“That winter holiday, every mile we traveled by train across Europe was agony for me. I was suffering from one of my most severe chronic headaches, and the noise, light, and movement were excruciating. Each time I closed my eyes, it was as if someone were writing in an ancient language across my eyelids. I struggled to read and comprehend the words, but they would fade and vanish to be replaced by new incomprehensible words.
Worse was that while most of us understood we were on the brink of war, no one could talk about anything but the servant girl who’d kidnapped the prince’s baby. Every town we stopped in, the headlines screamed it from the newspapers. Every new passenger had to share updated information or retell the news. But to me, it wasn’t information or news. It was gossip and conjecture of the worst sort. Some instinct told me there were missing parts of the story. While everyone else tried and convicted this poor creature in the court of public opinion, I privately urged her on, said any charm I could think of for her safety, and hoped they never found her.”
I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.