Tuesday, 21 June 2016

That Wall

Wow, I haven't been on here in months! Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I wrote this short story about the Berlin Wall. Here it is.

That Wall

“Get over into West Berlin. Once I’m freed, I’ll follow you there.” Axel stared at the ceiling of his room as his brother’s words echoed over and over through his mind. Ten years. Ten painful, grueling years of sorrow and waiting and praying. And still his brother hadn’t come.
Turning over onto his side, Axel watched his nephew Wilfrid as he slept. The little boy had never even met his father. He hadn’t been born yet when they’d fled East Berlin. Ten years without knowing even the sound of his father’s voice.
Axel sat up and walked to the window. From their apartment, he could just see the wall in the distance, a black line in between dark buildings. He sighed slowly and clenched his fingernails into his palm. That wall. Someday he was going to knock it down.
Wilfrid opened his eyes to see Uncle Axel standing by the window, his face pressed against the glass. From his position, Wilfrid couldn’t tell if Uncle Axel was crying or not. Last night he had been, and the night before that. He sighed quietly and waited until Uncle Axel crawled back into bed and buried his face in his pillow.
Wilfrid climbed out of bed and tiptoed out of the room. Crossing the tiny hall, he opened his mother’s door a crack and peeked in. She was lying on her side, fast asleep. Wilfrid went over to her and touched her arm.
She sat up with a start. “Wilfrid!”
He sat down and leaned his head against her.
“What is it, honey?” she whispered.
I want Papa to come to us, he signed. Can’t he come soon?
“Oh Wilfrid.” Mama held him close and rubbed her nose against his hair. Wilfrid felt a tear drip into his scalp and he pressed against her. “Papa can’t come to us right now. He’s under arrest. And even if he weren’t, the guards won’t let anyone across, certainly not an anti-communist writer.”
Wilfrid stared up at her. When will we be free?
Mama choked a little on her words. “I don’t know, honey.”
There was a soft knock, the door opened wider, and Uncle Axel stepped into the room. “Did he wake you up again?”
Mama nodded. “Yes. It’s all right.”
Uncle Axel sat down on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. “Do you mind if I stay a moment?”
Mama shook her head and wrapped her arms around both Uncle Axel and Wilfrid. Wilfrid looked at his uncle’s face. He had been crying. Wilfrid leaned close and kissed his uncle’s cheek.
Uncle Axel took Wilfrid’s hand. “God’s got to change this sometime, Etta. They can’t hold us in check forever.”
Mama stroked Wilfrid’s back. “I know. Every night for ten years I’ve been praying that He’ll change something. I know he will one day. We just have to wait.”
The room went silent. Wilfrid looked at his mother and uncle, and then at mama’s window in the corner. Pulling out of mama’s arms, he walked over and stared out at the streets of West Berlin, at the wall. Somewhere in East Berlin there lived a father he had never seen, a father he had never touched. A father he wanted so desperately to meet. Only one thing stood in his way: a wall. A massive, strong, impenetrable wall, the symbol of the terrible Communist hold on East Germany.
As his mother and uncle came to stand beside him, Wilfrid gripped the edge of the window sill with his fingers. That wall. Someday he was going to knock it down.
Axel wouldn’t let go of her hand as they made their way, crouching, along the narrow passage. Etta stared at the dark sewer that stretched out before them and shuddered. Her baby was in peril every moment they stayed this awful place.
“Can we go any faster?” she breathed, not daring to whisper.
Axel shook his head. “I don’t know how much this thing echoes. If anyone is working on the pipes, they might hear us. We have to take it slow.” He was silent for a long time. “Are you okay?”
Etta closed her eyes for a moment. Stifling back her tears, she tried to stop thinking about Stefan shut up in their house. “No, I’m not. But we need to keep going.” For my baby’s sake.
Axel removed his hand a moment, sniffed, then took her hand again. Etta could feel his tears against her palm. She tightened her grip and smiled. “Come on. If we can escape, we can try to free Stefan. Maybe it will be easier this time.”
Axel nodded and peered ahead into the tunnel. “We’re almost there.”
Footsteps echoed behind them. Etta started to whip around, but Axel clenched her hand and pulled her forward. They almost ran towards a faint beam of light gleaming hopefully ahead of them. But the footsteps sounded louder and closer. Etta could hardly breathe. One hand on her stomach, the other in Axel’s grasp, she felt as if she was going fall. She was going to fall.
