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I am a horrible writer.

The thought coursed through Lisa’s head. She stared at her phone, the words written there, after Bryan told her that her latest poem was stupid. He read it, laughed, and said that it made no sense. He then kissed her on the forehead, and then left to go the gym.

She wrote those words after he left, at the bottom of her latest attempt. And then she just glared at it, for what seemed like hours. The letters bounced around in her head like pin balls, but instead of a score racking up, a dead weight in the center of her chest got heavier and heavier. Each breath she took got more labored, and her eyes watered, but no tears came out.

Tingling nerves radiated throughout her chest, and she shivered, the sensation deeply unsettling. The thought burned down her arms, and radiated through her fingertips. She shook her head, and the voice of her father whispered in her ear, settling the waves inside her.

“Sweetpea, I love you. Your words always bring me joy. Don’t stop writing them.”

“Yes papa, I will do it for you.”

In her mind, she looked on his face, his smile from cheek to cheek in the bright sun. And then as it always did, black gloved hands pulled the bag over his head, and she screamed. Lisa often screamed in the world, not just in her head, but only this time the emotion overwhelmed her, and the dark took her.

****

She woke, the room dim. The sun had set, and her phone had fallen into her lap when she passed out on the couch. Lisa didn’t feel rested, but at least her mind was free of those pin balls. She set her phone down, and went into the bathroom. She took off her black frames, and set them down on the sink. Lisa turned on the water, and cupped her hands underneath the faucet. She splashed water on her face, and then looked at her face in the mirror.

Her black hair was tied up in a bun, making her look older than twenty five. Her brown eyes furtively examined her brows, which needed tweezing. She hated them. Her overlarge ears poked through her hair on both sides, and her nose was too small. Then there was the scar on her jaw, a parting gift from the police of the land of her birth. Thinking about it too much would put her on the floor, so she moved on.

Say at least one nice thing about yourself.

Bryan had once said her lips were kissable. The jerk wasn’t wrong about that. Lisa pouted her lips, and decided that yes, her lips were very caressible. Satisfied, she turned out the light and left, going back to the couch. She picked up her phone and clicked on the Tunnel Dash app. She needed to clear her head before heading to bed. Church was early in the morning, and she needed to rest well.

After fifteen minutes of playing, Lisa felt calm. It was time for bed. She undressed, and brushed her hair in the bedroom dresser mirror. She pouted her lips again, and imagined kissing the star of Temple Run, a gorgeous blond hunk named Randy Morrison. She wrapped her arms around herself, her mind turning them into his muscular limbs, holding her tight and shielding her from the ugliness around her.

“But he would never like my eyebrows,” she spoke out loud, to no one, and put the brush down. She crawled into bed, and pulled her sheets up.

Lisa’s eyes closed. She found herself in the library, trying to write another poem. The words felt like they were going to explode out of her, but when she tried to write them down, all that her hand wrote was STUPID, STUPID, STUPID. She began to cry, until a gentle hand touched her shoulder.

Her father wrapped his arm around her, and then she found herself in the meadow that lay next to their former home. “Come Sweetpea, lets chase the butterflies. You are so precious when you catch them. Put them in a jar, and watch them when you write your beautiful words.”

Lisa smiled, and danced through the flowers, scattering the butterflies as she twirled through them. Her spin ended with her facing her father, smiling on a small hill, looking down at her with the same twinkle in his eyes that was always there.

She waved to him, and he knelt down, holding his arms out for her. Lisa ran towards him, as fast as she could. But she couldn’t reach him, as the black hands came from behind him, and pulled a bag over his head, and pulled him into the ground before her. She screamed, and sat up in her bed, a cold sweat and the echo of her pained voice ringing off the walls. The clock read 3:42.

***

Lisa promptly arrived for Mass at St. Mary’s Coptic Orthodox Church at 9:20. Contentedness soothed her soul as a lazy cat in the midday sun as the service proceeded. She wanted to speak to Rev. Shenoudo afterwards, so she stayed for a little while following the exiting of the procession, and waited until the last parishioners greeted and said farewell to him before approaching.

“Why hello Lisa, you look well today.”

“Yes, Reverend, God has filled me with joy. But I am troubled by things. I need guidance.”

Shenoudo nodded, and gestured for her to accompany him to his office, to talk. She followed him, and sat in the chair that was there. He stayed standing and began to remove his vestments, hanging them on a hangar in the open closet.

“Does this concern your father, child?”

Lisa licked her lips, and breathed out slowly, “Yes and no. I still dream of his abduction, and it hurts. But more than that, I am doubting myself.”

He nodded, and sat down in his chair, and rubbed his beard. “I see. Those men, they cannot hurt you anymore. You live here, in America now, and security forces don’t kidnap law abiding fathers here.”

She chuckled, “Not if you believe some of my friends, Reverend.”

He sat back in his chair, “I hope you are correcting them, Lisa. We who have escaped such things must not let others reduce them because of ignorance.”

“Yes, Reverend.”

“And you said that you are doubting yourself?”

“Yes. My friend didn’t like my work, and it hurt.”

He pondered it for a moment. “Have you told him this?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think he would listen.”

He leaned forward, “You are a beautiful girl Lisa, you can do with better friends. Perhaps you need to just find something passionate for you to write about. Remember that speech you gave to your high school class at the assembly? I was so proud of you, and your fellow students went from apathy to genuinely caring about those we have left behind. Your voice was so forceful and powerful, telling all of us about the hardships of your life, and the lives of fellow Copts back in the Middle East. I could hear your own life bleed into your words. You are a very moving communicator Lisa.”

Lisa bowed her head to hide her beaming smile. “Thank you Reverend, but I don’t know if I still have that ability.”

