I suppose it would be proper course for me to introduce myself. I am Sara Steege, and I am many things. First and foremost, I am a storyteller, an artist, a spinster of tales and wonders with words. You see, that is my trade, or at least what I want my trade to be. But what I am now, and where I am going has its precedent in the past.

I am many things, and I was many things. But one of the first things I can remember was drawing. Incessantly. One of my first lessons was that not all surfaces were appropriate to draw upon. White stucco walls in our family room, for example, seemed like good place to draw some cats and critters having a meeting of sorts—when you’re about four that is. That operation was quickly shut down by my parents, who only appreciated my kind of art when it was on paper.

As for the subject of my primordial practices, I tended to draw animal-people or little cartoon characters that I liked as a child and adapted for my own stories. What I was wholly and blissfully unaware of back then was that this cute little childhood practice would develop into a growing strength and propensity for storytelling, particularly in the forms of writing, and drawing, and a little bit of role-playing. Needless to say, I’ve known what I wanted to be from an early age. The trick, one might say, was seeking that destiny out and making it more than a mere dream.

Naturally, as we walk the path of life, we discover other aspects of ourselves than those strong inclinations we start out with. Sometimes this discovery flowers from the efforts or kind encouragement of an inspiring teacher, and other times at the kinship of a like-minded friend. I flourished under the teachings of serious, yet goofy history teachers like the bumbling, self-proclaimed "simple peasant tree-farmer from north of North Plains" Mr Pressly. My appreciation of history, which was nigh obliterated from the throes of Middle School, blossomed into new life at his tutelage my sophomore year of highschool, in a course on Western Civilization. I was inspired to move on into Junior American Honors History, and eventually to Senior AP American Honors History, which was the crown of my highschool history career.

Now, you’re probably wondering what the deuce history has to do with anything—particularly since I was so vague and hasty in relaying that part of the story. (Yes, it’s a sad thing to be constrained to a certain length of time and pages, but these are the things writers have to deal with.) Actually, history has a lot to do with how I look at things now, as my present college student self. One of the tidings from those courses in American history was the recognition that history is a collection of interpretations passed down and rewritten throughout time by many, many hands. History, in essence, is a story. A long, incredibly immense and rich story of the world. It is more than the sum of events and dates in that sense, because people come into it with their own thoughts and feelings. Everyone has a story. Taken together, well, that’s history.

And that’s what history has to do with anything.

It should come as no surprise then, that I’ve carried this interest with me beyond the seasonal changing of oak trees, from the suburban hills of Portland, to the small flat valley-town of McMinnville, and into Linfield College. It is here I hope to synchronize my interests for the symphonies to come, for the plays that are waiting to be performed, for the stories that are waiting to be shared. I have already begun my journey and have managed to make new discoveries along the way. Occasionally, when I look up from the tasks at hand, I find a smile upon my face, for now I know where I am headed. But perhaps I was never lost, but had somewhere along the line just forgotten the way like a confused kitten who doesn’t know where parents have gone off to.

Nonetheless, every task requires my attention in order to proceed ahead. And so, with a serene nod and a mutter of "Onward!" I bow my head and immerse myself in the ink of others. My time to share my own ink will come, but that is for another day.

I sit on a cushion of thick-bladed grass, surrounded by wind and sound. As I glance to my right at a speckled flock of birds floating on the hazy blue-white clouded backdrop, the wind sends another whisper to my ears. Though I cannot comprehend its subtle roaring language, its intentions come home, filling me with a sense of inner peace and belonging.

Now my ethereal companion is quiet. Distant happy chirps from small birds are heard. The buzzing roar of an airplane resounds behind and above me. Even fainter than the birds is the protective bark of a large dog.

There is another sound I can out besides these and the far-off, ever-present bellow of a busy road. I have no name for this sound in that I do not know what generates it. It comes from the pale, spotted hills that lie before me. The sound strikes me as mechanical, a pitched whirring I cannot discern.

Whatever it is, it has stopped now. As it is my time to lift my pen and end this.

The rains had come again, pattering percussion on the stones beneath Rynn’s feet. He stood, poised and watchful of the forest around him. He nocked an arrow. Something stirred in the foliage, a low rustle. Only the sound of lightly falling rain could be heard.

Darkness gathered on the edge of the forest, a shadow of corruption.

Then the shade leapt over him. His bow twanged. The arrow flew swift and sure, burying itself in the beast’s eye. It released a twisted cry, like a thousand beast screams bellowed at once. Then light returned. The demon was dead.

stroke of white lightning

thunder ripping earth, scorched tree;

grand fist of Heaven.

hallowed wooden flute

piping a sorrowful song—

yet courage of home.

white jade moon whispers

sparkling companions gaze firm;

listening cool night.

gentle drifting white

a gust disturbs your gravity,

winter covers all.