Haley asked:

I remember in my childhood my best friend, Michelle , used to take the plastic soda bottles that were on the banks of the Ohio River at my grandmothers house and put messages in them. She put twigs in them when we were four. I wonder if anyone ever got our letters and twigs. Maybe they wrote us back. I like to think they did. Tonight I’m going to send my own letter. I guess I’m just a foolish sixteen year old girl. Silly little Gabrielle Sterling. Maybe, who ever finds it will be my Dark Prince.

Dear who ever finds this,

My name is Gabrielle Rose Sterling. But, my best and only friend calls me Bri. I live in Kenova, West Virginia. You probably have no idea where that is, do you? I don’t either it is like another planet to me. I’m into the paranormal. A little more then I should be. The kids at Spring Valley always look at me strange, but I’m used to it by now. My hair is a copper color cut in short spikes and my eyes a rich sapphire. My sister is probably my parents favorite. All American girl you can call her. Long flowing gold hair and sky blue eyes. Homecoming queen and cheerleader. While I’m just sitting in the stands. Sorry, for boring you with my mellow drama. Tell me about your life, please.

Yours Truly, Gabrielle Rose Sterling

I slid the letter into an old Mountain Dew bottle that I ripped the label off of. I silently slipped on my ebony Russian Army coat. My Converse made a soft thud against the oak floor. My feet etched their way to the back door. I quietly shut the door behind me put my spine stiffened in alert when it made a loud locking noise behind me. My feet hit the rough wood of the back porch. The steps creaked beneath me as I made my way to the gate that lead down to the Ohio River front. The metal of the steps clanked against the weight of my shoes as I made my way to the river. I could hear the snakes his in the distance. It sent a shiver up my spine. Little me afraid of snakes while they reside In myth & lore. I just always had an unexplainable fear and hatred of the scaly bastards. The cool October air blew against my face. I tightened the coat around my frame so it could not brush against the rest of my skin. I jumped over the end of grass. My shoes kisses the sand underneath them. I finally came to where sand meet water. They water soaked through the thin material of my Converse. My finger clutched the neck of the bottle. My arm slung back, then forward releasing the bottle to the wind. I dropped to the awaiting mouth of the river. Lost to its blackness. The mortal or immortal to claim it waits on the other side. Will they write back? I’d like to think they would. I watched it float down the Ohio till it was out view. I turned and climbed up the wall of earth that blocked my way to the grass. I ran to the light of the house. Once, through the door I let out the breath that I held in for the last two minutes. I kicked of the neon green high tops. And, made my way to the guest room beside the kitchen. My blonde twin lay sleeping on the bed. Her curls splayed out in every direction. I shrugged off the coat silently, but the metal buttons made a loud clank as they hit the oak floor. The girl in the bed stirred to face me. Her sky eyes shot open and met with the gems of mine. A silent conversation was passed between us. But, neither of us paid attention to the topic at hand. She lifted up the blanket allowing me to slide in. My hands tugged at the tangled mess of gold. The copper of mine clashed against it. My mind slowly became a blur of color and whispers.

“Your weak, Gabriel.” taunted a females voice.

“I will kill you! I will send you back from where you have risen from! Mark my words, Lillith. You will be slain by my sword.” I raged.

“Gabriel.” a voice whispered.

The sun shown through the window. It burned my eyes life a fire to bare skin. It was that dream again. That is how it always ends. Who is Lillith? Who is Gabriel? It can’t be me. Who is that voice? Why are they calling for me? A tug at my spikes made me wake from my thoughts. I turned to see my blonde twin and grandmother staring at me. Concern was etched into their sky eyes. A could hear the coughing of my step-grandfather in the other room. I rose from my place on the bed, and walked towards the kitchen. I grabbed the milk from the fridge, and went to work on making a cup of coffee. This was my tradition since I was four the only difference was that Lillian was here instead of Michelle. My movements were more like a dance then a walk as I gathered all my ingredients. A hand was placed on my shoulder to stop me mid-parquet.

Dave asked:

I saw a strange sight. I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for. Hush, child. Hush, now, and I will tell it to you.

Even before the dawn one Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of our City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear, tenor voice:

“Rags!” Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music.

“Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!” he sang.

“Now, this is a wonder,” I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city?

I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X together. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking.

The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.

“Give me your rag,” he said so gently, “and I’ll give you another.”

He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver.

Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left without a tear.

“This is a wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from a mystery.

“Rags! Rags! New rags for old!” he sang.

In a little while, when the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came upon a girl child whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.

Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart.

“Give me your rag,” he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, “and I’ll give you mine.”

The child could only gaze at him while he loosened the bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, more substantial blood: his own!

“Rags! Rags! I take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.
The sun hurt both the sky, now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more to hurry.

“Are you going to work?” he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head.

The Ragman pressed him: “Do you have a job?”

“Are you crazy?” sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket, flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket. He had no arm.

“So,” said the Ragman. “Give me your jacket, and I’ll give you mine.”

Such quiet authority in his voice!

The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman and I trembled at what I saw: for the Ragman’s arm stayed in its sleeve, and when the other put it on he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.

“Go to work,” he said.

After that he found a drunk, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, an old man, hunched, wizened, and sick. He took that blanket and wrapped it round himself, but for the drunk he left new clothes.

And now I had to run to keep up with the Ragman. Though he was weeping uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at the forehead, pulling his cart with one arm, stumbling for drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted, old, and sick, yet he went with terrible speed. On spider’s legs he skittered through the alleys of the City, this mile and the next, until he came to its limits, and then he rushed beyond.

I wept to see the change in this man. I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I needed to see where he was going in such haste, perhaps to know what drove him so.

The little old Ragman, he came to a landfill. He came to the garbage pits. And then I wanted to help him in what he did, but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill. With tormented labor he cleared a little space on that hill. Then he sighed. He lay down. He pillowed his head on a handkerchief and a jacket. He covered his bones with an army blanket. And he died.

Oh, how I cried to witness that death! I slumped into a junked car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope because I had come to love the Ragman. Every other face had faded in the wonder of this man, and I cherished him; but he died. I sobbed myself to sleep.
I did not know? how could I know?? I slept through Friday night and Saturday and its night, too.

But then, on Sunday morning, I was wakened by a violence.

Light–pure, hard, demanding light–slammed against my sour face, and I blinked, and I looked, and I saw the last and the first wonder of all. There was the Ragman, folding the blanket most carefully, a scar on his forehead, but alive! And, besides that, healthy! There was no sign of sorrow nor of age, and all the rags that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.

Well, then I lowered my head and, trembling for all that I had seen, I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice: “Dress me.”

He dressed me. My Lord, he put new rags on me, and I am a wonder beside him. The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!