How I Built My Life: The Reflections of a Housewife (PG)

Okay: normally, I would save this until Sunday, but I honestly can't wait to share this piece with you all. It's basically my response to an article I encountered in which the writer decided to get a divorce to find herself because -- she didn't like the crumbs in her house? Or something? She never really made it clear. 

At any rate, borrowing heavily from the experiences of people I know (while changing details to protect the innocent), I've penned something that mimics the style of the aforementioned essay while telling, I think, a deeper - and much less narcissistic - story. Hope you enjoy!

How I Built My Life

The Reflections of a Housewife

That damned cornice! I’d spent hours nailing the plywood together - and more hours still covering it with the rose damask I’d so carefully selected - yet the mounting was not quite going to plan. Actually, to be more frank, the mounting was evolving into an outright disaster. For some reason, the wall above the living room window would not hold the hardware on one side. As flecks of plaster rained down from above and lightly dusted my hair, I let loose with the filthiest string of profanities I could possibly muster.

“You forgot ‘piss,’” my seven-year-old son brightly noted.

“And ‘damn,” added his older sister.

Right. I’d forgotten they were in the room. A real mother-of-the-year move there, Annora. And when exactly did our children learn to curse like sailors? I’m pretty sure I didn’t intend for that to happen. I’m pretty sure my goal was to raise children with exquisite, Emily-Post-worthy manners.

*****

I once had a lot of goals — though I’m not really sure all of them were truly mine. In junior high, I discovered a gift for languages, so I decided to pursue a career as a military linguist. But this, I think, was my father’s goal and not my own. My immediate relatives had served in the Navy for generations, and Dad had always envisioned his own children plying the family trade. And if you think my being a girl dissuaded him, well — let’s just say you have another think coming. Strangely enough, he was perfectly egalitarian in his overbearing expectations — especially after my brother died.

I also dreamed, in secret, of going to art school. This, I believe, came from the real me. I had a knack for picking up foreign tongues, but said talent was far outclassed by my inborn artistic eye. I was winning quilting and sewing competitions before I learned to drive, and earning ribbons for my floral arrangements not long after. At eighteen, I was secretary of the Granger FHA — a confirmed domestic goddess and top-flight wife material. Right then, I could’ve found myself a man and left the public world behind. So what stopped me? Well, the women’s lib movement was in full swing by the time I graduated from high school. Between that and my Dad, it seemed somehow more - acceptable - to be a pioneer — to grab at a chance to be one of the “first women who [X].” And so I became one of the first women admitted to Annapolis. 

And my other aspirations? Well, sometimes I imagined using my talents to design a line of clothing for real, living women whose bodies were like mine: curvy, soft, and not six feet tall. Sometimes I imagined designing costumes for the Broadway stage — and maybe, at the pinnacle of my career, winning a Tony Award for my efforts. And sometimes I wanted to study math and medicine too; my mind, after all, had always been a lively thing.

Art school happened in time once my children were grown. But everything else was left by the wayside, pushed into the corners where my free time dwelled. That, I suppose, is the reality of being. Eventually - if you’re going to build a life that’s really worth something - you have to choose one main road - one central goal - and allow other turns to recede in the rearview mirror.

My vocation, it appears, was to be a housewife. 

The Right Thing (PG)

Here: have another rage fic! It's super short, but once again, I needed to vent.

*****

I got in the car. He did the right thing.

I drove up the hill. He did the right thing.

I reached the summit. He did the right thing.

I stumbled on my way to the grave site, one of my black heels sinking into a patch of mud. It had rained the previous night, and slate-gray clouds still lingered in the sky, grim and threatening. A hand caught my elbow - I don’t know whose - and I righted myself, pulling my shoe from the sucking mire with a sickening slurp. He did the right thing.

I sat down beneath a fluttering canopy on a plastic folding chair and stared straight ahead at my son’s coffin. It was blue with gold accents, a nod to plans interrupted. The weekend Matt died, he was supposed to be packing for Annapolis. He made another choice instead — one that led to a brief hospital stay and - eventually - a closed-casket wake. The funeral home could only do so much, after all. But he did the right thing.

Didn’t he?

