The Thought Vox

The following piece was hacked from a thing I wrote some years ago. While I was back in PEI, my sister and I were on a walk and stumbled upon this old house. It made me think of the little gem I had written. As I read it now I’m not so sure it’s as good as I remembered it to be seven years ago. Nevertheless: A wee bit of fiction for you!

“…On the property, next to Jennifer’s late husbands, there was an old abandoned house. It’s windows partially boarded up. It’s weeds overtaking the long grass. This house was the first thing she saw when leaving Peter’s, and the last thing she saw on her way back. Everyday, for a week and a half, she passed it without so much as a glance. Today was different, for the first time she looked at the decrepit house as she drove past.

She stopped the car in the middle of the road and sat staring at the old house. After a few minutes she put the car into reverse. Slowly, she drove up the unpaved driveway. She got out and carefully walked up the rotting steps, each step creaking, almost moaning, ready to give way under foot. Reaching the rickety veranda, she wandered to the far end where there was a large gap between the boards nailed to the window frame. When she looked through the grimy window she saw a dead house. She had never seen a dead house up close before. She had never lived in those types of neighborhoods that leave abandoned, rundown, houses to decay into the ground. She had driven past them in poor areas of Boston, but was never compelled to stop for a closer look. Why today was any different, she didn’t know; for whatever reason she was drawn to look closer. What she saw saddened her.

The floor looked to be constructed of hard wood; it was difficult to say for sure what was blanketed under the layers of dust. There were a few pieces of furniture in what once must have been the living room. They were covered with dust-laden tarps, cobwebs anchoring them to the floor. On the far wall there was the remnants of a stone fireplace with a large mantle piece. She imagined it must have filled the room with warmth in its hay day. Now, the room was bleak and cold, nary a breath of life to be found.

Outside, the warm afternoon sun of early July shone ripe on everything around this house; yet it stood forever in darkness. Gone was the newness, the luster, the future filled with the promise of a new family to dwell therein. Gone was the time it was born of the seeds of inspiration; the sweat and determination to create something were also long gone. Once crafted lovingly from the ground up with an eye for every intricate detail, now the only recognizable detail was emptiness. It stood, alone, waiting for impending demise, unnoticed in its state of nothingness as the living word filtered past.”

It’s time for another great lesson I received in the craft of writing. Once again under the guidance of author Marnie Woodrow, I was given an exercise in generating a story. My classmates and I were given a research subjects: Real people, hand picked for each of us to study and then create a fictional story using as many factual bits of information we could. I was given British heiress Marion “Joe” Carstairs.

The following is completely fictional in the way of dialogue and event. However – all facts listed, people in attendance, and physical details are exact. These are the people “Joe” hung with and invited to lavish parties. The rest is how I imagined a gathering would have plaid out.

If you are not familiar with Carstairs, I highly recommend you read up on her. She was a remarkable woman!

Marion “Joe” Carstairs.

The magnificent, three-masted schooner’s, hull sliced effortlessly through the Atlantic waves. Her course set for the island of Whale Cay. A private Bahamian island in the Berry Islands located between Florida and Cuba. Onboard the Duke and Duchess of Windsor lounged comfortably, resting-up for the evening’s festivities. If anyone knew how to throw a party it was Joe Carstairs. Her parties were legendary, complete with music, dinner, and dancing; often Noel Coward would bang out a few show tunes on the grand piano.

The Duke, wearing his smoking jacket, puffing on a Cuban cigar, thumbed through the Washington Post. “Rubbish! Such rubbish passes for journalism in America.”

“Why do you continue to expose yourself to it? You’re a happier old sod when you read the Daily Telegraph.”

“Educated men remain well informed with the goings-on around the globe.”

“As you wish.” She fanned herself to alleviate the sticky August air.

“Would you look at this! It’s a travesty what these yanks say about our Royal Family.”

“You’re torturing yourself. I suggest you dispose of that rag at once.”

He scanned to the end of the article locating the authors name; the Duke was quite satisfied. “I might have known – this slanderous piece of ballux was written by that Miller bloke.”

“Miller? Is he someone we’ve met?”

“I should say not. He’s the bloke that wrote that terrible article about Joe after she announced her self-imposed exile from public life. You recall the article? I believe it was mid 1934.”

“Dearest, that was seven years ago. Why not put it to rest? This miller chap is of no consequence in our circles.”

