Other People

There was a split second. One, brief effervescent moment where the world wasn’t what it was. Melissa tried to hold onto that moment. She dug her nails into it, but it turned to salt and crumbled at her grip, it fell away and faded and reformed into the truth. Her head hit a pipe or a valve or a knob. It was then that she truly opened her eyes. The white hot pain jolted her and she squeezed her hands into fists. Something soft yet rigid was in her right hand. Melissa had been crawling or stumbling down a tunnel for hours, her knees were reflections of her journey they were bloody, mashed to a pulp, skinned almost to the bone.  She couldn’t see but tried to surmise what was in her right hand. It bended and extended. It seemed to have …

It was then the last few hours came rushing back to Melissa, flooding her brain with unbelievably exquisite pain. She was holding a human arm. Not just anyone’s arm. Her mother’s arm. 

Every memory began to torture her. It was just her and her mother; they were under attack from other people. They swarmed their house like locusts. Melissa got bit, she was 13. Her mother abandoned her and fled, locked herself in the basement. Once bitten, the other people didn’t care about her, they moved around her, they trampled her and she died. She died slowly; painfully. She remembers it feeling like her brain exploded. Soft buds of pain bloomed in her brain like a flower. When she awoke the people were still in her house but they had gotten disillusioned and stumbled, no longer the swarm of urgent violence driven by lust. They lost direction.

Melissa moved, shifted, rose and wailed. It was a bellow. It was pain. She was mourning her life lost. She found the door to the basement and she threw herself against it. Crying for her mother, yearning for the fear to end. The other people joined in and eventually the door shattered. Her mother was in the corner, like a rat, scratching, squealing, begging. She went to her mother.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” Melissa stated, calmly.

“My poor baby. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.” Her mother cried.

“I’m going to get you out of here.”

Melissa grabbed her mother and dragged her out of the basement and kept dragging her to the road, down the road, for miles. When the men in uniforms showed up and strategically placed a bullet in the other people’s head. When the bombs started falling, Melissa continued to drag her mother. Down into the sewers where she crawled on all fours, dragging her mother’s body. The flesh melted away until all that remained was her mother’s arm, her slender wrist, her wedding rings. She remembered then, why she told her mother she’d get her out. Before she dragged her out of the house, Melissa snapped her mother’s neck, so she would never become what her daughter was, a monster.  Better one of them escaped a fate worse than death.

In the dark, Melissa placed her mother’s hand against her face. She took off her mother’s wedding rings placed them on her fingers.  Then she resumed her crawling. Each movement tore new ligaments, shredded more bones but Melissa crawled. She was determined to keep going until her bones grated to dust and she was free.

I Am No Wil Wheaton

At my core, I am a writer. It is what I strive to be, it is what I desire; it is what makes me happy. As time passes and I come up with projects and put them aside, start short stories and never finish them, apply for freelance jobs and never get them, I realize my energy is misappropriated. Aside from having a few publications and short lived reporter jobs, I have not really pursued my dreams I have settled for what pays the bills. When I begin the journey of publication, manuscripts and submissions, I am overwhelmed. I feel I am not worthy.

For 2 years at the Emerald City Comicon, I have sat in the panel titled “Wil Wheaton’s Awesome Hour.” From Star Trek, to ingenious writing he has captivated me. Here is a man who has reinvented himself, a family man, a man who cares for his fans. While 3,000 of us squeezed into a room just to hear him read us excerpts, answer questions, and regale us with witty remarks, I laughed and beamed and realize I have no leg to stand on.

I am no Wil Wheaton, and here is no great matter. This is my call to action. I may not be Wil Wheaton but I am Leila Regan and while a part of me feels all that can be done has, a part of me knows that I am a different type of writer from everyone else. Wil Wheaton, you have inspired me to get back on the horse. To submit until I bring writing into submission. I want to write. I want to be published. I want my words to grace the pages of a book. A solid book people can hold in their hands. It will be time consuming and hard and become a unpaid second job, but I have to give it an honest effort, I have to write and be read.

The pen is mightier than the sword and I will use my pen to stab at pages and eke out stories and fall in love again. While Wil Wheaton has shown me his strength it has renewed my strength in myself. I am no Wil Wheaton but he forged himself and I must do the same. 

