A Different Perspective—An Original Flash Fiction

I wrote this back in June for the blog Gracylu Originals. Hope you enjoy this flash fiction—from a different perspective.

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

 >>>

Everyone’s making faces at me. I want to cry, so I do.

They keep making faces. I breathe and scream as loud as I can. Then something bright catches my eye. I look. It’s waving back and forth over my head. I twist, trying to see better. It lowers to my nose and tickles it.

I smile and giggle. They stopped making faces and I look around at them again. There’s so much to keep up with.

I want to cry again, but warm arms pick me up and hold me close. Ah, this is the familiar place. Close to the beating heart I know well. The heart that gave me life. I focus on the eyes of the one who holds me. She wipes the bubbles from around my lips, so I make more. She laughs.

A jolt and I’m handed into other arms. Ah, these are familiar too. He swings me back and forth, and dangles the bright thing over my head again. I reach up to grasp it. He tugs but I hold fast. He laughs.

Wait. What’s this? She slips something over my head. I cry and try to move away. I wiggle, and realize I’ve let go of the bright thing. I grab it and hold on.

My eyes try to capture the soft fabric on my head, but it’s out of sight. Still holding the bright thing, I rub my other hand along my head, trying to push the fabric off.

A laugh and a gentle hand lowers my arm and tickles my tummy. I giggle and blow more bubbles.

She disappears from sight for the longest time, but I’m having fun playing with him as he tries to tug the bright thing from my fist.

Then he lays me on my tummy. I push with my hands and lift my head. A giant sits beside me, but it’s okay. The giant has spent many nights asleep in my bed. His fur is fuzzy and soft. I grab the giant’s foot.

“Smile, Sweet Pea!”

My eyes find her again, something dark in her hands. Wait. It’s not her, but another her. But him and her stand close, so it doesn’t bother me.

I pull on the giant’s foot until I can put it in my mouth. Part of it, at least.

A flash of light shines in my eyes, but I’m used to it. It’s happened every since I took my first breath outside of her. I’m not sure if I like it or not, but as long as I have her or him or the giant, it’s okay.

I rub at the thing on my head again, until the gentle hands move my arms down and rolls me to my back. The other her is standing over me now, and more bright flashes. Lots of hims and hers crowd around.

They’re making faces again but I decide not to cry as I kick up with my feet and wave my arms through the air. This is fun.

Stuffed Animal Kingdom: The Keys to Storyworlds

  I took a heartbreaking journey recently. The painstaking, memory filled process of sorting three trash bags full of well loved stuffed animals.

Okay, that was a little dramatic. But I did cry once through my grin.

My mama laughs sensitively if the subject of my growing up years enter a conversation. I never wanted to let go of childhood. I remember asking her, “What can you do as an adult?” Stumped her there. But I soon learned. Still, when something triggers a memory from those glorious years I thought was life, warm fuzzies dunk into my heart and bring back a tear on the rebound. Such a beautiful girlhood.

As I sorted each stuffed animal by family, I found it hard to recall all their names or even who was married to whom once upon a time. “Is that your mama?” I asked them. I don’t think they cared. They were quite exhausted from the years of play my brother, Jon, and me put them through. I took group pictures and thought about the story worlds we created. In the afternoon long process, I realized how important those days were.

Aha! This is where my imagination began developing. No two of these critters were alike. No family was alike. They had their own voice, made their own decisions. I learned how to create compelling stories. After all, if it couldn’t keep the attention of an eight and ten year old, we moved on.

I learned what drives a story forward, how to create conflict and resolve. I guess you could say my first coauthor was my brother. He took on one set of characters, I took on the other. We constantly pitted them against impossible odds and extreme dangers. I usually let him take on the part of the antagonist. (He was a natural)

When our mama made an announcement for dinner, the answer was typically a question, “Can we finish this scene?” At a “stopping point” we’d leave them set up in a way we could pick up the story right where we left off. Sometimes the same one would last for days. How inconvenient when we set up our world on a bed. It was destroyed nightly and had to be rebuilt. Same with hallways. My dad might scoot plastic horses and their stuffed animal riders out of the walkway when he arrived home from work, only to have us screech, “No! They were all set up for the next scene!” Anyone who lives with a writer is probably cracking up with laughter at the parallels here.

