In the Barren Ground

by Loreth Anne White

each new reader brings to the Story afresh his own unique set of past experiences, giving him a peculiar lens through which to conjure different emotions out of the very same words . . .

He began to fashion himself a joint, grinding the buds between his fingers and picking out stalks.

In the Barren ground of the soul nothing can grow. For here is bitter and cold where the sun hangs low. Where a midnight caribou mutilation awakens a howl of emptiness with ice where once there was heart. And it comes with hunger for blood in its mouth. For, in the Barrens of the soul monsters take toll . . .

Early November. When the clocks changed for winter. Her father used to say it was at this time that the veil between seasons—between the living and the spirit world—grew thin, at least according to his childhood Scandinavian tales. It was when the dark things began to creep out of the woods.

Vulnerability isn’t good or bad, Tana. It’s not a dark emotion, nor a light one. It’s not a weakness. It’s the birthplace of all feelings. If you run away from it, if you fear it, and shut it out, you will be shutting out all that gives purpose and meaning to life . . .

She thought about second chances, and how everyone, everything, deserved them. No matter how broken they seemed, there was always hope.