Everyone had said so the day I agreed to turn off Matt’s life support. Even his closest friend had said so when he stood to deliver Matt’s eulogy in the sanctuary of the ransacked church which stood a hundred yards below. He did the right thing. He was a good person. He took the beating like he was supposed to.   

An image rose unbidden before my mind’s eye: Matt lying still in that ICU bed, surrounded by beeping machines, most of his swollen face obscured by white bandages that held his battered flesh in place. One of his assailants had cut him with a pocket knife; the other had bludgeoned him about the skull with a metal baseball bat. But Matt didn’t fight back. He’d made a mistake at first; he thought he could protect Mr. Jefferson’s drug store. But in the end, he recognized his error, and he did his duty. He put down his gun — and he submitted. Because he knew what was just, the sweet boy.

Someone pushed a packet of tissues into my right hand, and I realized - with a twinge of horror - that my face was wet. Dear God, what’s wrong with me? Matt did the right thing! I’d spent the entire day mentally repeating this like a mantra, yet my white woman’s tears still came just the same. I thought I had done the work, but I was still a manipulative monster. I was still centering my own selfish, privileged desires. I was still refusing to accept this balancing of the scales. But our kind must be held accountable. We are the reason much is wrong with the world.

The pastor spoke. The coffin was lowered into the freshly-dug pit. Flowers and dirt were scattered atop its glistening lid. And presently, the small crowd faded away, leaving me alone to watch black smoke rise from Main Street — and contemplate my reckoning.

End.

Another VERY Old Fic.

Title: Earl's Absolution

Fandom: Touched by an Angel/Early Edition

Characters: Gary, Andrew

Word Count: 1000+

Rating: General Audiences

Summary/Notes:

This story, also written in the year 2000, is a short crossover piece inspired by "Snow Angels," an episode in Early Edition's fourth season. If I recall correctly, CBS put Early Edition in the same block of "family friendly" shows as Touched by an Angel. Given that executive choice and the thematic compatibility of both shows, a lot of folks (including yours truly) basically considered them part of the same general universe. Hope you enjoy! 

***** 

Unseen, Andrew watched Gary hesitate for a moment at the doorway, sadness and worry flickering across his gentle features. Then, seemingly rediscovering his resolve, he put on his baseball cap and disappeared into the frigid night.

The Angel of Death turned his face upwards and squinted as an icy finger of wind stung his eyes. The snow had picked up again- large flakes drifted through the hole in the ceiling where a skylight had once been. Andrew then looked down at his assignment. Gary had left his coat draped across Earl's frame, but Earl still shivered from exposure. The angel could see the human's heart beating rapidly- could see Earl's blood pressure dropping- and knew he didn't have much time.

Crouching down, Andrew touched Earl on the forehead. "Earl?"

You want to read something REALLY old?

Try a Early Edition episode tag I wrote in the year 2000!

Title: In His Own Time

Fandom: Early Edition

Characters: Gary, Marissa, Erica

Word Count: 1000+

Rating: General Audiences

Summary/Spoilers:

As noted above, this is an episode tag. The episode in question? "Fate."

_*_

Marissa sat in the back seat of Erica's car and listened to the hum of the engine in reflective silence. The deep, regular sound of Gary's breathing beside her indicated that he had finally fallen into a peaceful sleep for the first time in days. She reached out and lightly touched the butterfly suture on Gary's forehead. Her fingers then sought out his hand, clutching it gently in her palm. The warmth she found there reassured her that Gary was alive, that he had made it through this, and that he was going to be okay.

The Best Laid Schemes (PG)

This is a piece of flash fiction that hit me like a bolt from the blue. It's angry, it's pointed, and it's not subtle at all, but I had to get it out of my head before returning to my larger, more ambitious works in progress. Hope you enjoy!

*****

Jason Michael Barrett was the safest man in the world — and had mere hours left to live.

Jason, alas, was unaware of the nearness of his demise. But in fairness to our hapless main character, no one had ever thought to look for the congenital weakness in that vessel at the base of his brain. After all, as far as Jason knew, he was perfectly healthy. How could he be anything else when he was so fastidious — so responsible?

Hefting himself from his desk chair, Jason walked over to a sterile cabinet situated by his front door and tapped its keypad. After a series of clicks and buzzes, the bottom drawer opened with a hiss, revealing the single-use protective gear he always donned before stepping outside.

