NAVY PEN

"Gabby, you should be Mulan!" That's what I always heard while playing princess dress up, at princess-themed birthday parties, and every Halloween. As a child, I never quite understood why she was always predetermined for me, or why she seemed like the only option that made perfect sense to others. I'm not complaining; she is this courageous Chinese warrior who defied expectations and saved the entire nation of China, resembling one of the most empowering figures in children's stories. While Mulan joined the army to protect her father, I've never had to wield a sword, though I would also take risks for those I care about. However, I realized the comparison with Mulan, unfortunately, wasn't about my personality. They formed that impression solely based on my appearance and the physical traits we share, assuming we have the same background. The irony is that I am not at all Chinese, but rather Colombian American.

Everyone always seems to be playing a guessing game of who I am, surrounded by straightforward ones. My identity does not fit neatly into simple categories like others may, and I have never fully grasped why it is so difficult for others to see me beyond such labels. Growing up in the US, I've come to value putting others before myself and trying to fulfill the "treat others how you want to be treated" lifestyle. I've adapted to US norms like punctuality, often arriving at the "American" ten minutes early. Almost all my friends are part of the 70% white majority that makes up my school, so I find myself adapting to their cultural habits and expectations.

But at home with family, my Colombian identity is just as present. Spanish is my first language, and I refuse to listen to music in English. I take part in traditional celebrations, enjoy Colombian arepas and bandejas paisas daily, and visit my family in Bogotá thrice a year. In these environments, I feel authentically myself and embrace those parts of me. Still, I worry that other people will assign me the negative stereotypes often assigned to Hispanics, such as being uneducated or lazy. I have worked to be known as one of the most hardworking students in my class, which is often why people are surprised to learn my origin. Other Hispanic people see me as different from them for having a 4.0, while non-Hispanic people act equally surprised for the opposite reason.

It feels like everyone around me has a clear sense of who they are and can read one another accurately, yet I remain difficult to pinpoint, making me doubt whether I am truly American or Colombian enough. And yet, when I was asked that same question, I never knew how to respond. I would sit in a stiff plastic chair under sterile white lights, my fingers numb from the too-cold air conditioning that hummed quietly through the silence, filling out the introductory survey during standardized tests. I would always pause at the dreaded question, "Are you of Hispanic/Latinx origin?" My pen would hover hesitantly between "yes" and "no," swaying back and forth.

If I chose "yes," I imagined someone assuming I spoke broken English, or thinking I had only made it into advanced classes because of a quota. But I also thought of my first language, Spanish, echoing from the kitchen as my mom played salsa while cooking empanadas. I thought of the Novena gatherings at Christmas and the smell of buñuelos, and these memories made me feel like I had a place and a home. If I picked "no," I feared erasing those parts of me, the ones that know how to sing to Shakira without thinking and call my grandparents "Abuelita" and "Abuelito." But truthfully, I do enjoy fast food drive-thrus and expansive department stores where you can find wooden signs that say "Live, Laugh, Love." So yes, among others, there are things I enjoy about being American. Neither answer is right; my skin is fair, but my accent, nonexistent. I am Colombian and American. Yet, in many situations, I feel like one, both, or neither at all.

I used to believe I wasn't "Hispanic enough" because I didn't follow the path others assumed I would. The uncertainty made me want to belong somewhere, anywhere. I began adapting, molding myself to fit whichever of the two communities the moment called for. I learned the values, behaviors, and beliefs expected of me, just to blend in.

For a while, this felt like the only way to survive the ambiguity. At school, I laughed at jokes I didn't fully relate to and nodded along when American friends talked about family customs that didn't resemble mine. I never corrected people when they mispronounced my last name either. On social media, I'd tap the like button on silly videos describing the "POV" of typical Hispanic households, though mine was nothing alike. I would mirror what people expected of me, editing parts of myself depending on where I was, hoping no one would notice the mismatch. However, beneath the surface, I couldn't fully recognize who I was.

Not long ago, my table group in class held a conversation to get to know each other a little more personally. Someone suggested we guess each other's backgrounds, and my chest tightened before it was even my turn. I braced myself, already running through the usual possibilities in my head—China, the Philippines, maybe even India—somewhere totally unrelated to who I actually am. I waited for the familiar sting of being misplaced, of having to force a grin and explain again. But then she looked at me and said, "Are you Puerto Rican?" I exhaled, surprised to feel a genuine smile forming. It was the first time I was delighted at a guess. Of course, I am not of that descent, but I am Latina. For the first time, it felt like someone saw me as who I was and that I was where I was supposed to be. However, I always thought that being seen as who I was by others would solve all the identity problems I had faced, but instead, it made me realize that other people's perception of me doesn't change who I am, I'm just myself.