The Snow & I

Fluffy, big, white ice falls from the sky and I grin, even though no one is around to see it. As the snow touches the ground and sticks, I am filled with giddy excitement. It’s Christmas day in my mind. The snow turns everything pretty, everything white and soft.

My childhood was full of beauty and sunshine and fresh fruit. In Hawaii, you grow up active: swimming, surfing, hiking, camping, paddling, everything. Sundays were beach days. We’d go to our favorite beach, Bellows. My dad would bring a shovel and dig a huge hole in the sand with a ledge for us kids to sit on. The hole would be close to the shoreline so the waves would jump over. My dad called it the beach Jacuzzi. We’d walk the beach looking for glass balls (old fishing buoys), shells and sea glass. We’d make sand castles and more, almost every weekend. At the end of the day, my dad would usually have to swim out to get me back in I loved the water so much.

I still love the water and can’t see myself living somewhere without it. I haven’t lived home in Hawaii since 2003 but I have lived near beaches on the East and West Coast. I find peace and serenity in water.

The first time I saw snow actually falling was when I was 16 and living with my aunt in Connecticut. I was so enthralled. So consumed with watching the flakes fall, that my teacher stopped a math class so I could open up a window and stick my hand out. I still remember the snow’s cold touch. One of my classmate’s said “It’s just like watching a child.” Living with my aunt and her family exposed me to the wonders of winter. We’d go sledding in the yard and neighborhood. I laughed and stayed out until my cheeks were red from cold and my fingers went numb. They took me snowboarding, I was terrible but wasn’t afraid to fall because I knew underneath me was that sweet, supple, powder.

In Hawaii, as a family we hiked, we kayaked, we bonded. We even used to go to drive in movies every few weekends before they closed it down. As a kid if I was “bored” I was encouraged to go down to the beach with my Tutu (grandmother). You’d be amazed how a beach can monopolize a kid’s time – swimming, picking seaweed. Give me a bogey board and the ocean and I’ll still spend hours waiting for the perfect wave. Even after my mother passed away, my father and I always made time for each other. We’d go on long walks together before dinner or kayak rides to the sand bar. There were some Christmas mornings we would go surfing. Despite all the amazing beauty and weather and water Hawaii has to offer you still grow up watching the same movies and TV shows as every other kid.

You grew up wanting a white Christmas, though not really understanding what that meant. You saw autumn leaves in beautiful colors being racked into piles for children to jump on. As a kid, I wanted that. You wanted to be normal and have your family be like the one on TV. While our Thanksgivings were full of love and food and friends and family, it wasn’t the least bit chilly out and fall colors were the same as summer, spring and winter – green. Hawaii doesn’t even practice daylight savings time because our days don’t drastically shorten given the season. In the “winter” it is greener in Hawaii than in the “summer” where it browns out a little. Hawaii is a constant while the mainland is fickle with its weather.

I think it’s the way it falls from the sky that makes me so animated. It floats, like something from a dream. It flies down on wind currents and unseen air pressures. It can come down in big soft clumps or delicate tiny powder-like flakes. It can be those intricate delicate snowflakes or several that form a crystal-like growth. It’s beautiful and simple and turns the landscape a different color.

Snow is something I never experienced until I was an adult. I know the science behind what makes it, and I know it causes accidents, road closures, power outages and worse. Sitting at my desk, writing this I am overcome with how lovely and yielding it is. It makes everything the same color which comforts me and in a way reminds me of home. While Hawaii is perpetually green, the snow is perpetually white. It’s a constant.

My Loss

I remember the orchids. When the elevator doors opened on the Intensive Care Unit of Queens Hospital, there were these beautiful purple orchids in a square ceramic vase. They were the only color not bleached into terrifyingly dull shades by the fluorescent lights. Up until this point the day had been blurred and blotted, but suddenly upon gazing at the orchids I was snapped back into the here and now. I was 13 and stricken. I asked my older sister Malia to hold my hand. She refused. She was not the nurturing type at 16. She’d never be the nurturing type.

Everything in the hospital seemed larger and out of place. The beeping machines seemed loud. The rectangles of lights seemed to make everything bathed in its glow stiff. Being under the lights I could feel my muscles tighten. As we passed rooms and were given glimpses of the sick and dying, I kept shaking my head to implore the images to leave. This isn’t where my mother belongs. She taught aerobics every morning, she was on my little sisters’ elementary school board as the third vice president. She did bake sales and crafts and she practiced hula. 

