papers for me?” It wasn’t really a question. She thrust a stack of papers at me. “When we get to the pool, just place one packet of papers on each of the chairs. Oh, shoot.” She looked at the clock, her fingers with their light pink nails pressed to her lower lip. “I forgot to have Matt set up the chairs. I guess we’ll have to do it. Hurry, let’s go.” She grabbed her keys, turned on her heel and led us out the door and to the car.

I followed her out the door, the stack of papers in my arms, taking my place in the passenger seat of the Escalade, one of three cars owned by my aunt and uncle—evidently, the economy been really good for them. Balancing the stack of papers on my lap, I listened as Shannon continued to prattle on about the nights meeting and pool party.

“I’m so glad the rain stopped last night. If it hadn’t we’d have to wipe down all the chairs. I hope everyone remembers to bring a side dish because I don’t think we have enough hotdogs. I have to talk about some touchy subjects tonight: a few of the people haven’t been paying their dues; they won’t get a key to the pool this year. I always hate telling people they’re behind on their dues. Oh, and then there’s that landscaping issue. Ugh. It’s going to be a long night.”

Boy had she hit the nail on the head; listening to her going on and on, I was already beyond bored and the pool party hadn’t even begun. But the boredom wouldn’t last long. As soon as we hit the parking lot, Shannon had me working, laying out chairs around the pool and on the patio of the cabana, a Mediterranean-style building clad in pale cream stucco complete with a red tile roof, glaringly out of place amongst the Oregon pines. An information packet was then placed on each chair on the patio. When I was finished, I was free to basically babysit Savi who wanted only to jump into the pool.

Yippee.

“Come on, Brit,” she pleaded with me. “If you get in, then I can swim.”

“You forgot that I don’t swim.” I sat down on a chaise lounge next to the pool, closing my eyes and trying to block out the sound of my cousin’s whining. With my colorless legs peeking out from under a knee-length denim skirt, and my wings safely hidden under a black t-shirt, I was hardly dressed for a pool party. The only thing about my outfit that was appropriate for the location was the pair of flip-flops on my feet.

“Anyone can swim. It’s not that hard. Besides, you can stay in the shallow end.” She would not let up.
“I didn’t bring a swimming suit,” I said flatly.

She folded her arms defiantly across her chest, huffing loudly.

“I know,” her face brightened as she looked over to the cabana. “Kevin will take me.” To my delight, Savi skipped away in the direction of the pool gate where the first community members, a family of four, were talking to Shannon. I could hear Savi as she pleaded with the teen-age boy—Kevin, I assumed—to take her into the swimming pool. From where I sat, I could see Kevin, along with a girl I suspected was his sister, agreeing to play with Savi. Apparently, they were well acquainted with the young cousin with whom I was struggling to bond.

Then, I watched with dismay as she pointed in my direction and they all began walking toward me, eager smiles on their fresh, wholesome faces. I didn’t even have a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. Sinking down into the lounge, I braced myself for the inevitable introductions.

“This is my cousin. She used to live in Myrtle Point. But her dad died and now she’s going to live with me. She’s an orphan.” Savi spared only my name in her introduction. “This is Kevin and Bailey.”

The girl—Bailey—gasped, then quickly covered her open mouth with her hand. “So sorry to hear about your dad,” Kevin interjected politely.

Awkwardly, I stood up, glaring at Savi before turning to the pair of picture-perfect teens standing in front of me. “That’s fine,” I said. I was trying to be polite, but really all I wanted was to be left alone.
Kevin held out his hand for a handshake. I glanced down at his out-stretched palm, and then taking my hand out of my pocket, placed my hand in his for a brief handshake.

“So you moved here from Myrtle Point, huh?” It was Bailey’s turned to speak. She was petite, a pixie-type girl with short blonde hair and a round face. She smiled generously, revealing two rows of brilliantly white, perfectly straight teeth. Both of the fresh-faced teenagers Savi had dragged over were dressed in the most stylish swimming attire available in Oregon. Bailey’s white cover-up looked like a dress I’d have worn to something fancy.

