"Anna's Grace"-pt. one

All paths lead here, now. This, is the moment. Do you remember, the very first, significant time, despite fear, you decided to pass it's threshold? If this has happened for you, in your life, ten thousand words, could not describe better, your experience, and what I am feeling, right now.

This process is beautiful, at times. Any writer, worth their salt, has felt that tightness in their chest, either pacing, or sitting still, staring off into the void; to be clear, vision blurry, forehead, crinkled. My left hand, fingers touching chin, massaging it, in similar fashion, as when playing Chess. It is in this very moment, that I have discovered, I love this so. It is all, worth it.

A set of details, I would not add, were there not room to explore: My uncle triggered a love for the game, with a gentle approach, benevolence, match after match. I was fourteen. His teaching style was such that he made you feel, enthusiastic. It just took. We were on our way to Colorado, a family trip, my two and a half brothers, my step-mother, and father, in a nineteen seventy three Chevy Nova. Crammed! I read a book on Chess, during that trip, in the hopes of beating my uncle, on our way back through, Sweet Springs, Mo. I improved, ever so slightly. It is a most beautiful, complex, game. My hopes were bruised from the thrashing administered by said uncle. I could not have chosen a more suitable, introduction, to the game.

I cannot claim, this, to be a shared experience. Since I began writing this piece, my life has been impacted, in a myriad of ways. Ranging from utter disappointment, to what can only be called, God's perfect timing, the former, half expected, the latter, Grace. I attribute, these many set of circumstances, can only be causal, to beginning this, my very first piece, to Vocal.

I know, that all human beings, vibrate, and that we have a choice, every day, through tailoring our thoughts, to either raise, or lower, that vibration. That, frequency. That frequency, calls out to the universe, to give you your thoughts, in material form, and outer circumstances. I have only just raised, my vibration, at fifty one years old, to the level needed, to produce this piece. Luckily, there is no age limit, no prime, nor decline, for writers. I give a full nod, of recognition, a bow, to those of you, who feel worthy of it. You've heard it before, this, is a labor of love. I, someday, hope to join the ranks of you, who have seen your dreams, through writing, come to fruition.

At pain of being expelled from this contest, I take this chance, for you. "If I have seen further than others, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched-they must be felt with the heart"- Sir Isaac Newton. I would never be able to attempt this feat, had it not been for those, who have spent the countless hours needed, to write a book, not just for themselves, or for those around them, but for people they would never have a chance to meet. Multi-generational, some may even claim, multi-dimensional. That doesn't sound far-fetched, at all, to me. Great writing touches the soul, does it not? It makes you see colors not present, brings light to your face, fuels anger, explodes your imagination. Hence the term; mind, blown. It most certainly applies, here.

How much of the person, is contained, within their writing? All of it. Every little piece, and forgotten detail. I have had to come to grips, with the fact, that I have never set out, to accomplish anything, worthy of self. I could never delay gratification, long enough, to experience the fruits, of my initial labor, which of course, would be minimal. If not immediate success, fear and doubt, vibration low, obstacles, plentiful. Insurmountable.

This is my declaration to my God and to myself and to you, that as difficult a proposition as it may seem to me right now, I will begin this path with earnest, and humility, despite not seeing what's ahead, or it being easily discerned, unable to define.

I was given this vision, at the outset. I am facing a dark lake. There is no light, ahead. I cannot see the opposite shore. Fear is gripping me, I cower for a moment. But I know now, there is no turning back. With faith, and hope, I outstretch my right leg. As I look to the water on which it will fall, from beneath the surface, rises a foot pad. It is emerald. It is shimmering. A green light from deep within illuminates me in it's wavering beams, meeting my foot, and for the first time in my life, I know, I have finally found, my true path. I am eternally grateful, for this opportunity. Thank you. An aside: The photo I chose to represent my image for Vocal, includes my deceased brother, Tony. He is on the right. He is always with me, and forever, loved. He was my favorite, brother. May perpetual light shine upon him. And, you. I will now continue, with the second part, which will fulfill the requirement, that fiction be represented.

