People always wondered why I liked writing such gruesome stories. They were usually only a paragraph long and always dealt with the same thing....plunging down to a grisly death. I couldn't understand it myself, but it was such a fascinating subject. Despite the fact all the stories were about one thing, it was amazing how easy it was to find unique ways to make my characters fall to their death. Sometimes they tripped, sometimes they were pushed, sometimes they jumped of their own will. Some fell fast and others floated. I could use such colorful words such as dive, sink, tumble, pitch. People always wondered why I wrote such things. I always wondered, too, until I found myself plummeting to a watery death.

When he first came speeding down to the house, half-off the driveway, we thought for sure he'd crash into the garage. Everyone rushed to the car, but I stayed rooted in the spot, numb out of fear.

He stepped out of the car, dressed in a classy suit, I started to breathe again. Until he collapsed, barely being caught by the guy next to him. I managed to unglue myself enough to lift my hands to my face in astonishment, before going statue-like again.

My heart starting pumping faster than I thought possible when they helped into the truck and drove him out of there as fast as allowed. I managed to get a glimpse of him, looking sicker than I'd ever seen anyone.

"Guys, we should pray." I don't know who said it, but it jolted me out of my stupor enough for me to walk over and join them. All I could do was bow my head and add my fervent prayers to those being said already.

I heard someone walk past us, but barely noticed. I didn't care that the limo driver was there, probably uncomfortable by our prayer circle. I didn't care that I was the only girl amongst the guys. All I cared about was my friend, who was on his way to the ER to find out exactly what was going on.

We went through the planned motions of the night, and even had fun with our progressive dinner and limo rides. We kept informed by the men who were with our friend at the hospital. We never were really sure what the problem was, just that it was very serious and mainly located in his head.

Another head injury. The second this year. The first had been my mom's. She'd recovered fast and perfect, but I was worried it would be more difficult this time.

The most information we got was that it was some sort of brain bleed that had originated from problems he'd had with his head ever since childhood. All I could think was, so that is where all those headaches came from.

I don't know how many times we prayed that night. Not enough, it felt like. I didn't care how long it took, I just wanted my friend back to his cheery self.

The next day we had more information. It was serious, but the doctors seemed confident that with time, they could help him heal completely. He was admitted to a special hospital that dealt specifically with nuerology.

Since I was staying with my buddy and her family, I accompanied them on the long trek to the hospital. It was nearly an hour away, and we were stuck in traffic most of the time, so I had a couple hours to get even more nervous than I already was.

When we arrived, my heart was beating out of my chest. All I could think of was the account of my friend looking terrified in his last concious moments before being airlifted. He'd been unconcious ever since and though I desperately wanted to see him, I also dreaded it.

We waited for hours before we were allowed to see him. We had food and hung out with our large group in the waiting room. Friends came and went, some for support, some to see him.

Our turn finally came.

When we were admitted to the room, the scene before me was so much worse than I had prepared myself for. At first I stood and stared. His beautiful mass of dark, curly hair had been shaven off, and we could easily see the place where they'd removed some of the bone, as the skin was palpitating with each heartbeat. He was covered in cords and all sorts of other medical doodads, and a thin blanket lay over his legs. I wanted to run home and grab my thick, Mexican blanket to put over him, as it was chilly in the hospital.

When my friend's mom took his limp hand, it was almost too much. I wanted to run away and sit with him, holding his hand, at the same time. I'd made it a rule not to cry in public, and I almost broke it during that heart-wrenching visit. But when my friend started to cry, I was able to prevent my own tears from spilling by comforting her.

We prayed over him and asked the nurse about his condition. She mostly repeated what we knew, and told us about the possible treatments. My heart had just started to rise out of the ashes, when she said, "But, he is very, very sick."

The gravity in her voice made my heart go back to those ashes.

After a while longer, we reluctantly left. I knew everyone felt like me. We all wanted to leave and forget the sad sight, yet wanted to stay at the same time.

Days passed. It was hard for me to go about my day at the ranch when I didn't know much about his condition. I only heard what was posted on Viber, or what our pastor said on sundays. We prayed a lot.

His condition changed so much, playing with my emotions as it steadily increased, then decreased, by turn.

All I wanted to do was go back and sit with him, all day, every day. I wanted to talk to him, telling him about what fun we'd have with our violins, about how we could always do another limo ride just for him, how we could practice Spanish together. I wanted to read to him, sing to him.

Yet I never got the chance, and didn't have the guts to ask my parents to take me.

I reasoned within myself I would go. If I had to pay for the gas myself, I would see him. Blast this dilemma of not having my own car!

I never did go to see him at the hospital.

"Genevieve, do you know how he is doing?"

"I don't. I haven't checked Facebook or Viber yet. Why?"

"Well, I don't want to be the one to tell you. Are you doing school?"

"Yes...."

"Don't go on Facebook till you're done."