When I saw her lying in the hospital bed, all the thoughts racing through my head were gone. I drew a deep breath, stepped over the threshold and the tears rolled. My mouth opened but nothing and everything fell out all at once. My mother couldn’t open her eyes or talk she barely twitched. 

Earlier in the day, my mother dropped Malia and I off at summer school. She reminded us to be back here at noon. My older sister being the moody, suffering teenager she was jumped out of our blue Ford aerostar van and said,

“Yeah, whatever, I hate you.” My mother clicked her tongue at the statement. I gave my mother a hug and said,

“I love you, mom.” 

At noon, we waited, my sister brooding away from me. Finally my dad pulls up in our van and tells us to get in.

“Where’s mom?”

“She has a headache.” This was nothing out of the ordinary. My mother often got migraines. She had begun turning to healing crystals to fix the problem. They didn’t do much but look pretty. My mom had been on high blood pressure medication. But she hated modern remedies, especially doctors and when her prescription ran out she didn't get a refill. I remember once, while driving somewhere my mom pulled over the van and vomited blood. She begged me not to tell anyone.

Sitting next to her hospital bed, I cursed myself for everything that had befallen my mother. She was fine this morning. It was because I didn’t make her refill her prescription, or maybe it was because I didn't tell anyone about the bloody vomit. She twitched and I found comfort in her warm skin. No one had explained to us yet what had happened. I hadn’t seen my father since he rushed my mother to the hospital. It all happened so very quickly.

My friend Lahela came over after summer school we were being loud and obnoxious laughing and joking and messing with my little sisters. We were keeping them occupied as the door to my parent’s bedroom remained locked. My father came out a few times and yelled at us to keep it down, that my mother was suffering with a headache.

“What?” Lahela said. “Is her brain expanding?” We all laughed, thinking of the likelihood.

I knocked on the door once. My mother’s good friend, my Aunty Jane was in there, struggling under my naked mother’s weight. My dad was watching, I think he forgot he had opened the door. They were trying to get her into the shower, she was sweating. I forgot what I had knocked to ask, and the door closed.

Next, Lahela and I were asked to watch my sisters. My dad and Aunty Jane were taking my mom to our family doctor, Dr. Seberg. From what I was told my mother managed to tell Dr.Seberg that she was seeing red. From there she was rushed to the hospital.

The events that lead up to this moment, I can’t recall. I don’t know when Lahela went home; I don’t know where my little sisters were. I know my older sister’s friend drove us to the hospital. I don’t remember the car ride. But I remember my mother, still beautiful and glowing, even under the fluorescent light. I was pale in comparison to her. Her nails were still perfectly painted, her hair still dyed a shade of red. I assumed her green contacts were no longer in her eyes so they would just be that beautiful soft brown color. I never understood my mother with the red hair and green tinted contacts. She was full-blooded Italian. I'd give anything for her to wake up right now and curse obscenities at me in Italian.

Everything blurred and swayed and moved and shifted. I had no idea if the ground I was standing on was real or if it was going to crumble away. It was explained to me slowly.

“Your mother has a brain aneurysm.” I stared down at my thumbs as Dr. Seberg told me this. He traveled to the hospital just to explain to me and my sisters what is happening to our mother. You don’t find doctors like that anymore.

“What’s that?” My voice didn't sound like my own and I looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s a blood bubble located here.” He pointed between my eyebrows. My eyes tried to follow but gave up. “See, it started leaking and the brain can only hold so much fluid. When the blood bubble began to leak into the brain, you mother began seeing red and her brain was actually swelling, causing the migraine.” Lahela was right her brain was getting bigger.

“What?”  I had to find words, say something on my little sisters’ behalf “What are you going to do?”

“Well, they’re going to perform brain surgery and remove the bubble. It’ll be about a 3-hour operation and she won’t be able to grip as tightly in one hand as she can in the other.” My tears dried and there were trumpets being played and a light at the end of the tunnel and a silver lining on my gray clouds.

Her head was half shaved. She had a feeding tube down her throat and there were machines beeping loudly and artificially. She was in a coma. Her left lung was collapsed. Again, my mind faltered and it couldn't wrap around what had happened.

Malia pulled me aside.

“She’s dying, Leila.”

“Huh?” I was so lost and confused.