For a long time, I thought the goal was to shape myself to adhere to one category, but not necessarily. The hardest part, though, was how acting unauthentically forced me to explain myself in the first place. If identity were a puzzle for others to solve, I was giving them the wrong pieces. But this all made me realize that identity is something I simply live. My culture is part of me, yes, in the food I eat, the language I speak, and the values I hold, but it's never been the only thing. I've come to understand that the discomfort wasn't just about choosing between "American" or "Colombian," but about having to justify how both could exist in me without conflict. And maybe the real answer is that they just do.

I honor the duality of my Colombian and American roots, picking what speaks to me from each, and in doing so, creating my authentic sense of self. My individuality is shaped by the diverse traits and experiences that reflect my background. There is a sense of freedom in knowing I can be accepted simply by being me, even if that acceptance looks different depending on where I am or who I'm with. To my family in Colombia, I am often seen as too American. To my school friends, I am unmistakably Colombian. Others still assume I'm that female Chinese warrior, but who would I be to fight that? These misperceptions no longer unsettle me. I have realized that being misunderstood does not mean being unknown. I have grown to love the complexity of my cultural morals, beliefs, and behaviors, something uniquely mine. It is common for many to mislabel me, but I no longer believe that defines or diminishes who I truly am. I no longer shrink myself to fit expectations, but instead, I stand fully in who I am, unshaken and whole.

Darth Vader, Thanos, Hannibal Lecter, the Joker, Terminator, Patrick Bateman. These names are among the greatest and most recognizable movie villains of all time. Great villains can often cement a movie in history and become as beloved as the heroes they oppose. But what makes a villain compelling? What separates the good from the bad? How do you write a villain that your audience will love to hate?

In the opinion of acclaimed screenwriter Aaron Sorkin (A Few Good Men, The Social Network, Moneyball), a villain's validity and widespread appeal comes down to a single factor: motivation. Sorkin asserts, "[Your villain] has to have a valid argument. You have to believe, at least temporarily, in that argument when you're writing it. If you don't, you run the risk of said villain not being compelling, exciting, or even believable" (Developing Characters 5). According to Sorkin, the villain's motivation or justification for their actions has to be convincing on some level in order for him or her to be plausible to the audience. This theory seems to hold up; very rarely does the audience find it sufficient that a villain does wrong simply for the sake of "being evil". There has to be some feasible underlying motive– even if it is deeply flawed or carried out through sinister methods. This motive or "argument" affords depth and realism to both the villain and the movie as a whole.

A poignant example of this theory of motive can be found in Sorkin's debut film, A Few Good Men (1992), a courtroom drama that follows young lawyer Daniel Kaffee (Tom Cruise) as he works to uncover and litigate a scandal within the Marine Corps. Unlike many courtroom dramas, the antagonist of this film is not the prosecution, but rather the intimidating Colonel Nathan Jessep (Jack Nicholson). Jessep comes across as a classic, almost stereotypical Marine: menacing, gritty, and tough as nails. But he also has a sly, ambitious side to him that is punctuated by an excellent performance from Nicholson. The plot follows the murder of PFC William T. Santiago, who was tied up and beaten in the middle of the night by two Marines in his unit. While at first this appears to be an act of personal vengeance, by the end of the movie it is revealed that Colonel Jessep ordered the assault as a "Code Red"– a form of discipline for the sub-standard Santiago. This reveal is done in epic fashion; many remember Jessep's iconic outburst on the stand, "You can't handle the truth!" (Sorkin 163). But just as memorable is the dramatic soliloquy that follows— Jessep's "argument", in Sorkin's words. "Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? […] I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: That Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives!" (164). The "badness" (to use a broad term) with Jessep is very self-evident. Sorkin has no need to have him declare how evil he is to the courtroom outright. Rather, what makes Jessep a fascinating villain is the justification for his actions, as outlined in the speech. This murder was only bad from our narrow way of looking at it; in Jessep's mind, it was defensible– necessary, even. The courtroom is horrified by this, as are we, but it gives Jessep dimension and realism. He didn't order the Code Red because he's evil and felt like murdering someone, he ordered it because, in his estimation, that's what it takes to defend America. It's brilliant writing.

Villains, like any other character in a film, need strong underlying motivations to seem believable to an audience. Though Colonel Jessep proves an excellent example of how motivations give an antagonist depth, this theory proves an effective benchmark for measuring the appeal and validity of any villain. How many villains would consider themselves truly evil? Probably not many– and screenwriting should reflect that. In the end, a well-crafted villain not only terrifies but also reminds us of the complex humanity that resides within every character, no matter how sinister their actions may be.

Works Cited

A Few Good Men. Directed by Rob Reiner, screenplay by Aaron Sorkin, Columbia Pictures, 1992.

