"Need to go outside?" I asked the dog. He lifted his head, and his tail started to wag. Slowly, he got up and shuffled after me towards the door.

Silo was a good dog. When he wondered onto our farm two weeks ago, we could only assume he was a stray. He was scrawny and ragged, and there wasn't a collar in sight, but he was sweet and willing to follow us back to the house.

He was the kind of dog that never barked and would sit with you on the porch and nap in the sun. The kind of dog that always seemed to always have a dopey sort of smile on his face and plucky elavator music playing in his head. He was getting older, if the white hairs on his muzzle were any indication, but he wasn't that old. The pooch still had some kick in him.

When I posted him on Facebook, I quickly found a family that was interested in taking him. They were a young couple with two kids, one was seven and the other was four. Silo was sweet and gentle, and I was confident he would make a great family dog. They were eager to pick him up, and I knew he would be happy.

Tonight was our last night together. It had been a lovely evening with him curled up next to my rocking chair as I read. But now it was bed time. Time to let him outside one last time.

He trotted out into the darkness and I began to shut down the rest of the house. Lights off, air conditioner set, etc. The last step was to let Silo in, lock the door, and head upstairs. But when I came back to the screen door, he wasn't waiting for me.

This wasn't unusual. Sometimes Silo prefered to stay outside. The summer nights were the perfect temperature, and the sound of the crickets and the locusts made for a good lullaby. Besides, how many nights had he stayed outside before he was found?

I called for him a few times to be sure that that's what he wanted. "Siiiilooooo," echoed across the plains. Nothing answered me but a gentle breeze and the yips of coyotes to the south. They were far away and even then, rarely came close to the house.

With that, I shut the door and went to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, he still wasn't at the door, which definitely was unusual. Normally, he was ready to see me again by the time the sun came up. I slipped on some shoes and headed out, calling his name the whole time. "Siiiiilooooo..."

Finally, as I rounded the barn, I saw him. He didn't come trotting up to me as he usually did. There was no warm, dark fur or toothy dog grin. He didn't timidly ask for pets or wag his tail. No, now he was a heap of fur laying in the dirt. With a sinking feeling in my stomach and tears burning in my eyes, I realized I would have to contact the family before they made the trip out here.

This is a short story I wrote my senior year of high school. The prompt was "You have been sent away forever form your home, friends, and community. Imagine a place of exile such as a foreign country, the wilderness, the sea, or space. Imagine you are there permanently and without contact with those you love."

The reason I'm most proud of it is because most of my classmates wrote things like, "Here I am on this island by myself, I have to find food, water, etc. I sure do miss my family." Each one was kinda uniform in structure and content. It might be prideful of me, but I like my creative spin.

The forest was still. The crunch of my boots against the brush seemed to be the only sound. I wrapped my scarf tighter and pulled my arms in close to my body. Winters here were always cold, and this year had no exceptions. In a matter of a week or two, chilly weather had clawed its way into eah nook and cranny in the forest.

"Including my shack," I thought bitterly. That's why I was trudging through the woods today. I needed more firewood. After carefully selecting a small tree, I took my ax and began chopping away. The ax was one of the few things they allowed me to take with me when I left. My calloused hands gripped the tool with ease now, but I remember a time when the same hands had been soft; they had snaked their way around my loved ones during our final goodbyes and had reluctantly let go.

I decided to take a break and eat the small lunch I had brought with me. I sat on the ground and munched away in the silence. Quiet days were always the hardest. They left an empty, aching feeling in my belly as if I was starving. They only reminded me of the times when I welcomed into a home. They reminded me of the jovial laughter around the kitchen table, and when my cousin and I would steal sugar cubes, and we were gently scolded by our grandmother when we were caught.

Quiet days in the forest made me long for the music and the warmth and the happiness of acceptance, but all of that was gone now.

Before I truly thought about what I was doing, I found myself trekking down a well-worn path. I soon came to stop at a tall chain-link fence with vindictive barbed wire sitting at the top. I looked at the cozy houses that were jsut on the other side.

"Maybe I could go back now. Maybe they've forgotten about what I've done," I hoped. "Maybe they've forgotten about me entirely," I feared. I stepped closer to the fence, lacing my fingers through the small openings, and once again found myself wondering if I should try to climb the fence.

