write of way.

At first, she didn’t know where to look. When you sell your life for the chance to meet another, do you just stumble across him? Do you fall into his lap when you trip over your own two feet? She scoured each and every room of the ship, searching for the man of her dreams. She had finally started to accept that perhaps she was foolish to believe the old woman from home when she found herself crashing in to someone.

The woman shrugged at her with disgust, angrily eyeing the intruder. “Excuse you!” she screeched.

Madeline flinched, gathering herself. The woman dressed better than she ever could have.

“I’m very sorry,” she fluttered. “I’ve had a very long day.”

“I can see that,” the woman shooed, forcing her way past.

Madeline sighed, cursing herself for believing such a silly tale. How could she cash in her savings for something so stupid? And her life? What could she possibly have been thinking?

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re giving up,” a voice behind her cheered. “There’s a million of them in here, you know, those uppity women with their corsets tied so tightly they can hardly take a breath without shattering their pearl veneer.”

Madeline stirred anxiously, looking at the man behind her.

“Liam Fletching,” he greeted her with his hand.

“Madeline Kline,” she smiled.

“You want to hear a secret, Madeline Kline?”

Madeline smiled slowly, ignoring her nerves.

“I’m not supposed to be on this ship,” Liam smiled. “A boy from home paid fourteen times his daily wages to get a ticket to this fairytale, and then wakes up this morning with a stomach bug so badly he could barely move. Asked me to buy it off of him. I told him there was no way in hell I’d take a trip on the Titanic. Boats sink, everyone knows that. But he said not this one, Liam. This one’s magic. You’ll meet the love of your life on this ship. So two days wages, and here we are. Promised him I’d have the time of my life on this ship, so I’m going around making sure no one gives up too soon,” he finished with a wink. “You believe that?”

Madeline smiled brightly.

“You want to come to a party?” Liam asked.

Madeline’s heart beat furiously. She smiled at Liam. “Sure,” she agreed. “But only if you believe my story.”

  Three years later, Liam approached the old woman’s house on the end of the dirt road. It appeared exactly as Madeline had told him so many nights ago. He often wondered whether Madeline was right about the old woman, whether she could make any deal possible. He cursed her, night after night, for staying on the ship with him, for even boarding the ship. But after their short week together he understood her choice, why she gave up everything, even if those moments where all they could have.

 There was a slight tilt to the frame of the house, as if it was slowly sinking into the ground, absorbing itself into the scenery. A dusty gray film coated the wood. He could feel the moans of the house, the way it ached to shatter. He swallowed once before knocking.

“My name’s Liam Fletching,” he began. “We both once knew a girl, Madeline Kline.”

The woman stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“You see, it took me a long time to come here, and I fought with myself a lot over what to say to you if we ever met. But I guess, what I’d like to say, is thank you.”

The woman continued to stare at him, expecting him ask for more. Instead, he smiled, then turned to walk away. The woman paused, and then opened the door fully as spoke.

The ocean? People talk about how much they want to see the ocean. Somehow it always manages to stumble onto their bucket list—right under “meet a celebrity” or “find true love”. What could it be that makes them so determined to fulfill it? Is it something about the vastness of it all, about the unknown makes them wonder, makes them so desperate to be a part of it?

            I’ll never understand those people.

Are their whole lives progressing to this point? A body of water? Just some tides crashing against each other.  But oh, when the glimmer of the sun slaps against the surface. It’s beautiful. The tides rushing against each other, miles and miles of crystal blue bellowing against its own sheer weight—but it isn’t beautiful, is it? It’s deceitful. Because who knows what lies in the belly of the beast? Somehow we always forget how evil it can be, how just beyond the surface lies the truth, the bleakness of it all. Standing at the bank, you can feel the cool water trickle across your toes, and surely the humming of the tides can lull you into a false sense of security—from the coast, with your feet planted perfectly on the sand, nothing can harm you. You don’t have to know what lies just beneath it all. The dirt and grime collecting in the under belly, years of carelessness collecting in the guts—the deepest pieces of the ocean holding the deepest secrets—lives lost and long forgotten, lost voyages across the sea, spilt carousels, decaying cells—it’s all just beneath the surface, never to be seen. And yet we desire more than anything to be a part of it? We spend our whole lives expecting to someday be here?

            I always hated the ocean. Some say it’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever seen. They can stand at the edge and watch the day pass by, watch as the clouds soar from one edge of the sky to the other. They swear it’s worth it. But they never stop to think about it all. One hour too long staring at the sky and you could be gone forever; the tides swoop in and carry you off—suddenly you’re battling for your own life against the strength of the water. One wrong move and the tides explode into shore, ravaging the city. One tilt of the axis and thousands are homeless. One hour too long, and its darkest creatures have you for dinner. But we forget that in the moment, don’t we? How dangerous it can be. How dark it can be. How much hate and evil and mystery lies just beneath the surface. Slap a pretty face on it and the darkness seems to fade away. You never really know what secrets it holds…at least, not until its true colors shine.