Sorkin, Aaron. Aaron Sorkin Teaches Screenwriting, MasterClass, https://www.masterclass.com/classes/aaron-sorkin-teaches-screenwriting

When I turned twenty-five, I thought I'd already lived through a quarter of my lifetime, like a video game character whose health bar was being slowly depleted until a KO popped up in angry red letters. I believed being single at twenty-five—when most of my friends and neighbors my age were married and starting families—meant I had failed somehow for not wanting the same thing. Often, my mind drifts to my parents' story and their engagement at just twenty and nineteen years old. What were they thinking? What were their hopes? What were they sacrificing?

Life has a funny way of teaching us lessons—sometimes it's like an old, wiry-bearded coot beating us over the head with a stick yelling, "Why aren't you getting this yet?" and other times it's like a gentle breeze that pushes us toward self-discovery. Often, life's greatest lessons come not from a person, but from an object, or in my case, a diamond smaller than a 1X1 LEGO brick.

My parents were high school sweethearts who grew up in Orange County and Anaheim, California. Their proposal story is an unusual one, involving a greasy Taco Bell instead of a romantic sunset at the beach. They spent New Year's Day together digging their toes in the sun-warmed sand, boogie-boarding on the chilly waves, and sneaking kisses when no one was looking before deciding on the fine cuisine of Taco Bell for lunch.

Jane's stomach rumbled as she watched a semi-cold Mexican pizza plop onto a tray and large Mountain Dew leave the counter with a hungry customer.

Gary studied the menu, vacillating between trying something new or going with his classic order of three soggy "crunchy" tacos.

"Will you just order already? You know you're going to get the same thing you always get."

Gary spun around, sticking a hand inside the pocket of his cargo shorts. "If you don't quit being grumpy, I won't give you this ring." He pulled out a black velvet box. His mustache twitched as he smiled, watching the love of his life forget her hunger to ogle over the engagement ring and the thousands of promises it held within its slim band. The patrons of Taco Bell clapped.

The cashier blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Are you still going to order?"

Although the proposal story may not be romantic, the story behind the ring itself reveals a different tone. For months, Dad went into the local Christian jewelry store, steadily making downpayments on the ring. At twenty years old, he was helping his father run a vitamin company that would one day be his. He didn't have much yet, but he refused to let that stop him from marrying the woman he loved by promising her a diamond and a future together.

The tradition of engagement rings dates to the ancient Egyptians in which braided reeds were shaped into a circle—a symbol of eternity—and exchanged. It wasn't until 1477 when diamonds appeared on rings, when that show-off Archduke Maximilian of Austria proposed to Mary of Burgundy with a ring containing flat pieces of diamonds in the shape of an "M."

Dad wasn't an archduke, and he didn't choose an engagement ring with diamonds in the shape of a J. He chose a design that would be even better, something that would always stick with Jane. The miniscule diamond sat underneath an olive leaf and a dove, representing God's promise to Noah in Genesis that life would return to Earth again after the great flood: a symbol of faithfulness.

It turns out promises of forever expire after twenty-years.

After two decades of marriage and a divorce process that caused Mom to lose twenty pounds, she held onto that quarter karat diamond, tucking it away in the back of her jewelry armoire. The young love between her and Gary was lost and the wedding band sold, but the diamond remained like a battle scar, serving as a poignant reminder of what could have been and of what her life used to be.

Why do we keep objects that remind us of relationships or memories that we know will never be recreated? Are we trying to replicate the emotions we felt when we first received that object: the joys of feeling like we are worthy of love, the excited nervousness of an unseen yet promising future, or the sense of security that comes along with a treasured friendship or relationship? We hate feeling powerless, but perhaps the thing we struggle with most is that we can't control people, and that we must acknowledge that their decisions affect our future as much as our own.

On my twenty-first birthday, Mom gave me a small yellow and turquoise bag, decorated with paisleys. Unsnapping the button and sliding the zipper I found a tiny diamond tucked inside.

"This was the diamond from my wedding ring from your dad. I want you to have it."

I held the diamond in my palm, straightening out the golden chain it hung on, feeling the weight of my family history. I was flattered she thought of me and that out of her three daughters, I was the one she entrusted it. But I couldn't help but wonder if she gave me the diamond as a reminder to not make the same mistakes she had. Or maybe it was a physical symbol of the hope parents pass down to their children: the belief that their child's future will be better than their own.

"Thanks, Mom. I love it."

With a new relationship comes a sense of security knowing someone is smitten with you (you!) to want to take care of you, to make you laugh, to make you smile, to make you miss them every moment you're apart.

I had my first relationship at twenty-three through Bumble. My first kiss was in the parking lot of Buffalo Wild Wings. I asked if I did it right.

