Peace God, I apologize for my disrespect.

                                            - The Devil

                    Book 1

        Both palms pressed the inside bark of the tree, yet the oak was not hollow.  She could feel her heels damp tight against the base of the solid oak.  She could not see her toes.  She could not even feel them, yet they wiggled.

        "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

        She heard them all there, shifting between her thighs.  The arc of her back wedged tighter into the circular cape of the wood.  She no longer felt her legs.

        It was cold.  Was she cold?

        She didn't know as the necklace bounced gently against the plate of her chest, the only thing that had the freedom to move freely.  The space was dark.  No, her eyes were closed.  Her eyelids slid back unveiling the sparkles of shiny gloss.  She could see.  Nothing.  Her eyes were open, and there was nothing.  Dark, and deep.  A deep dark.  She remained motionless, moving from the midnight of her mind into the deep dark of .  .  .  .  

           Vanity paused in thought, her eyes moving across the darkness.  There was very little room for head movement.  Maybe a complete head turn to the right or a quick head nod to the left.  Her arms, at the elbow, had as much moving power, and that became painful only after a few seconds.  Her breathing limited to short expansions of inhaling, her breast providing her stomach with limited space to expand, and breathe.  Only the heart danced unrestricted in movement with the restraint motion of her eyes, the necklace continually swaying back, and forth.

        Vanity's hands scraped the inner bark of the oak to the front of her thigh.  She began to play with her zipper in thought, lunging forward or at least that's what her mind told herself.  The rocking made no sound against the surrounding oak on all sides.  She didn't want to panic, but how could she panic.  She didn't know what to panic about.  She didn't know where she was, why she couldn't move, why it was dark, why she couldn't feel below her knees, why it felt better with her eyes closed, why her breast hurt, and why, if she wasn't moving, was her necklace still swaying.

        "Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump," the necklace beat into her flesh.

         She couldn't remember.  She had not closed her eyes.  She had not gotten dress.  She had not bathed.  She had not gone anywhere.  She didn't know.  Vanity had only opened her mind, her eyes, and there was darkness in a place where she could only stand trapped, laid in a standing position.

        The branches of the great oak began to sway forcefully in the breath of the wind as elephant trunks.  The leaves hung heavy defining a shrubbery of individual bushes on each limb.  Magnificent in stature the great oak stood as the owl scattered under the pressure of the wind blow.  The roots of the great oak intertwined the dirt formation as a mighty python through a stream or a cobra through the sand, a reflection of dreads protruding from the scalp, a facial expression of sad lips, a connected bridge, the arc of a rainbow dark in color.  The leaves rustled in whirlwind patterns.

        From the base of the oak, one could not see the cover of the night air, the shadows of the giant branches reflecting the eerie darkness that lived in the murky cellars, and hideaway basements.  A pool of rabbits huddled closer under the frown of one root as slight droplets of rain echoed the low of the forest, distinguishing the distinct claw appearance of the oak trunk; a spider webbing across its nest, motionless.  The limbs continued to sway.

        Vanity had awakened to herself, consciously immobile, transparent inside the solid of the great oak.  Only the outside bark of the oak was solid.  She could not feel the inside of the tree as it existed.  There was no pain.  It was not through her, but she was through it, yet they shared the same space.  Imaginatively hollow.  Physically not possible, yet solid.  The storm rocked.  The thick tree trunk did not shudder.  The neck did nothing.

        Vanity could hear the ache of the branches, the sound of metal rubbing, and not bones breaking; old metal playing in the wind.  And even though she was transparent to the solid oak on the inside, her touch to that of the rough interior was physical, cold even.  The kind of cold that tingles the fingerprints, numbs the senses, and destroys the mind.  Suffocation simmers the excitement of being.  Panic layers the calm of assurance.  Inwardly, there is no place to go.  Only in the mind can she walk, run, jump, skip, yell for help by herself.  Vanity begins to scream a horrific scream.  The drool from her tongue dribbles the covers of her lips; the deafening of the sound pulses her ears.

       She hears herself.  She hears the oak, but from the forest inward, glaring at the great stature, there is only the vision of a shadowy pause.  The dark of the oak sits in the front drop of the forest's mirror reflection.  The stars light, not from overhead, but from a behind distance.  The oak still remains dark, drowning the illusions of the back glow.

        Maybe the rabbits hear the scream; a sense that the thick oak emits a tortured maniacal holler, but is useless in the giving away of the source of the melody built with a purpose to destroy itself.  The rain drops heavier as the leaves give more way to the ground.  The rabbits huddle closer.  It is the rain they hear scream, but no.  Vanity screams in the silence of the tree.  The rabbits can only observe, and listen.

        "The rain will stop soon," they whisper to themselves.

