Excerpt from a colonial story

*This is the first chapter of a paper I wrote for history a few years ago that I just recently decided to expand into a story. It's gone through major reconstruction, but it still needs some work to erase some immature, old me style, stuff, lol*

When my father, my younger sister, and I arrived in Quebec in the year 1639, I was shocked to find it wasn’t bitterly cold. All the stories my family had heard of Quebec were of endless snow, harsh wind, and unforgiving cold. I had not expected it to be warm, even though it was summer.

As I held my little sister Cecile’s hand, I stared at the land that was to be my new home with anxiety and nervous excitement and thought of the days that had passed since my mother’s death. Ever since that fateful day when fever had descended upon our household, things had not gone well for my family in Reims, France. The illness had taken both my mother and my two weeks old brother.

Nobody seemed to need a carpenter, or at least a carpenter like my father, who had a fiery temper. My mother was the only person who could talk him out of his bad moods, and once she was gone, things became hopeless. People seemed only to want carpenters like Jacques, who spoke with silky, flattering words. He was my father’s competitor, and we knew him to be a cruel man and saw past his veneer.

So, my father could not find work. We suddenly found ourselves without enough money to retain our property, and we lost our home. My father’s brother had often written to us, saying we should go to Quebec, where he had prospered and now lived in comfort. My uncle had gone to Quebec in 1627 when Minister Richelieu established the Company of 100 associates. They financed his journey and supported him for the first three years of his life in Quebec, as they did for three hundred colonists every year.

I remember the day my father finally decided to accept his offer. I had been sitting in the room of the tavern where we were staying, letting down the hem of one of Cecile’s dresses just as my mother had taught me, when my father entered.

“Blanche, I can see no other way out,” he sighed, holding a letter in his hand. I quietly folded the dress up and placed it in my sewing basket.

“What do you mean, Father?” I asked.

“I have decided to accept your uncle’s offer and go join him in the New World,” he stated. I was silent.

“But what about Cecile and me? What will become of us?” I questioned anxiously. I feared that my father might leave us behind and not send for us for a few years, as had happened to a friend of mine. My father looked at me in surprise.

“Why, you would come with me, of course. We must start our life anew, and moving to Quebec would give us that chance,” he told me. I nodded. What else was I to do?

So it was settled. My father sent off the letter telling of our plans to my uncle the next day. In the weeks that followed, Father made preparations for our departure. He was able to buy us transport on a ship owned by an old friend. We packed what few belongings we had left, and before I knew it, had set off to Quebec.

Our journey was long and arduous, and Cecile was often seasick. Storms were not uncommon, and it was always cold. Cecile and Father and I were often huddled below deck, desperate for warmth. The food was stale and tasteless, and more often than not, the repulsive sight of grubs and maggots greeted us on our plates. When we finally saw land again on July 14th, Cecile and I cried, and father for once was speechless.

Though the rocky promontory that was Quebec was not necessarily beautiful, there was something breathtaking about it. There was such a rawness and wild feel humming all around it, and even if I had not known where I was, I would have been sure it was in the New World.

Father heaved our small trunk, filled with our few belongings, on to his shoulder, and I picked up his large, heavy tool sack and held it tight with two hands. Cecile grabbed my skirt and together we trudged down the wobbly plank and on to the rugged terrain that rose out from the riverbank. It took me a few minutes to regain my land legs, and I had to apologize more than once for bumping into someone. We weaved our way through the crowd as I stared curiously at the town. All the buildings seemed so new and fresh, though very weather beaten. Apothecaries, various stores for everyday needs, an ironworks, a trader post, a church, and houses. It would have seemed like any other normal, somewhat newly established town that could be found in the middle of France except for the fact that it was surrounded by wilderness. I could hear the rush of a river somewhere nearby, and pine trees loomed behind every building. As I walked, I could feel the steep incline beneath my feet as my muscles begged for rest.

I suddenly realized that we were heading toward one of the largest houses in the village, a carpenter’s sign hanging over the door. I assumed it was my uncle’s.

As we walked up the rocky and well-worn path to the large house, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a big, brown-haired man bounded out the door. My father dropped the trunk, and I winced as I heard our pots clatter. After hugging my father tightly, the man pushed him away and surveyed him closely.

“Ah, my little brother Jean, come at last!”

“Then you got my letter, Louis?” said my father with relief. My uncle nodded.

“Yes, yes. It arrived a week ago. Ah, how happy I am to see you! But who is this?” questioned my uncle, looking at me. “Can this be little Blanche?” he asked, stunned.

