Another one of those One Shots.
However, THIS story, is the ONE.

This story.
It calls to me in the night.   Begging me to return to it.  
The irony of this one being the one I want to write; the one my soul cries out for completion.

And yet, it's the one where the words simply won't come.

As I said before, the idea is there.
But this time, it's a bit personal.

"Write what you know," they say.

So take a deep breath, and follow your own advice.   Forget they.
This is YOUR story.   Well, parts of it.

So I'm gonna tell it in my own my timing.
Even if the words drip slowly;  I'll write them one by one if I  have too.

We all know if you tap the damn long enough, put enough cracks in the walls  -- it will eventually break.

Daddy Did You Know?

Scene One:

One hand grips the cool metal of the bed rail, while the other clutches a well-worn notebook.  A pen has fallen to the floor as the first tightening pain hit; rolling out of sight to linger in dust like so many other things that once were necessary.   Her face is obscured by a mask of hair, which drenched in sweat has fallen forward to conceal a grimaced visage.   But the scrawled script upon the notebook is easily visible – though drops of sweat have blurred the ink…

Daddy Did You Know
Volume 31

It contains more than just neatly printed lines.
Right now: it is her lifeline.

Scene Two:

Miles away, fluorescent lights flicker upon a similar grimaced visage, as a young man stares mouth agape at the stack of journals before him.  Some are new, their spines barely broken.  Others evidence the beaten look of many thumbed readings.    Still others clearly show signs of their age by their taped together countenance.  

The one thing each has in common is the title.   Sometimes a childish scrawl.  Or the pencil gripped efforts of the early school aged.  Th more recent flourishes of fancy, flowered lines from the hand of a young woman –  yet the same title no matter the style:

Daddy Did You Know

As the young man whispers the words aloud, his stomach clenches telling him these journals are not going to be an easy read.    He is not likely to find joy within their perfectly lined pages.   Yet something else within him, a quiet whisper of the heart just as strong, is telling him the reading will change him forever.  

This is the crossroads of a young man with his entire bright future before him.   Simple and soul searching words bled and cried upon the page by a young woman he used to love.    Words he knows are going to strike at the very heart of his soul and cause him to ponder all those questions about Life, and Love and what it is to be a Man.

All from the heart of a young girl he once proudly led upon his arm, and who right now… probably enduring pain as old of time to give him what should be the greatest gift of all.

He is about to become a father.
But she is there alone, and he is here alone.
A stack of journals the only thing to bridge the gap between them.

And in that place where fear and faith have collided, he settles upon the dusty floor and with heavy sigh, picks up the oldest and most tattered journal; and begins to read.

Why does this tale both linger and escape me?

That's the other reason writing is hard:  it's personal.  Intimate.  Dragging forth the things that want to remain buried.  Hushed.
Your vulnerability laid bare in neatly printed rows.   Fear hiding behind every released word:  "don't let them in, don't let them see."

But you know that thing about Letting Go right?

It's often the only way to move Forward.    In remembering, the most important thing to keep in mind is that It Is NOT the direction you are heading.  It's just a memory.   It cannot actually hurt you.  

It may be like being tossed about on a wild sea, but I am not Sunk.
If history proves true, I know the boat is safe, and the anchor will hold.

But in the present, to take a step of faith?
Sometimes, you're just gonna have to jump out of the boat.

Is there a story inside that haunts you?