“Dr. Seberg told me the truth; she has a one percent chance of living in a vegetative state.”

“What, what does that mean?” I had dropped in age from 13 to 5 and everything needed to be explained, slowly.

I cursed. I cried.

My sister gave me no sympathy and walked away.

When they went in to remove the aneurysm, it burst and flooded the brain with blood. They only thing they could do, was stop the blood flow, but the damage was done. This turned a three-hour operation with a good chance at survival, into a thirteen-hour operation with a minimal chance of survival.  This turned my family from mother-dependent, to a wandering mass of lost souls.

How hard it must have been for my father. Here he was the breadwinner, the macho male he was suddenly, in the blink of an eye, losing his love and having to raise four girls on his own. My father knew nothing of being a mother. For a skinned knee, he’d tell you to walk it off.

The day after the surgery, before we were allowed to see the remains of what was a vibrant woman, my father came home and scooped up my little sisters. Malia, was no where to be found. He wore his sunglasses in the house and it was apparent why. He had my 10-year-old sister Keala on one knee and my 7-year-old sister, Nalani on the other. The tears rolled down from his tinted eyes.

“Your mother is on life-support.” He told us and I don’t think my little sisters understood what he said. But I did and the moan immediately found me. I wailed and rampaged. The beauty of summer in Hawaii was lost on me. I felt the world should be in darkness. The sky should be mourning for my mother. There would be no sunshine. The sunbeams were being intrusive, this was an intimate affair.

Moments later my older sister waltz through the door laughing. I ran to her, I screamed at her. All I remember after that is being in the hospital.

There was vanilla in the room. Her skin seemed to radiate it. For years she sprayed Vanilla Fields on her flesh. It seemed to have absorbed the smell and now that she wasn't spraying it on her daily it was releasing it’s stored up scent.  My mind was growing dizzy off the smell. I have sat by her bedside for two days now. Holding her slightly stiff hand, I’d look for any sign of independent life. There was none. I talked to her, gossiped about friends. Told her how my budding boyfriend broke up with me and I could care less. Who breaks up with someone while their mother is dying in the hospital? I told her that my hula class kicked me out because I was missing too many practices. We were training for the Merrie Monarch, which is a huge hula competition on the Big Island of Hawaii. It brings prestige and honor to anyone who competes but most importantly to those who win.

Each step I took seemed heavy and long. Everyone seemed to be bees buzzing by me and I was a slug struggling to keep up. I once fell asleep sitting in a chair, my head on my mother’s hospital bed. She woke up and placed her hand on my head. I was crying. It was a dream that felt so real I woke up in tears. She was still beeping.

My father called all the friends and family into the Intensive Care Unit “Chapel.” It wasn't really a chapel. It had a form of an altar, some chairs. It had a statue of the Mother Mary in an alcove behind the altar, except, the Mary was easily disguised behind sliding glass doors. My little sisters and I distracted ourselves sliding in front of Mary the Star of David and then Buddha. We slammed the doors forwards and backwards. It was fun. We smiled.

When my father emerged, he asked everyone to sit. There were so many people we filled up all the chairs and people had to stand and then overflow out into the hallway. He leaned heavily against the altar. His sunglasses were gone, all that remained were his pink cheeks and misted eyes. He had the most beautiful eyes. Light brown with gold inflections. My littlest sister, Nalani had his eyes. They were red-rimmed and abused; it took him a minute to compose himself. His exhaustion weighed heavily on his broad shoulders. He was a big man six-foot-three and strong, but he looked weak leaning against the altar. He looked like he was about to cave in on himself.

He stared at my sisters and I, 

“Your mother died …” He didn't finish the sentence. Up until this point we had all held onto faith. This couldn't happen, not to her, not to us. My Aunty Jane, the one who helped my mom while she was still conscious put it best, 

“Just when you think there are no more tears, there they are.”

 The room broke out into a wailing outburst. I ran. I didn't want to get caught up in the grieving, in the pity. I didn't want the pats on the back, the tear stained clothes. I wanted out. The comforting was a disease, one I didn't want to catch. I never wanted to hear the words, “you poor thing” or “It’s okay.” No, it’s not okay but it will be someday, hopefully. I didn't want it, so I ran to my mother’s hospital room. I was the first one there.