Normally, Jason would spend the entirety of his day - as he spent most of his days - ensconced inside his first floor condominium, parked in front of the computer on which he penned his prize-winning columns for the Journal. But he’d just received a notification on his desktop that his grocery order for the week was sitting on his stoop — and unfortunately, that necessitated a short trip beyond his front door.

Another B5 Story

Title: In Blood

Fandom: Babylon 5

Characters: Londo & Vir

Word Count: 1308

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

The bombing of Narn -- told from Vir's perspective. Missing scenes for The Long, Twilight Struggle.

Spoilers:

See the summary. This story was originally published in 2013.

Read at AO3>>

Been using M*A*S*H as background noise lately, so...

Title: Pearls

Fandom: M*A*S*H

Character: Radar O’Reilly, Edna O'Reilly

Rating: General Audience

Spoilers: Pre-Canon.

Summary: A mother makes a choice. Set during Radar's infancy.

(Originally written a decade ago.)

Continue reading at AO3>>

Another Favorite B5 Fic

Title: Counting the Living

Fandom: Babylon 5

Characters: Londo & Vir

Word Count: 1722

Rating: General Audiences

Summary: 

"At year's end, we count how many of our people survived, and celebrate our good fortune!" As Vir comes of age, the Celebration of Life – the annual time of thanksgiving - takes on a deeper, more complex meaning.

Spoilers/Notes:

Knowledge of the entire series and the Legions of Fire novels is assumed. Originally published in 2005.

Read at AO3>>

Attempting G'Kar's Voice

Title: To Tear the Veil

Fandom: Babylon 5

Characters: G'Kar & Vir

Word Count: 824

Rating: General Audiences

Summary: 

G’Kar wishes to make amends. Missing scene for Dust to Dust (S3: E6).

Spoilers/Notes:

See above. This was originally written in 2006 after Andreas Katsulas passed away. As you'll notice, it assumes Vir included G'Kar in his Abrahamo Lincolni scheme.

Read at A03>>

My Weirdest B5 Fic (That's SFW)

Title: Silk & White Lace
Fandom: Babylon 5
Characters: Cartagia & Vir
Word Count: 866
Rating: General Audiences
Summary: 

While Londo is visiting a certain prisoner, Emperor Cartagia uses a moment of indulgence to size Vir up. Vir, naturally, wants to get the hell out of there. Missing scene for The Summoning (S4:E3).

Spoilers/Notes: 

As noted above, this story doesn't technically spoil anything past The Summoning -- but the foreshadowing here really can't be appreciated until you've watched The Long Night (S4:E5).

This fic, originally written in 2006, was the product of a conversation in which other fans and I were discussing the obvious parallels between Centauri society and ancient Rome. Moreover, it slyly addresses whether Cartagia has a death dream. (My headcanon? Yes, but it's far vaguer than Londo's.)

Read more at AO3>>

OR, if you're so inclined, you can read this story with my commentary track>>

Repost: My Favorite M*A*S*H Fic

Sorry for the multiple reposts lately, but I'm working on a very ambitious project whose beginnings are not quite ready to be unveiled. Please stay tuned!

Title: The Horse

Fandom: M*A*S*H

Character: Radar O’Reilly

Word Count: 754

Rating: General Audience

Spoilers: Set during Dear Mildred.

Disclaimer: M*A*S*H and its characters are the property of the writers, actors, and Twentieth Century Fox. No copyright infringement is intended.

Prompt:

When the world says, "Give up," Hope whispers, "Try it one more time."

-- Author Unknown

This one-shot was originally written in the 2000's.

Repost: My Favorite Farscape Fic

Shreds of Heaven

Stark and the seven heavenly virtues. Originally written in the 2000's.

Prudence

A drop of sweat fell from Stark’s forehead and mingled with the tears and grime on his face as slowly- very slowly- he wrapped the fresh acid wound with a ragged, filthy piece of cloth. He wanted to stop this wretched digging. He wanted to cry out, to fall, to sleep.

But Stark remembered the boy, not much younger than he, who had once worked at his side until illness claimed his strength. Remembered covering the child’s mouth desperately as he began to sob. Remembered kneeling over his broken body when the foreman had finally left and showing the boy the rest he had so begged for.

A slave knows to cry in silence.