Jayme Rythe had never visited Corporate. By the passing of his sixteenth mark, the monthly trips that his classmates always seemed to be taking became more than a curiosity. At his age, he was accustomed to their disappearances; one week they would be sitting by him in Prehistory, nodding off as Mrs. Reynolds rambled about, and the next, they would be gone. Mrs. Reynolds often gave a small shrug, and then just continued the lesson for the day. The first time it happened, he had been dumb enough to ask her about it.

He remembered when Katina left. He had just passed into his eleventh mark when they were studying Progression. She came rushing in to class late for a week, gasping as she flew in the door. She stared at Mrs. Reynolds, their mark master, for a second, then put her head down on her desk. Jayme was about to ask her about it when Mrs. Reynolds caught his eye, then asked him to recite the Corporate pledge. He could see something in the way she looked at him, though, like he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.

The words echoed through the classroom, each student silently reciting to themselves.

“For the protection, betterment, and strength of our society I do solemnly pledge this life, body, and soul to the Corporate.”

The words slipped from his life with ease. Since the time of his existence, the Corporate Pledge had been engraved into his mind. By the time he started attending first mark, he could recite it forwards and backwards. The Pledge was vital to every day, though, as time had progressed, became less and less of a burden, and more of a remembrance. In his first mark, they were required to recite the pledge at the beginning of each lesson, and to thank the Corporate for the day’s learning. During his eleventh mark, the amount of times he was required to recite the pledge quickly dwindled. Over the years, he could tell that the allegiance to the Corporate was not merely as strong as it had been when he was younger.

In his eleventh mark, Jayme didn’t understand the disappearances, or why Katina was always so late. Why would he be doing something wrong if he were to ask her about it? He eyed her eerily, trying to understand. Her long blonde hair draped over her desk, covering he face. He could hear her sigh heavily, trying to regain the air in her lungs. He wanted to know so badly where she had been—he could not understand why, but just that he had some deep desire to know, something that Mrs. Renalds so desperately did not want him to know. The following day, he decided he would ask Katina about it. He planned to wait for her after the lesson, sneak upon her on her way home. Maybe she would tell him. He awaited her arrival, imagined her plush plum cheeks reaching for air. He eyed the clock anxiously. Finally, when she didn’t show, he put his hand up.

“Yes, Mr. Rythe?” she eyed him.

“Where’s Katina?”

Mrs. Reynolds stopped in her tracks, turned on her heel and faced Jayme. Her hand extended angrily from her body, making a loud pop when it smacked against Jayme’s face.

“I will not tolerate busy-bodies in my classroom, Mr. Rythe. I suggest you mind your own business.”

A silence flooded the classroom. All eyes were on Jayme, and he could feel their worry.

“But how come she doesn’t come to class anymore?”

“Mr. Rhythe, Do you know what happens to little boys who ask too many questions? I suggest you keep to yourself from now own. You do not want to know the answer to that question.”

Jayme sunk deeply in to his chair. His stomach ached hungrily for the answer, but he knew Mrs. Reynolds would punish him before he ever came close to finding out.

It was no surprise then, when he was walking to class that morning. His feet were pushing heavily against the dirt, trudging his body and bag full of books to Mrs. Reynolds’ building. He wondered how many faces would be there today. Who would be missing? It seemed like more and more faces faded away as the days passed.

Suddenly, lost in thought, his body halted as it smacked against a solid mass.

“Jayme Rythe?” the mass questioned.

His eyes wandered upwards, locating the questioner. A large, blocklike man stood before him, coated in a white sheath.

“Yes sir,” he replied.

Then, after a pause. “It it time?”

“Time?” the man asked.

“For Corportate?” he sighed.

“What do you mean, boy?” Anger flushed through his words.

“Is it my turn?” Jayme questioned.

“Your turn?” the man asked.

“I know what happens,” Jayme sighed.

“You know?”

“This life, body, and soul.” Jayme stated.

“Yes,” the man began. “So it seems.”

“Could you tell me?” Jayme begin. “I mean, does it hurt?”

The man laughed, smiling gently at Jayme.

He pulled a small, square device out of his pocket. He sighed, then pushed a small button. A large screen appeared in front of the man.

