My family bloodline is a long and winding vein rich with history. Each path it takes connects to a courageous and fearsome soul. Trojans, Vikings, celts and American revolutionaries color my past.

When you see my face, what is it that you see? What label do you adhere to its surface? Perhaps it’s chubby to you, or pretty, or even hideous.

What do I see? I see the souls of my past reflecting in the mirror. I see the traits connecting me to them across the centuries, I see sacrifices made so that I may live. I will never know them, but I will forever love them.

Before you label yourself such paltry and incorrect things, look to the past to find the self love only your history can provide.

“It depends,” the teacher said using actions alone, no words were spoken.

You see, Jessie was learning to sign and her teacher was Deaf.

Her heart squeezed with a curious coupling of anxiety and relief. It certainly wasn’t the answer she expected.

Jessie hated depending on anyone and everything due to the guaranteed outcome of disappointment.

In that moment, however, she realized how dependent everything in life was on something else.

Even the sign “Depends”demonstrates how one finger depends on the other to keep it suspended.

The answer Jessie sought to gain greater knowledge truly depended upon nothing and everything.

A hawk announces its arrival into the aerial scene by releasing a raspy scream.

Its majesty is unmatched, soaring above the fray of the world below.

He knows nothing of our stress, heartaches and pain, only his survival and that of his winged family.

Love is not unlike that king of the sky, soaring above the chaos; focus so narrowed on its survival, all else fades into the land of unimportance.

He was my Darcy. However, in my version of events, he was all grump and no charm. My writer's heart and fallen for a character I had thought come to life only to realize far too late that the real deal is still buried deep in the pages and masterful words of P. & P.

"R. I. P. to my dreams and my passions," was my motto with him. My diploma says 3.8 but my relationship GPA was far too disparaging to grade.

Now that I've taken out the trash, I can rekindle my lifelong romance with wordsmithing. Oh, to feel the words flow through my fingers again. It is like water to a parched soul. The deadly desert is now a lush oasis. Like a cleansing, controlled burn, I am ignited by the fire that must set my pages ablaze or I risk my mind becoming a victim of its inferno.

During my prison sentence with that fool, I thought I was no longer a writer; perhaps it was just phase. Now, I realize that this craft was never simply a phase but rather an assigned mission that was simply hiding until it was safe to come out again.

My heart is healed, stronger than ever and ready to fire shots of retaliation at Cupid. Why would I ever trust a diapered man baby with my love life anyway?

Breathing in the mahogany scent of my long-abandoned desk and relishing in the cool metal of my typewriter, I am exhilarated by the punchy sound that first letter makes hitting the paper, a.k.a. my ticket to freedom. My speed increases as my story roars to life.

Sometimes, carrying a torch for the wrong person lights the way to the path you strayed from for so long. Other times, you are kept warm as you use it to burn the bridges and villages you once built together. Either way.... ;)

Frolicking high notes danced into my ears, aimed straight for my heart. A part of my soul awakened for the first time that day. I never heard something so enchanting, at the same time so haunting.

The melody was an arranged marriage of pain and joy; I had found my new drug. Celtic music introduced me to my love for all things Irish and Scottish including my heritage which was nonexistent before.

With every lilt of the penny whistle and rolling thunder of the bodhrán, my ancestors seem to reach out across the centuries. They remind me of the many sacrifices made so that I would not suffer the same, as well as the battles fought to renew my strength for the challenges I face.

Like all pretty things, she came into this world armed.

Many desire to touch her beauty, going so far as to snip any defense from her to fit their aesthetic.

The cruelty of it all, is their greed only serves to destroy the very thing they seek.

She is believed to be weak, for she truly only lasts a week.

How could any last when stolen from their life source?

A symbol of love, but who would finally love her, leaving her rooted?

Unassuming, underestimated, and obedient. That’s what they thought of Jael too, until she did something no one else could.

As a society we are led to believe that Biblical women were soft, but the reality is quite the opposite. Jael is simply one example of such a fearsome female, not to mention my favorite.

Captain Sisera was the villain in this tale. Many had tried but none could stop his tiereny. Whilst on the run he sought shelter, which Jael gladly gave him. After some milk and a comfortable place to rest, Sisera fell into a deep slumber.

Jael then drove a tent peg into his skull, killing him. She conquered the enemy, something battle-trained soldiers failed to do.

So often we believe to fight battles, we must go out in a blaze of glory, when measured control and a little ingenuity do wonders.

As a new teacher, I had students tell me I was too sweet and I would get eaten alive. Little did they know, behind my baby face exterior beat the tenacious heart of a warrior. Here I am, five years later, still going strong. Daughter of Jael for life.

She drifts into view, drawing forth vast emotions from the soul’s darkest abyss.

There is an air of mystery trailing behind her like some rare, exotic fragrance.

She exudes regality and sensuality in the same pulse.

Her presence is alarming yet alluring; calming yet unsettling.

Her name is Contradiction, and her signature shade is sapphire.