"Anna's Grace"-pt. two

A set of details, I would not add, were there not room to explore: If I put a ", up here, than a ", down there, near the end, followed by, said Marge, would what's between, be counted as fiction? I admit to you, I am at a crossroad. Caught between, should I create a fictional story, adhere to parameters, and, because, writing, principles; much the same way the rule, in practically every Chess match I have ever played, goes, once you touch the piece, you must move it? Or, open the floodgates, and bring you right to the heart of me? I have the same respect, for writing, and admiration, as I do, for Chess. I know this defines my crossroad, to you.

The you I speak to, be the first, the soul person, I am speaking to. Not a misspell. I put myself in your shoes for about thirty seconds, pacing my kitchen. It wasn't easy. So I'll do both.

"Misfit Savior"

Ricki bustled, her motion fluid, her brow defining determination. Her querencia, her safe place, the place she felt most at home, was a five foot oval area from which she could see the entire floor. The words, meticulous, and perfection, were attributed to her work, the choice to hire her to the gloomy diner months before the quintessential reason the spot began to thrive, the staff, effervescent, the atmosphere became shiny and new. A bloom.

No one was a stranger. If she wasn't bussing tables, she was waving to customers, constant, gratuitous, sheepish grin, hair slightly obscuring her eyes, adding to her charm. Magnetizing.

"Where's Ricki"? Babette, accepted her nick-name, "Bubbles", from Rickie, given the first week of her employment. Immediately, frown lines disappeared, shoulders raised, new possibilities considered, epiphany. "She's in the hospital. Heart."

I knew her background before I hired her, her mother and her living but a mile from the diner, distinct possibility of at work health concerns, associated with the heart, most, with Down Syndrome, experience.

I was worried at first. I was ignorant of character traits, personality, intellectual communication capabilities. Would she be a misfit? It was a valid question, and one satisfied squarely within the first few minutes of the interview I conducted with her and her case worker, the two in some kind of rehearsed mind game, good cop, good cop roles, playing me. A stradivarius in Antonio the master's hands.

We were all, subjugated, to the possibility, of life without her, at the diner, ever again.

And to think, at first, I thought of her as having a deficiency, of some sort, a weakness. It was not malicious, my view, just askew, due to other's near sighted prejudice, against anything they have no knowledge, of. I had overheard one simpleton, speaking to another, in hushed tones, snickers, glances, when I was a child, my interaction a mere fifteen seconds, with an individual having Down Syndrome, inside a gas station.

It was fitting that Babette picked up when the case worker called, for she was most affected, by Rickie's absence from the diner. No words, can describe, the transformation her face made, so it should be no surprise to you, I knew before they were spoken.

It would be months, before, she could return to work, but return to work, she would, the first question asked, when journeying back from death and transformations' gate, "Will I be able to go back to work?" It was not, "Will I be ok?"

A moratorium from grief, spirits daring to dream, as the weeks compiled, so did hope, turn to expectancy, of her forthcoming import, sugar, for the rich at heart. I once found a note, scribbled on paper, ripped from my wait book, "Help everyone." It was obvious, it's creator.

I had, at one time, considered myself, master. Now I know I would walk both ways uphill in snow to the schoolhouse willingly if only to be blessed by the presence of Ricki.

We had installed a green light near Rickie's comfort zone, to let her know when there was food to be delivered. It's bright glow now stayed lit day and night, and held much deeper meaning; Rickie's eventual return.

I, am now, a student, of life.

"Anna's Grace"-pt. three

A set of details, I would not add, were there not room to explore: I just found out, my dad had a stroke. If you believed, earlier, in my words, 'Since I began this piece, my life has been impacted in a myriad of ways,' you know now, them to be true. I was in the process of asking his permission to write about him, for this very piece. Have I disobeyed, if the answer is, no? At pain of being expelled from his life, I write this; I love you.