My body leaned in first before stepping into the room. She looked horrible she was an awkward reminder of what she once was. The pale colors of yesterday were drained to a yellow hue. Her nose was nearly transparent. She looked like a basic wax sculpture. She was so stiff and cold. I tried to curl up with her but her body was unyielding. I screamed for people to come in and say goodbye at one point I grabbed one of my close friend's arm and dragged her into the room. She didn't want to see my mother like that. I didn’t want to see my mother like this but it was the only way to prove to my unbelieving mind that she was gone. She was gone. The hospital gown looked embarrassed trying to hide her form. She was so beautiful.

Everything was spinning and I felt myself going down, but I wasn't I was standing perfectly still.

A red carnation was placed delicately on her chest. Her left hand covered the stem. She loved carnations. They must have done that right after she died. Her limbs were too stiff now to move.

Indistinct days followed. She was cremated and placed in a hideous plastic brown box that resembled some form of military container. My sisters, my father and I all sat with the ugly brown thing and watched “Days of our Lives.” It was such a ridiculous daytime soap opera but my mother loved it. She had watched it habitually for maybe 10 years. It was just one little thing we could do for her. We transferred her to a pretty blue vase type container that we placed her wedding ring in and sealed with a blue glass ball.

The funeral was huge. People were packed so tightly into the little church on the side of Kalanianaole Highway that is looked like midnight Christmas mass. They had to set up chairs outside and open the sliding glass doors. It took less than a week for my mother to go from healthy to deceased. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say anything to her in the hospital. I talked and hoped she could listen.

People started a grieving train. A line of hugs and kisses, and pats and words that don’t begin to express their sorrow.

My face was blank. Tears slipped out and someone told my cousin I didn't look sad enough. I laughed, what could I do? Who invented levels of sadness? And what did I care about throwing myself on the deceased vase and making a show of myself? I couldn't even grasp the fact that my mother was gone. Five days ago she was fine. Just fine.

We took a limo to the graveyard. My older sister almost dropped the vase. She wanted to mourn, but I don’t think she knew how.

I visit the grave on my rare trips home. Every time I visit her, it rains. In Hawaiian mythology, it’s a good sign.

The Duke and I Went on a Walk

My camera phone does no justice.

This morning my best friend and I went on a walk. There was a storm brewing when I woke up. I found myself full of hate, fear, loathsomeness and spite. While my husband slept, The Duke and I ventured out. There is a beautiful walking path at Quiet Place Park near my house. It feels like fall outside not even close to a January’s chill. The air was crisp and sweet and I merely wore long sleeves and a light jacket. The rage within me grew as we walked down a fairly steep hill towards the park. There were cars and gravel and construction.

When we turned into the park. The world grew still. The further we walked the more the rage inside me was quelled, slowly. Church bells rang from town, sounding mass. There was peace. As we walked, I steadied myself put water to the fire inside. I hopped up on a log and the sight threw out any further thoughts. A valley of ferns and green and water and mountains and trees and sky and sun. It was beautiful.

To live is to feel and to have experiences and to grow and change from those experiences. Whether the experiences are positive or negative. We need to process feelings and events. We need to find ourselves among the rubble. We need to love and hate. 

I cling to my childhood with vigor. I still am excited over little things. I like remote controlled anything, comic books, coloring books and board games. Mostly, I cling to my childhood because my mother is there. I hold tight because that was when I was truly whole. You can hold tight to the past and grow into the future. While there are parts of me who cling to a child, I am married, I am an adult, I have a career, degrees, intelligence and love. I hold responsibilities and life. I have plans and dreams for the future.

We lose sight of the moment, lost in a veil of rage and trivial annoyances. We let people's actions or our current situations, our frustrations take hold. We all need to GROW UP. Life isn't about fighting and pain and trying to prove that we are the biggest and the baddest. Grow up. It's not about how cool you are or how rich or how beautiful. Life is about survival, finding the joy and peace in daily life, learning to cope with heartache and loss, learning to trust people to support you when you can't support yourself. I am happy I love my life because I've grown up but kept my childhood in my heart.

Lately, I've been having blinding pinpoints of realization. Little statements and mantras to keep me sane. Here are the things I've come up with to help remind me that life is a gift that we fight for.