Over four decades have passed since my parents' engagement inside a Southern California Taco Bell, but I found myself thinking of them that night. They were married for three years before I had even been kissed.

I broke up with my boyfriend six months later in the parking lot of Panda Express, too afraid to attach my future to a person other than myself. I was willing to hurt him before I let myself get hurt. I couldn't dare to repeat my parents' story because I was too afraid of the possibility of love wrecking my future.

Today, the diamond sits on its golden chain in the same pouch I received on my twenty-first birthday, with a knot in the chain the size of a thumbtack. I've never worn it, too afraid of losing it, or maybe of it inadvertently cursing my love-life. I used it as an excuse to stop trying at all.

Although my parents' marriage didn't end happily, it doesn't mean that they weren't grateful for the memories they created together. Despite the failed marriage, my parents stayed amicable.

When I see that diamond scintillating with my parents' history, I am reminded of the love they have for their four children … of every dream supported, broken heart mended, and memory cherished. The love behind the diamond has morphed into a different promise: a promise of parental love that will last into eternity.

From sharing chocolate-covered graham crackers and having water in a coffee cup at Barnes and Noble with Dad, pouring over the pages of my latest treasure on my path to becoming a professional writer, to a weekly tradition of Sunday evening cards with Mom and cackling over old stories like when she thought I asked if she was nocturnal instead of deer when we first moved to Montana, every memory has a vein of love flowing throughout it.

They say diamonds are forever, so then are the memories that come attached with the diamond, like the sunny New Years Day in 1984 when my parents chose to plan their future out of hope, not fear, inside Taco Bell. (Now that's really "living más.")

I hope one day I will be as brave as them.

For now, I'll start with getting the knot out of the necklace, so I can wear the reminder with pride that even in tragedy there's an opportunity for joy when we're brave enough to pursue it—even when it looks different than we thought it would.

After the end, there wasn't much left. At least, that's what my dad says. A thick manuscript lays on his desk, surrounded by piles and piles of dusty books. If you met him, you might describe him as odd. I would agree that not only is he odd, but also extremely paranoid. If you read this manuscript, you'll find the author's name inscribed as: Felix Hob, Director of Literature and Mythology, Highland College. Ever since my dad was stripped of his title and fired from his job, he believes that his colleagues and students are out to steal his research. If his name doesn't ring a bell, then his story might. Dad was a well-respected and accomplished professor, who had worked his way up to become the director of the most prestigious and biggest fields at Highland College. Everyone wanted to take his classes. He was invited to promotional dinners and was liked by everyone he came across. Until he predicted the end of the world.

It all began on the morning of November 18, almost a year ago. I remember waking up to the house being completely silent. Although it's just the two of us, my dad would always have some sort of jazz music blasting from inside his office, or would be making his 80th cup of coffee. That morning, I opened the door and went out into the hallway. Nothing. During this time, we lived in one of the residential apartments at the college, which was only one floor and had few rooms. The door to my dad's office was closed, but when I tried the door, it swung open. Slumped at his desk and surrounded by crumpled papers, was my father. As I moved a little closer, I realized that he had been writing something. But it wasn't a thesis or essay paper. Inside several notebooks, scribbled in blue ink, was the phrase "As the crow flies." As I moved around the mess of papers, I accidentally stepped on a rolled-up paper ball. My dad's head snapped up off the desk as soon as he heard it, and I will never forget the look he gave me. His eyes were bloodshot, and his pupils were dilated. Pure, cold terror was written all over his face. His expression changed quickly, and I watched as he attempted to smile.

"Hey kid. You scared me. Did you want some toast?" He asked.

He got up to make some breakfast. He tried to act normal for a few days, but I could tell he wasn't sleeping. At first, I tried to forget that anything had ever happened. But that didn't last long. Eventually, the dream wouldn't leave him alone. He began to walk around the house at night, muttering to himself. Every night for weeks I could hear him talking, and in the morning he would be exhausted. I never mentioned it, but I was incredibly worried. For days on end he wouldn't go to work, until one morning when he came into my room and sat down. He had papers from his notebook sticking out of his work bag and carried more in his arms. It was a Saturday, and normally he only went to his office for a few hours to see if anyone needed help. But not this morning. As he sat on my bed, he looked over one of the papers he was holding, and wordlessly handed me one. Drawn on it were several shadowy images of birds and a murky sky. Scribbled on any other parts of the paper were the words "The end", and the repeated phrase, "As the crow flies." I looked up at him, confused. He stood up and was about to walk out when I spoke.

"Dad? What happened? I've heard you walking around at night. I know you haven't been sleeping. I'm worried."