“Yeah, Myrtle Point,” I answered, suddenly despising the name of my hometown for sounding suddenly so unsophisticated. Suddenly I was feeling breathless, suffocated. My mind wanted to run, but my legs stayed in place as if cemented right there on the pool deck. I had to do it, I had to force a smile and make polite conversation.

“You’ll like it here,” she went on. “Tigard’s nice. And Beaverton’s really close.”

“From there, you can catch the train to Portland. You can be there in, like, twenty minutes,” Kevin offered. His low-slung trunks revealed a cut set of abs. Too perfect. His sandy-blonde hair was swept to the side over his forehead, his hazel eyes peeking out from beneath his bangs.

“That’s great,” I said with a forced smile. I hadn’t come to socialize. I hadn’t prepared myself for random dialogue. These kids were nice, but where was Claire when I needed her. I needed to get a grip, lighten up and make some conversation.

Just then, two more families came into the pool area, each with a handful of kids of varying ages. To my relief, Kevin and Bailey were called away by their parents and I was able to sneak away to the restroom. I crouched in a stall, slowly and deliberately breathing in and out, trying to figure out just how I was going to get through the evening; the socializing, the swimming, it was all just a little too much for me. But I knew that I couldn’t stay in the bathroom, hovering over the toilet all night. The most, chlorine scented air was making me lightheaded. I had to go out there and put on a brave face and a stiff upper lip. So after a few minutes of deep breathing and silent prayers, I wandered back out into the glaring sunlight of the pool deck, wishing again for a pair of sunglasses to hide behind.

I found another lounge chair in a quiet corner of the cabana and I settle in for the rest of the evening. From my seat I watched as people mingled, reading the papers I had placed on each of the arranged chairs, before Shannon called the Home Owners Association meeting to order. I tuned out for the next thirty minutes as Shannon rambled on about budgets, dues, taxes, and rules, reminding everyone about pool safety, parking rules, and the covenants and restrictions of the Tuscan Ridge subdivision.

As she finished up her speech, I couldn’t help but notice a boy sitting in the corner, dressed for swimming in a pair of red swim trunks, shirtless, but holding a book in front of his face. His dark brown hair was pushed carelessly to the side, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed carelessly at the ankle. He had the olive complexion of one born in an exotic locale. From where I sat, I couldn’t make out a title of the book in his hands, but it must have been a good read. And even when everyone else stood up and grabbed a plate of food, he remained in his chair, his nose in the book. I didn’t realize I was staring until he glanced up from his book and caught my eye. I quickly looked down at my hands, but not before I felt the heat rising in my face, painting my cheeks in a telltale blush. It was him—the jogger. His eyes met mine and it happened again, that spark.

Now, I had never been boy crazy; to that point I had never even been on a date. But when I made eye contact, however brief it was, with that mysterious boy sitting like a bookworm in the corner, I felt a thrill go through me like nothing I’d felt before. I had to know him. I had to find a way to talk to him. But how?

While I sat in the corner thinking my silent thoughts about the book boy, someone else was obviously checking me out. I felt my lounge chair tip as someone sat down on the edge, completely invading my space.

“I’m Andy Wentz,” I heard him say. I turned from gazing at the book boy to see a redhead in a white T-shirt and Hawaiian print swim trunks extending a mole-covered hand to me. Did everyone in the Tuscan Ridge subdivision shake hands? Was it written in the community rules?

“Hi?” I said, not accepting his handshake. I meant no offense, really. It was just something about this guy made my stomach curdle.

“You’re new here,” he said, stating the obvious. “Basically we’re all new here. The subdivision only opened two years ago. My family moved here from Happy Valley.” He threw his chin up like I was supposed to be impressed or something. “I happen to know Portland inside and out. And I could be your personal tour guide. I know where all the great places are.”

