Picture And Write It, July 29,2012

He was a warrior in my eyes. A man who never knew the word fear. I had heard from him each month by hand written words, and had his photo sitting by my bed on the night stand. Each night I prayed that God would watch over him and guide him through the day.

My son was always a tough little boy. He was the one when you would check his jean pockets you would  find baby toads still alive, screeching to get back out in to freedom. Stones, dead flowers, and anything interesting could be found in the inside of these pockets.

He was the child of the three I called my own, that would be right there at the precise moment, offering to help carry the groceries in, when you were standing at the front door, with two loaded sacks and yet trying to open the door. He helped his dad in the garage, handing him tools that were needed to fix the car. Mowing the elderly neighbor’s lawn.

He could be found selling lemonade in the front yard of our house, because he wanted so badly a new pair of skates. He was a good kid, never giving us problems or heart aches.

He didn’t care for school much, although he never missed days unless he was really sick. He didn’t want to participate in sports, choir or plays. He would rather learn life by living it.

When he became a teenager, he worked at one of the local grocery stores, bagging groceries, and even though he didn’t have to take them out to the cars or load them into the trunks, many times he did offer his help to frail ones.

Today, he is lying in pain. He can vision help. Aid to come his way by means of God or his buddies. He laid in the sand, the rays of the sun beating down upon him, trying to take the breath from his body. There was no more sweat to be released, and his mouth was dry. In his sleeping moments he could see the water and taste its coolness, splashing it over his head, but when awake, he saw nothing, but brightness and blue skies.

Bugs began their journey over his body, trying to take claim of his soul. He had walked over a booby trap, placed by the enemy, and the purpose of being  left dead and unfound, was being sought. He had lagged behind, a major mistake, from his troop, stopping to try to save a friend’s life, and when he realized he was too late, and had walked six feet from him, the  trap, engulfed him.

The troop did not hear  the small explosion and kept moving forward.  The sergeant was leading  the troop to  make it to the next city on the map by dusk, so they could set up camp.

After they arrived at their new location, one soldier noticed that someone was missing from chow. He went to the sergeant and told him his concerns, and was ordered to immediately return to the path of their travel and find him. He also sent two others in the group, to be of assistance if it was needed.

A sand storm had picked up and it was difficult to see. Beads of sand were hitting the faces and stinging  eyes, but they were not giving up. This was a team, and although they were taught to be tough, their hearts remained soft, and they wanted their member back with them safe and well. No thoughts entered of any tragedy. They were not allowed. Weakness was not a word in the dictionary of this platoon.

It was dark and the only light offered them was the moon and their flash lights. Their ears were keen to any sounds, and their eyes were keen to past  imprints. They stopped once in a while to check their map to make sure they were following the right direction, and kept moving with no breaks in their steps.

The day break of morning fell upon them, and in the skies they could see buzzards flying in circles as they were making plans to land on their prey. This was a sign to the men that they were close.

Up ahead of them lie the wounded soldier. Dried blood attached itself to skin that was showing and to his clothes. The sight was a blur, from lack of fluids and strikes from the sand. He was on his back, unable to flip himself over to protect his face, and he could make out the visions of the buzzards. He prayed in silence for his God to rescue him. Take me home Lord, don’t let me feel the bite of winged birds. Let nature have its way with me, but take my soul home Lord.

The Lord answered his prayer and with in minutes, the three troop members stumbled upon him. They checked his wounds, and told him he was going to be alright. Help had arrived. They didn’t take time to asses his injuries, for their goal was to get him back to the troop.

A letter arrived at our door, informing us our son had been injured, and was being cared for at a military city. It stated that he had been injured by a booby trap, but help had arrived in time.

The mother dropped her letter to the floor and got down on her knees, and with tears of joy streaming from her eyes, she thanked God for watching over her soldier.

Thank you Ermilia for another chance to write for your writing exercise.


Picture It And Write It, July 8th, 2012














I dare you! Come on, floor it! Put the pedal to the metal! Come on you coward, what are you waiting for! Hit me, run over me!

These sickly thoughts were spinning round and round inside of her head. She wanted to die, and the driver was stalling. Testing her spirit, staying back, causing her legs to feel shaky, she stood her ground.

This was my life back in 2010. I had run away from home when I was 14, and had been living my life on the streets. Every part of my being had been used at the gain of others pleasures. I had been blindfolded and forced to endure the pains of needles and the relentless dreams and nightmares these illegal drugs had brought into my mind, until I had gotten to the point, I could no longer function as a person, without these administrations of drugs.

My father had been the talk of the town, a loser, an alcoholic, and my mother stayed hidden at home, behind closed drapes, hooked on drugs. Children learn from their parents, and I had learned from them that life was worthless.  They didn’t ever notice if I was there or not, so I left.

I wanted someone to care, to love me, to hold me. I was a pretty girl, slender, tall. I had what others wanted.  I spent the first night alone on the street, hidden away by the shadows of the trees behind the school-house.

The second night, I made it into the center of downtown, and was sitting on the steps of one of the businesses, when a group of young women came by me and sat down next to me. After talking for a while, I stood up with them and followed them into my stages of hell.

They took me under their wings and taught me how to dress and wear my make-up. They introduced me to their boss, who then introduced me to the life my mother knew so well. I slept all day and used drugs to stay up all night to endure the pain.

One night when I was out standing on my well-known corner, I was arrested for doing business with an under cover officer. He took me to jail, and as I had no one to call, I had to sit here and wait out my sentence.

While in there, I was able to talk to others, who had been arrested for the same things, and heard their tales and woes. I ended up in the corner of the cell vomiting, as the words I had been hearing, were the words of my life. I wanted to die, I wanted out, but had nowhere to turn. I ended up on the cot, with my eyes closed, but my ears were still honed into the conversations around me.

Two days later, I was released, and walked out into the brightness of day. I knew I didn’t want to go back to my temporary home, and I could not go home. I wandered the streets, stopping at a cafe for some food, and while there, trying to figure my way out of this. The more I thought, the more confused I became.

That night, I walked towards the interstate, and as a few cars passed by, I entered the highway and stood there, waiting to get hit, to kill me, to rid me of my pain. The car did come, but it stopped. I screamed at the car as it continued to keep its headlights centered on my person. Neither of us moved for what seemed like hours.

Another car pulled up and within seconds an officer was standing before me. He placed his arm around me, and I wanted to hit and kick him, but his words reached my aching soul. He spoke of caring, and confusion, and I heard words being spoken that I didn’t really want to take my life.

I was tired and confused and the pain was over bearing, and I found my body turning towards him, and placing my head in his shoulder. I could hear myself sobbing, and I could feel myself shivering.

The officer took me to a shelter, and after filling out the needed paper work, I was placed from there to a help-center, where I lived for the next year.

I don’t know who that officer was, but I wish I could thank him for saving my life. Soon, I would look him up and tell him thank-you in person.

Thank-you Ermilia for another chance to write for you.