He turned with his hand on the doorknob, and proceeded to come back into my room. He began to tell me everything, staring past me to look out the window of my room as he did so, as if he were in a trance. He told me that a few weeks ago he had seen the end of the world. The dream started with him standing outside, and Everything was quiet. He was alone. The sky looked strange, and was a color he had never seen before. My dad was looking at the sky when he heard a squawk and noticed the crows in the trees. They were looking at him. A crow opened its mouth, but instead of letting out a caw, it was a roar of sharp noise. My dad shut his eyes, then clapped his hands over his ears and tried to block it out, but couldn't. Images flashed in his mind as the sound grew louder and louder. Buildings collapsed. The ground began to split. In that single moment, the world fell. When everything had fallen to pieces, with my dad standing in the rubble, the dream ended. It always started and ended the same way, with him completely alone.

When he told me what had happened in the dream, I realized that he completely believed in it. My dad had always been factual, relying on logic and science to explain everything, so this was really unsettling. Things became even worse when he lost his job. Late one night, I woke up to the sound of hushed voices coming from the kitchen. I crept out of my room and inched down the hallway as the voices got louder. I looked around the corner and saw my dad sitting at the table with someone who worked at the college. My dad had his head in his hands, and empty coffee cups were scattered around him. The person, who I had seen on campus before, I was talking to him.

"Felix, I don't know what to tell you. You've been absent from several classes with no explanation, and we just don't have enough people working to cover for you. You haven't graded anything for weeks. Parents are furious. I told you that we might have to cut your salary, but I think it's too late for that." She pulled out a familiar piece of wrinkled paper with scribbled drawings on it. "And what is this? The board got wind that you've been passing out these papers to students when you're in class, and in the hallways. Students have come to me reporting you muttering, completely unfocused during class, and walking out unexpectedly over the last few weeks. Do you have any explanation for this? If you can't keep it together, we really have no choice but to let you go. I'm sorry Felix, but you're becoming a danger to yourself, your students, and your kid."

A moment passed, but my dad didn't move. He stayed silent, and it was almost like he hadn't heard a single word she had said. The woman waited, sighed, and got up from the table. She gathered her things, opened the door, and walked out.

As you can probably imagine, my dad was fired almost immediately after that. We had no choice but to leave campus, and drive a few hours to a small house my dad had found. That's where we've lived ever since. As soon as we moved in, my dad started to write. He wrote about his dream, getting fired, and how the dream has tormented him for months. He tried to get it published as an informative novel, but no one would take it. No one believes him.

It's now November 15. My dad didn't have the dream for two weeks, and was finally beginning to calm down. But early this morning, he burst into my room and told me that he was going to get supplies, and that he had the dream again. I was so used to him acting panicked that I ignored him and fell back asleep, not realizing how dark it still was outside. When I woke up again later, I tried to find him, but the house was empty. I went downstairs and out the front door to see if his car was gone. The first thing I noticed was the silence. I couldn't hear any cars on the road nearby. Everything was still. The sky was purple, and the clouds were black. Out of nowhere, the wind began to pick up. It howled and shook the trees behind our house. I began to hear rustling, and the sounds of squawking. It got louder and louder, drowning out the sounds of the wind. I pressed my hands over my ears, but there was no use. The sound had wormed its way into my brain, and I fell to my knees. Hundreds of crows began to rush past me, flying as fast as they could. As they began to vanish, I thought it was over until the rumbling started. The ground began to shift underneath my feet, splintering apart. I recognized what my dad had seen in his dream. I realized that the crows had served as a warning for what was coming. The end was here, and we were too late to stop it. As the crows flew, they brought destruction with them.

I speak this tale of two strange creatures from guitar strings that play back the days of old. All know of a tale of a fallen soul and a grueling fate of forgiveness. But it is not told enough. So I dare speak this curious tale with guitar strings that will weave a tale that I have told twice or thrice before, just for you.

I know of a moose in the woods. Peculiar, I know. He wanders the woods leaving behind a shadow, not of darkness, but of identity. He questions his own often as he huffs and gruffs in his wake. He lives on the opposite side of the creek, not too far away from where the beasts live. He is a large moose, with heavy, dejected footsteps that make the leaves shrivel and fall from their home. He bears so much weight on his shoulders; so much burden. What the critters know him most for is his antlers; his antlers carry cut guitar strings tangled into each root from his head. These strings carry stories of old; stories he refuses to let go of. I shall speak about one of his first strings he received as his story began to bloom into song:

I was born in the woods alongside this moose. From the day I opened my eyes, and his eyes met my own, he knew that I was his and he was mine. We would frolic near the creek together. And when we got tired, we'd sit on a grass bed and rest together, watching the sun go down. Even though I knew the woods well, I loathed that place with every mortal bone beneath my skin. It was always such a terribly loud place, filled with the most horrible of beasts. Looking back, it was indeed our home… but we failed to realize that the monsters were there all along, watching in the shadows.