SEPT 8, 1666

            Oh, what triumphs we have made in the mere exposure to the world! Father would have lashed me a handful of times if he had known that I had forgotten to set the coals to cool properly in their place, causing this disaster. I was thinking of Meryll, (whom had appeared all too abruptly in my life, then suddenly vanished) when I was supposed to be setting them to rest. But her skin, the silky texture of an angel’s mane! Ah, if to touch it—would my fingers weep?

Now the fire has burned but the mere bits of our home; destroyed the casting of the bakery and set the city ablaze. And alas, where might I find such an angel now? Displaced among the river with the others, hovering over the most prized items—I, my journal in hand, and my father, with weeping tears as the anger driven flame engulfed his treasures. Does she roam among the rivers with the others? Is she cradling a wooden doll, or a cherished cloth? Might our paths meet again somewhere in the distance, where we attempt to rebuild from this disastrous fate?

My father says we’ll have to start over again. The wood too charred to bake again, everything charred to shreds but the clothes we carry and the things we grabbed in the middle of the night—this journal, kept safely beneath my arm as we rushed from our rooftop to the neighbors, my mother’s golden comb latched in her hand—and father, as he tried desperately to extinguish the flames, managed to grab a few loaves of bread before the smoke gathered in his lungs.

In the middle of my midnight scrawl, I had smelled the familiar burning. But I imagined it to be the recollection of my days at work; until my father rushed into the room.

“The floor is burning!” he exclaimed, flicking the lights on. “Do you smell that? The floor is burning!”

We ran to the lower level to check on the coals, awakening me from my trance. The floors were burning! My father, in his sleep time pants, ran past the counters to the fireplace, where I had lain the woods to cool. Yet now they sat ablaze, encompassing the room in smoke! I ran for a pitcher to extinguish them, but they angrily engulfed the space around me and covered my vision.

LONDON, SEP 2, 1666

Three-quarters past eleven, the family is surely asleep in their cabins, yet I lie awake victim to the thoughts scrounging around my head. Father said it would only be a while more until I may return to school, but he needs the extra hands in the bakery, and we need the business to continue. I would rather spend my days otherwise, but I know how much we need to keep the Centre happy, how grateful we should be for their orders.

 I had offered my diligent fingers as a duty for the weekend, but father insisted on my attendance every day forth. The day before, a young girl arrived in our bakery with her own father, asking for the most beautiful confection we had available. It was her celebration, he said, and she would have whatever she would like. Partly because my father was running a little bit slower (but mostly a duty to the kind girl, with her strawberry curls wrapped neatly around her face, matching the little blemishes spotted across her skin) I offered to create her a masterpiece.  Her father called her Meryll, and so I crafted a creation with an embroidered M. Her face lit up as if it was the morning sunrise, bright and beautiful and full of endless possibilities. Surely they were from the Centre, I had never seen a more beautiful smile, the lightness in her eyes shining with delight and prosperity.

My father had seen the delicately designed M and assigned me to decorum; I had failed to admit to him that it had taken me three tries before my shaky and malice hands were able to perfectly produce the curvature of the first hump. I quickly threw the scraps into the mouth of the fire, letting the light smoke coat the air as if nothing had happened. I determined to make her the most magical of treats, one that would catch the glimmer in her eye. Again and again I wrapped the colorful frosting until it seemed good enough, until I could present it to her.

THE RECOLLECTION OF AUGUST FARRIER

AUGUST 1, 1666

Has there yet been a day where rain has fallen? Have I missed the day of erupting waterfalls, carelessly pooling down from the skies? Each day that passes produces a thicker air, hanging dryly around us like a dirt coat.

I awaited the return of the ship at mid-sunrise, expecting the supplies by time the blues of the skies appeared. The timbers were cooling against the fireplace at home, and father awoke nearly an hour before sunrise expecting our latest order of flour. I nearly escaped from the house in the nick of time, save father’s warning of what may come if I miss the ship again.

            The houses on Pudding Lane lay eerily quiet, though the widow on the corner of the street has begun realigning the timbers on the side of her house. A ways further, St. Magnin the Martry’s Church sat aside the London Bridge where the officiates will soon prepare for early morning service. The ship should dock by a quarter after, but as I stand awaiting, not even a blur across the horizon murmurs.

The cool air envelopes me, stinging little pimples across my skin. The air had become so thick and encompassing I had long forgotten how nice the breeze could feel. In the bakery, the heat of the timbers cause my fingers to callous, crack at the corners into little flakes of skin and blooded fragments. It’s only been a few months since father has allowed me to help in the kitchen; but what I would do to return to the days of lifting flour bags into storage at nights, saving my days for running across the bridge with the fellows from down the lane. The bridge seems to hang lower this morning, lumping in the middle, absent of the river splashing against the slabs. I stare at the bleakness of the city, dry and desolate even in its peak, when the slippery dew should be coating the horizon, plastering it in a slick sheen of refreshment. Not a drop in sight. My throat aches for replenishment, but as I set to wonder down to a cart for a morning drink, the ship appears down yonder. I swallow harshly, trying to ignore the aching pain. My desire must wait.