        The tiny necklace continues its rhythmic sway against her chest.  A sharp pain had developed with each tear to the skin.  There was possibly blood.  The numbness in her toes, and legs had spread through her thighs into her stomach, making the playing with the zipper no longer an adequate consumer of time.  The numbness to the lower half of herself, escaping through a branch opening.  That was the thought first destroyed when the panic, and the suffocation set in.

        Vanity closed her mind to the reasoning of how, and why.  Maybe this was a consequence of unreasonable circumstances.  What was too reasonable an explanation to ask of an unreasonable circumstance?  There was nothing.  She could feel the stain of blood trail down her belly button, soaking into the tops of her pants.  She was left with no choice of where she was actually, and by what means would she be able to exit.  She closed her mind to the restricted space of the oak, and opened her eyes to the darkness.  There appeared a large amount of space with no movement of position.   

        The swing of the necklace grew louder.  She could envision the word that described the sound.  She could picture the angle of the swing.  She could see the expulsions of blood splatter the gold.  She could see the blood begin to pour out as if a stream.  Vanity could see her death.

Something wicked this way come.

        The young child had to steady himself through the abundance of obstacles in the way.  The first row of bushes lining the forest's edge.  The deep grip of gravel clinging to the staff.  The labyrinth of oak seeming to suddenly appear at a times command.  The undercover tackling of thorn bushes against his pants.  He would definitely get in trouble for this one.  The antique wood continued to dance in front of the young child.

        A pattern developed.  Two taps to the ground in front, a swing to the left, a swing to the right, and a jab to the mid-section of the air straightway.  He had never made it this far before.  Not even with his father had he ever felt the pull of thorns, so he knew he was truly in the midst of the forest.  His conquest was to the edge of the river bed.  He had prayed it would sound like how the radio described it, how his father had explained, and pictured it, how he had imagined it.  From the river's edge, he would be able to hear the rush of the current, and the splash of a waterfall.  Maybe the diving of a bird, the silence of noise, the peace of the calm, and the catching of some crabs.  Not with his father.  Not with his mother, but by himself he had wanted to crab.

        The bucket dropped behind him, hanging his shoulders.  The smell of fish heads, and old chicken meat simmering out the top.  With string, and net strapped to his back, he was prepared to see.

        Vision was desperate.  Anxiously desperate to the point of no return.  She looked over her shoulder to see who was following.  Young children can be so cruel, and mean.  She just wanted to get away as the sun began its dimmed descent into the trees.  She was alone.  No one had followed her, she thought as she began her climb down the wooded embankment, finally realizing that she not only had not been followed, but that she was indeed alone, and lonely.  The green of the trees extended for miles in all directions.  She didn't notice.  Vision only saw that she was by herself in a world filled with so many people.  It really made no sense that she should feel as an outcast.  She was who she was, Vision.  Still, she always ran to the laughter, and the humiliation of herself by the girls, and boys her own age as if it were a caste that needed to be noticed, and important.

        Maybe she could even disappear into it becoming invisible amongst the group, but to still be seen.  And she would endure, and cry.  And cry, and endure.  The laughter hurt.  Every time the laughter always hurt.

        The humiliation ached with pain.  She would get sick, and just as she ran to the laughter, and the mockery with clinging support, she would run away from the cycle of the caste, and simply cry.

        And ask her loneliness, "Why?  Just why?"  The wind began to pickup speed as she picked herself off the grassy dirt to sit on her butt.

        Vision looked up the steep embankment.  The dried stalk matted her hair.  Sitting on her butt, she finally laughed to herself.

        "Now that was funny," she thought, brushing the dirt from her lips, her hair defining the distinct beauty in her face.  Her eyes, diamonds in marble.  The plush of her cheeks.  The protrusion of her lips.  The dark of her skin.  Yes.  Vision was beautiful.  

        Continuing in thought, "A skinny girl would never have let her feet clumsily fall from beneath her."  The great oaks heard her, branches in a continued sway of approval at their witnessing of her tumble.

        "I'm fat!" she screamed to the open air of the woods.  The oaks did not mock her,  yet they said nothing.

        The wind continued to whisper, "But you are beautiful."

        She couldn't hear them.  On her feet, she began to hear in the short distance water flowing, maybe a river.

        "Maybe a waterfall," she said to herself.

        Zulu mumbled in frustration.  The crab bucket was strangled, hooked sideways around his neck.  The crab net had become tangled in an oak branch with the wrestling of the crab bucket, and he had dropped his staff.  In the back drop of the rustling of the trees, Zulu could hear the silent roar of a waterfall, the splash of water reemerging into itself.  Hearing the scenic shiver caused his heart to beat an extra pace as he unhooked the bucket from around his neck.  He allowed his fingers to trace the outside edges of the crab net, prying the loosened branch from its grasp.  He smelled the bait tied securely in the bucket.