Now, why was she acting so weird? My heart dropped. Had his condition worsened? He'd been seeming to do a little better, but if his condition had worsened as much as she hinted at, I had a right to know.

Disregarding her wish, knowing that I couldn't concentrate until I knew, I checked Facebook.

The first post on my feed began with the words, "Our dear brother in Christ passed on today."

It didn't register for a long time. When it did, I sat there in shock. It was impossible...I'd never lost a friend before. Just a brother, and that had been when I was too young to really remember.

No, it was impossible. The doctors knew what they were doing.

But as I read on, and scrolled down to see similar posts, I realized it was indeed true.

When the tears came, they came in torrents I didn't know my eyes could hold. I cried and cried and cried, soaking more tissues than I could count.

My cousin was staying with us, and my first impulse after I got out my initial bout of tears was to tell him. But I didn't trust my eyes, so I walked out to get a drink like everything was normal.

My dad, also not knowing my turmoil, asked me to help him and my cousin with cattle. That was the last thing I wanted to do. What I wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for weeks. Maybe die.

As I rode, I cried whenever I was alone. Sometimes it was hard not to when the others were around. I suspected dad didn't know, otherwise he wouldn't have called me to work with him. It was hard to see or concentrate with the wind chilling me to the bone, my horse not cooperating and my thoughts constantly on my dead friend.

I'd lost someone near and dear to me. It was the first time I'd ever felt true grief. I praised the Lord my mom had been spared, and almost yelled at Him in anger over letting my friend die. I knew it was selfish, but I didn't care.

When mom announced at dinner he was dead, I once again restrained the unending tears. Instead, I quietly ate, didn't say a word and marveled at the fact my family seemed so controlled and calm.

I didn't want to go to the funeral. But when they asked me to play violin, I had no choice. Violin had been something me and my friend shared. The least I could do was play some for him.

During the long day, I didn't shed one tear or even become misty-eyed. I don't know why. Maybe it was the sense of duty I felt about being there. Maybe it was because all around me, my girlfriends were weeping their eyes out and I commenced to be the shoulder to lean on. I did my best to be a pillar for my friends, and was amazed at my control.

His death made me want to never make friends again. Never love any human being ever. For love, whether it be for your mother, brother, friend, spouse or anything, was sure to bring heartache eventually.

Those tears didn't come for weeks. I don't know why. But eventually they did come again, in torrents and endless, just as before. Yet, through it, I learned that though I had loved my friend and he had died, being his friend and loving him as one had been worth it. And I would have gone through it again, death and all, if it meant having him and his friendship back, even if for one moment.

Bottles of plastic

Trash in the sea.

Gas fills the air

Fumes seek us out.

Some people care

Others do not.

This planet we inhabit

Be it dying or very much alive?

Some say, 'ban the chemicals!'

Others, 'no one's died yet!'

Are we safe?

Can we be sure?

Some people are tinged in green

These people should be respected,

but definitely not believed-

For if we were all tinged in green...

like all those protestors everywhere...

what would we do with all the plastic?

Who would eat all the beef?

We would be devoid of all greenery!

So be tinged in green if you like.

I will try to respect you

Try to see your perspective.

But in the end

I want my beef

For beef is my friend.

Have you ever stopped to ask

Or even stopped to think--

Why colored leaves and a soft wind

Excite people's hearts so?

The coming of autumn, the rush of fall

It's regarded abroad as beauty.

Do people really not see

The danger in leaves, not the colors they should be?

Are our minds so befuddled, our senses so muffled

We do not see the clear and present danger--

In a season so treacherous in nature

And so wily in its doings?

It announces the end of summer, as the weather cools

Leaves start dying and we celebrate the colors they create.

Scarves and coats are pulled out and hot drinks made

We savor the cool weather and rejoice in the new season.

Little do we know, that this cunning season

Is concealing the cool of winter with its breezy weather--

And sunny days leftover from summer

Only to open our eyes on the first day of winter.

It is a surprise then, when our eyes are opened

To a raging blizzard and below 0 temperature--

That we do not see the folly in letting autumn decieve us

She is pretty, but she is fickle.

Disguising the death of a season as an 'october'

Pretending to give us respite from summer heat--

Respite from winter cold

When in reality, she is a dying season, not wanting to let us go.

Have you ever stopped to think of a world with no summer

No winter, no spring

Autumn only, with its dying leaves and folly weather?

Dwell on this, and perhaps it is not too late to save you

From the craftiness of her counterfiet season.

Tears shed, words unsaid

Mournful now, regretful later

Fear silenced words of love

A limp wave, a small smile

Watching as he goes

So many things left to be forgotton

Laughter, dancing, grins

Joyous moments now gone

Has earth no pity?

Laughter like wind chimes

Eyes like bluebells

"Goodbye, Rose."

"Till again we meet."

Fear raises his voice

And wonderings arise

Will we meet again?

Good things rarely stay

Oh, bliss of days past!

Forgotton dreams, desolate summers

Words left unsaid

To remain hauntingly evermore.

