Safe and Sound

      I often listen to music while writing, but this particular song has such strong emotions in it's quiet tune. It lead me not to make a song from a story but a story from a song. Just a snippet of a story, a single scene. I’m not here to dispute music, so let it simply stand as my humble opinion that Taylor Swift never really wowed me, until now. “Safe and Sound,” has such feeling, and I strongly encourage you to listen to it while you read this story. It makes my simple writing seem ten times better.

     

    The bombs outside aren’t enough to drown out my anguish. The last person left that I loved is gone. I did the best I could, I prayed and nursed him and hid him deep inside my heart so as they couldn’t claim him, but all in vain. Now he is gone like everyone else. Another victim.

      In a world of horror he was such a beckon of light. He was there, and if he could stay safely on this treacherous world then I could hold fast to him. His island of peace stayed firm in my horrible tumulus life. He reminded me to sing. He kept me believing that there was still good in the world. And now he is another victim.

       I had a large family but in the end it was just me left. I sat waiting for death to come get me, then he appeared an angel. He convinced me to come away with him, towards what he thought was safe. He was right, it had been a safe house. As in past tense.

      They had come. They had rigged it and just when I thought I could let my guard down, just when I thought I could securely begin reconstructing my life, with him in the center, they tried to blow us to bits. What did they care of the women and children in there? What did they care of the souls, that had seen so much, risked so much? They were willing to let us all end in a flash of fire. Well, it didn’t work. Only three died, though many others were bleeding. He an I ran to a deserted building, where I tried to heal him. But can one do for a hole in flesh?

      Even in the end he held my hand and told me that someday I would be safe. Someday, he promised. I swore to never forget him and right in front of me the lights went out of his eyes. By then the planes were already flying overhead, dropping tiny bombs on us who had suffered so much.

      “Don’t leave me here alone!” I cried to his unblinking eyes. I wiped my hands on my raggedy shirt and closed his eyes,  brushing his hair from his face. Suddenly a thought struck me. Yes, what was there stopping me?

      I stepped outside to fire filled valley and stood in a clearing. I stared at the grey sky, tiny figures of planes in the distance. There was only one place where we could be safe. Be safe together. I looked out, addressing no one and everyone. “You’ve always thrown everything you could at me! Hit me! Hit me with the best you’ve got!”

       I turned my head to take a last look at his face. It looked almost peaceful. “Wait for me,” I whispered. “I’m coming. And together we can be safe. Safe and sound.” 

-astrid lightly          

The Clubhouse

      I sleep in a closet. A rather weird statement to open with, but I can explain.

     

      When I was little I was a brave tom-girl; never afraid of the bugs, large dogs, or the strange cashiers that plagued my companions with fright. I did my best to hide the fact that I was a perfect scared-y cat at night, when there was no light but an eerie moon and flickering street lamps. Lying in my bed, I would be extremely comforted by a overly-bright night light I possessed, but I would still  bug out over creatures of the dark sometimes. On one such occasion, I was convinced that monsters inhabited a large closet in my room. I called reinforcements (Mom and Dad) and opened the wooden door, clutching a much loved stuffed animal. It was just an ordinary closet full of ordinary things, an quarter hours worth of excavation revealed. But it lit a spark of an idea in me.

      The next day I approached my mom and said in my best-little-girl-in-the-world voice “Can you help me with a project?” Hesitantly, probably due to the fact that some of my previous “projects” included opening an animal shelter, visiting Pluto, and turning the yard into a theme park, my mom asked what I needed help with. “I want to turn the big closet in my room into a secret clubhouse,” I answered. “Please?”

       “Sure.”

       So the process began. The closet had to be emptied and the things inside had new homes to be found. Two foam mattresses and a futon that we had for sleepovers were put in there and bit by bit the tiny white room came alive. My pillows and stuffed friends piled in and my dad, who had watched my exploit with an sentimental and amused expression, installed a small light for me. Lovingly dubbed “The Clubhouse,” this little home for an imaginative girl was complete. For then.

        Over the years more things have been added. I installed a corner shelf for my alarm clock and cherished of books, the walls have been bedecked with some of my best poems and oil pastel pictures. Just yesterday I pounded in a nail for my soft suede blue dream catcher to hang, dispensing of bad breams before they reach my sleeping head.

          But much hasn’t changed. My friends still come over and are awed by its whimsy and cozy feel. It is still the perfect place to read, to dream in sanctuary. For me to return to the times of when I was a little girl, unblemished by society and the oppression of crowds. And only when you find that peace can you achieve creativity that results in the creation of something bigger then yourself. So I shall dream on and remain in my dear Clubhouse as long as I can.

-astrid lightly