I sat there, staring at his pale, freckled face and too big forehead with my mouth agape. What was I supposed to say? Before I could answer, Kevin and Bailey returned.

“Hey, Andy.” Kevin stood with his arms folded across his chest, blocking my sunlight. “You’ve met Brit?”

At this, Andy stood, causing my lounge chair to rock forward slightly. “Yeah, we were just discussing a trip to Portland.”

What? I didn’t recall agreeing to any trip to the city. Bailey called his bluff.

“I’m sure.” She rolled her eyes. Obviously, she knew something that I didn’t. And I really was grateful for her help, but I couldn’t sit around while total strangers fought for my attention. I felt a sudden urge to run, to hide in the restroom yet again. I stood, politely excusing myself from their debate. “I’ve got to go get some food before it’s all gone.”

I walked over to the table next to the grill where my uncle Matthew was grilling hotdogs and brats.
“How’s it going, Brit? Have you met anyone interesting yet? This neighborhood has plenty of kids your age.” He smiled pleasantly, working over the grill. While Shannon was all business and nervous energy, Matthew was cool and calm, centered.

“Yeah, I’ve met a few kids. They all seem nice,” I replied with a shrug. I’d have to get over my bad attitude and actually try to make friends here. But not today. Today I just wanted to sit outside the mix and watch.

“What’ll it be, brat or dog?” he asked, flipping the tongs in his hands.

“Um, neither,” I answered, “thanks.” I hadn’t been lying earlier when I’d told Shannon that my stomach was upset. It was true. And the last thing I wanted was to cram processed meat down my throat. “I’m just going to have some of this salad,” I told him, but he wasn’t listening; he’d already moved his attention on to someone else, placing a fat, greasy bratwurst into a starchy bun.

A cluster of evergreen trees stood like statues in the northern-most corner of the pool deck. I found my spot, I thought, quiet, shaded and far enough away to allow me to sink into the background. I took my plate of salad and sought shelter from the sun under the cover of the shielding trees.

Savi was sitting by the side of the pool with Bailey, dangling her skinny legs into the water. Bailey seemed to be explaining something to her, and Savi was totally engrossed, thrilled, I guessed, to be getting so much attention. Flipping off my flip-flops and settling into a lounge chair, I remembered the iPod safely tucked into the pocket of my skirt. Satisfied that I could tune out for a while, I put the ear buds in and turned on some music, relaxing into a sleepy haze. I let all the cares and thoughts drift away and just melted into the moment, eyes closed, mind numb.

For I don’t know how long, I was unaware of anything around me, until a slight tickle on my finger broke into my consciousness. Opening my eyes, I found a dragonfly perched patiently on the first knuckle of my index finger, its shimmering blue body twitching just slightly. With bulbous eyes it seemed to look me up and down, assessing me just like everyone else. And I wondered what it was doing here, perched on my hand. I flicked my finger, sending the dragonfly into flight. And as I watched it flit upward into the sky I noticed more dragonflies darting busily over the pool, dipping in and out of the slanted light of the setting sun. It was so peaceful, the way they danced in the perfumed air of twilight. Somehow I’d fallen asleep, lying unnoticed in the shade of the tall pine trees, exhausting all of the songs on my playlist. The murmur of voices and the subtle lap-lap sounds of the pool caught my attention, the now silent ear buds still in my ears. I noticed the crowd was dispersing, the party breaking up. The families with young children had pretty much all gone, leaving behind the older families, the ones with teenagers, including Kevin and Bailey who were still playing with Savi (shame on me). And, to my shy delight, the book boy, though I would never dare approach him.

“Can you help me clean up some of the left over food?” It was Shannon. She stood at the end of the lounge chair, her hands awkwardly holding crushed, used disposable cups, and paper plates wet with ketchup and mustard.