“What was it he said about Lord Tod?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Ah yes… I recall his caustic words now… He said the only thing we Brits have gotten right is
eccentricity. He also said that Lord Tod was an absurd little mannequin. Such nerve!”

“My love, we have our own judgments on this side of the pond as well. I do recall a time when you weren’t so fond of Lord Tod.”

“Yes, but since having spent time with Joe and Tod I have no further issue with the pair.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The guests began to arrive at 7:00pm. Noel Coward, Dolly Wilde (Oscar’s niece), actress Tallulah Bankhead, and Rock Hudson were among the more famous arrivals. The Great House, a white Spanish style villa complete with red roof tiles and wrought iron railings, was well lit, as were the immaculately kept grounds surrounding it. Joe had a mixture of palm, tamarind, almond and sea grape trees planted. In the garden numerous penguins meandered about unnoticed by the guests. Also unnoticed was the iron carved nameplate on the door. “MARION JOE CARSTAIRS AND LORD TOD WADLEY” Nothing was out of the ordinary in Joe’s world. This was her private country, complete with five hundred Bahamian inhabitants; she was The Queen of Whale Cay.

“We’ll have to make an entrance soon Tod.” She straightened his tie – then her own, their matching, meticulously tailored, suits were custom made on Savile Row. “I wonder if the Duke will be wearing a similar suit? You know we use the same tailor, don’t you? Of course you do… what a silly question.” Joe looked in the mirror molding her slicked back crew cut one last time. “We must be devastatingly handsome for the ladies Tod.” The one foot tall man doll had been her closest companion since 1925. Celebrated German toymakers “Steiff” manufactured the leather doll. He was a gift from Joe’s secretary, Ruth Baldwin, the dearest of her many female lovers. Joe christened the doll “Lord Tod Wadley”, and the pair remained inseparable.

In the grand entry hall guests filtered past the many framed photographs depicting Joe’s extraordinary life. There was a photo taken in 1916 of sixteen-year old Joe in her Red Cross uniform, standing next to the ambulance she drove in France during World War One. Another photo taken in 1926 when she won the coveted Duke of York’s racing trophy, the caption below read “Loveable Tomboy – Crowned Fastest Woman on Water.” There were numerous photos of her fleet of racing boats “Estelle I – IV”. There were many studio portraits of she and Lord Tod. Perhaps the most unusual photo of all was the picture of Lord Tod, alone, looking at his reflection in the mirror; the title below – “Narcissus”. Noticeably absent, to anyone who paused to pay attention to the photos was the lack family portraits. Joe was not close to her family; her father leaving before her birth and her mother, American heiress to the Standard Oil fortune, was an alcoholic with a weakness for men. Joe left for boarding school at age 11.

Joe and Tod descended the stairs at the same time the Duke and Duchess were coming up the walkway. “If Hudson’s here this evening I hope he has the good sense to keep quiet about Marlene Dietrich.” The Duke remarked.

“It would be best dear. However Joe seems to be simmering down a bit over the entire mess. She even went so far as to say, “ Dietrich is the only person who might get me”, perhaps the bitterness between them is almost past.”

“It’s highly unlikely, theirs was a stormy affair. I would hazard a guess that jealousy was a factor.”
“How so?”

“Here on Whale Cay Joe is the star, in the real world Marlene’s star had a much bigger orbit.” The Duke offered.

“Perhaps but its time to join the party so there shall be no more talk of such things.”

The diner conversation was lively, as always. There were twenty-five guests, all in the mood for dining and dancing. “Tallulah dear what picture are you working on next?” Hudson inquired.

“It’s a Hitchcock film, “Lifeboat”, we’re to begin production next year.” She responded in her sultry Alabama accent.

“What’s the plotline?”

“Come now Rock, you know Alfred is very secretive about his projects. I wouldn’t tell you if I knew the specifics. Enough about that… Joe, where might I be sleeping this evening? A guest suite or the queens mansion?” Laughter erupted around the table.

“I think the Queen’s master suite, unless Dolly objects.”

“I have no issue with it, I’m sure you’ll make room for me next time.” Dolly smirked.

“How do you do it Joe? All these beautiful women at your beck and call.” Film director Gabriel Pascal asked point blank.

“They just fall in my lap.” Joe replied. This followed by more laughter.

“Joe, do tell the story of how the islanders came to call you The Boss.” Dolly said eagerly.