Justice

With a brutal shove, Stark, bound at the wrists and ankles, was launched into his master’s sleeping chamber. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing onto his bony knees.

“You will help him, Stykera.”

Numbly, he raised his tethered hands and struggled to unbuckle the straps of his mask.

Light and the touching of minds. Thought bleeding into thought. The slave shook in the presence of his master, a tear falling from his one blue eye as he struggled to keep him at bay. His master whispered to him, stroking the darker corners of his heart in fascination.

It became too much. Howling in desperation, Stark forced him back. He showed him. Pain. Starvation. Anguish. Dead, dead, dead, dead, all of them dead! You caused this horror and now you will see it- all of it- and know. No peace, no peace, no peace for me, no peace for you!

And Stark screamed, falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

His master was dead.

His master was he.

Fortitude

There was a fissure opening in his mind, growing wider and burning brighter with every turn of the chair- love the chair, love the chair, lovethechair- creeping ever closer to the source. A nail not yet bitten to its nub pierced Stark’s palm as he fought against the shattering, the blurring of himself.

My side.

Your side.

No side.

He was thousands and he was one and he was here and no where and no! Scorpius would never take that from him. Never, never, never!

When Stark was tossed back into his cell, he curled his fingers around his baby and struggled to gather the bits of self that had been hurled to the winds.

Charity

When Stark stared at his rags and his skin stained with dirt- when he attempted to touch the broken corners of his mind- he was no longer certain where fact ended and pretense began. But John Crichton- the angry, spitting stranger who now shared this fetid hell with him- did not believe he was mad. The knowledge brought tears to Stark’s eye.

So when Crichton began to fade, Stark cradled the man in his lap and gave him a little of the one thing he had kept to himself for all this time.

There was a thousand- a million- lifetimes worth to spare.

Temperance

During his first hours on Moya, Stark sat down to the largest meal he had ever seen in his life. He wanted to partake of it all- to swallow every last crumb. But he stayed his hand, smelling and tasting everything but only taking the smallest of bites.

What the yotz are you doing?

A few of the others were puzzled by this. And they were puzzled further still to discover him sleeping curled beneath a thin blanket on the floor beside his bed. But it all had to be saved for later. It all had to be rationed- drawn out for as long as possible because one never knew how long it would last.

Stark knew that every luxury- every joy- could be stolen from him in the blink of an eye.

Faith

Stark leaned against the alien instrument panel and rested his cheek against it, harsh fabric pressing into flesh. He had been staring at the readings over the frayed edges of the cloth that held his fading energy at bay, searching for any signs of them until his vision blurred and the figures twisted into incomprehensible shapes. But now- now he could feel the shadows of death crawling closer, swallowing the edges of the universe.

With his last remaining strength, he reached out a shaking hand, casting his thoughts out to the stars. She will hear him. She will know to come.

Hope

Each night, Stark cradled her and whispered to her of sunlight and rich earth and soothing rain, his calloused fingers stroking her in slow, calming circles. Each night, Zhaan was weaker, but still he came, wrapping his arms around her and rocking gently. Sometimes he hummed, softly and brokenly, a melody he had heard once in distant memory. Sometimes he would lay her down and rest his face against her breast. Sometimes he would share Unity with her, giving her his shreds of peace that still shined amidst the damage.

New life was out there waiting for her, he always promised- waiting beyond the nearest star.

Finis.

Repost: My Most Popular B5 Fic

Title: The Last Place
Fandom: Babylon 5
Characters: Vir
Word Count: 886
Rating: Teen (for some imagery)
Summary:

A Narn recounts meeting Abrahamo Lincolni.

Spoilers/Notes:

Knowledge of the entire series is assumed.

This one-shot was originally written in 2006.

Repost: B5 Christmas Ficlets

 I: A New Assignment

Vir was early.

Desperate not to start his brand new assignment on the wrong foot, he had over-estimated the amount of time it would take to travel to Earth’s embassy in the capital city by ground transport. Thus, he was left to wait for the Earth Ambassador and the Minister of Foreign Affairs to arrive, consumed by his own anxious introspection.

Foremost in Vir’s thoughts was the smirk on his uncle’s face when Vir was told.