Just then, I detected movement to the right. There, near one of the small homes, was a man. He was all bundled up in heavy winter clothing, but even with his bulky apparel, I could see his tense stature. He was an insider, and insiders didn't like outsiders.

Like an animal protecting its territory, he glared at me. His eyes told me to leave. "Go away," they said, "Don't think about climbing that fence. Don't think about coming home, even though that's what you've thought about every single day since you left."

"They haven't forgotten, " I realized, which somehow made me feel relieved and devastated all at once. I couldn't take it any more. His eyes were saying things that I didn't want to hear. Silently, just like the forest, I let go of the fence and shuffled back to my prison.

I hobble across the dirty sand on the lakeshore, leaving bloody footprints as I go. A stray piece of glass hidden in the murky waters was all it took to get me out of the way. I watch bitterly as you lift her up and throw her back in the water playfully, laughing the whole time. My foot throbs painfully. So does my heart.

I was born and raised in Oklahoma, a strange and wonderful bridge between the South and the Midwest. I tried to come up with as many terms that were exclusivley Oklahoman, but I’m sure some will overlap with other states as well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Hope you enjoy!

Okie - Another word for Oklahoman. Often associated with the Merle Haggard song, Okie from Muskogee. ”I’m proud to be an Okie from Muskogee!”

bar ditch - The ditch on the side of the road. I never thought this was an Okie term, but my grandmother, who grew up in California and Arkansas, insisted that she’s never heard it called that anywhere else. ”If you don’t pay attention to the road, you’re going to drive right into the bar ditch!”

ope - A mild exclamation often used when bumping into someone or something. This is something nobody noticed until a meme about it came out, and now everone in the Midwest has a complex over it. I guess it could be called a variant of ‘oops’? ”Ope, sorry, let me just squeeze past you here.”

Boomer - Mascot of Oklahoma University. Historically, they were white settlers who believed that the Unassigned Lands were open to anyone for settlement, not just Indian tribes. They thought this because of a clause in Grover Cleveland’s Homestead Act, and some had to be removed from the property. Basically, they’re rebels. See the Oklahoma University fight song.

Sooner - Also a mascot of Oklahoma university. Later, it was decided that the Unassigned Lands would be opened in a land run (Oklahoma is the only state to have had a land run). Land was sold first-come or by bid. Sooners were people who settled on the land prior to the land run opening date. Basically, they’re cheaters. See the Oklahoma University fight song.

necked - Naked, but with a southern accent. It’s really not that different, but it’s significant enough that we will spell it differently to make sure our accent comes across in text. ”He ran out of there necked as the day he was born.”

nader - Short for tornado. Used often during storm season (the end of April throughout May). Said with as much southern accent as one can muster. ”The weatherman said there would be hail, but do you think there will be a nader?”

hidey-hole/fraidy-hole - Slang for the basement. ”The nader sirens went off; we better head to the fraidy-hole.”

It hit me while I was watching TV with my roommate. She was watching Keeping up with the Kardashians again. She insists that their antics and stupidity makes her laugh. I insist that the show is the McDonalds of TV -- okay in small doses, but too much will make you feel sick inside. It’s greasy and cheap, and if you keep consuming it, your body and mind will start to feel the effects.

This time was no different. In this particular episode, Kim got laser surgery on her hands, taking away all the little wrinkles and scars. And it just hit me. How much these women were willing to do just to look good. To look the part. Absolutley nothing could have a flaw, even something as simple as your hands. Everything must constantly be worked on and doted over so that there is no question that they are beautiful and perfect.

And I hate this idea. That no one can ever see your flaws. Even the ones that aren’t actually flaws. Who in the entire world is going to look at Kim Kardashian’s hands and think, “Ugh, her hands are so ugly. They would look so much better without those wrinkles and that little scar. Disgusting.”?

Why would anyone ever want to live in a world so unforgiving?

And there’s nothing wrong with looking presentable or taking pride in the way you look. In fact, that’s my point. Why can’t I be okay with my stretch marks and scars and cellulite? Why should I have to hide all of that away? Can’t I like myself just the way that I look?

Can’t I just let my body be a body?

And to an extent, I understand that this is their career. They are paid to look like this, and to keep up this image. I suppose one could argue that there is use in it after all. Unfortunately (or fortunately), this idea will never have any value to me. Thank God that isn’t my job. I would go mad. My heart would be the lattice to the parasitic vine of self-loathing, slowly and surely choking the life out of me.