“Axel!” Etta sat up with a jolt, her whole body shaking. She stared around at the room. It was her room. Of course. Lying back down, she started crying. In real life, they had escaped without being caught, but in her dreams, they were always caught by the guard, always brought back to be jailed in East Germany.
Maybe they should have stayed. Etta sat up again and buried her face in her hands. Maybe I should have stayed with Stefan. Given him comfort instead of seeking my own freedom. Maybe I should have let Axel go by himself.
But that wasn’t what had happened. She shouldn’t feel guilty. Besides, Stefan had nearly ordered her to go. He wanted her and the baby to be free. And Axel wouldn’t have been able to survive on his own. He’d been only fifteen at the time. He wouldn’t have been able to live without someone else to help him. Besides, Stefan had argued, if they were already free, it would be easier for him to escape, being only one person instead of three.
Etta got out of bed and pulled on her bathrobe. The sun was coming in the window, and she sat down in its light and sighed. She had done the right thing. She knew it. And perhaps soon, Lord willing, she would see a good result come from her heart-rending decision. Stefan would come and be reunited with his family.
Stefan paused in his work and stared around the small courtyard. Thirty-two years old and his professional career was gardener. Pitiful. And right now there were hardly any flowers left, so all he could do was weed among the terribly boring shrubs that surrounded the walls of the East Berlin government building.
Getting to his feet, Stefan stretched the crinkles out of his neck and shoulders. Perhaps someday someone would notice his hard work and promote him. Maybe he could become a janitor. At least then he would be indoors. Then maybe he could save enough money, and then maybe he could find a way to get across the border. He had to get over soon. It’d been too long already.
He shook his head and picked up a spade. At least he’d been released from house arrest. After seven years, the government had decided he wasn’t very dangerous anymore, and had allowed him to once more move around East Berlin. But he was still heavily watched, and had no way of sending any word to Etta and Axel.
“....It’s going to be tonight, really!”
Stefan glanced towards the back entrance of the building as two officials walked out. The one with a beard was speaking excitedly to the other.
“Are you sure?” the other man asked, his face tense.
“I heard the spokesman say so himself! At midnight tonight, we’re allowed to cross the border!”
Stefan dropped his spade and rushed over, grabbing the man by the arms. “What did you just say, sir?”
The man laughed and clasped Stefan in an embrace. “We’re being freed! Our superiors have decided to open the wall! At midnight tonight, citizens of both East and West Berlin will be able to go to whichever side of the city they choose!”
Stefan yelled and shook the man hard. “Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! I can’t believe it!” The thought of his wife, son, and brother filled his mind, and he grinned. “I’ll get to see my family!”
The other two men weren’t listening; they were too busy talking to each other. Stefan left them and went back to his garden patch, his arms trembling. They were going to be free. In just seven and a half hours, they would be free! How could he contain himself until then?
Someone was shaking his arm hard. Wilfrid opened his eyes to see mama and Uncle Axel standing over him. “Wilfrid! Get up, honey!” mama said, tears on her cheeks.
Wilfrid sat up. What’s wrong? he signed.
“Nothing!” Uncle Axel almost shouted. “Now get up and and come on! We have to go!”
What are we doing? Wilfrid asked, climbing out of bed and squinting in the dim light of the rising sun.
“You’ll see,” mama said, her voice all choky.
Wilfrid tugged on his coat and shoes and followed his mother and uncle down the stairs of the apartment and out onto the chilly street. Why were so many people up at this hour? Wilfrid stared as both younger and older people hurried past him. They all seemed to be heading in one direction, and Wilfrid’s stomach trembled as he realized what direction that was. Towards the wall. They were all going towards the wall.
Walking closer to his mother, Wilfrid glanced at Uncle Axel and saw that he was carrying a huge chunk of cement block. What’s that for? he asked.
“You’ll see,” Uncle Axel whispered, his hand grabbing onto Wilfrid’s.
Mama, what’s going on? Wilfrid persisted, stopping entirely.
Mama took a deep breath and crouched down so that she could look him in the eye. “Wilfrid. How would you like to meet daddy?”
Wilfrid screamed, jumped to his feet, and took off towards the wall, mama and Uncle Axel laughing as they caught up with him. Holding their hands, Wilfrid strained himself forward. They had to hurry! Daddy. He was about to see daddy.
Stefan shoved his way through the crush of people. Of all the nights to be called in for questioning, why had it needed to be this one? It had taken him hours to get of the building, and now it was already sunrise. He had to get through the gate. He had to get to his family.
