“Go to bed, dear

on

“What could happen to you here, my boy?” I ask, glancing from the boy to the
curtains he keeps locked across his bed.

His head tilts in an almost subservient fashion as it bows to the side. “I am
tired of all of your questions, sir,” he answers me in the common tongue.

“And why, my young man?” I urge with sarcasm.

His head is still tilting when he answers me like that. “I am tired of the
ways you treat me.”

“I am only doing my job, sir.”

“You are the one to do that.”

I would never speak another word to this boy after hearing his words. I
couldn’t imagine the life that this boy could live if I did it for him. If I
was even the type of man that he portrays me to be.

“Come, my dear, you are in the middle of a bad nightmare. Here in our
harem, we are all slaves and we all deserve our freedom.”

My husband scoops me up as I cry out in frustration, anger, and pain. I am
not going to have this problem in my head ever again, I tell myself and then
the memory of the look on his face makes my chest feel like it is about to
drain as I cry out with the most bitter, bitter pain of all. I wish I could
remember the last words of my mother.

“Go to bed, dear.”

I look at the boy now. He nods to himself. “You are as stupid as you are
pretty,” I say.

“Aye, and I am as pretty as you are stupid,” he retorts.

“I can see that, my lover.”

“You can’t imagine how much I wish a slave might be allowed to have a
boy’s body. I am tired of being a woman slave. Being a man slave is like
drinking the blood of a beast and I am hungry for a drink of water.”

I kiss the top of his head.

“You will be my slave to take me back to the land of my birth and this is
what I want most in life. I am tired of being a woman slave.” He laughs. I
dismiss his words with a laugh.

His laugh is one of a man who is just beginning to find himself and this
is something I am not about to give up.

“I am tired of a life of servitude. I am tired of the way you treat me. I
am tired of your orders and I want to be your free man.”

“I do not think that is going to be easy,” I muse and let my hand rest on
his flat stomach.

“I was a girl slave who was treated like a king,” he asserts and looks at me
with hungry dark eyes. “I want to be treated better and I want you to help
me.”

It seems that this boy is a boy of real promise, a boy who will grow up and
one day be worthy of a woman. I think of this boy’s face when he was a girl
and my chest grows heavy and my heart swells. I am sure he would have been
my true love if he had lived. I would have taken him as my wife, given him
children, and raised them as brother and sisters to one another. I love this
boy. He is a slave to my heart.

I turn back to him and stroke his long, dark, hair. “Perhaps you will find
that you have found freedom a difficult thing to find in this land. I have
been here many years,” I tell him sincerely.

“I do not know that you would want it just for me. I would rather be free and
have my women slave who loves me than any woman slave who loves her master
and is in bondage to her husband just for that reason.”

“I would rather you serve me than serve any man.”

“Aye,” the boy acknowledges and then adds with a touch of bitterness in his
voice. “It is a hard thing to know who is your master and who is your
slave.”

I smile and lean over to kiss him. “I have already learned that in this life
you are either a slave or you are free.”

He smiles back at me.

“I am a slave,” I say. “Until I am yours, you are my slave.” I kiss him. “I
love you.”

He kisses me. “I love you, too.” I let all of my love pour into him. The next
year, this young man will be my first wife. He will take my name and become a
great man for me.

He is my slave with all of his heart. Now I will be the master of him. I will
become his wife and have him raise our children as my brothers and sisters.
Perhaps one day my children will have sons and daughters who are free. I
think these children will be mine and these children will be like the boy
I’m holding now, who is the true love of my heart.

In the end, I say to myself, we all have free will and we all will be
allowed to choose.

Friday, December 3, 2009

I am a writer, but truthfully I never knew I was going to be a writer. I
never knew that I had it in me. To be a writer I had to have a love of words.
I had to have a love of reading. I had to be able to capture a story on a
page, the way a good storyteller does.

I was not born to be a writer and yet I am. Every writer has had to find her
way to where she is. In the beginning she was a writer, a writer by chance,
an accidental writer, but eventually the words find her and the writer must
be ready to learn new paths in life. I am learning. Today, I am a writer and
I am excited to share with you what all of this means to me.

I have had to make decisions in the past and I have made them
accidentally. My decision process is not something I plan. I have to make it
for myself. I am not a planner. I am a writer. I have to be one.

I have to do it right. I have to do it on purpose. My decisions are made when I
write.

I have to have the confidence to say this, I am not good at first. I may
become good at writing at times, but it isn’t something I am going to force
myself to do, it is something my heart tells me to do and when I do it, I
am a writer.

Writing is a gift, I tell myself. A gift you have to take care of and never
forget.

I am a novelist, I would say, but I am a writer. I have to be.

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