“I’m sure nobody wants to hear that tale again.”

“Certainly I do, having yet to hear it.” Pascal said.

Joe loved the limelight, “Well as many of you know I worked side by side with the laborers putting in the roads on this island. One day we sat taking lunch by the road when I slipped the knife from my belt and hurled it at a snake making its way toward us, and by God I cut that God damn snakes head right off. The men were impressed and from then on I’ve been referred to as The Boss.”

“Outstanding,” Pascal beamed, “I’d love to put you in my next picture. I haven’t met a woman as bold and cleaver as you since Kate Hepburn.”

“I’m flattered Gabriel, but don’t think Hollywood is ready for a cigar smoking, heavily tattooed, former speedboat racing queer. The times are changing for the worse. Remember the 20’s; there was such acceptance for experimentation and individuality. The shift of morality in the 30’s inspired my need to buy Whale Cay.”

“What is it that Miller chap wrote about we British eccentrics?” The Duke chimed in.

“Let it be Dearest.”

“Ah yes, I recall it was something like money and title allowed all of our eccentric behavior to go unquestioned.”

“What eccentric behavior might he be referring to?” Joe questioned him.

“Well take Lord Tod for instance, no one questioned him during the decade you brought so many trophies home for Britain. When you retired the press got most ugly about him.”

The Duchess did not speak, but threw a glaring glance at the Duke.

Joe laughed hard, having broken every rule she had the opportunity to break. “We are like one. He is in me and I am in him. It’s a marvelous thing. If everybody had a Wadley there’d be less sadness in the world.”

“Here, here.” Pascal raised his wine glass. “Here, Here.” The guests echoed clinking glasses.
“Tod informs me it’s time for music and dancing.” Joe said.

The party gathered in the ball room where a string quartet accompanied Noel Coward as he broke into “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” “The Party’s Over Now” and the ensemble number “Mad About the Boy,” all of the guests chimed in on this one. Thus far the evening had been wonderful, Joe looked at the doll, seated to her left, and remarked, and “We are a fortunate pair Tod.” The rosy-cheeked man doll always appeared to be happily agreeing.

I learned great lessons in improving writing skills from my University of Toronto instructor, Marnie Woodrow. In the years following her instruction she has become my writing mentor, friend, and novel editor (I’m still working on the final – final draft). Marnie’s writing mentor and dear friend was the exceptional, Timothy Findley. Findley penned many a best seller including: The Wars, Not Wanted on the Voyage, Headhunter, & The Piano Man’s Daughter.

Needless to say – the lessons passed from Findley to Woodrow and on to me are cherished!

During one of our U of T writing courses Marnie was talking about the importance of finding our own unique writing voices. Our three-hour class was dedicated to writing exercises, discussion, and as always an assignment due the following week. (If I have not mentioned previously that Marnie is a brilliant writer that you all should read – I’m saying it now!)

The assignment was one that gave me nervous pause. We had to read another writer and write a short story in their voice. We were given a story by John Cheever and told to create in his voice. Cheever, for those of you who may be unfamiliar with his work, gave life to objects in his stories. Objects were a part of the fabric and not filler. He also tended toward “dark” themes.

It was a challenge for me to get into his head and write as a man. Harder still was giving life to things that are not alive. The interesting thing was to read the work of 16 students trying to write in ONE voice. The end result: We all started out Cheever’esque but ended up writing in our own voices. Yes – mimicking the writing style and voice of another will actually bring you back to your own style. It is unavoidable.

The following is my attempt at John Cheever’s voice:

Amy’s Burden

Struggling artist Amy Rettuc lives a modest life with her live-in fiancée of eight years – Stewart Smith – failed writer turned loan officer. The pair moved into their Queen West loft four years ago, after Stewart landed his secure job at CIBC (following his thirtieth birthday Stewart decided it was time to be a responsible provider). The building – a three-story walk-up – housed a textile manufacturer in the 70’s. They were the second couple to occupy the space since its 1995 conversion. The modest furnishings were mainly un-matching second-hand pieces Amy picked up in and around Kensington Market. The décor rounded out with Amy’s un-sold paintings displayed gallery style throughout the loft, giving it a sense of distinction. The couple planned to wed – yet there always seemed to be a reason for delaying each time the topic of a wedding date arose. The one thing they agreed on from day one – no children – they were artists – a lifestyle that left no room for conventional living. Of course the conventional world started to unavoidably seep in when Stewart took a job in commerce.