“Do not forget, Vir,” he had said, “you live here solely on my charity. When your father died, I promised to look after your welfare. This opening on Babylon 5 has provided me with a far more pleasant and convenient means of doing so. Unless you wish to be turned out onto the street, I strongly suggest you consider taking the offer.”

Vir wanted so much to succeed, to be worth something to someone. Would he be able to learn all he needed to know to live and work on a Human space station? Would the Centauri ambassador to Babylon 5 like him?

Would he, for once, be allowed to stay?

Vir resisted the urge to pace. The Human receptionist was already staring at him with a mixture of amusement and pity as it was. Instead, he twiddled his thumbs nervously and furtively examined his surroundings.

On the table beside him sat a small tree decorated with lights and silver baubles. It symbolized a Human winter holiday, Vir knew. He searched his memory for the name of it. Chanukah? No, that wasn’t right. Christmas? Yes, maybe that was it. But perhaps he should ask the Human ambassador to confirm his recollection.

In front of the tree was a bowl of odd red and white colored objects encased in clear, crinkling wrappers. Vir picked up one of these and turned it over and over in his hand.

What could be the purpose of such things? Vir puzzled over this for some time before a Human female walked by, snatched one from the bowl, opened the wrapper, and stuck the object in her mouth. The woman shot Vir a sympathetic smile before she continued on her way, brushing an errant strand of hair from her eyes as she went.

Glancing at the receptionist, Vir unwrapped the item in his hand and copied the passing woman’s action.

Most curious- the food was pleasant to taste, yet there was something else that cooled his mouth and nose. He crunched experimentally and was rewarded with an even stronger flavor.

“Mr. Cotto?”

The salutation jolted Vir so suddenly from his reverie that he choked on the sweet and was seized with a fit of coughing for several moments. When he had finally come back to himself, the Human ambassador asked, his eyes dancing, “You all right, son?”

“I think so,” Vir wheezed in reply.

Oh, how utterly embarrassing! A blush crept up Vir’s face as he followed the ambassador into his office, the taste of the sweet still on his tongue.

II: The Ugly Sweater

When Vir entered the room, Londo nearly choked on his drink.

“Great Maker, Vir!” he boomed. “What is that hideous thing you are wearing?”

Vir looked down at the antlered Earth creature emblazoned on his chest; the little lights on the animal’s nose blinked red. “A merchant in the Zocalo told me that humans in this sect traditionally wear these sweaters to celebrate the birth of their god.” When he lifted his eyes again, he found Commanders Sinclair and Ivanova trying not to laugh and Londo sporting an expression that was simultaneously amused and exasperated. Vir pinked. “Did I do something wrong?”

When Londo flung his arm around Vir’s shoulders, Vir caught a whiff of an unfamiliar fruity alcohol.  “Vir,” he began, drawing out the syllable even more extravagantly than usual. “As the Earthers say, you have been had.”

Vir’s face fell. He wanted so much to honor the humans’ customs. Had he accidentally given offense instead?

“It’s all right, Mr. Cotto,” Commander Sinclair cut in with a chuckle. “We appreciate your intent.”

“If not your taste,” Londo added. “Great Maker!” Then, with mock severity: “I expect you to recycle that monstrosity when we are finished here, Vir. You are Centauri.”

Vir didn’t, though. While he never wore the sweater again, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it no matter how many times he cleaned out his closet. Like so many things, it was a reminder.

III: Enthusiasms

“Your Majesty, I really must ask that you remove that… foolish hat before the procession proceeds to the celebration.”

From beneath furry white trim, Vir Cotto, Emperor of the Centauri Republic and the heart and soul of his race, asked with a peculiar boyish innocence, “Why? It’s one of their traditions.”

What Minister Andra Jaddo said next was delivered with a carefully composed patience, but if a man were watching closely enough, he would see a subtle twitch in the minister’s jaw. “Indeed, it is.” This particular discussion was well traveled ground. “But your… enthusiasms aside, the people, Highness, are expecting a certain… gravity… a certain… deportment… for so important a diplomatic function. It has been less than a year since the restoration of Earth’s embassy.”

Vir sighed, his face falling, once more reflecting his true age. Sinking onto his throne, he absently ran his hand across the velvet armrest. “Minister… what do you know about the Humans’ Santa Claus?”

“I know that he is a gift giver in their legends. Beyond that, I am aware of nothing else.”