I blushed and said, “Yes, Uncle. It has been twelve years, now.”

“You are fourteen, then?” he exclaimed. I nodded. “Oh my, how you have grown!” shouted my uncle kissing both of my cheeks and patting my auburn head. Cecile peeked out from behind my skirt, her brown curls bouncing. “And this must be Cecile!” stated my uncle. Cecile nodded and stepped out from behind me. My uncle picked her up and swung her around. She laughed with glee, as my uncle shouted, “Oh, I have heard so much about you!” My father chuckled, and then we all burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh after being sad for so long. I felt a hope inside me that maybe this new life in this new place would be filled with much laughter, and little sadness.

More from Forgotten

*Okay, so this takes place when Annie and Jessie are about eleven years old. I might change that age, though, so don't dwell too much on it.*

Annie

Jessie was going to sleep over, and I was getting my room ready before she arrived. I felt kind of nervous about tonight. I had decided I was going to tell Jessie my deepest, darkest secret that nobody else knew about. Jessie and I were best friends, though, so I knew I could trust her with this secret. I heard my doorbell ring and rolled my eyes; typical Jessie to ring the doorbell when she knew she could just walk right in, like I did at her house. I heard my mom open the door and send Jessie upstairs. There was a gentle tap on my door, and Jessie quietly entered.

“Geez, Jessie, you act as if you’re in a stranger’s house. You don’t have to ring the doorbell or knock before you come into my room,” I told her. She laughed and blushed at the same time.

“Sorry, Annie, I just don’t want to be rude,” she replied. I pulled her into a hug and laughed.

“You are way to polite for your own good,” I shook my head. I released her and she tried to breathe again as I grabbed her things and threw them in a corner of the room. We climbed onto my bed and sat Indian style opposite each other and immediately began a game of thumb war like usual. I won, like usual, and said, “Okay, question for the night: What is your deepest fear?” I couldn’t prevent the slight shakiness in my voice. Jessie didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to. That’s the way she was. She always made sure you didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed. The kid was way too nice.

Jessie looked down at her hands and thought for a while, then said, “I guess my deepest fear is being abandoned. You know, having somebody you really care about just leave you without a thought, like they don’t care. I don’t want to be alone, or…unloved.” I closed my eyes and hated myself for a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid to rip open that subject on her?

“Aw, Jess, I’m sorry I brought that up,” I said and tugged her into another hug. I stroked her hair as she took a few deep breaths. I thought of the day she first told me a few years earlier about how her mom left Jessie and her dad when Jessie was only four. Jessie had been playing in the backyard with her dad, when her mom opened the door lugging out her suitcase. Jessie had watched in confusion as her dad and mom argued for a while, and then finally how her mom just got in the car and drove away.

“It’s okay, I’m alright. Don’t worry about it,” Jessie said, pulling away and smiling. “What’s your deepest fear?”

Jessie

I waited for Annie to answer. She seemed somewhat torn. Annie worried me sometimes, the way she was just so unpredictable. I never knew where our conversations would lead.

“Well, you’re going to laugh at me…” she began hesitantly. That was strange for two reasons: first, Annie was never hesitant, and second, Annie knew I would never ever laugh at her. I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, so you won’t laugh, but you will think I’m weird,” she corrected herself.

“Don’t worry Annie, I already think you’re weird, so you haven’t got much to lose,” I said consolingly. She laughed loudly and shook her head.

“You are a crazy kid, Jessie,” she commented. I looked at her meaningfully, and she cleared her throat hurriedly. “Alright, I’ll stop procrastinating. My deepest fear is that when I die, I’ll be forgotten. That I’ll never get the chance to do something worthwhile and memorable, that you or my husband will remember to put flowers on my grave for a few months, and then I’ll just fade from everyone’s minds and that’ll be it. I’ll be dead, and the memory of me will be dead. It scares me, Jess, it really does. I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want a wave to just wash me out of everyone’s minds once I’m gone and am no longer able to personally remind them of my existence. “ Annie was now in tears and I stared at her in surprise. “And I don’t know what I can do to make sure that people are gonna remember me. What can I do to make sure they don’t forget?” Annie folded into my arms and I hugged her as she sobbed into my shoulders. I suddenly felt scared and vulnerable. Annie was always the brave one, she was always the one that hugged me when I got scared and cried. I was worried about what she had just told me, and my throat felt clogged with emotion.

I patted her back and said the only thing I could think of that could comfort her, “Don’t worry, Annie; I will never forget you, I can promise you that.”