Suddenly, he stopped and stared at the wall ahead of him. There was no way he would make it through the gate quickly enough. It was jammed, literally jammed with people.
His eyes strayed to the wall itself. People were grabbing at the cement, trying pull themselves over. His heart raced, and he ran forward, then jerked to a stop, staring at his feet. He had come to the sand trap. A snowy white blanket stretched before him, showing hundreds of footprints. They would show his footprints.
Stefan took a deep breath and started moving again. That sand didn’t matter anymore. The wall didn’t matter anymore. They were free. And each step he took brought him closer to his family.
They were so close. Wilfrid broke from his mother’s and Uncle Axel’s grips and charged the last few feet towards the wall. He ignored the jammed gate several feet away, and instead dug his fingers into the cement itself, trying to find a grip. Someone gave him a boost from behind, and Wilfrid felt himself lifted up, up until he was chest high with the top of the wall. Grabbing the huge pole that sat atop the wall, Wilfrid hauled himself up and glanced back to thank his helper.
It was an East Berlin guard.
Wilfrid froze. He stared at the guard, the machine gun strap still slung across the man’s shoulder. The guard looked up at him and smiled. Wilfrid gulped, blinked, and then smiled back. Placing his hand on his mouth, he brought it away and downwards. Thank you.
The guard grinned and stepped away, and Wilfrid turned around. He was the first person on top of the wall. For a moment, he stood tall, gazing across at East Berlin, the city that had held his father prisoner for ten years. His shoes balanced carefully on the rounded pole, and the cool breeze brushed against his forehead.
“Wilfrid, do you see daddy?” mama called from below in the churning crowd.
Wilfrid recalled the picture of his father that mama kept on her dresser to his mind. Dark, curly hair, light eyes, a tiny scar on his forehead. Looking down at the boiling, noisy mob below his feet, he stared at the East Berliners, trying to find his father.
Uncle Axel hoisted himself up beside Wilfrid, then pulled mama up too. As others joined them on the wall, all calling out, laughing, crying, Wilfrid took his mother’s hand and kept searching.
Then suddenly he was right there, right below Wilfrid, staring up at them all. Wilfrid gazed at the strange man for a moment, his heart racing. His pawed at mama’s arm, trying to get her attention.
His daddy looked at mama, and then right into Wilfrid’s eyes, and held out his arms. “Wilfrid!”
Wilfrid dropped to his knees, and slid off the top of the wall into his father’s arms. His arms closed around daddy’s neck, and he placed his face against his shirt. He heard mama crying, sliding over the wall, and felt her suddenly against him, her arms going past to him to wrap around daddy. Looking up, he saw them kissing, and once more buried his head in his father’s chest. Daddy. He had found his daddy.
Axel stood on the top of the wall, staring at his brother, sister-in-law, and nephew as they hugged each other and laughed. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he grinned, then slid over the side of the wall, landing with both feet on East Berlin ground. Picking up his chunk of cement, which he had dropped over the wall while climbing, he turned, heaved it into the air, and smashed it into the wall’s ugly side. His hands stung from the blow, but he recoiled and did it again. He had told himself that someday he would knock down this wall, and now he could do it. His cement block smashed again and again into the wall, and then suddenly, with one last blow, he let it drop, feeling too weak to do anymore. He sank onto his knees and cried, his head pressed against the wall. All the emotion from ten years of waiting came pouring out, and he couldn’t decide if he was more sad, angry, or relieved. Maybe all three combined.
Stefan finally broke from his family and knelt beside Axel. “I missed you, Axel,” he whispered, putting his arms around his brother’s shoulder.
Wilfrid and Etta came over, and the four huddled together next to the wall, crying and holding each other. Around them, people laughed, shouted, cried. Everyone seemed to be feeling the same mix of emotions.
Wilfrid tugged on Axel’s sleeve and Axel glanced down at his nephew. “What is it?” he asked.
Only today is the war really over, Wilfrid signed.
Axel stood up and nodded. Wilfrid was right. On November 9, 1989, forty-four years after World War Two ended for the rest of the world, it ended for the people of Berlin with the destruction of the wall.
Axel picked Wilfrid up and swung him around. “The war is over! It’s finally over.”
Wilfrid grinned at his uncle. And the wall is finally no more.
The End