Motivation Day: There are times we disappoint ourselves. We expect great things from ourselves maybe it's education, maybe it's a career, maybe it's family, maybe it's travel, maybe it's something else. We expect these things achieved at certain points in our life and when they're not realized many of us give up or loose gumption. Just because we gave ourselves a time line doesn't mean life is going to follow it. Sometimes it's the trip not the destination. Sometimes we have to admit defeat and sometimes we achieve all that we expected and more. But the point of all this is, right now, are you happy? If you're not happy that is the bigger loss than your expectations. I am happy and know that whatever I expect of myself will be realized over time and through hard work, patience and understanding. But I am happy.

Reflection Day: Our moments with the people we love can be long or brief and sometimes we let little things taint our time. We let the small things infiltrate and poison our love. We hold grudges, cling to regrets, replay moments that went wrong over and over, we over analyze and think to hard and talk ourselves out of forgiveness. We let our bitterness and our envy and our jealousy consume us. Often times we need to learn to let things go, so we can enjoy the time we have with the people we care about. I just want everyone to know that while I may bitch and moan about the little things I value the bigger things which is having you in my life. Thank you.

There will be more days like these, I'm sure but I'm no prophet and my life is no great matter.

XMAS for the Rest of Us

Christmas Day. In the warm shadow of the Christmas tree or simply surrounded by the warmth of your loved ones you open gifts, drink coffee (or hot cocoa) and revel in the love and closeness of those in your life. Even if you are alone and a few mailed gifts trickle in and you wait, ever eager for Christmas Day to open them. It’s a magical day, whether you spend it visiting family, going to the movies (or surfing for my family, back in the day), volunteering, or sitting in front of the TV it’s a day that touches you. Phone calls are made to family and friends, texts and Facebook posts are shared through space and we feel happy and loved, even if our lives are miserable.

I love Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It’s beautiful. The anticipation, excitement and love flow and pour out of us uncontrollably. It’s the build up and the months leading to those days, that makes me turn away from the holidays. I love gift-giving. I love hugs and Santa hats and spending time with family as much as the next person BUT I also extremely hate people. Not every people mind you but it seems the months before Christmas causes people to dig down deep and dredge up their putrid evilness. Black Friday, traffic, car accidents, yelling, screaming, trampling, long lines, mean, harsh, cheating, stealing people. Everyone transforms into their evil twin all to claim the ultimate Christmas gift. They put themselves in debt, the stress out, worry, fret and fight all for a day of peace and serenity and joy. Something is wrong with that.

I am just happy to spend time with the people I care about and heck if someone gets me a book or a pair of socks, it’s amazing how grateful I am. We take our nearest and dearest for granted, all year long. Holidays are a time of reflection and catching up, of actually talking to our family and friends with our mouths. Not about who can buy you the “perfect” gift. It drives me crazy that people don’t see what’s right in front of them except for that one day, if we’re lucky. I’m also not a fan of Christmas Carols. THEY NEVER CHANGE! The Carols are played on a loop in every grocery and retail store, restaurants, gas stations, even your friend’s homes. I can’t handle it.

There is a bigger weight than just watching the madness that is “The Holidays.” For those of us who have lost someone, are losing someone, or have health problems this season is a struggle to get through. My mother made Christmas the best time of the year. We had amazing traditions and she went so overboard. After she passed away, it was really hard to summon that same enthusiasm. My father is, in my eyes a superhero, but even a great man must have a weakness. Take a testosterone filled macho man and force him to try and raise 4 young girls and things fall to the wayside. He did what he could but he didn’t know what he was doing. It’s hard for any parent to have to fill four shoes: their own and their spouses. It does take a village to raise a family. Yes, my mother WAS Christmas Spirit and I want to honor her but powering through Christmas is the hardest part of honoring her. It takes all of my strength.

My body fights me, a lot. Between not being able to eat much thanks to my awesomely weak stomach and having issues with my lady parts. It’s hard to forget yourself and let yourself revel in the holidays. When you’re a guest at someone’s house and you have to say no to the food because you didn’t take Imodium or pepto, you feel horrible. When you’re trying to get into the Christmas spirit and you forgot tampons and your body bleeds through your underwear, it’s embarrassing. My husband and I went home for Christmas and I love spending time with his family. It’s a component of the holidays that has been missing. My family is great but getting to Hawaii is hard and expensive. I’ve spent so many years living so far away from them I don’t even know what to expect for the holidays or if I would even be welcomed. My husband’s family has embraced me with open arms. My physical ailments have always kept me at arm’s length pretty much from everyone. I cry when I tell my doctor and when I have an unexpected episode I wail and rage against my body. I never know what it’s planning or what form its attack will take. It’s a frustrating existence.