        "And now the most important task at hand," he thought, the location of his staff.  His most precious gift in the whole world.  The first gift he could ever remember receiving.

        Zulu had received the gift from his entire family, cousins included.  His grandfather had purchased the needed gift with the spiritual request that to some extent it be blessed in ways to ward off evil, and to attract only that that would enhance to grow, and live.  Upon the request, realizing that the walking post would be the tool of a young child with no sight, allowed his grandfather to make the purchase with a gentle ear, humble words, and that no one should know of the purchasing price except the child himself.  His grandfather had told Zulu about the price, and value, and he had remained true to the blessing, but apparently, the blessing did not include clumsiness.

        Zulu could feel the sun cool on his face, the idea of heading back home before dark presenting itself, the noisy backdrop of the waterfall reminding him of why he initially started on the trail.

        "No," he concluded.  He would make it to the river, and back home safely, and more content with his individual freedom having netted some crab.

        "Maybe ten or twenty," he thought, smiling to himself, fingers grubblingly snatching through the grass in search of his staff.

        Zulu felt the smooth nipple point of the breast of the stature figure carved into the dark amber wood.  The elegant intertwine of hair moving into a frozen position throughout the post as if the queen had tried to escape her carved fate only to be captured by the resilience of the wood.  Her toes always tickled Zulu's hands whenever they touched.  His grandfather had told him that the Black woman was carved naked into the staff.  For some reason his body always developed an internal smile at the thought of his post displaying a nudy girl. 

        "No, she is not a nudy girl," his grandfather had explained, "but a Black woman in the flesh of her earthly clothes."

        "Whatever that was," he thought.  She was naked, and he had her in the palms of both hands.  He willed her, and she willed him.  They protected each other, the price of the blessing.

        Gripping the lion's head at the top of the staff, Zulu breathed easy.  The lion's mane cushioned his hand, relaxing his nervousness.  He jammed the hyena claws into the dirt.  The post extended from the hunch back of the hyena.  The hyena was the walking platform; the lion, and its mane were the handle.  The queen was the guide.  The young child began to balance his weight on the amber post, rising to his feet.  He could hear the rush of the river water.  The trees echoed along with the windy drops of rain.  The small drops of water would not hinder or ruin his first crabbing expedition.

        She could hear rain drops splatter heavy against her surrounding cage.  Vanity pictured each drop form individually in the clouds, parachuting to the ground.  In her thoughts presented the accessibility of escape from her unknown torture, her unknown imprisonment.

        She could not force herself to say freedom because she had yet to create a discovery of where she actually was.  With no thought to define what it was that held her, there was no way to define how it was to be, yet deep in tortured thought she had pronounced the word escape.  She had dreamed the drip of blood, escaping from her chest, would flood the circular coffin.

        Her chest had become pale, her breast becoming discolored at first, her lips tasting the thick of the bloody water, her nose inhaling the red liquid.  She began to breathe the blood.  She wanted to live.  Her will to live kept her heart pumping, and lungs inhaling, and exhaling while the blood continued to flow.  Her head matted the thick syrup.  The necklace no longer thumped, but rather free floated in the damage it had created.

        Vanity struggled through the dream to open her eyes to the ache of her knees, and the opened wound in her chest.

        "Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump," the necklace swung, the diamond tearing deeper, and deeper into her flesh.  The exit of the blood was not at a pours pace, but the drips had increased in  size.  Her toes had reawakened to the splatter of the red dye.  Even in the end, her toes felt the tickle of the gentle touch.  Should she laugh?  Could she laugh?

        Vanity placed her hands against the interior bark, her elbows digging deep into the fronts of her waist.  She inhaled as deep as she could, arching her back with the extension of her neck, her knees jamming into the inner trunk of the oak.

        "Awwwwwwwwwww," she screamed.  No one heard her.  The blood continued to drip heavy.

        Vision marveled at the crawl of the great oak roots, the oak escaping the planted grip of dirt.  With some of the roots, she had enough room to crawl under.  With other roots, she had enough foot space to stand or jump.  From the entrance of the oak lining, the great oak had appeared as a gothic web crawler.  Hugging the tree, eerie of the spider that had disappeared, the beauty of the branches appeared.  From one point, a distant star could be seen.  The leaves were quick to hide their secret, the visibility of the star disappearing.  Vision looked face down into the mirror reflection of the water.  The great loft of the oak waved in the background of her face.  The river was clear to the bottom, and cool to the touch, the water sliding down her finger.  She quickly removed her sneakers, easing her feet gently into the water.  The warm cool eased the tension of her clumsy fall, and the sounds of the hateful laughter.