The emperor turned his head to take in the city outside his window, the light of day splashing across his face. “There are actually several legends… several versions. I-I’ve been doing some reading.” Vir squinted his eyes in thought. “There is a story of a Saint Nicholas who, when he was alive, secretly provided a poor man enough money to pay for the marriages of his three daughters. And… there is another story… a poem, actually… that describes this legend as warm and cheerful. ‘Jolly’, I think, was the word the poem used.”

“If I may ask what…”

But Vir continued as if Jaddo had not spoken. “That is the sort of man… the sort of leader… I want to be.” Vir met the minister’s gaze. “There’s been enough gravity… enough death. I’m going as I am. And if the people laugh, let them. They need it.” Vir rose from his throne and touched Jaddo’s face with his hand, his eyes gentle and sad. “And the truth is, so do I.”

Jaddo’s shoulders sank slightly as if his strings had been cut. “And what of your hair, Majesty?”

“It’ll grow back.” A slow smile spread across Vir’s features, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. “The Empress Timov trained you well, Andra. What ever happens next is completely my responsibility.” The emperor tightly squeezed both of Jaddo’s shoulders. “Now let’s go. The ambassador is waiting.”

With that, His Majesty strode from the throne room, the ludicrous white pom-pom bouncing behind him.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Repost: An Untitled St. Elsewhere Drabble

This is too short (and too obscure) for AO3, so I'm posting it here. I originally wrote it in the aughts, but since I might be doing more with this canon, let's pull this sucker (which is set during season two) out of the trunk:

---

“Hey, Shirley – you know where Elliot went?”

Don’t tell him. Elliot thumped his hot forehead against the bathroom door. Please?

It was the first day of gross anatomy all over again – only this time, the patient was alive – and bleeding – out there, and Elliot himself was still conscious. In other circumstances, the second might’ve been recognized as a sign of personal growth. In other circumstances.

Stars started to twinkle at the edges of Elliot’s field of vision, and he quickly backed up into the tiny bathroom, sitting down hard on the toilet seat. With slick, trembling fingers, he tried to loosen his collar. He was suffocating.

Then, just as suddenly, nerves and self-loathing propelled Elliot back onto his feet, and he started to pace the enclosed space, wringing his hands. “What’s wrong with you?” he muttered aloud. “You’re not supposed to panic, Axelrod. Pull yourself together.”

“Elliot?”

At the knock on the door, Elliot froze, a brand new crimson flush crawling up the back of his neck. This was it. He was going to throw up. He was going to die. He was going to be barred from practicing medicine before he’d even begun.

“It’s okay, Elliot. You can come out now. They just took the patient up to surgery.”

Was Dr. Fiscus amused?

Elliot drew in a deep breath and, bracing himself, opened the door.

---

Yeah, I don't know. Hope this amused somebody!

New MCU Ficlet: Two Roads Diverged (PG-13)

Summary:

June 21, 1970.

June 16, 2019.

Two fathers. Two paths.

--*--

Or: Tony Stark's first Father's Day.

New MCU Ficlet: The Deep End (PG-13)

Summary:

It felt like he was sucking the air in through a straw, but Tony obeyed his interior Dr. Nolan. Once. Twice. Three times. He shook. He ran through complex physics equations in his head as Morgan shrieked.

He didn’t have this. He didn’t have this at all. He was miles away from being ready.

And worse? He was completely on his own.

--*--

Welcome to fatherhood, Tony Stark!

--*--

Introductory Notes:

This teeny ficlet was inspired by something that actually happened to my dad shortly after I was born — though in his case, Mom was rushed to the hospital with a kidney stone, not appendicitis.

Once again, I've assigned this a Teen/PG-13 rating for the language.

Hope you enjoy!

The Blue Scarves: A Fable (G)

Lacey was a shy rabbit — an exceedingly shy rabbit. 

She spent most of her days in her little burrow poring over her favorite legends and sewing elaborate quilts. Because a hawk had taken her left eye when she was a wee kit, those hobbies were often difficult to pursue. Still, Lacey persisted. She loved beauty — whether it be expressed in a tale of derring-do or in an Amish she’d stitched together using scraps of old tunics and worn-out britches.