Caleb had barely lowered himself to the ground, when a stable

boy whisked his steed away. Looking around, he began to acquaint himself with what would serve as his home for the next several months. Chroi Village seemed to be a decent size, with everything that could make a man far from home quite comfortable.

“Watch your step!” The shrill voice of an old woman pierced his senses. He had unintentionally bumped into a beggar.

“Forgive me, madame. I do not seem to have my wits about me this morning.”

With a disgusted humph, she hobbled off, using a crooked stick, to aid her labored gait.

Feeling a hand clap his shoulder, Caleb knew turned to his comrade from the first day of training, Arden. Arden was also taking in the sights and smells of their surroundings.

“This shall do quite nicely.”

Just then, a gaggle of ladies of the evening wandered by.

“Yes, quite nicely indeed.”

Caleb's stomach churned in disgust. “Arden, we are here to train and fight for King Diermund, not to indulge our desires.”

Arden punched Caleb in the arm. “Preacher, it would do you some good to give into your desires. That is if you have any.”

Caleb had grown accustomed to such comments as he was not shy about his faith and the God in whom he believed.

Calmly countering his friend, “The only desire I wish to give into

at the moment is filling my belly; I am famished.”

Heavenly aromas of various foods wafted in the air from a

plethora of vendors.

Caleb approached a stand where turkey legs were sold. Before retrieving some currency from his leather pouch.

“How much, my good fellow?”

The man running the stand, rotund both in size and exuding surliness, turned at Caleb's greeting.

The vendor seemed to size him up before stating a price that Caleb thought was reasonable enough.

After divvying up the correct amount, he shoved the coins toward the man who reached for them greedily. Suddenly, the thump of wood on wood resounded, startling both men. Glancing down, he spotted a crooked old stick positioned between his payment and the hand of the vendor.

“You overcharged him.” It was the old beggar woman from earlier.

Caleb stood in stunned silence as he glanced at the man who shook his head in denial.

The man scoffed. “Why don't you do what's best for you and

hobble off and die, eh?"

Caleb could not believe that anyone would address this poor old soul in such an unkind manner.

Before he had a chance to come to her defense, the woman spoke once more. “Why don’t you do what is best for you and charge the newcomer the correct price?”

The man chuckled evilly; all denial erased from his tone. “Who

is going to make me?”

The old woman placed her hand onto the wooden platform before tapping her fingers on the wood. At the peculiar sound, all color drained from the man's plump face.

Caleb spied what had so obviously frightened the man. In truth, it surprised him as well. The hand he had believed to belong to an old woman was, in fact, the smooth, milky-white hand of a young woman. The source of the strange noise was the rather large emerald stone sitting upon her right ring finger.

The crooked old woman straightened, and the hood of the cloak fell, revealing the vision of a comely young woman, glorious waves of midnight hair cascaded about her ivory face. Her striking eyes were the exact color of the ring she wore.

“Y-your H-hi-highne-” the vendor stammered.

With more authority than most men, the beauty raised her hand to silence him.

“For the last time, sir, charge the newcomer the fair price or I shall personally see to it that all you have ever worked for will be for naught.”

Caleb was mesmerized. Was she an angel, sent to keep him safe from crooks like this man? Surely, she was not real. Mayhap this was all a vision brought on by little food and no sleep.

She did not look at Caleb; her intense gaze aimed daggers at the

vendor.

When the crook stated the actual price, Caleb peeled his gaze from the woman, surprised. The cost indeed was significantly less.

After recounting his currency and exchanging it for the prized turkey leg, Caleb turned to thank the angel only to discover she had vanished. Spotting her walking stick still lying on the platform, he snatched it and the turkey leg, and raced after her.

Once back on the main thoroughfare, he jerked his head to the

left and to the right and back again until he saw her cloaked form receding in the distance. She was under the facade of the old woman, but Caleb knew it was her.

He desperately ran toward her. To his dismay, the other villagers

milling about and her surprisingly fast gait for such a small creature,

prevented him from reaching her. He made it to the edge of the village just in time to see her galloping off on a majestic white stallion.

Defeated, Caleb swung and caught the walking stick mid-air. He

supposed she would not need this any longer. Taking a bite of turkey

leg, he decided to head back.

Only then was he aware that Arden had missed it all. Where was the scoundrel? Not seeing him anywhere, he walked in the direction of their training camp.

“Caleb, where have you been?” Arden's voice sounded from behind him.

Holding up his meal, he said, “Satisfying my hunger. You?”

Caleb’s belly churned with repulsion as he saw Arden tuck in his

shirt before securing his trousers about his waist.

“You could say I've been doing the same,” Arden quipped, “What is with the walking stick? Are you much more advanced in years than I had originally thought?”

Caleb sent up a quick prayer for his wayward friend. “It's not mine.”

“Whose is it then?”

Glancing to where the raven-haired angel had disappeared, “I do not know.”

Something told him he would soon find out.