        Was it right to hate?  To hate people who teased, and appeared emotionless.  Sometimes she hated them.  Sometimes, in her thoughts, she would hate them.  In her actions, she would hate them.  Sometimes.  And sometimes it felt good.  Other times it eased the pain, but the feeling never lasted long, and she would feel worse, emotionally, afterwards.  And.  It was a big 'And', the hatred never stopped the laughing, the teasing, the torture of her well being.  Of course she was daddy's baby girl or mommy's big girl, but she wanted to be her own woman, staring at the reflection in the water.  And was not she beautiful.  At least she thought so, and that was most important how she felt about herself.  But the laughter still hurt.

        Why should she care how outsiders felt about her, her face becoming fatter with each glare.  All she could do was close her eyes, and feel the relaxation of her loneliness.  Plus, her shirt felt too tight.

        Tears drooled from her eyes.

        "I love you," she said to herself.  She could hear the outside world through her small suffocating space.  Her head pounded.  Her chest hurt.  Her back ached.  Her feet swelled.  Her knees locked outward.  Her spine throbbed.  Her soul darkened.  A bigger piece of her sanity disappeared.  Vanity was becoming insane. The smell of sweat, and blood a constant reminder of her tortured state.  Slow.  Extreme moving at a stand still.  Extremely slow.  And painless.  To go to sleep, and not remember.

        "Is that what death was?"  The sweat continued.  The blood continued.  The tears continued.  Vanity screamed.  No sound.  Not enough air.  The necklace continued.

        "Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump."

        Vision could see the child emerge from the bushes' gated entrance to the river from across the water.  Both were surrounded by the beauty of the forest, a distinct moment in both of their short lives.  The water still soothed.  The waterfall still dropped.  The wind still blew.  Zulu edged to the wash of the river, backing by the brush of the bush, the hyena digging deep in to the grassy mud.  Vision propped down on the root, her toes dangling in the water backed by the great oak.  The sudden appearance of the young child from behind the bush had startled her, the rustle sounding loud in unison with the splashes of water.  She began to study the small stranger.  He had suddenly appeared as a worker ant, brushing the ants off her thighs onto the bark of the root.  The tiny workers running circles to regroup, marching into the center trunk of the oak.  

        And from across the river she watched as Zulu became cautiously meticulous in his walk, his grab, his squat, his stance.  It was as if he was blind, always keeping the river directly in front of him, the wooded forest directly behind, his head constantly pausing to listen to the rush of the waterfall.  His meticulous nature had at first hid away the fact that he was smooth in his actions.  Her eyes followed him across the watery opening, noticing that the sun was almost complete in its set.  It appeared the young child maneuvered some sort of stick with both hands, switching form hand to hand.  Left to right.  Right to left.  Maybe to balance himself.  Maybe for support.

        She wondered if the stick was used as some sort of hiking, wilderness tool.  The more she stared, the more she could begin to see the awesome color in the thick wood.  She could not make out distinct details, but knew it was not just a stick.  Maybe he was cripple or handicap.  Maybe he couldn't walk correctly.  Was the wood heavy?  From her distance, it looked heavy, and it was beautiful, and for some reason, it was calling her.

        "Vision.  Vision."  She wanted it.  To hold it.  To strike it into the ground, and press her weight on it; all her weight, laughing at the thought.  That had to be the first time she had ever laughed at herself, laughed at her weight.  And it was genuine.  It felt good.  She felt good.  The wind danced around the oak tree, combing her hair.  She actually felt good.

        Zulu dropped the bucket, and net in the thicket of the grassy edge.  Slamming the wood post in the mud, he held only the string in both hands.  Vision watched the young child slam the wood carving into the river's edge.  She could tell he would have to sacrifice his boots to the mud to get as close to the water as possible without actually taking a swim.

        "Maybe he was going to fish?"  She didn't see no type of fishing rod, and the sun had already disappeared.  He held what looked like string or rope.  It was string, and he wasn't cripple as she watched him squat around the wood post, tying a knot at the tip edge of the hyena's back.  Standing quickly, having tied the knot, she could tell there was something else about him.  Maybe it was how he placed his arms in a spaced position as if he was feeling the air for balance.  Zulu stared in the direction of the waterfall.  Vision looked also.  The waterfall was magnificent downstream.  The beauty of something created naturally.  A reassurance that the planet was alive.  Turning her stare back to the young child, he was looking directly at her, directly through her.  He was looking at the great oak.  She waved silently to get his attention.  Zulu continued to stare.  Vision stood up waving, making sure not to lose her balance.  How could he not see her?  Was he trying to be funny ignoring her?  Maybe he didn't want to see her.  She was to the point of yelling.  

        Vision remained standing.  She staring at him, him staring at the world.  