The stiff orange material hangs from my body. I don’t know that I can’t wear my bra. I slip out of the tiny room and hand the guard my pile of clothes: an old, ratty t-shirt I was wearing when my sister burst through my bedroom door, a purple sweatshirt with my high school logo sewn across the front, and a pair of jeans with a large hole in the knee. I grabbed them in a haze, knowing nothing other than the few words my sister managed to mutter: there’s a cop at the door.

            I stare at the guard desperately. Did she think I knew what I was doing? She took the pile and sealed them in a large Ziploc bag.

“Are you wearing an underwire bra?” she asks.

I stare at her blankly. I wonder how many times she did this each day.

“You can’t wear underwire,” she states.  “Go in and take it off.”

I turn and walk into the restroom again, shutting the door behind me slowly. When I return, the pink cotton folded into a small ball, she stares at me and sighs, as if I had been in the room for hours. She takes the ball from my hands quickly and tosses it in the bag.

“Sign here. You’ll get everything back to you when you’re released.”

I watch as she slides the bag through the cutout in the plexiglass. The plump woman behind the counter takes the bag and dumps it in a small tub with a sticker across the top: INMATE PROCESSING.

I don’t remember when the tears started, or when they stopped. When the guard coats my fingers with ink, I begin to panic. My fingers are going to be stained for the rest of my life.  

would I have loved you any less?

Would the fire growing inside me have burned any cooler?

You are a love that I can't seem to forget, no matter how many days pass by.

Had I known you weren't mine to keep,

I like to think about you at night In the darkest hours With just the moonlight Fluttering through the blinds And the world at pause With your face in my mind Blurred by passing years Ideas of who you are Wrap comfortably around the ideas of who you were.

I like to think about you in the morning When the sun begins to rise And my heart thumps against my ears Reminding me it wasn’t real.

I like to think about you when it rains And my toes crinkle and cry The pitter patter against the window Reminds me of your smile.

1.

my heart is heavy and angry and placing blame because the insomnia just reminds me how much i miss you.

2.

loneliness  is a vengeful disease Creeping through your bones and burrowing in your brain

3.

You’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering why you haven’t found the right girl yet

And I’m going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you to find me.

4.

7. Rescue is Possible

For my sixteenth birthday, all I ask for is a TWLOHA hoodie. I collect the t-shirts with a fierce passion, rescuing them when they’re abandoned at a resale store, buying a new one every few months. My friends decorate shoes for my birthday, the TWLOHA logo center of attention. It becomes a trademark piece of me—a piece that fits perfectly with the rest of who I am.             I sign up for their online street team, volunteering my time to help spread the cause. By 2008, TWLOHA had become a national non-profit organization dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide.  TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery. They had reached millions of people worldwide, and it was just the beginning of their story.             For my eighteenth birthday, LOVE is inked onto my left wrist. My mother doesn’t hesitate to come with or attempt to change my mind. She supports my decision after I tell her it’s a personal reminder of how much there’s worth fighting for in life.             A few months later, Jamie Tworkowksi and the TWLOHA Team stumble into my hometown, on tour to share their stories. My mom and I are in line three hours before the doors even open. Right as the doors are set to open, the workers of the event tell us we have to go to the other line. My mom insists that we go in first, trying to explain how important it is and how long we’ve been waiting. Jamie overhears our conversation and interrupts. “They’re coming in with me,” he smiles. We walk into the auditorium and Jamie directs us to the front row. He asks me about myself and we talk for a few minutes. He sees the tattoo on my wrist and smiles even wider. “That’s amazing. It matches our logo perfectly.”

            I thank him and tell him how much he’s helped me, how he’s saved me from the darkest times of my life. I tell him about my journey to finding hope and how it all began with Jason. He listens and shares his own stories, and after a while, he starts the evening, telling a story about the girl he had just met, a girl who had so much courage, strength, and hope, who proved to him again that rescue is possible.

