Zuri held the worn piece of driftwood tight in one hand. Around her, the other exiles held mementos of their past: a rubber ball, a diamond ring, a fountain pen. From her seat on the rocky hill, she could look over the sand dunes below, forming rows like the grain in a slab of wood or waves nearing the shore of her hometown. She could almost pretend that she was home, waiting on the pier with her sister or exploring tidal pools with her brothers. She would be safe, secure, with her family around her, her parents alive, her friends close and her subjects adoring. But she would miss her new friends, the exiles from other kingdoms. She would miss the new experiences, new books, new training and learning and growth… and she would miss Glen. He was worth it–at least, he was when he was present when she hadn’t made an instant decision to watch after his wild sister. In times like this, without him, she just had to remember.

Christie Powell

*****

I had that headache again the one proceeding every encounter with a dead person’s spirit. It hit me like the crash of a tidal wave, a tsunami of torment and it left me feeling like I was drowning.

I struggled to get out of bed the pain intensified. I couldn’t focus my vision, the room blurred and a wavery figure appeared.

“Please,” she said. The voice was that of a young girl. The presence became a more distinct silhouette. I realized this spirit was a very young woman maybe even a teen. She had long hair worn in a French braid that fell to her waist, and she wore a dotted sundress.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Alison. I’m Alison Sharp.”

“How old are you Alison?”

She gave me a strange look as if she was searching her mind trying to remember.

“Seventeen.” She finally murmured. “I just turned seventeen. I’ll be a senior in high school this fall.” She smiled then frowned.

There’s more to this story I thought.

Christine Howard

(This week’s prompt from Robin Christensen)