Creative Spirit

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#006699" TEXT="#080000" background="04f085a3.jpg"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Arial" ><B>The Astrolabe</B></FONT><B>    </B><B> |     </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Astrolabe"><U><B>home</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id44.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Ourselves, Our World"><U>Ourselves, Our World</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id47.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Conversations"><U>Conversations</U></A>   |   <B>Creative Spirit</B>   |   <A HREF="id48.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="About the Authors"><U>About the Authors</U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000" background="050d2e83.jpg"> <div> <B><IMG SRC="20f7fa60.jpg" border=0 width="127" height="166" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> <A HREF="id34_electronic_pen.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Electronic Pen: A Student Journal"><U>Electronic Pen</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id46_m.htm#songs" TARGET="TRLX_Middle" TITLE="Creative Spirit"><U>Songs</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id46_m.htm#stories" TARGET="TRLX_Middle" TITLE="Creative Spirit"><U>Stories</U></A></div> <div> <B>The Medic</B></div> <div>       <A HREF="id46_m.htm#george_hammond" TARGET="TRLX_Middle" TITLE="Creative Spirit"><U>George Hammond</U></A> </div> <div> <B>Death: An Extended Metaphor on Marriage</B></div> <div>       <A HREF="id46_m.htm#megan_giles_barraza" TARGET="TRLX_Middle" TITLE="Creative Spirit"><U>Megan Giles Barraza</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id46_m.htm#poems" TARGET="TRLX_Middle" TITLE="Creative Spirit"><U>Poems</U></A></div> <div> <B>My Heart Is Like a Shell</B></div> <div> <A HREF="id46_m.htm#octavia_hope" TARGET="TRLX_Middle" TITLE="Creative Spirit"><U>Octavia Hope</U></A></div> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000" background="05107073.jpg"> <div> <I>Creative Spirit</I></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="poems"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><B>Poems</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="octavia_hope"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#000099" FACE="Arial" ><B>Octavia Hope</B></FONT></div> <div> <I><B>United States</B></I></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>My Heart Is Like a Shell</B></div> <bR> <div> My heart is like a shell</div> <div> Hollow and easy to break</div> <div> It never stays filled</div> <div> Leaking from cracks that ache</div> <div>  </div> <bR> <div> My heart is like a shell</div> <div> Hidden underneath a rough surface </div> <div> Once shiny, holding its pearl</div> <div> Now unsure of its purpose</div> <div>  </div> <bR> <div> This shell of a heart</div> <div> Desires to be alone, inviting no one in</div> <div> Those who somehow slip past</div> <div> Will, in time, be out again</div> <bR> <div> My heart is like a shell</div> <div> Beckoned by the sea</div> <div> It's barely able to hold itself together</div> <div> Too dangerous to set it free</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="songs"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><B>Songs</B></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="stories"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><B>Stories</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="george_hammond"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><B>George Hammond</B></div> <div> <I><B>United States</B></I></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>The Medic</B></div> <bR> <div> Projectiles piercing flesh, shattering bone, destroying life...  Ever mindful of his job, never minding the sharp pains of reality that riddle him with hopelessness and bullet holes, the medic carries on about his duties.  His workplace is a minefield full of death and destruction littered with the dead and dying bodies of comrades in arms.  The steady downpour of rain soaks the ground, creating a slippery and muddy terrain.  The open field provides little or no cover from the constant barrage of ammunition.  Miles of outstretched barbed wire provide the only landscape features for miles.  Treacherous, deep trenches snake through this forgotten wasteland for thousands of yards in each direction.  The hard driving rain pounds upon them relentlessly.  This place is hell.</div> <div> He maintains his focus on the task at hand, with a heart much bigger than his body can truly bear--his mind so afraid of what is to be.  Yet his work is not finished, so he must move on.</div> <div> He continues to rescue the weak and wounded spirits.  His training could have never prepared him for this situation.  He has to play doctor, psychiatrist, mother, father, friend, and chaplain to those dead and dying soldiers.  In most cases, his face is the last one seen by those he has worked on.  This poor soul faces these challenges with no thought of himself, just thoughts of those who need him.  His face is grim, penetrated with an overwhelming fear of the inevitable.  But this fear does not stop him.  It drives him to work even harder.  He does all he can do for the soldiers in need, ignoring the painful damage that his own body has absorbed.</div> <div> His hands are drenched in the blood of his brothers in arms, the blood of a nation that bears his lineage, his allegiance, his hopes and dreams.  Constantly, he pushes himself to the next wounded soldier.  This one is no better off than the one before.  He feels guilty that he could not work fast enough to reach him sooner.  He knows the end is near for this soldier, so he does his best to console him.  More cries for help from every direction.  Where to first?  He pushes through the pain of the bullets and the shrapnel that continuously remind him that this is war.  The pain reminds him that he is still alive, but barely.  The medic must move on.  More cries for help.  He has no time to think, only to react.</div> <div> As he approaches the next victim, another speeding projectile strikes him.  Warm blood from the wound seeps from his right shoulder down his chest, soaking his uniform in shades of crimson death.  