            A few months later, I’m on a trip in Orlando for the first time, attending a service-learning conference for a national youth board. Most of our schedule is booked, but we have a little spare time. I take off into the city, catching a cab to the middle of nowhere. I land at the footsteps of a soundstage, where the TWLOHA team films Renee: The Movie. It’s crowded and we’re stepping on each other’s toes, but they promised that anyone who showed up would be welcome. Thousands of us pile into the soundstage as extras, supporting Renee, our stories, and this movement.             Later that day I read another address out loud to the cab driver. He says it’s just about fifteen minutes away, so I tell him to go ahead. I find my way through the grassy paths, searching for the name that started it all. After a few minutes, Jason’s name appears in beautiful large indentations etched against the cement. A picture of him rests on top, accompanied by thousands of flowers. I smile as I walk closer. It’s what he would have wanted.

6. It’s okay to let go.

5. You are not alone.

            A year after receiving Jason’s notebook, I still hadn’t written in it. I couldn’t think of anything important enough to write in it, so I kept it locked safely in a treasure chest. Sometimes I pulled it out and reread his note, but usually it just stayed locked away, until I could find something important enough to use it for. I had forgotten about the six words in the middle of the book, the ones that made no sense at the time. I didn’t dwell over it, but assumed it was just a meaningless scribble.             But a year after I first saw the six words, they appeared again.             I sat staring at the computer screen, frozen. The words were arranged perfectly in order. “To Write Love on Her Arms.” It was a link on a friend’s MySpace page, a random link that I had stumbled upon.             I ran to my treasure chest, grabbing the journal. I frantically flipped through the pages, searching for the words. In the middle of the page, his handwriting shone. The words were exactly the same. I flew back to the computer, desperate to investigate what these words meant.             On the top of the page, it read, “This is an attempt to tell a story. Click here to read more.”             I clicked the link, curious and anxious. I began to read what would become the most important story of my life.             The story tells the journey of a young man named Jamie Tworkowski, who met a young woman, Renee Yohe. Jamie was staying with friends outside of Orlando, Florida.

                “She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm. The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.”

            The story continues and Jamie shares his precious moments with Renee. They take her in and protect her for the five days before she can go into rehab, offering her hope and support. But after a while, they learn that Renee cannot afford to continue paying for her rehab. Jamie wants to share her story, but more importantly, to help her. He comes up with the idea to make a t-shirt and sell it at concerts, hoping that they can make a difference and cover the cost of her treatment.             The first box of t-shirts comes in the night of a Switchfoot concert, where Jamie helps out. His friend tears open the box backstage and Jon Foreman, the lead singer of the band, spots the shirt. He asks Jamie about it and Jamie tells the story for the first time. He explains how he wants her to know that Hope is Real, Help is Real, and Rescue is Possible. Jon asks if he can wear one for the show, and suddenly, TWLOHA is born.

            I don’t know what to think the first time I read the story. My eyes are flooded with tears and I’m not sure whether it’s because of her, or because the story is so moving, but something about it makes me feel instantly connected. I remember that Jason had attended that concert while he was in Florida. I wonder if that’s how he heard about it or if it had spread by word to him, but either way, I know he wanted me to read the story.

4. How to pass the time.

I remember sitting on the couch for hours barely moving. My parents went out for the night, and I just couldn’t seem to feel anything for those hours. I just stared at the walls, blankly, until they came home and asked me how my night was. I don’t remember doing anything to pass the time. I didn’t eat, I didn’t watch the television. I just sat in the same position and stared at the walls, waiting for them to come home. And when they did, I told them it was fine, and walked to my room and stared at the walls for another hour. This was the pattern of my life, and after months, I finally couldn’t take it.             I decided I’d rather feel pain than feel like a robot. My entire life had been taken over by pills. I wasn’t a person. I was barely moving, barely breathing, just passing through the days without any emotions at all. It wasn’t how they said it would be. I wasn’t living a “perfectly happy” life. I was comatose, and no one seemed to notice.             So I started hiding them. I told everyone I was fine, and no one noticed any difference. But in the hours that the pills didn’t fill, I found myself constantly on edge. My mind raced with self-doubt and insecurities, crippling depression and loneliness. With the emotions back in my life, I could feel everything, and everything seemed to hate me.             In the hours that the pills didn’t consume, I found ways to pass my time. The first time, I stood staring at the mirror after taking a disposable razor from our bathroom closet and snapping the plastic off. I held the blade up to my arm, waiting for something to happen. But I didn’t want to hurt myself. I didn’t want to have to see it, and the thought of the blood made my stomach curl. So I stood at the mirror, blade in hand, until I heard my brother walk in the front door. I hid the blade under my mattress, forgetting about it.

A few days later, I walked past the kitchen and saw a small box laying on the table. I stared at it for a few seconds, wondering what it was. One of the edges was rough and scratchy against my finger. I pushed the box open, unsure of what to expect. Forty matches lay inside the box. I

I’m not sure why I take them, but I slip the box in my hand and run back to my room.