I know there are many people with worse ailments and struggles than me, who have a more crippling existence where the holidays are harder than imagined. I am sorry for anyone who struggles through the holiday whether it is emotional, financial, physical or mental pain. These are just my woes; these are my reasons for the holidays being hard. I feel everyone should be respected and should be able to express themselves. This is my expression of why I am a humbug. I am working on regaining my holiday spirit. Everyone needs to know that the holidays aren’t about money or gifts; it’s about family and acceptance.

Life Mission - Part 1

In the woods, Maggie ran. Night was falling and the only advice she was given was run and hide, hope they don’t find you. Evolution had found a home in the Bone Snappers. A large, wolf-like beast covered in thick skin instead of hair, with a turtle’s jaw that snapped through bone, even trees if it wanted you bad enough. With an amazing sense of smell and superb ears and night vision humans didn’t stand a chance. The Bone Snappers were taking over, slowly, invading, but only at night. Their food source was scarce, birds didn’t sing and if you heard something shifting in the bushes odds are it will be the last thing you hear. 

Maggie had crashed landed back on Earth. She and her crew stopped receiving messages from Earth and assumed the worst. They spent 5 years in space, exploring everything within a reasonable distance. Searching for anything besides Earth being the only hospitable planet. Unmanned vessels brought back only shoddy footage and inconclusive samples. They needed something that knew what to look for, what to collect, how to interpret things. Hence the Life Mission was born. 

When they circled Earth, it didn’t look like anything was amiss, it was still green and blue, no nuclear weapons, no war they began their descent with no connection to Earth. Two of the 5-man crew died on impact. Maggie, Jeff and Vanessa were the survivors for now. 

Maggie ran, fear welling up in her like the sweat that poured from her. When they landed they crashed in the Appalachian Mountains during the day. No clue where other than that. A few people had seen the crash and rushed to see if maybe it could get airborne again. There must be some place on Earth without Bone Snappers and this was the first thing in the sky they had seen in months. When Maggie and what was left of her crew awoke, the sun was starting to set. A man told her the Earth had an affliction. The Bone Snappers are new predators that emerged liked some dormant dinosaur a few months ago and have almost wiped out life on earth.  He told her there were few defenses against them. Some houses have survived by utilizing a type of ray the government handed out before being cutoff and overrun. It was essentially a shrink ray.

“The sun is setting,” the stranger said. “You need to run and hide, but they’ll find you. Do what you can to survive.”

“How have you survived?” Maggie ventured.

“No time, sun’s gone, run.”

What sounded like laughter amplified boomed and reverberated off the trees. The stranger had disappeared. Maggie, Jeff and Vanessa took to heart the advice. They covered themselves in dirt and ran, in the dark, the laughter chasing them.

She could smell herself, which meant the Bone Snappers could smell her. There was a clearing in the woods, just ahead. Vanessa tripped and screamed.

“Shhh,” Maggie quickly rushed to her and covered her mouth. Vanessa tripped over a rope. They followed the rope. Together they pulled and revealed a grass covered thick metal door, which opened to a staircase underground. Entering and quickly shutting the door, behind them they felt trapped, following the only path there was. They came to a door and knocked. They waited and knocked again. They felt around the door, there was a button, they pushed it. Amazingly the door opened.

“Bone Snappers don’t ring doorbells,” said the child who opened the door.

“Who are you?” Said the adult standing behind him.

“I’m Maggie and this is Jeff and Vanessa,” Maggie paused to see if that would be enough. “We were astronauts for the Life Mission several years ago. We crash landed. We lost 2 crew members. “ Maggie  brushed the dirt away from her uniform patches.

“Life Mission? How long have you been in space?”

“About 5 years.”

“You’ve got a lot to catch up on, I’m Mark and this is Charles.” Mark smiled and grabbed Maggie in a hug. “Come in, come in, let’s get you some food, maybe a shower and get you caught up on the Bone Snappers. It’s so nice to meet other survivors sometimes. We’re so used to it just being the 6 of us.”

“What is this place,” Vanessa asked.