“Sure,” I answered, recalling my place in the family as “helper-at-large.”

Pulling my ear buds out of my ears and tucking them into my pocket, I followed Shannon around the pool. I hurried around picking up trash and straightening chairs. As I walked along the mock travertine tile close to the edge of the pool, something in the water caught my eye. With my hands still full of trash, I stepped close to the edge so I could see down through the water to the blue-hued bottom of the pool. What I saw both shocked and mesmerized me at the same time. There, just below the surface of the water, staring back at me was a woman, her red-rimmed green eyes wide with fear, her hair swirling around her woeful face, black like an oil spill. I lurched with alarm, stepping back just slightly, but her arms clothed in flowing white shroud-like material, reached for me, beckoning for me to reach in and pull her out. Something had to be done—and fast. But I can’t swim. The panicked thought entered my mind just in time to feel myself falling and splashing down into the water.

The woman, with her flowing black hair and eyes like green lasers, wrapped her arms tightly around my abdomen, squeezing the air from lungs in an eruption of bubbles that quickly climbed to the surface of the water. Her swirling dress wrapped around me as she pulled me down to the bottom of the pool. Frozen by the cold shock of the pool water, and paralyzed by my inability to swim, I grasped at her, trying to pull myself from her grip. My lungs burned, my eyes stung, my body screamed for air. All around me I could see only her inky black hair swirling and curling, enveloping me as I drifted down to the cement bottom of the pool.

When I realized that this was it, after seventeen years of avoiding the swimming pool at all cost, I was going to die by drowning at a pool party, I became frantic. Like an angry child, I was going to fight for my right to live. I clawed, pulled, pushed, and writhed all in a seemingly fruitless effort to escape the grasp of this strange woman in the water. If I could just break the surface of the water, surely I could get someone’s attention.

With the last of my energy, I pushed the heel of my foot into the floor of the pool, driving myself upward toward the surface of the water. But it was of no use. Before I could break the surface of the water, before I could quench my body’s thirst for oxygen and hopefully get someone’s attention, I felt my body being violently yanked back down, the surface remaining just beyond my grasp.

A sprinkling of stars began to twinkle in the periphery of my vision as my brain began to feel the effects of oxygen starvation. My nose and eyes burned, my head ready to explode. Weakened and limp, I was defenseless against the weight of the water. My strength was draining and I couldn’t fight anymore as my vision began to cloud, the flashing stars growing in size and brilliance. I began the descent into unconsciousness.

Then, unexpectedly, I was being pulled sideways and upward, caught in the tight grip of two strong hands.

© 2011 Fiauna Lund

And So It Begins

2011-06-28T08:25:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here in front of my laptop wanting to vomit through my fingers but bravely holding it all in. I have some very exciting news that I want to share . . . but I can't--yet. Don't worry, it will (hopefully) be coming soon.

That said, I want to give you something to read, so I've decided to post the first chapter of Indigo for you. As with In the Twilight, this is a Work in Progress, so I welcome your thoughts, reactions, helpful criticisms. And of course, I'd love some praise, if you are so inclined. : )

Without further ado, I give Chapter One (Should I have a name, or just stick with numbers? You tell me.)

The cold rain came in from the north, falling from the sky, pointed and cold like the scornful eyes of a disappointed crowd. Landing on my head and shoulders, the rain continued running down my black hair in streams, pooling in my eyes, on top of my lip, and at the base of my neck. Shannon, my aunt, called to me to come stand under her large, black umbrella, but I shrugged her off. The sight of that big, black umbrella was just too funereal. Just like the black dress I wore that was not my own. Just like the rain.
So, instead, I stood next to the umbrella. I stood next to my seven-year-old cousin Savannah Woods as she heaved great big dramatic sobs of grief over a dead uncle she’d met only once. I rolled my eyes. She threw her hands over her face, her strawberry-blond ringlets, now drooping from the rain, shielding her face from me.