Tuesday, 13 October 2015


This story is for Quote Queste, over at The Splendor Falls on Castle Walls. This was the quote for this month.


Tybalt shifted in his saddle and turned to look at Thea. She was watching his opponent trot his horse in a wide circle, not paying any attention to him. Tybalt tried to take a deep breath, but his armor restricted his chest. Choking out the air he'd just drawn in, Tybalt, turned his horse around, trying to clear his hand.

He didn't want to fight. Not at all, not even for Thea. She always pretended she didn't care during these fights, always pretended she was cheering for Tybalt's opponent as much as she was cheering for him. He wished she would actually openly pick a side. If she would actually say she didn't love him after all, well then, he could go and leave this tiresome fight and never come back. But she wouldn't say anything. He had only spoken to her once in the last two weeks, and that once had been under supervision of her governess.

"I commend you, Tybalt, for winning the first match today," she had said softly, letting him kiss the air over her hand.

"Thank you, my lady," he had muttered, trying to look straight into her eyes without drawing the attention of the governess. He wanted to know what she really thought. Did she love him still, like she had three months ago, before the French raids, before the government uprisings, before everything had heaved up and then just as quickly, just as strangely, settled down again?

A bugle screamed the final warning for the match's commencement, and Tybalt pulled his horse to a stop and faced his opponent. This was to be the final battle for Thea's hand. Did he even want her hand? Would she actually love and respect him, and could he love and respect her?

As the second bugle sounded, Tybalt turned and watched as his opponent, Sir Doran, rode up before Thea and her father, removed his helmet, and bowed as well as he could clad in full armor and sitting in a saddle.

As Sir Doran trotted his horse back to his starting position, Tybalt urged his horse towards the stand, and halted in front of the king and Thea. He pulled off his helmet, bowed to the king, and then stared at Thea, his eyes trying to pierce her face, her expression, her thoughts.

Thea looked at him squarely, all elusiveness suddenly gone from her face. In it's place, Tybalt saw pride, fear, and love. A great, steady love that was outshining the other emotions. She wanted him, not Sir Doran. She really did love him.

Tybalt lowered his head towards his horse's neck in respect towards the princess he loved so deeply, his heart galloping against his ribs and the armor that protected them. As he sat up again, he looked straight at Thea and took a deep breath as she smiled at him. Then he turned his horse. It was time to fight Sir Doran.

As the two knights held their horses in check at their starting positions, Tybalt tried hard not to panic. His lungs felt compressed together into a lump, and he felt like a page again, unsure of everything.

The last bugle sprawled through the air and into his ears, and Tybalt kicked his horse into a gallop, holding his spear tightly. Sir Doran flew towards him, and Tybalt suddenly felt the crashing sting of his opponent's spear flipping his own out of his hand. Then they were moving away from each other, and Tyablt wheeled his horse around, his teeth, his head growing hot. He had to win. But he had no weapon.

He charged again.

Sir Doran swung at him with his spear, and Tyablt felt the wooden pole strike his on the chest. He catapulted backwards off the horse, his armor creating discordant symphony. Thea screamed and Tybalt tried to get up, but everything was swirling into blackness...

"Cut! It's a take!"

Aaron clambered to his feet, pulling his helmet off his head and swallowing fresh air. Leah slipped off her throne, waved, and walked towards her trailer, already answering the questions of five reporters who had been allowed to watch the shooting.

Aaron clanked himself over to Betty, who was sitting on a camp chair, watching him. "How did I look?"

"Very brave, but that fall must have hurt. You shouldn't do your own stunts."