Hunting.

That's what he'd set out to do.

Now his bow lay ten feet away, slowly dropping further out of his sight as he crept through the forest. Sunlight glinted off of the leaves and shone through the thickly-clustered trees, dappling the creek that he swiftly crossed.

Sage and pine permeated the air. There was a cacaphony of birds and frogs. The horizen was just starting to grow pink.

Yet it was none of this that had caused the hunter to abandon his quest.

There was another addition the evening show of beauty. Something sweeter. Something softer yet easily heard above the din of the birds. It was a sound that filled his ears and drew him forward.

It was getting closer now. It was a feminine voice. The hunter crept forward as silently as he could, and then stopped. The melodious sound was just beyond the grove of trees he was hiding behind.

He pushed aside leaves and stepped out. He was momentarily confused, as he had stepped into a meadow that stretched out to a cliff, mountains visible in the distance.

He looked around for the voice, and for a moment could not find it. He closed his eyes and listened. The sound had stopped. It seemed to darken the mood of the forest.

He looked around again, frantic to bring back the music.

And there she was.

Nestled beneath a willow tree, her head barely visible above the gently-waving grass. She was looking at him. When his gaze caught hers, she lowered her head farther down into the grass.

She was hiding from him.

He'd frightened her.

Instantly he removed his hat, the breeze instantly catching his curls. He threw the hat aside and went down on one knee.

"It's alright," he said, barely above a whisper, "I came to listen."

She drew further into the shadows.

"Don't be frightened." he urged. "I was hunting and I abandoned the chase to find the source of the music."

She raised her head. "You considered the song more important than the hunt?"

He nodded. Her voice was small, quiet, soft. Yet he somehow knew he could have heard it as well as he had heard her song.

Without another word, she rose up. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, falling to her feet. Her dress was the color of the wildflowers around her.

It seemed as if she had lived on this hillside her entire life.

She sat a good distance away, on a low branch of her willow tree.

She glanced uncertainly at him, then began singing.

Her song was the same song, only made more beautiful by the sight of her. The hunter went to his knees, then quickly found a rock to sit on. He listened in silence to the song, afraid the slightest move he made would break the perfection of the moment.

The song seemed to come from deep inside of the girl, and seemed to reawaken the forest, prompting the birds to once again sing and the frogs to once again croak.

Her song was sweet and soft, but soon changed. It changed to a deeper sound, reminding the hunter of a storm blowing across the prairie. It was strong and still melodious. It changed once again to remind the hunter of a raging sea, wild and free.

It changed back to the original song, soft and sweet. The hunter felt he'd been taken on a journey, a quest, all in two minutes.

When she stopped, he looked up in surprise. It had seemed she could sing forever, and he was surprised to find himself expecting her to do so.

"Please continue." he whispered.

She shook her head. "You must make your own music now."

He shook his head and stood. "I know nothing of music except that your voice is the only real music I've ever heard!"

She stood and, fearing she would leave, he sprang forward and gently took her arm. "Please, one more song."

"You have been given a gift." she said. "A gift that is given only once."

He felt suddenly his paradise was disappearing, reality returning. He gripped her arm harder. "Please don't leave."

"The more I sing for you, the more it will hurt when I stop." She handed him a small, wooden instrument. "Make your own music."

"I don't know how..." he trailed off when she looked at him. Her eyes were darker than the darkest woods.

"You do." she said quietly, and he stood dumbstruck. She walked away and seemed to disappear into the forest.

He snapped out of his haze and ran after her. He ran in the direction she had gone, but she had truly disappeared, for there was no trace of human interference in this part of the forest.

He looked at the instrument. It was small and beautiful, delicate yet strong. Just like the woman. Perhaps it could make the same sounds as she could.

He tentavily lifted it to his lips and blew.

When the first note hit him, it was as if he'd known the instrument all his life. His fingers flew over the holes and more notes flowed out, filling his entire being with the same feeling the woman had.

He played more and walked as he did, allowing his feet to take him wherever they would. When he lifted the instrument from his lips, he looked around.

He was back where he had started, his bow in front of him, just where he'd dropped it.

It had seemed so long yet so swift. He found himself wondering if it had been a dream. The more he thought about the woman, the music, the cliff...

The cliff!

He ran back where he'd seen the girl, following the original path he'd taken to find the music. He ran and ran till he reached the familiar cluster of trees. He broke through and looked around.

Nothing.

A small break in the trees, but barren and rocky.

He looked at his flute. What had happened? Had it really been a dream? It had felt real, perfect.

He lifted the instrument back to his lips and played some more notes, which brightened the forest, it seemed. He walked back to the bow, this time directing his steps.

When he reached his bow and picked it up, his wondering ceased.

He finally realized now.

It wasn't the woman who gave him the perfection, the moment...

It was the music.

She had truly given him a gift, he realized, as he looked down at the flute.

She'd given him the gift of music.

A gift he could take with him anywhere.

He would cherish it.

Forever.