But it occurred to me just then that I too should be crying. In fact, at that moment it seemed as if everything around me was howling in grief. Even the wind carried the ominous sound of wailing down from the tear-streaked sky. I too should have been wailing, sobbing and breathless. I should have been shaking my fist to the sky and making bargains to bring my father back. And yet, I did not cry. I felt at peace. Calm.

I had never known my mother. Anything I knew of her had come from my father’s tender recollections. For while my mother had given me my wings, my father had worked tirelessly to give me roots, raising me in a small town with an amazingly low crime rate, one high school, and no shopping malls. And while he’d taught me to be self-sufficient, insisting I have a job every summer, he was overprotective, never allowing me to have slumber parties, stay out past nine o’clock at night, or date.

He loved me. I knew that. That was never in question. And though I could not cry, I knew I’d miss him tremendously. With my father’s death came this strange tipping sensation, like the roots to my life had lost their grip on the earth and I was falling, ever-so slowly.

At the end of the service, Shannon gingerly placed her hand on my shoulder to turn me away from the gaping hole in the earth that was to be my father’s eternal resting place. I stiffened, careful not to let her hand get anywhere near my back. This simple reflex had become instinctual. No one knew about the wings on my back—not even my new, makeshift family.

“Come, Brit. Let’s get out of this rain.” She used a soothing voice, the type of voice you’d use if you were trying to console a wounded six-year-old.

But I wasn’t a six-year-old and I wasn’t wounded. I merely wanted to take one last look at my father’s casket as fist-size globs of mud slipped like miniature land slides into the grave.

They waited for me patiently, my new family, while I placed my hand on the smooth, silver casket that held his body and I said goodbye one last time. Then, taking a deep breath, I looked around the cemetery, looking beyond the trees to say goodbye to the tiny town where I’d spent my entire seventeen years of life. I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to too many friends; my father’s restrictions on my social life had limited my already puny social circle. Even yet, Claire, my only close friend, threw her soft arms around my neck, pulling me down to her height in a tight embrace.

“Call me as soon as you get there,” she said. It was a command, not a request. That was just like her, always directing, telling me what to do. And I guessed that’s what a girl like me needed, direction. Her brown eyes were red from crying. She used a wadded tissue to wipe her up-turned nose.

“I’ll try,” I said, noncommittal, uncertain what would happen when I reached my new home. I didn’t have the heart to say goodbye, so, feeling I was finally ready, I turned, signaling to Shannon, Matthew, and Savannah, that I was okay. We could leave.

As we made our way across the lawn, our shoes sinking into the wet earth, Savannah took a break from her crying, inhaled deeply and asked, “What’s an aortic dissection?”

There was an audible gasp from my uncle Matthew as Shannon tried to cover for her daughter’s apparent rudeness. “Where ever did you hear about that?” She turned to me, and with a pained expression that pinched her nose making it look thinner than it already was, said, “Brit, I’m so sorry. I guess I’ll have to have a long talk with Savi when we get home.”

“That’s alright,” I replied, my voice coming out whispery and soft when I’d meant to sound confident and assured.

“I heard that’s when your heart explodes,” Savannah managed to squeak out before her mother clamped her hand right over her mouth.

“Now, Savi, you’re being rude. Brit doesn’t want to hear about this right now.”

Savannah, or Savi, was of course referring to the apparent cause of my father’s untimely death. While driving home from work on highway 42 my father’s Honda Accord had rear-ended a car that for some still unknown reason had come to a complete and sudden stop on the highway. The steering wheel slammed mercilessly into his chest, his forehead leaving a mark in the windshield. Originally, the paramedics that responded to the accident thought my father was fine, strapping him to a gurney and shoving him in the back of an ambulance for the ride to the hospital. What they didn’t know, couldn’t see, was the fact that the blunt force of the steering wheel had torn the inner layers of my father’s aorta, causing it to swell with blood. On the ride to the hospital, so I was told, while bandaging the superficial wounds on his forehead, they failed to notice a sudden change in his blood pressure. Tragically, the pressure of the pooling blood caused the aorta to tear, a stunning six-inch gash down the side of the artery, spilling blood into his chest. At that point, nothing could be done. He didn’t suffer, they’d assured me. He didn’t even know he was dying.

