The house was quiet. Everywhere stood dirty dishes, flower arrangements and condolence cards.The breeze felt humid or maybe this was my hands. I kept them together so long, they felt wet with sweat.

“I have placed the dishes in the dishwasher and I will broom the kitchen now. Would you like me to get you something to eat?” a voice asked me. “ Sweetheart, do you want to eat something and lay down, rest for a while?” the voice asked me again. I didn’t answer. My voice didn’t work.

My earliest memory is, a bit of a remarkable one in my eye. Few believe me, including myself at times. It's my now passed Grandmother who vows it must be true. And as she was the closest thing I can compare to a saint I believe her. At any rate, I will present both memory and facts and you yourself can be the judge.

I remember the room. Fair sand-like colored carpet. Light colored walls. A bed covered in a knitted fashion material. A dark wooden chest at the end of the bed. A window set to the right side. I remember the chest being superior to me in overall size because I'd bang on the top to hear the sound it'd make. I was bored and maneuvering around. I say maneuvering because I remember loving the carpet. So soft to crawl and walk on. I very much loved feeling it with my hands and grabbing at it.

I try to convince myself that I don't need life-long friends. I mean, is there really anybody that'll stand by me forever? Even if my father's job drags me along the smooth, paved road of America's highways, straight to the gates of our army posts? Even if I probably won't see you again until we meet God in heaven? I've lived in seven places in this short life of almost fifteen years, and considered two of those places 'home'. That's actually pretty decent, for the Army's standards. But, anyways, the best method of maintaining sanity is to try and NOT be good friends with people. Yeah, I could spend hours (and hours) telling you about all of the people I'm acquainted with, but how much time would it take to cover friends who know more than just my favorite color? Does anybody know more than that?

A pack of cigarettes, a mattress and a fan, that’s all he got. He didn’t even own the light bulb hanging in his room, which he’s not paid for.

“He's been a bum for two months now. Got very discouraged to work since he got sick and tired of talking to people cussing at him and cursing at every chance for a billing error that he did not really have something to do with.”

My name is Raroaroawo, the third R is silent, but the pshycic calls me Boots, so I suppose you can call me Boots too, although I much prefer my given name. My mother gave me that name mere minutes after birth, my brothers were named Mamoamo and Raroamoa and my sister was named Mo. It was a good life, mother cared for us and large shadows drifted over us daily at Mother's demands for more food, water, and blankets. There were several times both before and after I could open my eyes when the shadows came and got me, cradling me in their large folds. A hundred body lengths above the floor I would dangle or be put onto an alien surface and with horrible things shoved into every orifice. It was terrifying and I would call out for mother and Raroamoa, the bravest of my siblings to come rescue me.

It wasn't the classiest bar. The barstools were bare, and the patrons on them weren't donning tuxedos or evening gowns and most weren't even wearing smiles. I stepped up to the plate and made my order. "Gin, on ice. Don't spit in it, please."

He gave me a queer look, then went to work. I slicked my hair back and searched the bar for a shell of a man.

The barman finished my drink and slid it to me. "That was the old bartender." He tried to wink, but closed both eyes, and then he tended someone else down the bar.

Angie was a typical teenager. She did the things typical teenagers do, which didn’t include cooking a meal. But things had changed recently, and she wanted her first ever meal to be perfect.

It had to be shepherd’s pie, her dad’s favorite. She’d watched her mom make it a thousand times. Angie made the crust, real butter was the secret, and placed it in the pan, cutting off the excess and gently shaping the edge. Quite decorative for her first pie crust!

There is a place I visit, in my mind, when things in the real world are too much. This place is called “Sanctuary.” I close my eyes and I am instantly transported to a place, where time can stand still for hours. I immediately smell the white spruce trees as the wind pushes the fragrance past my nose. I open my eyes, and there is my cottage in the clearing of the woods. It is made of stone with a blue tin roof, and covered with ivy. It has small windows with flower boxes. There is a small bubbling brook that runs beside the cottage. As I begin to walk up the path, my bare feet can feel the cobble stone walkway, as my legs feel the silky smoothness of the dress I am wearing, as it whips against my legs in the soft gentle breeze that blows through the woods.