A new guitar string was added: we grew up. The moose started developing a set of strong antlers as I started to grow into my own body. Our attitudes changed as well. I became akeen to my own interests as he was as well. I loved to dance and sing as loud as the wind could carry me. And him? What I thought were harmless activities, soon I learned, were the acts of what the beasts had done to my moose. They taunted and belittled him so much to the point where he became one of them. They forged new guitar strings to add to his set of antlers, forcing him to play a role in a song my moose was not. While my moose carried his own guitar strings, I carried my own. Allow me to tell you one of them:

One night, I had enough. My moose was forced to play a song that he had replayed for all the forest to hear, making him act out. Critters began to fear him; birds that once huddled on his antlers for rest now avoided him. I did not. I ran to him. I protested that he is singing from false strings; this song is not who he was. Those beasts have transformed him. He got angry. Very angry. He used his large antlers and hurt me that day. He left me alone in the dark as he ran back and jumped to the opposite creek where I could not reach him. Then I became a lost critter and I ran away from him, too.

Apologies… I speak this from a broken guitar string so the story has lost its rhythm. I cut this string myself. When one cuts a guitar string, that song can never be replayed again. Which is why I speak it. I know it happened, but I refuse to let it become my song that I sing throughout life. But there was a time when this string became my necklace; I wore it everyday when I left those woods that night. I did not return after years. I built a cabin far from the woods and rested there. When a being of no matter species is isolated with nothing but their hardened soul, no guitar strings can be formed from it. My will to sing had been used up. I cursed that moose every day and every night. My rage was an infection; a rotting tree from the inside out caused by an outside force. I started saving bullets long before that day, swearing to myself that I would go into the forest and end the rage that contained my will to sing. Each bullet was a reason to never forgive him. My rot had consumed my being and urge to sing… until one day, that tree fell and I broke.

I have one final guitar string; this I will play for you. One day, I had saved enough bullets. So I went back down deep into the forest when I stopped at the creek where that moose and I used to play. I knew he would be on the opposite side of this forest. I saw him, sipping water from it. He had grown larger since I remembered. I thought I was prepared to face him again, but his ear flicked to the sounds of my heavy breathing. He tilted his head up and I saw his face. I saw his eyes and I admit… the string I wore around my neck plucked in song. My rage was silenced as it met with the songs of the birds. My once deafening rot had become a muffled afterthought by what I saw in his eyes; I saw my moose. I looked at his antlers, where his guitar strings hung, and noticed he cut the ones the beasts had left behind. But still, he wore them. He knows not to sing that song anymore but he refuses to let the pain go, blaming himself for what happened. I looked into those beautiful brown eyes and I had a revelation: I brought my bullets, but I refused to raise my gun. Once he realized that it was me, he ran back deeper into the forest, afraid to face me again after what he had done.

That day, I went home and cut my guitar string. I do not blame myself for what happened and nor will I choose to hate my moose for doing it. After that day, I chose to forgive him in my heart. Since the string had been cut, my rot began to grow buds of flowers that blossomed into the crevices of my once broken heart; if you listen closer to the sound of my song, you can see it yourself. Today, I am still weaving a guitar string of my own. I walk to the forest and sit at the creek, waiting for my moose to show. He has not. Yet. But I know he will one day. And when he does, I will tell him that he no longer needs to bear those strings. He no longer needs to blame himself. It is his song and only he can write it, not allowing others to write it for him. Neither of our songs are finished. I know we'll meet again in the creek. And when he joins me on the opposite side, we shall frolic near the water, rejoicing an old song whilst we make a new one.

Meadowcreek Church of Christ in downtown Nashville had been Helen's home since she had been born across the street thirty-three years ago that New Year's Eve. She'd known Reverend Thompson, who had been the minister there until his death just last year, and she missed him dearly—almost as much as she missed Dale and Frank. His replacement, Reverend Harland, had been much less sensitive and kind than the elderly man who had preached about the "here-but-not-yet" Kingdom of God and called for brotherly love. No, Reverend Harland was much harsher—very vocal on any matter he saw fit to comment on, no matter who was in his audience. It did not matter that it was the Sunday before Christmas; his views would be heard.

It was a rather small church with no foyer and only five pews on either side of its interior. The wooden floor creaked at the slightest movement—it hadn't been replaced since Helen's grandmother had been a child there—but it held firm nonetheless. It smelled like old mothballs, though the candles around the altar were helping somewhat—cranberry scented, just in time for Christmas. A newcomer might expect the Reverend to be a kindly man, given that his wife Yvette had decorated the church and that he was rather portly, but Helen knew better than that.

