Daughters of Men: A Field of Wildflowers

By Marti Pulliam

In a postTechnology War world, Analie has lost herself in the bitterness that encompasses her past. The elements of power that surround her have labeled her a Daughter of Men, a term passed from generation to generation of women in her family that grants her the ability to end time or allow it to continue. Analie cannot begin to fathom the responsibility of this title because she cannot unravel the searing question of why she is still here. She now only sees the world in black and white. She has run away from everyone and everything she has ever loved. With the help of a new found acquaintance, a dragon named Alien, she discovers that the only way to find answers is to stop dwelling on the past and start living her destiny. In making this realization, she champions the first of many battles coined for the Daughters of Men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449749828

Marti Pulliam

It has taken me a long time to get to the point of being ready to publish. I have two children and currently teach industrial arts at a high school in a near town. I have raised my girls with my husband in a little town in the fl at delta farm grounds an hour and a half from the hills that I still call home. I have won several awards for writing throughout my education. I find writing an entertaining escape and have been sharing my stories with friends and neighbors for many years. I have finally decided to take a leap of faith and share them with you.

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Copyright © 2012 Marti Pulliam

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-4983-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-4982-8 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/15/2012

Preface

Science and religion have always interested me. I find both strangely intertwined. There is a fine line between magic, science, and religion. I see the magic in science and religion. I see the religion in magic and science. I see the science of magic and religion. I see very little difference. I hope to blow the boundaries out of the water. I think there is an audience who is tired of reading wimpy Christian books about love or books where science, magic, and religion are always at war. I hope this book invites you to wonder about the scriptures in your own mind. I have always believed that we neither should nor could limit God to the boundaries of our own imaginations. We have no earthly idea of what He is capable. I do hope this book challenges you to take a deeper look at what you believe. If you don’t believe, I hope you find the thoughts in this book intriguing and entertaining.

A Field of Wild Flowers

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

Ephesians 6:12

Forward

I can’t stand the spinning when I close my eyes, she admits. Tell me a story.

The darkness has a name and you should know it if you are to continue on as you do, he says breathing deeply. He looks as though a weight has lifted off him. He considers his words for a while. Allow me to invade your mind. First, I want to wipe it clean. Consider for a moment. Just consider, Alien says in a calming voice that sweeps over Analie hypnotically. Life is but a vapor, we live for a season then we pass away. We are but grass in a field. You know the Laws of Life, formerly the Cell Theory. All living things are made up of cells. Cells come from other cells. Cells are made of positive, negative, and neutral energy. Energy is neither created nor destroyed, but can be transformed from one form to another, and on and on. All the energy around us was created by a greater energy. Nothing random happens with energy. Everything happens as a direct result of something else. You know all of this, right?

She shakes her head in agreement. He continues, "Good stories and music live from generation to generation.

Now, consider for a moment, the unwritten story … my story … your story … it’s all true. It’s all part of the same story. Just as real as you and I are right now, is the truth behind the stories. There is a story that is the basic story, but there is so much more that is not written. There are other stories. From these, rise questions people of all ages have ached to know, but are only comforted by the faith that someday in an after life it will all be made clear.

All the negative powers you have been fighting have many names. I think you have given them your own names and I will let you sort that out on your own. Now for the part that no one has written down. Let’s see where to begin, he scratches his head and a small smoke ring escapes his nostrils.

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Who will weave us a tale tonight? A strange little man asks, pointing his gnarled fingers at the crowd. I believe I feel like a love story tonight.

His voice is high and cracked. It is neither welcoming nor inviting. He stops on a female squatting down on the outer edge of the circle. He likes to pick unlikely characters. She wears a bitter scowl under her dark mop of hair. She always wears straight black pants, a loose-fitting black T-shirt, and a book bag. She has a silver chain around her neck with an obviously missing pendant. Her dark eyes, which seem to have neither white nor sparkle, pierce him. He wonders what a smile would do to her and if such a creature has ever known love. She is too young to have much wisdom and her darkness makes him fearful. Every generation of youth has its own rebellion.

How about you? he says with a taunting grin.

Me, Stormy replies in shock. It is the first time anyone in this town has said a word to her. She normally stands in the shadows and listens. She stands on the outside observing.

Yes, he smiles. You have visited our circle many times and never shared a story of your own. It is time. Are you willing?

Stormy’s mind spins searching for words. Then she realizes, no one would believe her anyway. The truth has always been more than most people could handle. She has seen the truth crush a strong woman and bring a mighty man to his knees. The power of words cannot be tamed when at least tainted with the truth. Yes.

And what is your name, so we may rave? He questions with a welcoming smile and raised eye brow.

Stormy, she lies. She feels their judgement as she approaches the center ring. In this story, I will tell you about a girl named Analie and of her adventures in love. I’ll call it: A Field of Wildflowers. The wall beside her flashes with the images of the face in her imagination; the face of her former self. She is so different that no one would guess it to be she. The image flickers to a field and becomes more vivid. Stormy sits down and revisits the events which brought her here. Where is here? Strange; it’s all too strange to be real. Her mind drifts on the sea of her past before she docks at the place she plans to visit. She misses her fields of wild flowers.

"Twice upon my life I’ve wondered,

Now many times I’ve pondered,

The boundless expanse of love.

Is it sent from below or above?

I do not know, for now I roam,

Because of it, so far from home.

It has been my sin and savior,

Least yet, an excuse for my behavior.

How can I expect someone else to give me,

a gift when I can’t return the courtesy.

I love no one, even myself,

my heart is broken, put on a shelf.