Another excerpt from another new book "The Storyteller"

*I don't really know where in the book this is all happening, but I wrote it and this is it. I feel like the protagonist is one of my best characters yet, she's just so real. It's kind of personal because she's a lot like me in ways, so...yeah...this is it:*


Dear Diary,

So, I've never written a diary before, but my English teacher says it builds character and I need to write entries at least weekly in you. Which basically means that I write in this book or get failed. I think I'll choose the former.

So. Um. Basics about me, I guess. There are three things I love most in the world: Writing, Dancing, and Acting. And they were written in the order of most loved. I know, it's weird that I love writing so much, and yet have never written in a diary. It's just that I normally see the world from my character's lives, and not through my own. So I've only felt the urge to write down what they see and feel, instead of what I do. But that's off-topic. I'll just let you know what I love most about the three things I wrote above.

There’s nothing quite like the feel of a pen or pencil in my hand, the sound of the scribble of lead on crisp paper, and just watching words flow out from my mind and on to that blank canvas. It’s almost like art. You take colors and a paintbrush, and paint the image in your head for all to see. But instead of images, there are words. It fascinates me to no end to have the worlds in my head come to life on the paper. To see the characters who are like my children interact with each other for all to see. But it’s frustrating when I can’t find the words to describe what is truly perfect to me. Because sometimes, there are no words that can truly fit the people and places I create in my mind. And I want so badly to share it with everyone. But nobody can ever see what I see.

Dancing has always been very important to me. It’s much more than a workout and exercise to me. It’s my escape from my life, my time where I can just forget everything that bothers me, hurts me, and stresses me out. So I dance, and I forget. It's a kind of therapy for all of my troubles in life. I use my pent-up anger to add emotion to my movements, my suppressed energy to keep me moving, and just let my mind go blank as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.

Acting isn’t one of my priorities in life, and it’s not half as important to me as writing or dancing, but I still enjoy it. It’s just another way to express my erratic personality. So I'm not gonna write more about it.

When I think about it, all of my favorite activities are a form of storytelling. Writing is the most traditional and usual way to tell a story. With dancing, you express the story through your body movements and facial expressions. Acting is another more traditional manner of telling a story. I guess that just makes me a storyteller. If only I had a good story to tell. I know my stories are interesting to me- when I first write them at least. My over-active imagination creates thousands of storylines and ideas daily. It’s like it haunts me, driving me to the point of insanity than slowly dragging me back again, just so I can write down the words running through my head. Because that’s what it’s like. All somebody has to do is say one word, and I make a sentence out of it, then I make the background of the sentence, then the character who says it, then I have to make a character who responds, then the background of that character, then what they look like, and before I know it, I have the beginning of a story. And my heart breaks to know that I won’t write it.

Wow, it feels so strange to be telling this story. Not that I don't like writing stories or anything. But I'm so used to seeing the world through other people's eyes, telling the story from the way they see and feel it. Now, for the first time in my life, I'm writing things the way I see it. Now, I'm seeing the world through my own eyes. Now, people are reading about me, and not about a character I created. Now, I'm the storyteller not of somebody else's life, but of my own.

Excerpt from 'Forgotten'

*Okay, so this idea has been sitting in my head for quite awhile, but I've been so busy this summer that I really haven't had a chance to write anything. Hence, the lack of posts of late. BUt I've decided that it's high time to delight you all with a new post ;) Enjoy!*


Annie's Prologue:

When I was seven years old, I wrote my name in the sand near the ocean. Waves lapped delicately at my name's tip, but went no further. I was sure that I had written it high enough to avoid being washed away. I ran up the slight sandy slope to where the rest of my family was seated, and grabbed my mother's hand to show her what I had written. Upon my return, I found to my horror that the waves had come up further and washed away my name. Annie Shorner had disappeared from the sand. My mother said that such a thing was to be expected, and not to be worried by it.

As she retreated back up the slope, it made me wonder if that's how life was. You go through every day, doing your business, trying to leave a mark in the world. But when you die, you're just forgotten. No one remembers you after a few months. Who cares if you won employee of the month five times in a row? You've done nothing to deserve a prominent place in the memories of all mankind. Only a few select achieve that high honor. And that scared me. It scared me more than anything else to think that one day I would be forgotten, that one day I would be erased from the memories of all. I made up my mind there and then to make sure that I would always be remembered, to make sure that no one would ever forget me. Ever.