Aaron laughed and pulled off his gloves. "I like the excitement."

Standing up, Betty took his arm. "Come on, let's go get lunch. Then you have to be back on set."

Aaron glanced at Betty's watch, then smiled. "Okay. Let's hurry; we only have an hour and a half, and I want to spend every moment with you."

Thursday, 3 September 2015

Blog Party Tag Answers.

Over at Miss Dashwood's blog, a blog party is being held for Masked, the modern-day Scarlet Pimpernel adaptation I've mentioned on here before. Anyways, a tag was put out to be answered, and I am answering it. If you want to do so yourself, you can go over to Miss Dashwood's blog, linked to above, and answer the questions!

1. The obvious question... how'd you get introduced to the Scarlet Pimpernel?

Umm... I don't know when I first heard about it, but it was I think through my older sisters. My first taste of it was in the way of several clips from the 1982 movie adaptation on my sister's blog, and then I read the first book for school. I saw the whole of the 1982 movie when I was thirteen, or maybe fourteen. I think it was thirteen. I loved it. :)

2.  If you could meet any of the characters in real life, who would you choose and why? (you can use the obvious answer of Sir Percy if you really want to, but this is your chance to get creative. ;))

Well, I think I would like to meet Sir Percy, because he's the hero, and really amazing, but it might also be fun to meet some others of the league, like Lord Tony and Sir Andrew. As to why... um, they came into my head? (I'm very bad at "Why" questions, sorry.) Chauvelin might also be interesting to meet in a kind of scary way. Just to see what he's like. (I will say here that I think I like the Sir Percy of the 1982 movie better than the Sir Percy of the books, and so will most likely be meaning him most of the time when I talk about Sir Percy, as I was in this question.)

3.  What are your top 3 favorite quotes from the books or movies? (yes, just three)

"Sink Me. So 'tis. But then, if you were to look out of that window, you would see me yacht, the Day Dream, ready to take me-- and my men-- safely back to England." (Not 100% sure that is exactly the way the quote goes, but that's basically it.)

"Call it what you will! I will have the Scarlet Pimpernel's head or your brother's." (A violent quote, I know, but it's fun to say so fast, like Chauvelin does.) (Little fun fact: Chauvelin has his own Wikipedia page. :))

I like the whole scene where Percy is going over Chauvelin's dress. (Not dress dress, but dress as in what he's wearing.)

~All three of these were from the 1982 movie, though they could also be in the books. I don't know. :P

4. Who is your favorite supporting character in the books? (Percy and Marguerite are ineligible)

I haven't read many of the books. I think I've only read all of the first three... So I don't know. :) Sorry.

5. Which film versions have you seen and which do you like best?

I have only seen the 1982 version in entirety, though I have seen maybe a minute or thirty seconds of the 1934 version. I like the 1982 version the best, though that isn't really fair to the other, seeing as I haven't seen it fully.

6. What's your top-absolute-favorite scene in the first book? (if you've read it-- if not, what's your favorite scene in whichever movie you prefer?)

Mm, I don't know... (sorry). It's been a long time since I read it. I did like the ending part, though. I didn't think I knew about the beggar. As for the movie, (I'm allowed to answer that part of the question as well) I don't know. I like the scene where Marguerite comes to see Percy in *SPOILER* prison. *END OF SPOILER,* and the ending fencing scene and all, and the proposal.

7. If you could dream-cast a new adaptation of the book (a period piece, that is) who would you choose to play the roles of Sir Percy, Marguerite and Chauvelin?

Hmmmmm....... well, without remembering descriptions from the books on Sir Percy and Marguerite too well.... (And these are picked just right now-- I hadn't thought about this, so it's not really a dream-cast. :P)

Aaron Tveit as Sir Percy.

Stephen Moyer as Chauvelin. (I picked this picture because he looks sinister.)

Sierra Boggess as Marguerite.

8. Do you think the Scarlet Pimpernel does his rescue work purely for "the love of sport," as the narrative would tell us (and as he would often claim) or does he have more noble motives that he won't admit?  Explain your answer.  Show your work.

I think he does it for the sport of it... but.... then... he's so upset when he hears that the King has been beheaded, and he goes to such great risks to save the Dauphin, so I think he does care about the people he's saving, and wishes to help them even if it's dangerous.