The bags sorted, I sent my brother a text asking if there were any stuffed animals he wanted to save. It took three texts and a face-to-face conversation to get him to answer, “Oh, probably just Jimmy and Smoky.” He wouldn’t admit it, but I could bet my favorite teddy bear, Springer Sr., that deep down, he loves those memories as much as I do. And he’s a natural storyteller.

I wonder why.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths. Prov. 3:5-6

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

No, My Life Ain't Perfect

  Someone recently commented about her Facebook friends and their sunshiny status updates. God is good, life is great. Couldn’t be happier. No troubles, no disasters. Just living everyday without getting a scratch on them. She asked, “Do people really have those kinds of lives? If so, I must be doing  something wrong!”

I chattered away about how “of course people don’t live like that.” They only put the good things in their life on display. Who wants to read about the bad? Who wants the world to know about their struggles and heartache and rejection they face on a daily basis?

Somewhere along those lines, I realized I’m one of those people. Really, how many depressing status updates of mine have you read? Do you get the impression my life is perfect? (Hold on until I can stop laughing…)

No, my life ain’t perfect. I cry on a regular basis. Hey, even the sight of a pot holder can bring up memories that send me sobbing. Pain and confusion run deep below the surface of my heart. Doubts about what in the world I’m supposed to be doing freeze me with fear at times.

I’m not happy with my weight (who is?), there’s my knee injury that gives me trouble at the oddest times, and there’s the adult acne battle going on for a number of years. My eyeglasses are twice as thick as your grandmother’s. I don’t have a car or much gas money. Most of my clothes are given to me by my “personal shoppers” as I like to call them. (I hate shopping anyway)

Then there are those disasters. I can joke that I live life in the breaks I get between crisis’s. I could recount the ones just since January of this year, but I don’t want to write that long of a post.

I love my family more than anything and would drop my heart’s desire in a breath to run to their aid. And that’s what I do. My writing journey has been put on hold so many times in the last two years, I’d have to take off my socks to count them. But that’s okay. I know it’s all in God’s timing and I’ve seen it work out perfectly again and again.

Oops. There’s that perfect word. But what does the scripture say? But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. James 1:4. (NKJV) Perfect in this case meaning mature. I like the sound of being mature and complete. That’s what God wants my life to be, and what I strive for everyday.

Still, my life ain’t perfect and I hope neither here on my blog nor on Facebook and Twitter, does my life seem that way to the outside observer. But now, at least, you can consider yourself an insider into the life and times of Sarah Elisabeth.

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

Micro Fiction from Me

I decided to try a little (pun intended) micro fiction. Hope you enjoy this story with no title. >>> 

Susie stepped back to admire her latest painting. The accident had destroyed her right hand and forearm. It took years to recapture her love for art, and more years to train her other hand to stroke the canvas in elegance again.

A few more brushes, and she considered it complete. Her painting depicted Jesus on a white horse. He held the reigns in His left hand.

>>> 

Have an idea for a title? Drop a comment and I just might go with it!

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

Do You Like Me?

  Well, not me exactly. My new Facebook fan page! I finally have Sarah Elisabeth Writes up and running, looking smart with the welcome page featuring my first ebook cover. Here are 7 reasons to “LIKE” my fan page:

1. I’ll post things on it not available on my personal page

2. Occasionally, I’ll hold a drawing exclusively for fans of the page

3. I’m starting a series called “A Thousand Reasons to Praise God.” Be encouraged and join in with your reason of the day!

4. You can easily share my writing with your Facebook friends by inviting them to “LIKE” the page

5. When I need beta readers, I’ll ask my fans first

6. About once a month, I post one of my flash fiction stories

7. I’ll like you forever and ever!

That’s enough reasons to “LIKE” my fan page, right? I hope so, because I don’t want to take up anymore of your time talking about it. Oh, and thanks!

For Him,

Sarah Elisabeth

Facebook.com/SarahElisabethSawyer