        "No," she thought again, looking inquisitively at the young stranger, and the wood he used as a tying post.  The young child was blind.  She could feel the excitement grow in her chest at the new discovery.  It all made sense.  The wood was his walking stick or whatever they called it.  It appeared to expensive to be called a stick.  The calm of his movements were probably to make sure he didn't fall into the water.  The bucket, and the net were not for fishing, but for crabbing.  Yeah, he had come to crab.

        She laughed again.  Only a blind person would come out this late to crab, the sun having completed its set.  She began to wonder where were his parents, his friends, someone to supervise him.  After all, he couldn't have been any older than ten or eleven, and they were both in the wilderness.  Maybe that's why she was there.  She believed in the beauty, and safety of circumstances like that, giving a final smile at the thought of crabbing at night.  To someone who was blind, she figured sun up or sun down didn't matter.  It was always dark in sight anyway.  And she was sure the crabs didn't care, but did they know he was trying to catch them, and cook them, and eat them.  Now that was not funny.  Ohhhhh, to be a crab was the worse.  She pictured the small water soldiers attacking with their claws extended, envisioning them angry, never happy.

        Because of the shadow of the oak created by the sun set, she could now barely see, but clearly hear Zulu continue in his set up just across the water.  The waterfall echoed at a distance.  The wind still blew.  The rabbits still remained huddled, and Vanity still screamed in silence.

        They say they sleep half a year.  Hibernation is what scientist called it.  A fast from the feast in the hustle of life.  A so called necessary rest from an already lazy habitation in the wild, where over eight hundred pounds on four legs walking, running, and standing ruled its path.  A peaceful, relaxing life or at least she thought so, and she had lots of thoughts; all of them very opinionated.

        She was a white grizzly.  The only one of her kind with the color of her kind.  When born, she had not been treated as an outcast.  Maybe bears do not understand what 'treated' meant or maybe they didn't care.  She was merely a female cub that could not blend in well when the sun went down, but never stood visible when the cold flooded the ground, when the grass turned the color of the midnight stars.

        That had been a long time ago that she had left her youth to be by herself, to wander by herself.  To sort of explain things to herself.  And in that time, she had grown extra large.  Her hind legs had stretched out more.  Her mane had grown thicker, her teeth longer, and her claws sharper, yet the female had grown bored.  She had already been born restless.  That was not the problem.  That was just how it was.  It was this new found boredom that she had never grown accustomed to.  And her leaving, and wandering had left her to go to sleep, and wake up to the immobility of freedom, to the calm stillness of the waters.  Only the strenuous climb of the mountains pumped her excitement, the thrill of the climb.  Would she be able to make it?  Would she not be able to make it?  Of course she always made it, but atop the mountain pinnacle, where her breathing would become more powerful, she knew the climb was over, and the boredom would once again set in.  And many times on the trail of her old clan, she would cross what she called hard ground, where the surface of the earth ate away at her nails.  Her claws had no grip on the hard ground, and only her weight, and wide span kept her from walking about clumsily.  She didn't like it.

        It was a blessing that the hard ground was only in a few selected areas, selected areas that she never crossed again after crossing for the first time.  And it was on hard ground that she saw the shiny objects that had the moving animals inside.  The shiny objects could move faster than she could on claws that favored topped over tree trunks, and unlike the shiny objects that flew just above the trees like the birds, these fast track objects ran the hard ground like the fish swam the water.  The female knew not to be too curious to want to know about either one.  They did not appear to bleed, and she didn't want to know why.  But that too had been a long time ago, her last hard ground entrance, and exit.  And now because of lack of adventure, she no longer slept as she used to.  She had only slept four out of the six months last cold, and this cold, she had not slept at all.  And now it was hot, and wide awake, anywhere she had to go,  but anywhere lacked the necessary adventure to keep the heart pumping, the blood flowing, the eyes keen, the smell sharp, and the hearing sensitive.  And with all of that being true, she also had to keep her stomach full.

        She could smell the mist in the air from the watery wooded opening, and the sound of the water splashing.  The sun was still up.  Well, sort of.  Her head tilted slightly.  She would have to hurry if she wanted to feast.  She could see her meal as her paws picked up in pace.  Crabs, and fish.  Crabs, and fish.  And more crabs, and fish.  She loved fish, and she especially loved crabs.  The way the small morsels fought to the end, clawing her snout until her teeth ripped into the shell.  The noise the shells made when she jawed into them.  That distinct crunch put chills throughout her body.

        It was the sound of defeat that caused the sound of the crunch to linger in her thoughts.  The clawing of a tree was almost as destructive, and equally rewarding, for personal hygienic reasons.  But after the rewarding satisfaction, the tree looked sad, and ruined.  Plus, they had no way to really defend themselves unless they were the bark of the sticky sap.  There defense had a subtle attack that detonated after the damage had already been done that became a strenuous nuisance to the would be escaped attacker.  The nuisance was malevolent even .  .  .  .  