And I don’t think that the Kardashians themselves are useless. Nobody is useless, and everyone has value, one way or another. But this notion they spread through their massive means of influence is destructive and dangerous and not something I could ever support.

It’s vain.

Damaging.

Fake.

Shallow.

Hollow.

It’s utterly useless.

My sweet daughter.

You think that you need me.

You are mistaken.

I am sad and unstable and lonley and insecure.

I need you to make all of that go away.

You may be too young to handle that burden,

but I don't care.

As a child, you aren't responsible for my happiness,

but I don't care.

Most parents hold their children in their arms,

but in order to keep you in place,

I will hold you under my thumb.

That is why I isolate you from your frather, your family, your friends.

That is why I yell at you for small things.

That is why I punish you for things that warrant no punishment.

That is why I terrorize you, threaten you, berate you, exploit you.

I must make sure that you are pliant and dependent and malleable and weak.

I must make sure that you never question me.

Even if traitorous thoughts ever cross your mind,

I will see that the words die before they ever leave your lips.

I am vindictive and manipulative and cruel and controlling.

I do all this to make sure you stay.

My sweet daughter.

I know that I need you.

And becuase of that, I have made many mistakes.

I have spent most of my young life seeking forgiveness from somone who didn’t think I was good enought to have it. I begged for it, groveled for it, like a dog asking for scraps. I apologized for being a kid, I apologized for loving my father, I apologized for being myself and for things out of my control.

When I left her, I thougtht that things would change, but they didn’t. I still say sorry when I shouldn’t have to (most of the time without even realizing it). It’s usually my dad who catches it. “It’s not a big deal, Elizabeth. It’s not your fault, Elizabeth. You don’t have to say sorry for that, Elizabeth.”

Sometimes, I start to wonder what forgiveness really means. Can I forgive somone for never forgiving me? A lot of people think forgiveness looks like a mended relationship, putting it behind me, and acting like everything is back to normal. A lot of people tell me that this -- and this alone-- is forgiveness.

But they weren’t there. They didn’t see her steadily tear down a relationship bit by bit. They don’t know the beating my heart took for 18 years. They don’t know that I couldn’t do it again, even if I tried.

No, what people don’t realized is that sometimes forgiveness is understanding that your journey with that person is over. Sometimes, forgiveness is being patient with yourself as you learn to not apologize for everything. Sometimes, forgiveness is doing what is best for the both of you. I know she doesn’t think that this is the best for her.

Maybe she resents me now. Maybe she thinks that I’m witholding my forgivness. Part of me (a part I’m not proud of) is glad that she feels unforgiven. If it’s forgiveness she wanted, maybe she should have thought about that before she made me doubt any compassion that came my way. If it’s forgiveness she wanted, she should have given hers out a long time ago. Another part of me (a part that I am learning to be proud of) hopes that someday, she will understand.

_____________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: This is an entry I made about my mother in my journal on January 20, 2018. I decided to share it here.

He’s angry.

Her words scrape against his heart, and it sends sparks over the kindling that has been building within him for weeks. The flames ignite, and it has begun.

His chest heaves as the steam billows from his lungs. His heart beats faster, works harder to pump his molten blood. Even his tears are boiling, leaving his face an almost ridiculous shade of red. The flames encompass him until he, and everything he touches, is burning.

On the other side of the room, she tries to freeze everything around her. Nothing moves, nothing changes, nothing grows. She has built her fortress and doesn’t intend to let anyone in.

When they first met, she was wrong to hope that his radiant warmth could perhaps melt through her walls and reach her there at the center. She underestimated just how cold she was.

Now his inferno rages, explosions beat against her fortress until it shatters. Ice splinters across the room, hitting him like shrapnel, deep in his heart. The walls are down now, and she is angry too. There's a subzero menace coming for him. Her frozen attack spreads across the room, coving everything in a furious ice.

What had started as a love so gentle and sweet was now a natural disaster. Two volatile forces of nature clash and claw for control. The emotions are desperate and raw.

Robert Frost was right. You aren't sure which one it to blame, the fire or the ice. But, god, you know in that moment that this is it.

The world is indeed coming to an end.