9.  Second to Chauvelin, who is the worst villain in the book series, and why?

Maybe Robespierre, because he is evil. :P (I'm pretty rotten at these questions, aren't I?)

10.  What's your favorite novel in the series (if you've read more than one)?  If not, which one are you most excited to read?

Again, I don't know. I was looking forward to the third one, I think, because it was like the ending in the movie.

11.  If you could change one thing about your favorite version of the movie, what would it be?

The scenes with Armand and Louise. Unnecessary, They could have done it the way it is in the book. 

12.  Lastly... how would you convince a skeptical friend to read/watch TSP?  What is it that you love about it?

Oh, I'm not sure. The romance, the thrillingness of it... maybe I could just try showing the friend a trailer, and talking about Sir Percy's heroic deeds.

Yet Another Period Drama Blog

Tuesday, 1 September 2015

"Letter to Heaven."

I had inspiration for this story last week, and I'm sharing it here.

If I wanted to write fan mail to an author, I could look up their address online or something. But if I want to write a letter to God, how do I do it? Hailey stared out the window up at the sky. Would my letter have to be taken to heaven by plane, or spaceship? How long would it take to get there? Maybe if I took it myself, I could see God open it and read it.
Hailey stuck her upper portion out the window and gazed across the lawn and down the street. The mail truck hadn’t come yet. Maybe she had time to write a quick letter before the truck got to her mailbox.
Grabbing her school notebook, Hailer scribbled a few words down, trying to keep her handwriting neat. This was for God, after all.
She didn’t write much; just a few things about the book of Jonah, one of her favorites. She didn’t want to bother God, who was probably very busy.
After searching for and finding an envelope on her mom’s desk, Hailey stuck her letter inside and sealed it. Taking a pen, she sat down and wrote:
God the Father
Throne of God
That should work as an address. Putting her own address in the top left corner, Hailey pressed a stamp onto the envelope and ran outside to give her letter to the mailman, who had just come up the street.
It was really a mailboy-- Kyle, the teenager who helped his uncle with the mail delivery. Hailey halted behind her mailbox and waited as Kyle stopped the truck. “Hi, Kyle! I have a letter to mail!”
Kyle stepped out of the truck and reached for her envelope. “Okay, Hailey.” Staring at the address she’d written, he frowned, then looked at her. “Umm, Hailey, I don’t think you can send this.”
“Why not?”
Kyle sat down on the step of the truck. “Well, I don’t think you can mail things to heaven.”
“Why? Couldn’t you send it up in an airplane? I want God to read what I think about his book, just like authors down here.”
Letting out his breath, Kyle gazed at the envelope, as if trying to puzzle out what they could do with the situation. “Well, I’ll take it to the post office, and see if we can mail it for you.”
“Really, Kyle?”
Kyle got to his feet. “Sure. I’ll try.”
Getting into the truck, Kyle watched as Hailey waved and ran back towards her house. Stuffing the rest of the mail from her parents’ mailbox into the back of the truck, he drove down the street.
When he arrived at the post office, the letter to God was on the top of the stack of mail. Carrying the various envelopes through the double doors of the office, he smiled at his girlfriend, Laura, who worked at the front desk. “Hailey Arnolds, from Oak Drive, asked me to mail this.”
Laura took the envelope and read the address. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. It’s your job to send stuff on its way.”
Kyle went back out the door for the rest of the mail, and Laura scratched her forehead, unsure of what to do. When her boyfriend came back through the door, she hurried over to him. “Kyle, how on earth am I supposed to send a letter to God?”
Kyle shrugged. “I don’t know. Hailey really wanted it sent, though, and I can’t say no to her.”
“But we can’t actually send this!”
“Why not? Just get it to the airport, and have the mail plane take it up.”
Laura put her hands on her hips. “Then what?”
“Well, then it’s up to the guy driving the plane.” Kyle grinned. “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight?”
Walking up to the mail plane office, Laura felt silly. She knocked on the door, and waited in the wind until the postman opened the door.
“I have a special delivery for the mail plane. It’s a letter from a six year old little girl named Hailey Arnolds,” Laura said, holding out the letter. “I need to make sure it actually gets sent.”