        .  .  .  . And so the grizzly dug her nails deep into the tree trunk, stretching her shoulders, widening her back.  The wood gave way to the extended points of the bear claws, releasing the flow of liquid sap onto her paws, overlapping onto her white mane.  The female stretched, and sharpened her nails in a scratching motion, unaware of the birds that chirped persistently overhead or the pour of the clear sap.  The blueberries continued to whistle in warning, but she was having too much enjoyment to worry about the songs of some birds.  Besides, she wasn't after the adults for their eggs.  In fact, she didn't even like the little treats anymore.  They spoiled her stomach, and she always threw them right back up.  

        The female paused from the scratching to look overhead at the noisy commotion in the upper half of the tree cover.  She counted four blueberries in all.  Maybe she would eat them, measuring the climb from the trunk to the nest on the innermost limb, hidden by a bushel of leaves, but they couldn't hide from her.  The blueberries continued their cry.  She could make the climb, but she would never be able to reach them.  Not all of them, anyway.  Becoming agitated, the female grizzly ripped her front paws from the tree to stand on her hind legs, releasing a breath of frustrated air.

        "Arrrrrhhhhhhhh!"  Long, and loud.  There, she thought.  She felt relaxed again.  The blueberries hushed silent, responding with a drop of bird dodo directly on the snout of the grizzly.  The birds laughed.  She was furious.

        Straddling on all fours, the white grizzly charged the sap tree, slamming her shoulders into the wood chipped claw scratches.  The whole tree vibrated, swaying slightly, but the nest didn't budge.  Two more drops of bird dodo landed, hitting her in the eye, and ear.  She backed for another charge.  She would just break the tree down.  She was too angry to try to climb to the nest knowing she wouldn't be able to catch them, but at least she would bring down what they had taken the time to build.

        The grizzly focused again on where she would hit the trunk.  Two more blows, max, and the tree would topple.  The female went to charge.  She could feel the weight of her front legs drown heavy in the dirt.  They had become hardened heavy, and the white had turned a faded purple.  Her hind legs pushed forward with her two front paws remaining locked.  The tumble was a disaster.  

        The female's rear end flipped over.  She could feel her shoulders, and forearms support her front paw stance.  For a brief moment, she held her weight from turning, viewing the sky of the world from the right side down.  The light blue of the sky air covered the vast space of nothing, the blood rush to her head causing the uncomfortable position to be somewhat bearable.  Whatever it was, the power of the eight hundred pound grizzly was not enough to keep her behind from swinging totally over.  She could feel the joints of each shoulder stretch, and pop as her back pounded into the exposed wood of the tree.  The tree continued its silent assault on the white fur of the grizzly.  The sap oozed onto her back.  The female felt the thick liquid flood her back mane, dropping into the slope of her neck.  The blueberries continued in laughter.  She had thought she heard the tree laugh also.  With bird dodo in her eye, the female could barely look with an open stare.  Somebody was going to pay.

        The grasshopper fought to free himself.  All the ladybugs could do was watch as their thin legged friend intertwined tighter into the web of the hidden spider.  The wind blew gently as if its sole purpose was to free the tiny insect.  The sun finally shined from behind the clouds, but the web held strong.  The grasshopper shook violently, paused as if exhausted, and then shook again on the outer line of the circular web.  And thus began the new pattern of life for the insect who would probably live only another half-day.  The spider crawled onto her created entrapment to watch the green hopper struggle free from death.  The ladybugs continued to watch, the spider growing anxious in its afternoon meal.  She had not expected so big a capture so soon, walking closer to the struggle.  The grasshopper was losing his pull, and his breath.  The web would just not let go.

        A small vibration shook the insects, and their habitation.  The vibrations grew in force, louder, and louder.  The spider looked up.  The female grizzly stomped through the patch of small bush, passing the ladybugs.  She was furious over the sticky liquid that lay on her fur, and that had caused her paws, and her back to harden, and change an awful dark color.  She had to make it to the river.

        The little red ladies turned their attention from the peculiar, funny colored animal, dragging off in the distance, to stare at what was a paw impression where the spider web used to be.  The grasshopper had not lived the half day, and had died a lot sooner than he had expected in the web.  The spider laid mere inches from the grasshopper, squashed into the dirt from the extreme pressure.  She had not expected to die at all as the lady bugs dispersed onto the trail of the funny colored grizzly.