“Good evening Stewart,” Mrs. Myers greeted him as they met mid way up the stairs, he on his way home, she on her way out.

“Mrs. Myers,” he smiled nodding politely, having no desire to stop for a pointless conversation.

“I don’t know how Amy can stand to wear long sleeves in the heat of July.”

“Amy is an artist – artists tend to have eccentricities.”

“Yes, well, eccentric or not, the relative humidity is thirty-five degrees today.”

“There is an element of practicality in her atire.”

“How So?”

“The sleeves – she uses them to wipe her hands – she’s always short of rags or misplacing them.”
Moving past he didn’t wait for her response.

Amy was perched on an old, paint splattered, wooden stool, diligently working the canvas, making no attempt to acknowledge Stewarts arrival. On the far wall the hands of an antique clock made their way past 9pm, it’s ticking keeping perfect time to the satin jazz tones of DE PHAZZ, appropriately enough the track “Love’s Labour’s Lost” filled the room.

“Busy day today,” he said.

“Lots of busy days lately,” she flatly replied without looking in his direction. He proceeded into the bathroom to take a shower.

The exuberance of morning bore down on night’s bleakness – Stewart left for the office at sunrise, before Amy woke – she was glad to have the loft to her-self again. The ugliness of painters block descended by 9:30am – Amy persevered, doubting every stroke forced from the tip of her brush.

“I’m almost thirty-five,” Stewart had said the previous evening before they slept.

“Yes you are,” she replied.

“The impetuous plans laid in our twenties are not steadfast – things change – we’ve changed, change is a necessary part of life.”

“I won’t sacrifice my work.”

“You won’t have to – I just want you to be happy – I want to give you everything. That’s why I work so hard, so many long hours.”

“We agreed Stewart – no children,” her tone matter-of-fact.

“Just think about it.”

“I’ve thought about it – still not interested – the deal was — no babies.”

“Just consider it.”

“Why don’t you consider keeping “bankers hours” for a change?”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Just an observation.”

The air hung uneasily in toxic silence.

Mindlessly pushing globs of paint around the canvas Amy’s mind wandered, a baby – is he insane? Why would anyone bring a baby into the emptiness of life, into our home? He can’t be thinking clearly. Working late – Does he think I’m some sort of idiot? Loan officers don’t put in twelve-hour days three and four times a week. I wonder if she works with him? Or maybe that counter attendant at the sandwich shop on the corner – He eats there at least three times a week. The trashy little blond, always flirting – What the hell is her name? Not that it matters. She tossed a dirty brush into the water jar, wiped her hands on opposite sleeves, then got up and started pacing – No – not that it really matters if he’s having an affair – which he most assuredly is – all of the tell-tale signs are there – the hang-ups and wrong numbers, the endless long hours at the office, his emotional detachment, and the list goes on, and on, and on. Does it really matter? Why aren’t I the least bit angry?

During dinner Stewart decided to give his crusade for a child one more try. His voice broke the monotony of cutlery scraping on plates, “What do you think? Have you given things a little more thought?”

“More thought?”

“You know what I’m talking about Amy – the baby – you and I and a baby.”

“I made my feelings clear last night.”

His frustration was evident as he sat rigid boned looking into the face of the woman he loved, unable to understand her reluctance. “So that’s it then?”

“What’s her name?”

“Her? Who her? What are you talking about?”

“Whoever it is keeping you out at night.” She answered then reached for a drink of juice.

“That’s – Well I don’t even know how to respond – It’s absurd.”

“Do you think a baby will fix us? Maybe keep you home at night?”

“There’s nobody but you,” he said with great fervor.

‘Un-huh.” She took another dismissive sip of juice.

Her listless demeanor angered him, “Maybe it’s you that needs to stop hiding your dirty little secret and stop projecting your guilt onto me.”

“I have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Really? – I saw Stanley – tell me, you haven’t started that up again have you?”

“You said you wouldn’t bring it up again – it’s over – a dead issue, I told you that.”

“So swear to God it’s really over.”

“To God? What would an atheist swearing to God affirm for you?” A clever answer to be sure, were this a chess match she’s be winning – she smiled slightly.