I think it was that day that changed me, that day that set my fate to be what I have become. That fear of my name being washed away from the memories of men by a gentle wave made me realize that I couldn't engrave my memory into sand, but into stone. Annie Shorner would not disappear ever again.



Jessie's Prologue:


I sit in this cold, white room and listen to the hushed voices issuing from behind the curtains that hide Annie and her bed. A face peeks out and looks at me.

"Miss, we're going to have to ask you to sit in the waiting room until you're called in," the nurse says. I mutely stand and leave the E.R., walk into the waiting room and plop down into an empty seat there. A woman in a business suit approaches me.

"Jessica Borite?" she asks, her voice stern but trying to be friendly. I look at her blankly and nod. She glances down at a pile of papers in her hand, her lips pursed tightly together. After a few minutes, she looks back at me. "My sources tell me that you were very close with Annie Shorner before she rose to power. Would you care to give us some important information about her, perhaps some details about this whole mess. I'm told you were indirectly involved. We have the best psychologists and professors on her case, and we were hoping you could help us." I remain silent. "You'll be an anonymous source, of course," the lady adds. Again, I say nothing. "Will you say nothing at all?" I confirm her question by doing exactly that. She sighs in exasperation, then walks away.

Who do they think they are, trying to pry into Annie's life, her mind, her heart? They know nothing about her, they don't understand. She wasn't always like this. She never wanted to hurt anybody. None of this is her fault. My heart aches for the sight of Annie's smile again, just to see her how she used to be, when we were best friends. I want to hear her laugh, hear her tell me this is all a big joke to test our friendship like she used to when we were younger. But she's lying unconscious in a hospital, with unfriendly people penetrating her personal bubble, as she would have said. My head aches as I try to think of anyway this all could have been prevented. My whole body aches to feel once more one of Annie's suffocating hugs.

I watch as a man who had been talking to the lady in the business suit walks over to me, a friendly smile on his face. He sits down in the chair besides mine and says, "My name's Justin. Your's is Jessie, right?" I barely nod. "Want to be friends?" he asks cheerfully. I stare at this twenty-something year old using five year old tactics to make friends as if he's gone crazy. I shrug, not really knowing what else to do. He grins. "So. What's your favorite color?" At this, my whole body tenses. I can still hear Annie's six year old voice asking me that same question twenty years ago. Something inside me breaks, and tears start pouring down my face.

Through my weeping, I manage to choke out, "She asked me...that... once, too. A long time.. ago." I wrap my arms around my self and cry and cry, my sobs wracking my entire body. I feel a consoling arm laid gently on my shoulder, and Justin's voice tells me to just let it all out. "We were...six," I begin between gasps, bawling my eyes out, unable to control myself anymore, "that's how...it all...started."

Another excerpt from Mirror Image

*Okay, this will probably confuse you as well. It's kind of short, but I thought it would make for another good cliff-hanger, so here's something I just added to Mirror Image :D*

“Come in, Kara. There’s no need to stand there as if you were on trial,” issued the Queen’s voice from behind a curtain. The lady whose presence was so demanding and regal walked out from behind the satin curtain, shocking Kara by just how short she was. The small woman stood there proudly, but kindly, her black hair that was streaked with silver wound upon her head in an intricate bun. She smiled sternly at Kara and said, “You may close the door.” Kara did as she was told and entered the room further.

It was impeccably styled, with four brown chairs arranged around one small, crimson chair. Silver curtains lined the wall opposite the door, hiding the windows and whatever else upon that wall and making the room dark. Another silver curtain hung to the right, hiding the Queen’s private chambers where she had been sitting before. A dark, warm rug was upon the floor and Kara had the urge to lie upon it, it appeared to be so soft and comfortable. A large fireplace, bereft of actual fire, was the center piece of the left side of the room, near to the five chairs, with large, brown chests lined with silver on either side of it.

Queen Cecilia smiled as she watched Kara examine her room and asked, “Does my room meet your approval?” Kara blushed and nodded in response. “Unfortunately, my dear young lady, I did not ask you here to inspect the condition of my living chambers. I have very important matters to discuss with you.” Kara nodded again. “Please, take a seat in one of those brown chairs,” the Queen instructed, gesturing to the grouping of chairs by the fireplace. Kara sat in the smallest of the four, and the Queen smiled. “That is Coran’s. It’s a good thing you chose his. He’s the only one who will not mind you sitting in his chair,” the Queen said, taking a seat in her own petite, red chair.