Shannon had rushed down from Portland to our home in Myrtle Point to arrange for the funeral, collect me, my most essential belongings, and take me back to her home in Tigard. It had all happened so quickly. In a quiet frenzy of activity my life had changed. I had been uprooted, and relocated.
And now as I said goodbye to my old life, I had no choice but to embrace my new one.

We pulled into the Tuscan Ridge subdivision sometime after dark. I had drifted in and out of sleep, still in my rain soaked clothes, on the four-hour drive from my old home to my new one. Matthew let the engine of the small SUV idle while he waited for the garage door of the two-story home to open before pulling into the garage.

I helped grab my bags, two suitcases and one large duffel bag, and followed my aunt and uncle through the kitchen with its travertine tile floor and granite counter tops, past the dining room with its impeccable furnishings, up the carpeted steps in the family room with its grand two-story fireplace and leather sofas, to my new bedroom. This was all so different than the humble home my father had provided for me.
Savannah followed along, babbling all the while. “If you get scared, remember I’m right over there,” she commented, pointing a finger down the hall. “The bathroom is over there, but you’ll have to share it with me, so no long showers. Breakfast is at seven-thirty. I like cinnamon toast and chocolate milk. Have you had that before?” I shook my head. “You’ll just have to try it. Mom, fix her cinnamon toast and chocolate milk in the morning.”

“Savannah, shush now. You need to go get ready for bed.” Shannon directed her daughter down the hall and into her own room.

I stepped through the doorway into a whitewashed room with wicker and eyelet trimmed everything—bedspread, bed skirt, pillow covers, curtains.

“This will be your room. I hope you like it.” She looked hopeful, but what more could I say than “Thanks.” With all the leather and wrought iron I’d passed on my way up to this room, I was surprised that Shannon had this in her. She walked across the carpeted floor, placing my suitcase gently on the ground. Matthew followed with my other suitcase. He smiled wordlessly and left the room.

“You must be exhausted. You haven’t said a word all day. You poor thing.” Shannon came close, maybe a little too close. I took a minute step backward before dropping the duffel bag I carried on the bed. She stopped in her tracks, sensing my discomfort. “You’ll like it here. There’s a pool down the street, you’ll meet kids your own age, and the city is less than thirty minutes away.” She looked me up and down, not knowing what to say to ease my apparent strain, though I didn’t feel it necessary at all and wished only to be left alone for a while. But Shannon went on. “The bathroom is right across the hall. There are fresh towels in there along with shampoo and soap and whatever else you need. But if you need anything more, just ask.” I nodded, silently willing her away with my mind.

She turned toward the door, stopping and looking back just before crossing the threshold. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured her so she would leave me in peace. Then I flopped on the bed, the bedspread rumpling around me. I would have to somehow rid this room of all its cutesy eyelet lace, though I’d have to give Shannon points for trying—barely.

I unzipped my duffel bag, pulling out a stuffed winged horse and a journal bound in blue leather. I hugged the stuffed animal, pushing my nose into the plush fabric, smelling the familiar scent of my former home. Then I opened the journal to the last entry.

May 31st

Today was the last day of school. Though summer is not my favorite season, I’m thrilled to embark on a few new summer adventures. Dad said we’d drive to the coast and spend a few days at the beach. I can’t wait.
I found a summer job keeping house for Mrs. Binchy. I’ll work three mornings a week. I’m not sure exactly what she’ll have me do, but something tells me I’ll be pulling a lot of weeds.

We never made it to the coast. Mrs. Binchy would have to weed her own flowerbeds this summer.

