Arc or Shock | Jessica Flory

As the two LDS missionaries entered the home, both could tell that this discussion was not going to go as planned. One elder was suffering from severe allergies and the other knew it, and was not sure how to help his companion.

Brother X, head of the humble abode in which the two missionaries entered, could immediately tell what the small, scrawny missionary was experiencing and he offered him some allergy pills. The young man readily accepted.

“How many do you take?” The puffy eyed elder asked Brother X.

Brother X's six and a half foot, three hundred pound form looked down at the missionary and replied, “I take four.”

Before the other missionary could say a word, his companion had downed four pills and had returned the glass of water and the allergy pill bottle to Brother X. The two missionaries started their discussion and left soon afterwards.

“I'm feeling kinda dizzy,” the scrawny companion stated, as they headed for their bikes.

“Alright,” replied the older elder. “We can walk to our next appointment.”

As they began their next discussion, the older missionary began as he usually did and taught until it was his companion's turn to end the discussion. But the look of his companion made him continue and finish the discussion on his own. He never did find out what was so interesting to his companion that had been placed on the ceiling.

Dinner with the other missionaries in the area had been planned for that evening, and the two elders made their way to the house. By this time, all signs of the young elder's light-headedness and dizziness had disappeared. Almost. As dinner started, the young companion started getting excited about very small matters: the painting of apples on the wall was his favorite.

After watching his strange behavior for a time, the other elders in the apartment decided to take advantage of it by teaching him new Spanish words. “I am huge” was a popular phrase to teach him.

“Say, 'Yo soy mariposa',” one elder said. “Say it in your manly voice.”

This phrase soon became the favorite of the evening as the young, high-on-allergy-pills elder repeated, “Yo soy mariposa”. This phrase can be interpreted in two ways: one meaning, “I am a butterfly”; the other meaning, “I am gay.”

The elders in the apartment howled with laughter at the young missionary's expense. And their laughter didn't cease until their young friend had passed out on the floor.

Mornings | Jessica Flory

Waking me up most mornings was, as always, a chore for my family. My mother would attempt the feat first by turning on my light and loudly saying my name. She would leave to wake the other children and then come back, noticing that I hadn't stirred. She would sometimes come sit on my bed and talk to me, helping me wake up an easier, gentler way. But the frustration in her voice told me that that's not what she had in mind today.

My father would be next. His ways of waking me were a bit more creative; he would come in, making his best impression of an alarm clock and shake me. It was hard to tell what Dad would really do, for it was different each time. This morning, I was brutally awakened by nearly rolling clean from the mattress as my father grabbed it and began to tip it. “Titanic! Titanic!” He screamed, “We're going overboard!”

I found that with each attempt at waking me, I would get more angry and, thus, retaliate by staying in bed. I would wake up to my mother merely opening my door, but because of their creativity in waking me, I would angrily stay “asleep”.

My father's next brilliant thought was voiced to my younger brother. “Go get the dog,” he said.

Oh, no, I thought bitterly. You try that one and I'll make sure I stay in bed until tomorrow morning. Not that I could do that. I wanted so badly to get out of bed right this moment, but that would be surrendering to the criminal master mind! That was not to happen.

I never heard Chewy's collar, but I did feel cold water drip onto my cheek and flow slowly into my ear. I could hear at least half of my siblings in my room now, and they were laughing and saying, “Oh, sick, Chewy!”

I waved the washcloth—or whatever it was—away and muttered, “Yeah, yeah. You guys are funny.”

When they felt that the fun was over and it was truly time to greet the day, they would leave my room and say, “C'mon, Jessica, time to get up.” It was when every single one of them had disappeared that I would kick away the blankets and make the journey to the bathroom.

The Balewagon | Jessica Flory

The bale wagon was a very curious contraption. It's cubic shape followed the tractor, greedily slurping the bales onto a table, and when the table was full, it would raise the bales back into a lovely stacked column. Five columns of hay could be loaded onto this bale wagon, making the chore of hauling hay a much faster one, indeed.

When the columns of hay edged closer and closer to the back of the wagon, the children would jump off and run alongside the tractor or scramble onto the crowded four wheeler with the older children and my father. Today, as we prepared to pick up the last remaining bales that would complete the five columns on the bale wagon, two of my siblings appeared, running alongside the tractor. The thought of where the youngest child was entered my mind, but I supposed him to be on the other side. The tractor kept moving, the bale wagon kept eating, and the final row was pushed up into place.

The shrill screams of my youngest sister suddenly pierced the air, noticeably louder than the roar over the tractor.

“Mom, stop! Stop the tractor!”

The words were like a gun at the beginning of a race; my dad and the eldest of us shot from the four wheeler and my mom shot from the seat of the tractor, racing toward the back end of the bale wagon.

Nathan, the youngest of the children and only five years of age, hadn't been able to get off the bale wagon quick enough. The bales had been loaded and the last column of bales had been pushed to its extent, trapping the little boy's neck. Nathan hung there, screaming.

