The Medical Arts

A full day’s work, Done and gone.

All poultices mixed, All bandages cleaned,

All wounds bound.

The Manor is dark. The scent of blood recedes. Cries of the wounded are deafened. All patients are still.

The battle has ceased.

The victor rejoices. The loser retreats.

The aftermath remains.

Tomorrow work shall begin anew, Treating the injured and ill. Using the skills passed down through generations, from Master to Apprentice.

Continuously.

The Storm

“It’s awful cold out. Today I let the cat in and I had to defrost him in the microwave.” Laughter erupted from the backseat as the car roared down the highway. Entirely focused on twirling her doll, the girl giggled, “Tell another joke mommy.”

As the mother continued amusing the little girl, the driver glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the storm fast approaching. But this was not just any storm; this storm contained violent thunderheads and carried with it a layer of ash so thick that it made Pompeii look like a sandbox.

“Daddy? Where are we going?”

The father looked back at her in his mirror and calmly answered, “We’re going on vacation sweetie.”

His wife glanced uneasily at him. The weatherman said it would be the worst storm in history. The only hope was if civilians could head to the coast. The family arrived at the military bunker, hidden away in the cliffs of the coast. The father lifted his young daughter in his arms and, followed by his wife, approached the MP.

“Hold it right there.” The MP stopped the family, “Name?”

“We’re the Eriksons’.” The MP consulted his list, and not finding his answer on the first page, flipped to the second. The father looked back to see that the storm was getting closer.

“Alright go ahead in; but the ship’s almost full.”

The family hurried aboard the waiting vessel. The furry sides of the ship shifted with the strong winds that were beginning to buffet the sides. As the family buckled in, the ship was propelled into the air. After a very hard landing everyone emerged from the ship. The family looked back to see a giant holding a long pole with large bristles at the end move over their previous home.

Castle

Serving as a lone sentry, the cool stone of the towering fortress stood unyielding, embedded into the cliff face. The tower's spires reaching out to the sky, like a child's fingers reaching for the hand of its mother. Iron doors, encased in walls cry out with protest when opened.

An Unsharpened Pencil

I am an unsharpened pencil, waiting to make my mark. With each New Year comes the turn of the sharpener bringing me closer and closer to my point. Yet as I get closer to my point, the sharpener slows in the face of uncertainty. I want to leave my mark on the world for someone to find, but where? I have nicks and am missing paint in a few places, no longer the brand new pencil I once was. After facing life in the real world, I have found that it has been unyielding. Yet I carry these imperfections proudly knowing that they mark my past and will influence my future. Suddenly the future is no longer so uncertain and the sharpener begins to pick up speed revealing more of my true self until finally, the real me is revealed. I am a sharpened pencil, ready to make my mark.