This was my first attempt at pitching to an agent and as someone told me today “you scatter seeds and one of them will grow into a magnificent tree.”  I like that analogy.

Now it’s up to my writing - it has to stand up for itself.  But some good thoughts don’t hurt either so throw them my way…

~Dani

The Clackamas Literary Review is a nationally distributed, semi-annual print journal which promotes the work of emerging writers and established writers of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction. An excerpt from “Tuatha de Diablo” is being featured.

www.clackamasliteraryreview.org

Get your copy of Clackamas Literary Review XII today at www.Amazon.com

I stormed from the pub and out into the night, slamming the decrepit door behind me with a thunderous impact that shook chips of faded red paint from the weathered wood.  My hand barely slipped from the aged bronze handle when something glass shattered against the door from the other side.  My head may or may not have been the target; one never knows with Gunnar.  His fury chased me down the sidewalk in a torrent of Gaelic expletives.  I don’t speak the language but I did recognize a few of the phrases and none of them you’d utter in the presence of your mother.   

A wisp of breeze blew in off the water and rolled across the shipyard, carrying with it the slight tang of saltwater mingled with creosote and diesel fuel.  My breath rose in silver curls as I exhaled hotly.  The warm, blanketed flush and myriad hues of Seattle’s city center were in sharp contrast to the monotonous spots of illumination the street lamps provided.  The deserted sidewalk took me in the direction of downtown though I had no particular destination in mind.  Then again, there is no place like home.  My only goal was to gain a measureable distance between me and the temperamental shape-shifter before one of us said or did something that we’d both regret.

A thin drizzle fell to complement the cool, damp Seattle air.  I pulled the collar of my jacket up against the night but clammy fingers still found their way into my clothes and probed at my flesh like a drunken date.  An involuntary shiver raised the hairs on the back of my neck and goose bumps along my arms.  I jammed both hands into my pockets and wished I’d had the foresight to call a cab before my shift ended.

Gunnar and I aren’t so tight these days; too many unspoken words wedged between us.  Maybe I set myself up for tonight’s inevitable fight.  At least it brought some things out into the open.  Nobody has ever had the effect on me that Gunnar has.  Is it karma or simple twist of fate?  Maybe God just has it out for me.

Gunnar and I are soul twins – each of us is one half of a whole soul which in and of itself is surreal.  What’s more insane is that I am mortal and he is an ageless, timeless immortal.  Nevertheless one shouldn’t be drawn into the idealistic rainbow fantasy of soul mates because the truth would never become a Hallmark moment.  We have a volatile relationship at best - connected for eternity by a soul and I can’t live with him.  As a human I die and am reborn and Gunnar finds me each time I reincarnate.  So I cannot, apparently, live without him.   

The Universe has a damned twisted sense of humor.

Neither twinkling of stars nor the brilliance of the moon illuminated the northern Washington sky for neither could penetrate the blanket of clouds overhead.  Kat drew in a deep breath and filled her senses with the earthy flavors of cedar and moss.  And dead things.   She closed her eyes - a pointless effort in the pitch black - but it helped her to focus on what could not be seen.   Her mind stretched out and silently opened the doors to that which had wordlessly beckoned to her.

The nearby river rushed as coyotes heckled and somewhere farther still a cougar screeched – a sound reminiscent of tortured women giving an effect which has sent grown men running for the shelter and comfort of home and rifle.  Small creatures rustled in the trees overhead while larger things crept nearby.  A twig snapped under the weight of something and the nocturnal chatter of the forest fell abruptly silent.

But none of these things frightened Kat. 

The dark was her familiar, as were the things that crept there.  She called the shadows friend and they called her kin and together they lived a symbiotic existence.   She had been born unto a destiny that she neither understood nor did she question; God works in mysterious ways does He not?   It was her relationship with those shadows that propelled Kat down the American highways and cross-roads and thus into the lives of strangers.  Some of her mingling endeavors were joyous while others ended in tragedy but Kat had no more power over the outcome than she had over the waxing or waning of the moon.

The rustling in the darkness grew louder as something approached from out of the night.  Kat’s nose began to pick up the scent of decaying vegetation mingled with a hint of unwashed body – not the fetid stink of the homeless or neglected junkie full of artificial ingredients and chemicals - this was the scent of a wild human; organic and pure.   She smiled.

“Hoakicipapi Granddaughter,” a shadow whispered.

“Hello Grandfather.”  Kat’s smile widened.  “It’s been a long time since you’ve visited me.  I was beginning to believe you’d forgotten about me.”

“As long as you carry the dust of my bones, I am always with you.”  The stooped figure of an elderly man materialized from out of the night.  “You just might not always see me.”

High clouds overhead parted to reveal a half-moon that spread a gentle glow across the landscape.  Kat did not need the light to recognize the silver braids that framed the ancient face of her friend whose skin was the color of the desert rocks and was as worn.  She did not know Grandfathers true name for she had always referred to him as just that - Grandfather - a title of respect.  The two had walked together for two decades, since Kat was a little girl of six.  Their paths had crossed by happenstance, though she knew there was no such thing, and she had never been quite sure who had found who.  

 “Was it you who brought me to this corner of the land?”  Kat inquired.  Are those who wander truly lost?

“Did you not enjoy your journey?”  Grandfather asked.  He frequently answered Kat’s questions with a question of his own; every sentence a lesson wrapped in syllables.

“I thought I wanted to see the ocean.  But the waves were frenzied by the north wind.  So I drove inland instead, not quite knowing why.”

“Isn’t a tree, at times, only a tree?”  Grandfather parlayed.

“Yes.  But sometimes that tree is dying and waiting to fall.”

“And what happens to the forest if the tree falls or if it only dances in the breeze?”

Kat pondered the old mans question.  Everything in life reacted and interacted as one.  “Life goes on,” she concluded.

“Does it?” 

A nearby barking cut off any answer that may have sat on Kat’s tongue.  She startled and turned, but saw nothing there.  When she returned her attention to Grandfather, he had vanished.  Just as suddenly as he had appeared, he had disappeared back into the night.

The clouds returned to cover the moon once again. A strong breeze rose from the valley below to send a draft through the layers of her clothing.  It wouldn’t do Kat well to catch a chill.  It was time to continue her journey.   Her stomach growled in agreement. 

After one last gaze into the darkness Kat turned on her heel and crunched across the gravel to her old VW bus that served as both transportation and home.   Everything she owned was stored inside, which wasn’t much but it was all she needed.  She liked to think of herself as a free-spirit, riding the wind and following where it took her.  That perception was better then thinking of herself as a runaway. 

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All of my work is registered and copy protected by Writers Guild of America, West: www.wga.org