        The lady bugs watched from a pool of sunflowers as the grizzly fell head first into the water.  Only for the trees, and rocks, and animals that actually lived in the waters, the river was abandoned.  The splash of the bear echoed the woods.  The lady bugs laughed at the up roar of the funny colored animal.  They had never seen an animal so big, especially a bear, act so foolish.

        The female paused to look around.  She felt as if something was watching her, laughing at her, laughing at her stupidity, and foolishness.  There was nothing.  Only a pool of red spotted lady bugs swarmed on a gathering of sunflowers.  The grizzly continued her splash  .  .  .  .

        .  .  .  . That had been a long time ago, maybe four seasons past.  The sappy ink had come clean after long hours of soaking over long days of soaking, and moping.  But her fur had turned back white, and at an early age she learned that the wilderness is not as vulnerable as it sometimes pretended.  And more importantly, the trees with the purple leaves that always hid blueberry birds were not to be clawed.  She would stare for hours at the funny shaped, funny colored tree to determine some point of attack for the payback of her fragile, very delicate, but preciously generous ego.  And there was none, and the female did not really want to destroy the tree.  

        It was a beautiful work of art like herself, like the blueberries the tree housed.  So what was done was done, and she had learned to translate the blueberry cry for trouble.  But then she would always remember the dodo in her ear, and her delicate ego would take a turn.  And the mischievous stare would continue for hours.

        The grizzly refocused on why she had set out on the trail, the blue water with the huge crabs, the easy to catch salmon, and the fabulous water drop.  After a full belly, she would stand at the edge of the waterfall, looking over the drop, the push of the river water urging her to jump right before the current of the river tumble.  And she wanted to jump.  To see the massive drops of water dive off the edge into the foamy white color of the water at the bottom, she believed it was the best closest thing to flying with the birds.  But the sap tree had taught her better, and unlike the water that could sink, and float, the heavy female knew that because of the height, she would drop through the liquid straight to the bottom.  She wasn't ready to die.  What was worse not to die, but to become mangled, and broken where she would suffer in pain while healing, then suffer in pain after healing with an awful limp or damaged insides.  How would she hunt?  How would she eat?  That experience would be real torture.

        No, sounding out in her head.  She still wanted to try.

        Focused on her position to the river, she wouldn't be able to make it before dark.  So once there, she would have to find a comfortable place to rest.  After all, beautiful female grizzlies didn't just lie anywhere, and the food would still be there under the light of the dark sky.  She loved it because they gave off the same color.  Plus, crabs, and fish didn't discriminate in light or dark, when they were tired of hiding or hunting or playing or whatever they did when she wasn't hunting them.  

        The small figure became silhouette in the dark.  On his feet in a squatted position, the young child pitched the tied fish head into the water.  The quiet splash of the bait cut through the silence of the night air.  The fish head simmered to the bottom of the river, positioning itself on the rocky bed.  The crab net was located directly to side of his boot.  He would hold the string loosely in his hands so he could feel the jerky pull of the crab or crabs if he was lucky.

        Remaining adjacent, Zulu completed his squat next to his queen.  He could feel her smooth stroke against his hands, the lion's mane roughing his palms.  He had made it to his personal peace.  The pain still hurt, that he was blind, that he couldn't see as the other children.

        Deep, down inside, it sickened him.  He wouldn't eat often, always trapped in his mind, running around asking himself why.  Yes, the doctors, his family, had explained the medical reasons why.  It had not made him feel better.  At the end of the explanation, he was still blind, and except for a miracle is what his grandfather had called it, he would remain blind.  And the pain still hurt, to hear the disappointment in his parents' voice.  To hear his mother's voice, it would make him sick.  The truth was that she was disappointed, and sometimes even disgusted with his blindness.  He believed she thought his blindness was a reflection of her body, and a reflection of her ability to reproduce or the lack thereof.

        In a way, the blindness was an added plus because to see the hurt that he heard in their voice painted on their face would destroy the belief in his self worth.  He was strong.  He was big for his age.  He excelled in any, and everything he put his hands on, but he was somehow considered handicap.  Some places would label him cripple.  It was true.  He didn't know what he looked like, and he would never know what his parents looked like.

        So late at night, when it felt like he had the entire house to himself, he would sit next to the end corner of his bedroom, the corner by the bed post, and cry.  And laugh.  And cry.  How sick it was that tears flowed from eyes that could not see.  He had understood about himself that life was different like that.  Up, and down.  Up, and down.  Even in the pain, he would float out, and know that his mind was powerful.  Then he would float back into the himself, and still be blind, and it hurt.  But he had wanted to come to the pain to leave the outside misery, and deal with what would be his life.  Blind, he wanted to do it by himself.  He wanted to crab.