He was not so impressed with her response. “Well then, swear to that God-dammed hole in the ground you’ll rot in after the lights go out. Eternity or nothingness – pick one and swear to it. Swear that your passionate affair with Stanly hasn’t been rekindled.”

Guilt quietly festered in the pit of her soul, she forced her lips together to form a weak smile. “I haven’t – I swear to anything and everything.” Stewart continued his tirade – she heard none of his words – her mind plagued by a defining affirmation, I’m a liar – like my mother before me – a liar, I am exactly what I vowed I would never become.

“Well, say something.” He stared intently.

“I told you no. Nothing’s going on. It’s over – for good.”

“Really.” Stewart got up and went to the cupboards, opening the drawer where the dishtowels are kept, he lifted the fresh towels to reveal a bright yellow Stanley exacto-knife. The pristine steel blade glinted from the reflection of the sink light. The flawless edge appeared to be immaculate – that is – until Stewarts’s eyes traced to the tip of the blade, where a small speck of dried blood sullied its perfection. Slamming the hard plastic handle against the counter top he crossed to Amy and pulled back one sleeve then the other, revealing the fresh cuts on her inner arms a few inches above the wrists. The new wounds stood out like the neon signs at Kenny Rogers Roasters, blaring obscenities among the thousands of fine white scars completely tattooing her arms – the product of many years of self-mutilation.

“Why?” was all he could manage.

“To feel something beyond the numbness this life affords me daily.”

He loosened his grip from her right arm, letting it go – he walked to the door, grabbed his keys from the rack and slid the large door open. “Where are you going?” Amy called after him – he did not respond.

I’ve decided to start posting some of my short fiction. The following piece was written to strengthen the art of building a scene. The assignment: Write a scene in the third person POV, use all five senses, and make the setting the story. The place: somewhere you’ve been or want to go. I chose Santiago de Compostella – I have never been but it is on my to do list!

The Quest For Santiago de Compostella – - Day One
The secondhand of Julie’s watch inches past 3:00pm. She breached the tree line an hour ago. The small clearing just steps ahead houses a crude makeshift bench, she stops there for a drink of water, and to bandage the blister on her right heel. There are drinking fountains located in every village along the five hundred mile journey known as “El Camino de Santiago” or “ The Pilgrims way”. Spain has not destroyed the purity of her water supply, a fact Julie is grateful for as she takes a drink that, in this moment, is possibly more satisfying to the taste buds than a fine port. Seated on the lone rickety bench, off to the left of the dirt trail, she carefully removes her hiking boot and sock. The blister is newly broken, but the wound isn’t too bad. She applies adhesive medical tape directly to her heel; a band-aid would rub making things worse. She smiles at this thought, “If one means to walk five hundred miles one must accept the fact that a good pair of boots is more precious than possessing the Holy Grail.” This is immediately followed by, “What’s worse: the fact that I just had a sacrilegious thought on the third largest holy pilgrimage in the world, or the fact that “The Proclaimers” song won’t stop spinning in my brain… “And I would walk five hundred miles… and I would walk five hundred more…” Time to re-focus. Though the bench isn’t comfortable she would be disappointed if it were constructed to perfection with cast iron legs and flawless wood slats. Splintery rough wood slab floating on four uneven stumps, this is how a bench on a mountain trail in Spain should be: blending seamlessly into the surrounding beech forest.

Reaching for her backpack she knocks over her walking stick; it hits the forest floor with a hollow thud. Higher frequency tones, such as the ever-present sound of cowbells filtering through the trees, ring out clearly; yet immediate sounds don’t produce an echo, their tones blanketed by the canopy of greenery. She places the walking stick at her feet within easy reach. The broken branch, chosen at the base of the mountain, is now her worthy traveling companion; after stripping away the bark on the upper half for a better grip, they were on their way. The stick is riddled with twists and bends but is a great support for the uphill climb, and a valiant sword should she have to ward off a pack of wild dogs or a wild boar. The journey is not without dangers.