The two women sat silently a moment, staring at each other and saying nothing. The Queen’s gaze was stern and scrutinizing, without being harsh, whereas Kara’s was weak and embarrassed, afraid to hold her gaze.
The Queen finally broke the silence, bluntly saying, “You look much better now that Genevieve has cleaned you up and gotten you some proper clothes. Indeed, I would say that you look quite lovely. You have a very pretty face.” Kara blushed.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she muttered.

“Oh, please. Don’t you dare ‘Your Majesty’ me. I will have none of that groveling in my land,” the Queen proclaimed. Kara could not resist a laugh at the Queen’s frankness and the Queen allowed herself a smile. “Again, I am allowing myself to be distracted. I apologize. What you are here for is to discuss the mirror that you arrived here in. For you see, my dear, I came here through that very same mirror.”

Excerpt from an as of yet untitled book

*Okay, so I got this story from a dream I had that was soooo realistic. Jackie (the main character) is a modern day girl who goes to sleep one night and wakes up in a prairie in the 19th century Colorado. Enjoy!!*

Jackie was in the middle of a prairie. Yellowing grass was spread out all around her, and large clumps of dirt were plainly seen. Clouds of dust churned across the wide expanse of land that was almost completely bereft of trees. Fear gripped at Jackie’s mind and she hoped with all her heart that she was dreaming.

The sound of a fire crackling caused her to turn around. Part of her wasn’t surprised at all to see a young cowboy around Jackie’s age crouched by a campfire stirring a liquid in a tin pot with a black horse standing behind him. The cowboy looked up and met her gaze with a kind, friendly smile.

“Mornin’, miss,” he said with a Western accent. His bright blue eyes twinkled with humor and his tanned face crinkled with a smile. Jackie was in shock, but decided that she had to be in a very realistic dream and would wake up within minutes. She might as well play along.

“Um, good morning,” she replied. The cowboy stood up, a tin cup in his hand, and ladled the brown liquid from the pot into it.

“Want some?” he asked in his slow, deep voice.

“What is it?”

“Coffee, miss. What else?” the cowboy replied, appearing to be amused by the question.

“Oh, um, okay, yeah, I’ll have some. Thanks,” Jackie said. The cowboy smiled amiably and handed her the cup. Jackie returned the smile, but made a face as soon as she tasted the coffee. “Ugh, this definitely isn’t Starbucks material,” she muttered, handing the cup back to the cowboy who laughed.

“You sure do talk funny,” he said with a chuckle.

“My New York accent isn’t that bad!” Jackie protested.

“Is that how New York people talk? I was thinking they’d be more smart soundin’ an’ all,” the cowboy said with a grin.

“Are you implying that I don’t sound smart?” Jackie asked, glaring at the stranger.

“Nah, ‘course I ain’t sayin’ that. I only meant I thought they’d be more high an’ mighty like,” the cowboy smiled. His smile was so infectious that Jackie couldn’t help but reciprocate the action. They were silent a moment as Jackie pondered when she would wake up from this odd dream and the cowboy fed his horse. “Whoa, boy”, “easy there”, and “Now don’t you want some a these tasty oats?” could be heard from where he was standing, and Jackie felt somewhat soothed by it.

As the boy finished feeding his horse, he turned to Jackie and asked, “So what are you doin’ way out here all alone anyways?”

“Um, well, I don’t really know,” Jackie said, unable to come up with a suitable answer. The cowboy didn’t look convinced that she really didn’t know.

“If you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine. Ain’t none of my business, anyway, I guess,” the cowboy said nonchalantly. Jackie felt bad that she couldn’t come up with a good excuse. “I’m Sam, by the way.” Jackie smiled.

“I’m Jacqueline Forger, but you can call me Jackie.”

“Miss Forger is jus’ fine for me,” the cowboy grinned. Jackie laughed, thinking that Miss Forger was probably the proper thing for a cowboy to call a young lady. “D’ya need a ride somewhere, Miss Forger?”

“I guess to the nearest town, if you don’t mind.”

“Course I don’t. I’m going there myself.”

“Okay, awesome. Thanks!” Jackie said. The cowboy chuckled when she said awesome, amused by her ‘New York slang’. Jackie stood up, brushed the dust off her clothes, and suddenly realized that she was wearing an old, 19th century style dress.

“Somethin’ wrong, Miss Forger?” Sam asked, observing Jackie’s shocked expression. Jackie reminded herself that she was in a dream where anything could happen and shook her head.

“No, nothing’s wrong.”