        Remaining squatted, Zulu stared into the direction of the baited string.  In the open of the wilderness, he felt in control of his life, and in control of his ability not to see, knowing that he was not handicap, and cripple or retarded.  He knew that he was lonely.  Not that everyone he knew could see, but that everyone he knew could not possibly understand what it was to not be able to see.  And he had never met another blind person before.  He had told his parents that he didn't want to be around other people who were blind because in his mind he was embarrassed.  At the time, he thought, there was already too much attention placed on his insecurity, but he had been wrong.  Longing to crab by himself, he longed to share himself with someone who knew what he was living through because they were living through it also, and that's what he needed.  That's what he knew he needed.

        The moon arched over the trees.  The threaded string pulled tight against his grip, his right hand giving way to tighten tense at the elbow.  Zulu thought not to lose his balance, still in the squatted position, feeling for the net, rechecking where he had laid it.  The thought nervous in his mind, the grass sliding across tickling his forearm, calming the nervousness in his excitement.  He would get it right the first time, letting out a quiet sound of laughter.

        From across the water,  Vision could see the young child move his hands, searching for something on the ground, the night air allowing her to see clearly through its wild tint.  Was that laughter she heard?

        Zulu let out another sound of laughter as the pull of the string grew stronger.  He was laughing or had laughed.

        "Ouuuuu" she hissed to herself,  pulling at her shirt.  He was having fun while she was moping, and depressed, sitting on some ragged root of some big old ragged tree, the waters seeming extra cool around her ankles.  She was jealous, pulling at her shirt again, and wanted to join in on the fun.  The great oak remained silent.

        The unborn twins turned one another inside the woman's womb.  The inhabited womb had more than enough room for both brother, and sister, yet they constantly kicked, and grabbed for more space.

        Harlem could feel the fight of life inside her.  The one child, a girl who would be born first, pushed the larger boy toward the hip of the womb.  Both her, and her husband had decided to work together through the entire developing of the child to the actual birth.  It would be a foundation for the beginning.  It had not been a thought that she would have twins.  But what had opened her eyes was that to actually see what she was carrying, to look through her flesh at her flesh, radiation was used, and used on a regular basis.  And radiation, and an unborn child developing its life just didn't make sense for a healthy child's future.  It was bad enough that life, and death were introduced into the same building they called a hospital, but to let strangers study, and touch something so sacred did not make sense.

        She was wasn't talking bad about the hospital.  Doctors saved lives daily.  Discovered, and gave hope daily, but they had decided to say no.  Her husband would tell her how they were going to do everything together naturally; the eating, the exercising, the breathing, the birth, everything natural.

        Grunting to herself, "Yeah right, together."  She didn't know much, but she did know that he was not going to be the one pushing out life, she was.  And she knew the pain was great or so she had heard,  but it was cute, and he actions were sincere.

        The unborn boy pushed from the hip of the womb, pushing the girl who would be born first, in the head.  The girl, who would named Sister after her grandmother, was not having a hand in her face.  Neither was she trying to give up her newly found position of comfort.  Her butt curved in formation with the design of the womb, her knees remaining bent, facing her brother's chest who would be born second, and named Isaiah.

        Sister kicked Isaiah in the chest.  The kick was not hard, more of a reflex.  Isaiah pushed the inside of the womb as the shared umbilical cord swayed in its weightlessness.

        Harlem felt the inside thump of the push.  Her stomach began to itch.  As always, if something unusual happened to her body, especially to her womb area, she would worry.  She would doubt herself.  She would forget to breathe.  After all, they were telling doctors that their type of child birth was dangerous, and unhealthy.  The worry, and doubt would sometimes set in, and they both knew negative emotions were bad.  But they would remain confident in their belief, and Harlem knew her body.  She could feel her body, not that other people couldn't.  She just knew she could, and that was positive for the baby, yet the itch was unusual so a concern, realizing she had put in almost nine, and half months, and it could be time.

        Coasting to the side of the isolated highway, Harlem let loose the seat belt to inhale deeply.  The car air was disgusting.  New leather mixed with exercise sweat.  Getting out, she opened the driver door.

        "Aaaaahhhhh," she smiled.  The wind blew.  The sun shined.  The trees waved.  It was a true breath of fresh air, and she felt it, stretching her hips in the thicket of the wild grass surrounded by trees on all sides.  Through the birds, and behind the wind, she could hear what sounded like water splashing over loud water splashing.  She was curious.

        Isaiah kneed Sister in the thigh, with both hands pushed in her face.  He was winning the battle, but their mother was feeling the effects.

        Harlem stood from stretching to breathe with the kicks.  They were picking up in force, and occurring more rapidly.  Maybe it was about to happen?

        Sister's legs turned under her brother's knees, pushing him against the inside lining of the womb.  He was mad, the anger showing in his eyes.  It was either him or her.  Someone would have to go .  .  .  . page continue