“As long as it has the correct stamps for its weight, it should be fine,” the man muttered, taking the letter. He squinted his puffy eyes at the address. “Hey, what is going on? We can’t mail this.”
Laura felt a touch of anger. “You said as long as it had the correct stamps for its weight, it should be fine. Is the envelope too heavy?”
“No, but you can’t send a letter to heaven! It isn’t possible!” The man blew out his lips in frustration. “We cannot mail this. I don’t even know if God exists, and you’re asking me to mail Him a letter?”
“Well, I’m not sure either,” Laura said, folding her arms, “but a little girl from our town wants this sent very much. You can try!”
The man rubbed at the envelope with his thumb. “Fine. I can try, but I can’t promise that this can actually get to its destination! It’ll probably end up the ocean.”
“Thank you!” Laura smiled and ran back to her car. The man watched her go, then shook his head. “Hey Art, you have one more letter to take on your flight!”
Art came out of the break room, holding his everlasting cup of coffee. “Okay, let me have it. I’m about to get going... whoa, what is with the address, Harold?”
Harold sighed. “Some little six year old girl wants to mail God a letter.”
Sitting down at the table, Art tossed the envelope in his hands. “How am I supposed to deliver this?”
Harold sat down across from him and scratched his nose. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know how to get something to somebody who probably doesn’t exist.”
“I think God exists,” Art said. “But I don’t think you can send Him letters.”
“Maybe you can just throw it out the plane window and see what happens.”
Art sucked in the underside of his lip. “It’s probably just going to land in the ocean, or in someone’s tree.” He stood up, grabbed his coat, and waved at Harold. “See you. I’ll tell you what happens when I get back.”
“What are you expecting to happen?”
“I don’t know.” Art wiggled his mouth. “Bye.”
Art made sure his plane was steady, then picked the envelope from off the floor. Will it ever reach heaven? Can it even reach heaven? Would God answer if it did?
Opening his window, Art stuck his head out, read the address one last time, and threw the envelope up as hard as he could. It stayed on the breeze for a few seconds, then began to drift down towards the earth.
Art sighed. “Too bad for the little girl. I didn’t think that could work.” Shutting his window, he continued flying as Hailey’s letter fell slowly down to the ground. A bird flew into it, squawked, and flew on, and the letter to God drifted into a rosebush.
As Mason waked out of his house, he saw the envelope stuck between the flowers and thorns, and pulled it free. “What in the world is this? A letter to God?”
Walking back inside, he sat down in the living room and copied the return address onto a new envelope, then took out a piece of paper and began to write.
Dear  Hailey,
My name is Mason Turbed. I found your letter in my rosebush today, and I want to help with your endeavour.
You were trying to send a letter to God, right? Well, I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. We can’t reach heaven, or send things to it. Not even all people go to heaven. I’m sure you've heard it said that everyone goes to heaven, but only some people do. Only those who are saved, bought with the blood of Jesus Christ, go to heaven one day.
Anyway, aside from that, you cannot mail God a letter. But, if you are saved, there is something else you can do to communicate with God. It’s easier then using a paper and pencil, and you don’t have to pay for a stamp. You can pray to Him. If you are saved, God will listen to everything you say, and He’s never too busy, or not within hearing distance.
Hailey, prayer is our way to communicate with God while on this earth. No, you won’t physically hear any answers from God. But sometimes He answers by granting what you ask, or perhaps by not granting.
Another way to hear what He has to say is by reading His Word, the Bible. I think people have called it His letter to us. We can’t send a letter to heaven, but we can read the one God wrote for us before we were born.
I hope you don’t mind this letter, and I hope I haven’t sounded rude. I’m going to pray for you, Hailey. And just because you can’t send letters to God doesn’t mean you can’t write them. Writing prayer is the same as speaking it.
And if you’re saved-- a child of God-- He will hear you.
Mason Turbed
Mason folded his letter, readied it for the mail, and sat down by the window. “Dear Lord,” he prayed, “please open Hailey’s eyes, if they are not already opened, to see You clearly. Please help her to draw near to You, and please help me to do the same. Please bless and help all the people who tried to deliver this letter, and show them Your truth. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.”

The End