I looked up to see Savannah once again darkening my doorway. “I think your mom and dad want you in bed,” I warned, closing my journal and placing it on the white wicker nightstand next to the bed.
Savannah crossed the threshold into my room, coming to sit next to me on the bed, smoothing her pink nightgown over her lap. “Your hair is really dark,” she pointed out the obvious. “It’s like ink black.”

I had inherited my mother’s dark hair, though I do think ink-black was a bit of a stretch. Actually, most of my features came from my mom—or so I’d been told. I never actually saw her; my dad didn’t even have any pictures of her. I fingered my bobbed chin-length hair suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“So, did you have a lot of friends in Myrtle Point?” she asked.

“A few,” I answered, looking at my fingernails and wondering if I’d remembered my nail polish remover when I packed.

“Did you have a boyfriend?” Savi asked.

“Uh, no.” I stood and paced over to my suitcases, lifting the first one and hefting it onto the bed. “And I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Hey, I was just asking.” She put up her hands defensively. She leaned over and grabbed my winged horse, running her fingers over the acetate wings on its back. I watched her, suddenly feeling somehow violated, like she was fingering the wings on my back without permission. But before I could ask her to put the stuffed animal down, she asked yet another question.

“What’s it like being an orphan?”

A fist suddenly closed tightly over my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs, making it impossible to answer her question. I had never, not even once since my father’s death, thought of myself as an orphan. The thought alone sent my mind scattering trying to make sense of it all.

“Savi, I told you to go to bed.” Shannon came to the rescue apologizing once again for her daughter’s bold and tactless question, and Savi scurried from my room and down the hall.

Shannon shook her head, sighing dramatically. “I’m so sorry, Brit.” Her eyebrows furrowed, threading tiny creases across her otherwise smooth brow. “Are you sure you’re okay? There’s nothing I can get for you?”

“I’m fine. Really,” I croaked, my throat suddenly dry. But once she left me alone in my room I found myself dissolving into a mess of nerves, worries, and un-cried tears.

I sat on my bed pressing my winged horse to my chest, running the fabric of the wings between my fingers. No matter what I did, I just could not imagine what my life would look like in the morning. What would tomorrow bring? Other than a few weekends away in Portland or Seattle, I had never really been out of Myrtle Point. And now here I was smack in the middle of the suburbs with no one but a thirty-three-year-old soccer mom and her seven-year-old protégé to guide me.

I melted back onto the bed, my head resting uncomfortably on the eyelet pillow cover, my dress still damp from the rain. Staring at the ceiling, I tried once again to swallow my grief, Savi’s question echoing across the canyon of my mind. What is it like to be an orphan? Lonely. Uncertain. Daunting. And a million other words I was too tired to think up. I felt misplaced, forgotten. My parents had been taken from this world, but somehow I had been left behind and all around me the world just kept moving on.

I drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of my old life, remembering a seven-year-old me coloring on the corroded concrete driveway of my old home with Claire. We drew fairies and winged horses. Dad joined us, tracing out an entire city, our fairy world, on the driveway with blue sidewalk chalk.

As I tried sleeping, outside the window the wind began wailing once again. I listened as it moaned hollowly, as if keening for something it could never have.

© 2011 Fiauna Lund

Love, In the End

2011-06-08T06:16:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Saturday Centus and the admonition to use no more than twenty-seven words (including the two words of the prompt: The End), I have tried my hand at an acrostic poem. And, as always, drop by Jenny's blog to read more.

Love, In the End

Time, it is said,

Heals all wounds.

Everlasting, though, are memories

Enter not into love fearing pain,

Needing in return.

Disappointment, the choking weed in the end.

© 2011 Fiauna Lund

A Little Taste of Indigo

2011-05-24T12:22:00.000-07:00

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about what I'm about to do, but I'm offering for your (presumed) reading enjoyment a sneak peek at a little project I've been working on: a YA novel called Indigo. While most of the manuscript is complete at this point, it is still in need of refining. I am, however, very satisfied with the prologue of the story, so I will share it with you. Enjoy.