Shenoudo’s pearly white teeth poked through his beard and lips as he grinned. “May I suggest that you test it? Go to a quiet place, and think of him. Let your feelings come to the surface, and when they do, write. Let the words flow out onto your paper. Then find someone willing to listen to them. Look into their eyes when you have finished. That will tell you if you still have that ability or not.”

Such a tall task indeed. “I will try Reverend.”

Shenoudo nodded, “Jesus will guide you, my child. He wants you to use your gift. Put your trust in Him.”

Lisa stood up and bowed. She did feel better. She left the church and headed to the library. She found her quiet spot, buried in the back corner behind a labyrinth of bookshelves. She sat at the small desk, and pulled out pen and paper from her purse. Then she closed her eyes.

It didn’t take long for her mind to find her father. He found her as usual, “Sweetpea, how beautiful you are in your dress today. Let us walk in the warm sun, as father and daughter.” He extended his hand, and she eagerly took it.

His footsteps echoed off the broken concrete outside their home. He walked slowly, his strides so long and powerful so she didn’t have to run. She felt safe, and wanted that moment never to end. He knelt down, and looked at her in her eyes. “Sweetpea, my daughter. Will you write me words tonight, words that paint this moment forever for me? You always write the best words, and my heart gladdens with joy when you do so.”

“Yes papa. Of course. Anything for you,” Lisa could feel a disembodied hand clutch her pen tightly, ready for what was coming.

Her father smiled, and caressed her cheek with his free hand. The black hands chose then to come, and the black bag covered his smile. His other hand, didn’t let go.

Lisa forced open her eyes, and held back her scream. She held onto that image of her father, and started placing words onto that paper.

It was getting dark outside when she stopped. She had filled many pages with words, and felt good, but exhausted. She gathered her things, and walked towards the exit to the library. As she approached the doors, a notice on the bulletin board caught her eye. ASPIRING WRITERS WELCOME TO JOIN THE DES MOINES WRITERS GROUP! A writer’s group? She whispered “Thank you Jesus,” and took one of the flyers.

****

The week went by in a blur. Bryan tried texting her a few times, but she only saw hours after the fact and it wasn’t important enough to respond back. She wrote each time she thought of her father, her words pouring out onto the paper, or on her phone. She typed during her shifts at Moose Coffee, penned them during a movie over at Julia’s house, and scribbled them as she ate dinner. She played Tunnel Dash between writings, and work. She fell asleep bone tired each night, and dream no horrors.

When it came to the day of the group, she found three flash poems that felt just right. She copied them into her phone, and tried to eat breakfast. Her stomach quivered, disrupting her hunger pains. She nearly skipped out the door, and twenty minutes later, she was back at the library.

The group met in a large conference room near where her spot was, and it looked like she was the last one to arrive. The group greeted her, and she took a seat next to an older woman. “Hi, I’m Laura, and I’m a poet.”

Lisa gasped slightly, she never expected to meet another poet, “Hi, Laura, I’m Lisa, I’m a poet too!”

An older woman at the head of the table spoke next, “I’m Kim, and I’m writing a memoir. We have never had two poets here at the same time. This should be exciting.”

A bigger guy with his red hair pulled back in a pony tail spoke next, “I’m Anthony, and I write fantasy novels and short fiction. Here, I’ve printed off everyone’s work for this week. You can follow along with us as we read,” he smiled at her, and handed her a stack of papers.

The others introduced themselves, and then they began, reading their excerpts out loud to the group. After one finished, then the group took turns offering suggestions and constructive criticism. It felt exhilarating. And then it came to her turn.

“I loved it so much, I’m sorry, I can’t really say anything else.”

Kim smiled, “That's okay, hearing that is never a bad thing. We try to support each other here.”

Then Laura read her poem. It sang to Lisa, and she couldn’t help herself when Laura finished. “That was so beautiful. You really are a great poet. I loved your imagery with the rocking chair and how the waves on the ocean carried you to sleep.”

Laura grinned, and took Lisa’s hand in hers, and squeezed. Lisa squeezed back. “Thank you so much. Do you want to go next?”

“Of course! If that is okay with everyone?”

Everyone nodded, and Lisa blushed. For the first time since coming here, she felt a twinge of doubt. She looked up, and felt her father and Jesus smiling at her. It was time.

She flicked through her phone, and found the poem she wanted to read. It was about Tunnel Dash, which helped her so much when her mind raged. She read it, not looking up once while the words bounced off the walls of the room.

When she stopped, her head stayed down. Anthony spoke first, “I think that was a great flash poem. Your emotion flows though in just the right amount. Its a nugget of emotion, and you don’t waste any words. Could you read it again, so we can experience it once more?”

She grinned at him, and read it outloud again, slower this time, savoring each word as they came out of her mouth. She looked up, and in Laura’s eyes water collected, Kim’s face was holding back her tide, and Anthony was staring intensely past her. The group stayed silent for a moment, and then each spoke of how it made them feel, and how she should read more if she had them.

Lisa wanted to say that she had, but like that warm day, didn’t want to ruin it. “I’ve just brought this one, but next time I’ll have more.” The group nodded their approval, and it was time to move to another.

She drifted down the stairs to the exit at the end of the meeting, with all of them wishing that she come back to continue to write. She would definitely do that. Lisa pushed open the doors, and decided it would be good to walk around the large pond next to the library. The sun shone brightly outside, and a slight breeze took off any extra heat that would be there.

Her steps clicked on the sidewalk, and she closed her eyes listening to the ducks quack in the reeds. A familiar hand grasped hers, and his voice whispered in her ears. “Sweetpea, I am so proud of you. My heart leap at your words, and no father has loved his daughter more than I do right now.”

“Yes papa. I wrote those words not just for you, but for me too.”

“I know Sweetpea. I still love them.”

Lisa opened her eyes. This time, the black hands didn’t come.