She spots a clump of buttercups growing at the base of the tree directly across the path; denying the urge to pick one and reflect its yellow sun under her chin. Ten paces to the left there is a large pocket of foxglove flowers. Their flesh is a deep pinkish-purple; those in full bloom are shaped exactly like the cone of an antique brass candlesnuffer she received six months earlier, on her thirty-fifth birthday. She shifts her weight a bit, grabbing a handful of almonds, their rough texture very similar to bench seat. Eat light and drink two liters of water a day advises the 2003 edition of the Pili Pala Press “Walking the Camino de Santiago” guide book; a novice hiker, she is heeding all seasoned advice. The guidebook is securely banded together with a small Spanish/English dictionary and her Credintial del peregrino (Pilgrims passport). English is not spoken in rural Spain and rarely in towns. The dictionary is the source of the bastardized Spanish that allows her to communicate with locals. She runs her fingers along the edge of her passport. It is empty now, but she will be awarded a rubber stamp and shelter at each Refugio she stays in. A badge of honor with each segment of the journey she completes.

After returning her books to the front pocket of her backpack she turns her face toward the divine warmth of sunlight streaming down through the trees. The spring weather is cooperating very well. Rumors of impending rainfall have given way to sunshine and a temperature of 18°C; it appears that Spanish weather men are no closer to predicting the truth than their counterparts in Toronto.

There is an element of disbelief as she looks back on the path she’s been hiking; her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of cracking branches. Brandishing her walking stick like a fearless knight poised for battle, the pounding in her chest is more reminiscent of the “Tell Tale Heart”. Relief washes over her as she spies a Griffon Vulture overhead. He sits on his perch scrutinizing her for no more than fifteen seconds before launching into the air, a flawless start. His stumpy tail seems disproportionate to the powerful outstretched wings, spanning at least three feet, but somehow the balance works. He is natures glider, soaring gracefully with only an occasionally flap of his mighty wings. After circling a few times the Griffon changes direction drawing Julie’s attention toward the mountain she will climb. Mist and cloud coverage give the illusion that the powder blue sky and mountain peak simply come to an abrupt end. It’s as if Claude Monet furiously whipped his brush against the horizon, creating a spectacular view too perfect to be anything other than an impressionist painting. She’s lost sight of the eloquent hunter; the Griffon has disappeared into the mist beyond the scope of her vision. Her attention returns to the immediate surroundings.

The dirt beneath her feet is well packed, almost concrete and littered with twigs. This, the original Spanish route, has been traveled for centuries by saints, kings, and nobility: Dante, Chaucer, Charlemagne, and Saint Francis of Assisi among them. Their footfalls have packed this very dirt; she scuffs her boots back and forth. It is an intimidating thought, the stature of those who’ve come before her, but comfort is taken in the knowledge that misfits and sinners have also crossed this way. Her eyes Trace the height of a large beech tree a few feet to her right; its roots partially exposed by the four-foot wide swath of trail cut through this part of the mountain. Dangling roots and all it flourishes in this utopian setting, at least three feet in diameter, and two hundred feet tall.

Looking beyond the leaves to a clear patch of sky she thinks about the Milky Way. The entire Camino runs beneath its ley lines. These lines reflect the energy from the star systems above and are supposed to heighten awareness. The intent of following this path is to find one’s deepest spiritual meaning and resolutions to personal conflicts. It would explain the unseen energy she feels in the air around her. Everything seems more vivid here; clarity exists even in her tired state. Her eyes are focused as if attached to a perpetual Visine drip; not unlike the cool lucidity one gets on the floor of a Vegas casino, where pure oxygen pumps twenty-four-seven, in order to keep the gamblers awake and gambling. This place is alive beyond the natural growth of flora and fauna, beyond the insects buzzing about, and beyond the mossy smell mixed with the perfume of foxglove flowers. There is a vibration in the air: electricity that feeds the body’s energy. A truly enchanted forest. Were this a movie set the director would be shouting, “Enter Hobbits and unicorns”.

A light breeze finds its way to the clearing; leaves begin to dance in the wind creating a light whipping sound. Sunlight glistens on their shiny surfaces; she finally understands the word whimsical but vows never to say it aloud. Julie is, after all, a dyed in the wool 80’s rocker chick. It’s one thing to be on a spiritual pilgrimage searching for metaphysical truths about the interconnectedness of all things, but using a word like whimsical would be too much; she would, by default, have to have her tattoos removed.

Though she hates to leave the peace of this clearing, it’s time to go. Gathering her pack and her walking stick, she glances around until she spots the yellow arrow marking the trail. She hesitates a moment looking back at the surface of the bench. Feeling the weight of her pocketknife against her thigh she thinks: “Julie was here”, but knows she could never carve it: the true pilgrim leaves everything as it was found. She heads on taking with her only the energy of this place and stillness in her soul.