"What is wrong with the world?" he demanded, brown eyes wide with fury, just moments after they had sung God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen; the irony did not escape her. "What is wrong with humanity in the world today? The race problem is a symptom. Crime is a symptom. Sociological problems are symptoms, hysteria is a symptom, and homosexuality is a symptom."

Helen began to grind her teeth together as the Reverend spoke.

"There is something deeply wrong with our world, brothers and sisters. And that thing is cowardice. If you will, please, open the good book to the sixth and seventh chapters of Judges. Let us examine cowardice, shall we? We shall not read them all, but a fair few nonetheless, for the Lord has been gracious and there is no lack of Biblical material on this subject that is all too relevant today…"

Helen read along with the Reverend. She knew why he was doing this. At least, she thought she did. She started to turn her head to glance around but stopped herself upon seeing the Reverend's eyes upon her as he read. His piercing brown gaze was hawk-like, a stark contrast to her dovish green eyes. She clutched at the pages of the worn Bible, taking in every word as though that would be the one that would kill her in front of the entire church. She snuck a brief glance to her left at her daughter, Frances, a vacant expression plastered across her pimply face.

"Cowardice," the Reverend began after reading the verses, "is an illness. Like all illnesses, it must be rooted out. These days, our cowardice is rooted in the belief that there is no such thing as a righteous war." The Reverend slammed his fist down on the podium before him, voice snarling like a lion. "All wars are righteous if they are in the name of God, and the eternal war against communism is just one such war."

Mr. Clayton, one of the deacons, uttered a deep-throated Amen. It was despicable, to say the least.

"Gideon started out as a coward, opposed to war, being among the least of these—the Bible tells us that he was from the smallest family in the smallest clan in the smallest tribe in all of Israel. Many of us are in that position today, with husbands, sons fighting against the communist terror in Vietnam, against the atheists that would see the thousand-year kingdom crumble in favor of a malicious, totalitarian conquest across the globe."

Helen felt her jaw clench—the Reverend had been thinking about her. She alone, barring Frances, had expressed opposition to Mr. Johnson's War as she had called it, though now it was Mr. Nixon's, wasn't it? She reached out for Frances's hand; her daughter quickly took it, and they squeezed the other's hand as tensely as they could.

This was the third time the Reverend had done this—preached about Vietnam with his eyes directed at Helen, knowing about her opposition, knowing her family was serving, knowing how much she loathed the very concept of war—and the last two times, it had been all she could do to stay silent and pray it would end. If Dale were here, it might be bearable—but he wasn't there. He'd wanted to serve, and they sent him as an advisor to Saigon. Frank would've made it easier, but he reenlisted; he wanted to go back—after talking with Reverend during a two-month leave.

"We fight because we must—because it is what our Lord commands of us," the Reverend continued. "We fight because it is holy, it is just, it is what God wishes for us to do. To fight is to be cruciform…"

To the best of her ability, Helen drowned out the rest, jaw clenched, eyes teary, and heart pained. It brought to her mind the words that Mark Twain had written in "The War Prayer": God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword. She could hardly stop herself from trembling, almost teary-eyed, at the end of service as they sang the Doxology and prepared to leave. Frances stuck close to Helen, almost as if she was a shield for her mother, daring anyone to say something.

The Reverend offered a quiet blessing at the door over them both, placing a hand on their shoulders. "The Lord bless you and keep you," he had said. "The Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace."

Helen wanted to die as soon as he had touched her; she had felt her back tighten, and there was yet another urge to flee altogether. His eyes betrayed him, even if his voice or movements wouldn't—his hatred of her, what she believed, what she wanted. Was it really such a sin to want her family home for Christmas? To want more butter in the world instead of more guns?

Reverend Thompson was surely rolling in his grave, but his wife, Widow Thompson, followed after Helen as she and Frances made their way to their car, a lovely blue 1963 Hudson Hornet. Widow Thompson placed a wrinkled hand on Helen's shoulder just as the car door started to open. Helen shuddered and whipped around, feeling frenzied. The old woman withdrew her hand almost as though she'd been bit. "I'm praying for you," she said quietly. "Differently than the others are praying for you." Widow Thompson didn't notice the glares of several others, namely Mr. and Mrs. Walker, parked next to Helen. "I love you. I want you to know that. I always have, and I always will."

Helen's eyes watered as she gave Widow Thompson a nod and a hug. "Thank you," she whimpered. "I know—I know it's been hard for you, the last year—"

"No harder than it's been for you," she answered. "My husband's watching over us both from Heaven, I'm sure of that." She gave Helen a toothless smile, face as cheery as a cherubim. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a pocket watch, passing it to Helen. "This was his. I think he'd want you to have it. I think it'll comfort you, at least a bit, let you know that you're in my thoughts."