“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings."~ Hodding Carter

Prologue

My mother moved through my life like air: unnoticed, and yet so necessary; equal parts life and death. My mother was crazy, full of stories, living in a dream world. My father told me all about her, sparing the details my young mind didn’t need to know. I trusted him to help me understand a woman I had never met. He shared nearly every story from how they met at my great uncle Owen Kavanagh’s, funeral, to the story of their wedding on a beach on the coast of Oregon. But to my father’s dismay, the story I loved the most was also the story he liked the least. And while my father was living I’d ask him every night to tell me the story of how my mother gave me my wings.

“Tell me again, Daddy. Tell me about the wings.” I’d sit in bed, the blankets smoothed over my lap while my dad held my hand in his. It was our ritual to sit together every night, holding hands.

Impeccably clean, my dad always smelled of cleanser and aftershave. Not in a cold, sterile way, though; more comforting and familiar. I loved to sit by my dad and smell the starch from his crisp shirts, the collar loosened, as I waited for him to tell me the story again. But every time I asked for the story, he’d rub his eyes and say, “Brit, you know I don’t like this story.”

“But, Daddy, it’s my story. They’re my wings,” I’d plead.

Then with a heavy sigh, he’d heave the story out on his weary breath, word for word. “Your mother was a visionary woman. She often told me stories of mystical places, winged creatures, and enchanted spells. When you were born, she told me she believed you were magical, blessed with gifts from another world. Sometimes she even told me you had wings—real ones . . . ”

The story was always the same. And though it disturbed my father to rehash the events of that day, the story continued to fascinate me.

When I was a baby—only about two months old, the story goes—she fashioned a pair of shimmering wings of azure blue for me. Then, using a cold potato to numb the pain, and a rag soaked in sugar water to quiet my wailing, she picked up her darning needle and sewed the wings into place on my back right between my shoulder blades.

When my father returned home that night, he found me sleeping soundly in my crib, curled up on my belly, two chubby fingers in my mouth. And there on my back were the shimmering wings, freshly sewn into my skin. My mother was gone, presumed dead. She was never seen again.
The wings, however, stayed.

© 2011, Fiauna Lund

A Super-Short Story

2011-05-18T11:08:00.000-07:00

I'm trying my hand at super-short fiction thanks to

Read. Enjoy. Maybe give it a shot.

The Nightmare

Somewhere outside this darkened room someone stirs. The sound is jarring in the quiet and I draw a sudden breath. How long have I been awake? It feels like days since I slept. The noise outside dies away and I return to rocking the hot, damp body in my arms.

Hush, little baby don’t you cry . . . . I hear the words before I’m aware that I’m crying. I exhale and return to my silent prayer that in the morning this nightmare—the fevers, the crying, the ever-present shadow of hovering death—will evaporate like a specter in the glaring light of day.

© 2011 Fiauna Lund

I'm Finally Back!

2011-05-17T10:07:00.000-07:00

It's been nearly two years since I took down the original The Sprightling Diaries blog and nearly a year since I announced my blogging hiatus. But now I'm excited to announce that I'm back! I've been working on some projects, working on completing my degree and basically focusing on the home. Recently, however, my creativity has been roused and I've picked up the pen (theoretically at least) once again. A publisher has expressed interest in The Sprightling Diaries: In the Twilight. While I'm thrilled at this positive turn of events, I'm still waiting patiently for a firm reply or contract offer. I'll let you know what happens.

In the mean time, check back for sneak peeks of my upcoming projects Indigo, The Sprightling Diaries: Shadow Waters, and Ten Lunches. Click on the link on the sidebar to read In the Twilight. And, of course, comment; I'd love to hear from you!

© 2011 Fiauna Lund