Dad was the quickest to react. Rushing to his son, he relieved the pressure from Nathan's neck by letting him rest on his knee. Siblings all around me were crying, offering prayers with worry on their faces.

“Can we turn off the tractor?” someone asked, fear apparent in their voice.

Mom's worry was obvious as she put her fingers to her temples and muttered, “Um... uh... yeah...” She rushed out of sight toward the tractor and soon all fell silent except for my brother's screaming and the whimpers of my siblings.

Mom and one of my brother's jumped onto the bale wagon and began throwing bales of hay to the ground. I climbed to help them, but was soon beckoned by my father.

“Jessica, comfort him, hold him up,” he commanded, as I drew near, “and keep the pressure off his neck.” Dad made sure I had Nathan steady, and then disappeared from sight as he hoisted himself onto the bale wagon to help throw bales off.

“How ya' feelin', little man?” I asked Nathan as I leaned down to look into his face. My siblings looked at their brother, awaiting an answer. “Is it squeezing you at all?”

Nathan sniffled. “A little bit.”

“Yeah, you'll probably have a bruise there,” I said. “But don't worry. We'll figure a way to get you out of there, 'kay?”

As I stood there, keeping Nathan from hanging himself, one of my brothers, who had been part of the teary-eyed mosaic surrounding the bale wagon finally spoke. “Can you lift him over the bars?”

I followed with my eyes the path where Nathan's neck was stuck. Yes, I could lift him up and over if I was two or three feet taller.

It was at that moment that the bale of hay appeared right beside me. I don't know if it was there before or not, but I sure hadn't noticed it in the past. It was just the added amount of height I needed, and I was able to lift my little brother up and over the bars of the machine.

The cheers of my siblings brought my brother and parents down from the stack of bales, and everyone crowded around little Nathan, making sure he was okay physically as well as mentally. Of course, after that incident my parents set in stone the rule that no one would ride on the back of the bale wagon again.

The Race | Jessica Flory

Ug did not look like a racehorse—or even an ex-racehorse. His eyes were closed and his chin rested on the bar to which he was tied. His coat was no longer a normal gray, but a matted mess of mud and manure, making it take on shades of brown and yellow. Every now and then, he would let out a long, deep sigh hoping to drop a hint to the people around him of how bored he was... as if they couldn't tell already.

I made my way towards this sorry excuse for a racehorse and swung onto his back. The stirrups were far too long for my reach and the rope had been tied to the halter, making this the only means to control the horse.

No matter, I thought, I'm just going to ride in the arena.

Soon after I had made this mental decision, I noticed my sister cantering up the road that runs parallel to the arena. Thinking that she wasn't going very far, I guided Ug outside and urged him up the road.

My sister and I met up with a neighbor and we continued on a ride around the block, talking and laughing and yelling things to friends as they passed.

As we passed our arena, we decided that we would ride halfway to our neighbor's house and then come back. It was there that we decided to try a small canter to end the ride with some excitement. I was confident that I could handle Ug with just a rope and halter and that I would be able to keep, at least, my toes in the stirrups. But as we started cantering, I realized how wrong I was. As Ug pulled right beside our neighbor's horse, I remembered the fact that our neighbor was also on his old racehorse. And they were picking up speed.

The smile on my face lasted only for a short moment. My neighbor's yells brought me back to the reality that we weren't going to be able to stop the horses. Our surroundings echoed with the pounding of shod hooves on the pavement, desperate attempts were made to stop the horses by attempting to run the horses into garbage cans.

As the road curved, our neighbor's horse finally slid on the pavement and into the grass. Ug soon followed suit and the beasts stood there, chests heaving. My neighbor and I weren't breathing so steadily ourselves.

New Home | Jessica Flory

Cynthia knew that when Danny squeezed her hand, it would be for the last time. She didn't know how she knew and the thought frightened her very much. Danny and Cynthia had been dating for over a year and the thought of letting Danny go scared Cynthia more than she ever thought possible.

Maybe Sarah is right, Cynthia thought. Danny is my comfort zone and our relationship has formed a bubble around me and has forced me to stop meeting other people. Sarah has noticed how shy and insecure I've become. Yes, maybe Sarah and Cael are right.

Sarah and Cael. Yet another thought that frightened her. Cynthia's brother, Cael, had come to Southern Utah University with her this year and had met her friend, Sarah; and just like that, the two had become inseparable in just a matter of weeks. Cynthia had brought Sarah home during a holiday the previous year and that had seemed to be the beginning of Sarah's and Cael's “relationship”. Although the two weren't dating--Cael was far too shy to begin something like that-- one could tell that they had fun around each other and seemed to be the best of friends.

Cynthia sighed rather inaudibly and lay her head against the seat, still staring out the window. Why did one have to be torn between homes when one got older? Thoughts of roommates, thoughts of the soccer team, and thoughts of friends in Cedar City, Utah pulled Cynthia to SUU. But no matter how hard the thoughts tugged at her, Danny was always in her mind pulling her back home. Home to her family, her friends, and her memories of childhood in San Diego, California.