Helen grasped it, promising not to let go of it. "Thank you. You've meant so much to me, both of you."

"I know, dearie—and you've meant just as much to us, if not more. Have a merry Christmas."

"Have a merry Christmas," Helen echoed.

That evening, Helen sat in her late grandmother's eldritch cedar rocking chair, firm hands gripping its arms. She stared into the dying embers of the nearby fire, both chilled and comforted by it. It was, for now, her only friend besides the framed photos of her husband, Dale, and son, Frank, on the mantelpiece. Four stockings hung there, each full of goodies, but Helen couldn't help but loathe the idea of Christmas coming in just a few days. It had been hard enough with half her family gone two years ago and harder with Reverend Thompson passing away. He'd been a second father to her, a kindly old man who said little and did more. He never would've attacked a congregant so blatantly, so willfully, so—

The chiming of the old grandfather clock in the corner shook her from the thought. It resumed its normal ticking, which seemed to echo the passing moments, a haunting reminder of the time that separated her from Dale and Frank. Frances was perched on the worn-out couch next to her mother, fidgeting with the frayed edges of a letter she had just received from her brother. Frank sent at least one weekly; Dale wrote them less regularly, about every two months. The paper crinkled under her nervous touch, the words carrying the weight of a nation divided by war abroad—relationships were nearly as worn as the letter itself was these days if the news was anything to go by.

Helen hadn't read it yet and almost felt she shouldn't.

"Mama, why won't you say something?" Frances finally broke the silence, her voice a mix of frustration and longing. She glanced at her mother; Helen guessed she was searching for a sign of solidarity in her weary eyes. "You should've said something at church today. The Reverend shouldn't have said that."

Helen sighed, her gaze still fixed on the dying fire. "Baby, you know how it is around here. People don't take kindly to those who speak against the war. It's like walking on eggshells, and I don't want any trouble for us."

"But Mama, it's not right! Dad and Frank are over there, risking their lives, and for what?" Frances's voice quivered. "There's nothing brave about burning up children in North Vietnam, let alone Cambodia or Laos."

Helen nodded, her eyes finally meeting her daughter's. For a twelve-year-old, she already knew too much. Maybe she should keep the television and radio off for a few weeks. "I know, sweetheart. I don't like it any more than you do. But we've got to be careful. Folks in the neighborhood have their opinions, and some might not take kindly to us going against the grain."

Frances slumped back against the couch, frustration etched across her face. Helen had read the letter, too—and kept the one she'd received from Dale to herself. Too private. The weight of the letters pressed on her like a migraine. The flames of the fire flickered and danced, casting shadows on the walls.

"Mama, I don't care what they think." Frances crossed her arms. "We've gotta have Dad and Frank come back—they've missed two Christmases already, this'll make three. I know they wanna be there—I'm so mad that they want to be there. But no one else wants to be there. The news says as much."

Helen shook her head. "The news talks about what the folks up north want, baby. Not what the south wants. Most of us want to be in the war, and we wanna see it through."

"We're not part of most."

"No, but as long as this is our home, we're going to stand with our kin around her, understood?" Helen froze, realizing her tone had been as cold as ice. "I'm sorry, Frances—I wasn't trying to be hard on you."

Frances met her mother's eyes; a mix of frustration and hurt flooded through them. She unfolded her brother's letter, smoothing the creases; Helen wanted to iron it. "Mama, I just wish you'd speak and let folks know how you feel. Maybe if more people stood against this war, Daddy and Frank wouldn't have to be there."

Helen's expression softened. She reached out and gently took the letter from Frances, holding it in her hands as if it contained the answers to all their troubles. "I wish it were that simple, sweetheart. But it's not just about us. It's about the neighbors, the community. We can't risk making outsiders of ourselves anymore than we already have." Any more than she already had, she silently corrected herself. Damn the Reverend. No—that was wrong, just as wrong as what he had done. It wasn't her place to damn anybody for anything. That was up to God to decide when all was said and done at the End.

Frances sighed, the weight of her convictions pressing heavily on her young shoulders. "I understand, Mama, but it's hard to sit here and pretend everything is okay when it's not. I miss them, and I want them home."

Helen nodded, her fingers tracing the words on the letter. "I miss them too, more than you can imagine. But we have to find a way to get through this, together. Maybe, once the war is over, we can speak our minds without fear."

Frances leaned against the couch's armrest, gazing at the family photos. "I just hope they come home soon. I want us all together for Christmas."

Helen's eyes welled up with tears she refused to shed. She couldn't make that happen no matter how hard she tried. No one could. She stood and knelt before Frances, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Me too, baby. Me too."