An unprepossessing doe, her fur an unremarkable beige and her face crisscrossed with ugly scars, Lacey didn’t keep abreast of the fashions of Green Hill Warren. Whenever she ventured out to shop for fabric and thread — or to restock her pantry — she dressed simply, concerned more for her comfort than for attracting a buck’s eye. 

So on this particular summer afternoon, Lacey stood in the middle of Green Hill Market clad in a plain, faded-green dress, her measuring tape dangling around her neck, her trusty yellow basket hanging off her left front paw. She was considering the look of the vegetables that had just been stocked at the grocer’s booth when suddenly, her ruminations were interrupted by a lilting chuckle behind her.

“Lacey, dear, haven’t you heard?”

Lacey turned — and her ears blushed. Priscilla, an old schoolmate, giggled at this with her usual entourage of the warren’s most respectable does. 

Priscilla commanded attention in part because she was pretty. Her coat was a glossy white, and her eyes were a piercing sapphire blue. But even more importantly, she carried herself with a sort of confidence that Lacey had never hoped to match. No matter what the issue, Priscilla was always sure she was right, and she could easily persuade the others to follow along with her dictates.

“River Bend Warren was attacked and burned by wolves last night,” Priscilla informed Lacey, her delicate pink nose turned up a bit in contempt.

“Oh my!” Lacey replied with sincere horror, her crooked, uneven whiskers twitching. “What a terrible thing!”

“Quite. Fortunately, our defenses are far more robust. But as you can see,” Priscilla added with a gesture at her middle, “we ladies have all decided to tie these around our waists to show our support for our poor, suffering neighbors.” The does around Priscilla nodded, bleating unintelligible expressions of woe and sympathy. 

Lacey slowly blinked her remaining eye, taking in the scene around her. Indeed, it did appear that nearly every doe in the market sported the same bright blue scarf. “Ah. I see. Well, I’m afraid I have nothing like that in my burrow.”

Priscilla laughed again. “Not to worry. Tabitha is selling them in her stall on the other side of the market. Surely you have a bit to spare, yes?”

Frugal almost to a fault, Lacey had saved up plenty of bits. So after a moment’s hesitation and another wiggle of her nose, she hopped to the seamstress’s booth, her basket banging against her side, her measuring tape flapping in the wind. It seemed like a well-meaning fad — nothing like the usual pointless crazes that blew through Green Hill at regular intervals only to die like short-lived thundershowers. Lacey could see no harm in participating — just this once.

But once she’d run her paw through the scarves Tabitha had put on prominent display, Lacey was hit with an inspiration so powerful it almost knocked her off her hind legs. Why wear these around my waist, she thought, when I can make them into quilts for River Bend’s displaced kits? 

Reaching into her coin purse, Lacey bought almost all of Tabitha’s stock. Then, her heart fluttering with excitement, she hurried back to her humble abode and got right to work. She could see the pattern in her mind’s eye — could see how the blue would fit into the overall design — and like any true artist, she was eager to make that vision a reality.

Many days later, her eye smarting from the hours and hours of obsessive, close labor, Lacey strapped a pack of her first finished products onto her back, slipped her father’s knife into her pocket, and started off on the winding forest path to River Bend. To be sure, it had occurred to her that she might meet the rapacious wolves along the way — but then she remembered Lady Maryam of the ancient scriptures, who sacrificed much to save her kit from the depredations of her jealous and murderous king, and the story instantly screwed up her courage.

Lacey sustained herself on her journey with grasses and springs she found along the way and slept in the tight, austere bolt holes that had been dug countless seasons ago by other unnamed rabbits who’d traveled on the same road. Thus, when she arrived at her destination, she was somewhat sore and very, very dirty.

Her minor discomforts, however, could not compare to what she saw in River Bend’s charred ruins. The rabbits who lived in that tiny, impoverished warren had managed to erect several tents to temporarily house all those who’d been rendered homeless by the raid, but it was clear they needed far more assistance. Lacey met the dull, haunted gaze of one grey buck who sat hunched before a fire pit, and her heart broke.

“Please,” she called out, timid. “I — I come from Green Hill with a donation for your orphans.”

At once, she was surrounded by does and bucks of all shapes, colors, and sizes, who pawed open her pack and gasped approvingly at the soft, exquisite quilts contained within.