“We built this when the Bone Snappers were first discovered. Sometimes it helps to be a nut job that lives in the woods. There’s the door entrance and we kind of scale down this hill towards to lake so we can have access to water.“ Mark discussed everything so light and easily like we were expected for a dinner party.

They followed him down a narrow hallway and then it opened up to a well-done, elegant kitchen. With his back to the astronauts, Mark said,

“These are some astronauts that crash landed and are only finding out about the Bone Snappers now.” He turned to face them,

“This is our family. My wife, Sandy.” She waved. “Our former neighbors Jim, Beth and Tiffany.” They all waved.

“Hello, I’m Maggie and this is Vanessa and Jeff. We were with the Live Mission that launched 5 years ago. Could someone please tell us what is happening."

“It’s a long story,” Sandy said. “Best you sit down and eat while we tell you, I’m sure you’re hungry.”

“Would it be possible,” piped up Jeff, “to use any kind of shower?”

“My goodness, of course!” Said Sandy. “You all must need one. How about we do that first?”

“Thank you, very much for your kindness and for letting us into your home,” Maggie said.

They settled in, took some showers let the truth of the world permeate. When they all converged back in the kitchen, the got the whole story:

“The things just showed up about 6 months ago. They’re unstoppable, insatiable and they only hunt at night," Sandy said.

“Why at night?” Maggie asked.

“No one knows, no one who encounters them can stay alive long enough to figure it out and even if they did, they’ve taken over the world. They can swim long distances. We have no way of communicating with the outside world. Or being communicated by the outside world…”

“Unless they trip over your rope while running,” Vanessa said.

It lightened the mood, soft giggles.

“We’re just surviving. We can only go so far during the day for wood and food. None of us have even seen them up close we’ve just heard the laughing, the noises they make when they’re on the hunt and we can’t even hear that down here,” Sandy finished drank some water and stared at her son. “We were lucky. We even got one of the shrink rays and set it up at our most vulnerable point, where our compound meets the water. Well at the doorwaythat leads down to where our compound meets the water.”

“A shrink ray seems like an odd way to combat these things,” Jeff said.

“Yes, everyone thought that too but nothing kills them: guns, knives, anti-artillery, fire or electrocution. At least when they’re small they’re weaker. We can’t crush them or burn them, but we can collect them, let them starve out. They die in captivity after 3 days. I hate it, a slow, cowards’ death,” Mark answered.

“Can I see your vulnerable point?” Maggie asked.

“Sure.”

They walked down a series of zig zagged stairs. Floors and floors. The floor gave away to dirt and there were some pillars one had to wiggle through to get to the water. Maggie made her way through the pillars and stared out over the lake. It was beautiful. The moon reflected off the still waters. It was strange to see the moon from earth again.

Ripples formed on the surface of the lake. Maggie turned toward Mark, who had remained behind the pillars.

“We don’t come down here at night; you really should get back behind the pillars.” 

It was too late. A Bone Snapper rose from the serene lake scene. Mark bolted up the stairs. Maggie ran to the pillars. It pursued. It laughed. She squeezed her way through the pillars and the Bone Snapper slammed itself into them. Put its entire weight and force into bringing down the pillars.

“You’re so scared.”

The Bone Snappers could talk.

“I want your marrow.”

“What are you?” Maggie gasped as she backed away towards the stairs.

“Your bones crunch so deliciously. Your blood is the best marinade.”

Maggie ran up the stairs but could hear the Bone Snapper laughing and breaking through the pillars. She struggled to climb fast enough when she was almost at the top she screamed,

“It’s behind me!”

She flew into the kitchen and before she could turn around Sandy activated the shrink ray and soon the Bone Snapper was the size of mouse.

“They can still snap at you, draw blood, you have to pick them up a certain way,” said Sandy as she grabbed it by its neck and walked it over to a dry aquarium tank. The tank held some weak and dying mini bone Snappers.

“We bury them once they die around our compound, they don’t like the smell it usually keeps them away. They must be starving,” Mark said.

Maggie caught her breath,

“They talk.” She got out between breaths. “It taunted me.”

“They don’t talk, that’s impossible,” said Beth. It’s the first time one of the neighbors have said a word to the astronauts.

“It talked.” Everyone started at the tank of Bone Snappers. They didn’t make a sound.

There was a deep bellowing laughing that ricocheted from the stairwell. It moved slowly but was coming closer. Beth gasped,

“We took her mate.”