On his pale face grow the expressions of fear, anxiety and horror, all at once.  Tears of pain and anguish spill from his eyes as he suddenly drops to his knees.  The soft mud cushions his descent.  Everywhere around him scream the sounds of war, but in his mind he sees his old red farmhouse, with its rotting wooden fence.  He can feel the warmth of his bed in the upstairs room.  He can hear his mother calling him to the dinner table.</div> <div> Oh, if only this brave soul could have been spared.  Just think of all the lives he could have touched along his journey in life.  His journey has now ended.  That heart, so big, beats no more.  This man has died on the battlefield while protecting and saving the lives of so many others.</div> <div> Tranquility relaxes his pale, blood-spattered face.  With his dying breath, the medic collapses forward into the drenched, muddy ground.  This tour of duty is over.  He can save no more lives.  He can give no more love.  Never again will he see his loving family.</div> <div> He gave so much to his country.  He gave a son his father.  He gave the proud parents their son.  By going above and beyond the call of duty and giving his life to save so many others, this soldier exemplifies courage to its fullest extent.</div> <bR> <div> --George Hammond</div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B> <A NAME="megan_giles_barraza"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></B><B>Megan Giles Barraza</B></div> <div> <I><B>United States</B></I></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Death:  An Extended Metaphor on Marriage</B></div> <bR> <div>      Marriage is death.  Specifically, marriage is two deaths.  And one resurrection.  </div> <div>      You are a normal person, going about your daily life.  You are content, self-sufficient, and have your own friends.  And then it starts with a cough.  A friend, a coworker, a fellow mall shopper catches your eye, and you begin to sneeze.  You shake hands with this person not knowing how recently they have been washed; you give this person your phone number-and your immune system, your complacency and emotional self-sufficiency eye him warily.  You talk to each other on the computer or telephone, and your thermometer readies itself to give you the news when asked.  </div> <div>       He meets you for coffee at Barnes and Noble to discuss music and the weather, and you are infected.  It's not long before your temperature climbs beyond 98.6 kisses and you can feel the fever, followed by the nausea as you begin to spend sweaty, delirious nights at his apartment and your stomach violently rids itself of your chicken soup, movie dates with your friends, and quiet evenings alone with your books.  You begin to think of him all day from work, trying to sleep away the illness that is steadily getting more serious until you can no longer control your coughing, the nights spent at his place, and you move in.  All the time now, your chest aches from coughing meals together and discussing politics, child-rearing and antibiotics.  Hypothetical future funeral arrangements.  Your old friends begin the fifth and final acceptance stage and rarely visit you anymore in your new hospital bed.  At last, you begin to see what's coming.  </div> <div>       Your disease, he gives you the news to wear around your finger while you make your final arrangements.  You look back on who you used to be.  You hope that you have lived a full life and are ready for what's coming.  You take a hard look at your decision to make sure you don't want treatment.  You meet with loan officers and tour real estate to pick your coffin, solemnly considering fifteen or thirty year mortgages.  You meet with the pastor to plan the services, and pray for a happy outcome.  You don't know what will meet you on the other side.  You're scared.  You hope that the wisdom you have collected during your life will guide you, and you ask God to help you be strong, to let this be what you think it will be.  You hope you know where you're going.  Your disease has become a part of you that will never go away.  If you try to force it to leave now it will take a lung, twenty pounds, a hank of intestine, and there will be a space in you that you will feel.  This is scary, but you're committed to it.  </div> <div>       The day comes.  You put on your prettiest dress.  You gather everyone you love one last time.  You eat your favorite food.  You pray.  You cry.  Your pastor reads you your vows, your last rights.  I do.  I die.  Your heart shudders and stops, and the monitors sing your flat line, nervous for you.  The disease that met you for coffee at Barnes and Noble to discuss music and the weather; that coughed with you and took your temperature at 98.6 kisses and held you, and loved you, through sweaty, delirious nights at his apartment, he slips a toe tag onto your finger to document your new name so the guys in the lab downstairs and anyone else you'll ever run into don't get you mixed up with some other bride.  Afterwards, on the tail end of the tears and the shock, your family and friends meet for alcohol and speeches, and you follow to listen, to look back on them from the mountain you have just climbed, and to look forward to the dizzying heights you're expected to reach.  </div> <div>       It's done.  You take your disease and you go home to your coffin, to rest on its silk together and make payments in monthly installments.  You're married.  Your disease takes off your pretty dress.  He lies down with you on the cushy pillow top of your new resting place, and you embrace each other on top of the ashes of your former selves-those content, self-sufficient ghosts with their empty lungs and intestines.  You hold each other, and you love each other, and you consume each other, and afterwards you blink.  You sit up.  Standing slowly, you stretch out the joints that had stiffened and you feel your tired blood begin to move.  You are one person.  You will pay the same taxes and have the same children and look in one direction.  You are resurrected, and for the rest of time you will be two people walking with one set of feet toward heaven.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>