Love is but a vast and vague emotion,

That requires much devotion.

Many never weigh the cost,

Until at last, that love is lost."

She waits for the crowd to stop clapping. She nods to the commentator who waves her on encouragingly to continue. He bows to her, then turns to take a seat. She surprises herself with how easily she reveals the part of herself whom she misses the most. It is the part of her past that consumes each new day. It’s the part of her she hides away. The last bits of tired and jaded emotions are now dark bitter shards of their former glory, the last part of her life she lived in color.

She allows a sinister grin to escape. She breathes in the satisfaction of knowing, if even for a brief moment, she is in control of their tiny worlds with the words that make the story. She looks at the gleaming full color picture she has made, then looks out over the grey scale crowd. It’s not fair that only her past was lived in color. Then again her past was lived with a hope for a better tomorrow. Now, each passing day is simply survived. There’s no wonder all of the color is gone. The hope is gone.

A thin mist hangs over her crowd and the warm air is crisp and clean. Dragons circle and play overhead as if dancing high on the air. No one pays them any attention except for Analie, who as far as she is concerned, is a no one. She believes them to be projected images of some kind.

As much as it rains in this strange place, she knows the grey cobblestones that make up the streets and buildings are covered in green moss. It’s one of the few villages of old that remain after the technology wars and the buildings are all very gothic. She likes its long shadows and fierce appearance. The culture is very stark and private. It is cold, except for their festivals.

It appears to be almost medieval according to the books she has read, other than the few technologies it holds. She likes it most for its large library which is a store house of history that she has buried herself in for so long that she has lost track of time. Time doesn’t matter any more to her. The bleakest of stories is better than her reality. She especially loves the machine they call a computer. It is a vast store house of information. It is her favorite.

People gather in the streets in the evenings at the end of the week to hear stories and music after their trading is done. They call it a festival. Each time they celebrate something different. They enjoy their music from all ages and each age has its own stories. She enjoys hearing them. Well, maybe not joy, that would be pushing her too much toward happiness. It fills a gap in her curiosity. The stories offer her a hint of escape and peace. Thus, it is ironic that she is supplying the escape which exposes that which she is avoiding.

She has learned a lot from watching the people, like transferring her words and thoughts to become a movie picture on any object. She assumes it is a left over technology they still harbor. A small ear cuff clipped to the top of her ear allows the image to form straight from her mind. She believes it is called a relay bug. It’s a two-way device recording and transferring information from the outside in and from the inside out. It once helped chronically forgetful people and the old who had a disease call Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t understand fully how it works, but understands there has to be a machine somewhere controlling it. She has worked with it enough to be able to only display what she wants to display, editing, and cropping as she goes. They have no other technologies here, but most villages use prewar modern conveniences which they consider essential for a better life like eye glasses and toilet paper.

She knows she will have to be careful not to go too far with her story. She begins and Analie’s cheerful face lights up the screen to narrate the story. She doesn’t know that person anymore and hardly recognizes her face. She is slightly annoyed seeing herself so happy. Her own innocence makes her want to vomit. As she talks, the vivid scenes and events pop up on the screen. Pain seizes Analie’s heart. She holds it tight behind a grimace. A storm brews on the far horizon, but she allows the story to continue.

There is a place called Loduska. It is a large area on the top of a mountainous plateau that had long ago been a volcano which erupted creating a lake and surrounding area on the very top. It rises abruptly from the valley floor hundreds of feet creating a safe fortress for the inhabitants.

Loduska has four major territories. Hope Gale is the village in which my story is set. It is a wonderful place nestled in gentle rolling hills. It is set up on equality and living in peace and harmony with nature. To the west of Hope Gale is the busy village of Destry Rove. The rocks and rolling hills that surround Hope Gale flow into more flat fertile fields of Destry Rove.

Destry Rove is a farming community thriving on the rich delta soil deposited by the River Bane coming out of Belle Abyss. People in Destry Rove are of all classes. They live according to their own convictions. They seem to like that way of life. The towns are far enough apart that one cannot be seen from the other.

The river separates the people of Destry Rove from the people of Leracleon. Leracleon is a ragged desert land of black charred and brittle rock left over, no doubt, from the volcano exploding. It rises several hundreds of feet higher than the surrounding villages. The people of Leracleon are outcast, doomed to the dark side of the plateau by some ill deed they have done that deems them unworthy of living with the peaceful people of Loduska. It is so far from the peaceful villages that even watch fires cannot be seen on the distant shore. The mountains of Leracleon separate the sky from its reflection with a purple haze.

"Leracleon is water locked on three sides. To the west of Leracleon is the River Bane as it angrily leaves the mountain. It plummets hundreds of feet to the valley floor below.

The river is deep and wide with raging waves. There is no hope of crossing there. To the south of Leracleon is Belle Abyss. Belle Abyss is a beautiful lake with fresh clear water and black sand. It is an open aquifer that feeds itself. To the east of Leracleon another outlet of water rushes out of the lake. It is called the Alva-Eva River. It is not so deep, but holds huge boulders and violent turbulence. It is the barrier between Leracleon and the vast forest of Nether Nibbana. Nether Nibbana puts unspeakable fear into the people of Loduska, because it looms like a hungry lioness poised to pounce. When the sun sets over the tree tops of Nether Nibbana, the shadows creep upon Hope Gale like chilling fingers. The people who enter Nether Nibbana never return. It is massive and haunting. Strange noises occasionally escape. The edges spill over with growth so thick you cannot see the bowels of the forbidden forest. Making a