“Alrigh’, then. Let’s git goin’,” Sam urged gently in a cheerful manner. Jackie walked over to Sam, who easily lifted her up onto his horse. Jackie clutched the saddle-horn and swallowed hard. Her cowboy grinned, kicked dirt over the fire, then swung himself onto his horse in front of her, so that Jackie had to hold on to Sam’s waist in order not to fall off. “Miss Forger, this is Solomon the Wise. Solomon, this is Miss Forger; be nice to her, ole boy,” Sam said formally. Jackie laughed.

“Solomon the Wise? You named your horse ‘Solomon the Wise’?” she asked with a laugh. Sam spurred his horse forward and stroked his horse’s mane fondly.

“Sure I did. I got great respect for Mister Solomon the Wise from the Bible.”

“And what better way to show your respect for him than to name your horse after him?” Jackie giggled.

“That’s jist what I thought,” Sam said good-naturedly. The cowboy tugged his hat a little further over his head, glanced back at Jackie, then suddenly spurred his horse into a canter. Jackie let out a small scream and held onto Sam tighter. He laughed and as he slowed his horse down, said, “What’s the matter, Miss Forger? Ne’er been on a horse afore?” Jackie took a deep breath and shook her head.

“No, I haven’t. So don’t you dare do that again.” Sam chuckled and shook his head.

“New York people sure are strange, yesiree.”

Another excerpt from November Skies

*If you read and remember the first excerpt from November Skies, you'll probably be confused after reading this one and wonder how on earth it jumped from that to this. But don't worry. I meant to confuse you. So just sit back, relax, and read and enjoy your confusion while you still can, before everything becomes explained :)*

We woke up to light. A blinding light that was so powerful and so gentle at the same time. A light that radiated from a man, or perhaps he was a boy. He looked to be eighteen, and yet he had an indescribable aura around him that emanated wisdom and strength. Suddenly, the light faded and the boy could be seen more clearly. Blonde curls fell to his chin, and crystal blue eyes peered down at us from a finely sculpted face. I glanced around us, and saw white everywhere. Lightness and brightness were the two words that came to my mind as I examined my surroundings. We seemed to be lying in some sort of large, white castle. I sat up and felt the soft material beneath me, which was thick and soft, the kind of material one would think a cloud to be made of. Off in the distance, darkness swelled in the form of a rain-cloud and the realization of where I was dawned upon me. I was sitting in a castle made of clouds. I looked back to the boy in front of me in shock.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was deep and strong, and it echoed about the cloud room with haunting, resonating tones that somehow comforted me and put my bewildered mind to rest. Then I remembered that we were on a cloud, thousands of feet up in the sky and began to panic.

“Who are you? Where are we? Why are we here? How can we get back?” I asked in a rush, eager for answers. My frenzied voice alerted my friends and they realized where they were. Claire’s mouth dropped open in surprise, Will moved closer to me, and Beth, Rose, and Kathleen looked just about ready to cry.

“I am Michael, and you need not be afraid,” said the boy in a soothing tone with a gentle smile. His voice immediately comforted us, and we all managed to calm ourselves.

“This is the realm of the Caeli Custodes, or the Sky Guards, if you are not familiar with Latin. You are here because the sky has chosen you for an important mission, and you will return to your homes when that mission is completed,” Michael explained. We all smiled when we heard the gentle tone of Michael’s voice, and none of us seemed to fully grasp the meaning of what had just been told us. But Claire seemed to be able to hear past Michael’s voice and comprehended the actual words that the rest of us had been practically oblivious to.

“Wait, what mission? And how are we to know that you are telling the truth? Please, explain yourself further,” she demanded. Michael smiled.

“You are right to be concerned. I suppose if I were human and in your situation, I would be concerned as well.”

Rose’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she stared in astonishment at Michael. “Y-you mean you a-aren’t h-h-human?” she stuttered. Michael shook his head gently, and large, golden wings suddenly unfolded from his back. Rose nearly fainted, and Beth and Kathleen gasped. Claire’s mouth once again dropped open and I fell back into Will with shock. Michael quickly folded his wings back in.

“I am sorry, that was uncalled for,” he apologized. He cleared his throat, and then continued, “Every November, a ceremony in the skies honoring the Caeli Custodes takes place, changing the color of the skies. Humans have created scientific explanations for this changing color in the skies, something you do for everything mysterious and beyond your understanding. During this ceremony, a group of humans are chosen to pass onto their world belief, hope, and faith, without revealing the secrets and mysteries of what lies beyond their world. You have been chosen this year to fulfill this calling.”