Claire Horne - This Little Light of Mine

THIS
LITTLE
Light
OF
MINE

CLAIRE HORNE

Copyright 2017 Claire Horne.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-0568-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-0569-3 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 12/15/2016

Contents

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication e ntry

Creator: Horne, Claire, au thor.

Title: This little light of mine / Claire H orne.

ISBN: 9781504305686 (paper back)

Target Audience: For young ad ults.

Subjects: Fantasy fic tion.

ClairvoyanceFic tion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication e ntry

Creator: Horne, Claire, au thor.

Title: This little light of mine / Claire H orne.

ISBN: 9781504305693 (e book)

Target Audience: For young ad ults.

Subjects: Fantasy fic tion.

ClairvoyanceFic tion .

F irst and foremost, an enormous and heartfelt thank you to Wendy Schmidt (Editing Extraordinaire) who laboured long and hard to help turn this book into a reality. You truly are a gift to the world, and I am blessed to have your input here. Thank you for the hours, the editing, the endless cups of tea, the meals, the tears, and the laughter. Most of all, thank you for always, and without fail, believing in me.

An equally enormous and heartfelt thank you to Meleah. I am so lucky to have not one, but two, Editing Extraordinaires in my life, and luckier still to call you a friend. Thank you for the time you have invested in this book and for transforming it into something that makes my heart glad.

Thank you to everyone who read all, or parts, of this book in its various stages of completion and provided feedback, suggestions, and encouragement. It still amazes me that you all simply and unquestionably believed this was inevitable; when I thought that it was a pipedream, you gave me the courage and the confidence to trudge on. A special thank you to Auntie Pat who was the first person to read the book in any coherent format, and who gave me the confidence to believe it was worth it. A special thank you, also, to Nanna Pauline who said she loved what she saw, but never got to read the finished version. I hope you can finish it from wherever you are now.

Thank you to all of those others who have gone before me. I am indebted to you for your guidance and for your love. You are welcome any time.

Last, and most definitely not least, thank you to Pangea and the Faeries for sharing their stories. I am honoured that you chose me. I hope I have done you proud.

Astrid - gratitude to you by the bucket load, my beautiful, sassy, protective, powerful friend. Thank you for picking me as your human. In a world that I dont always understand, you are my compass. I love you to your star and back again.

Dedicate d to As trid

I f you have been doing something from the moment you were born (and you have done it for the rest of your life since) however old you may be, it is natural for you. You dont question where the particular something came from. You dont ask why you do this something and no one else does. You just assume everybody is doing it. If you can do it, they must be able to as well, surely? The fact that you do something that is second nature to you (because youve done it forever) isnt important. It isnt even worth a seconds thought.

Everyone else has their own something they do. They draw, they sing, they cook, they write. They have done these things since before they can even remember; whichever one or two of them they have a particular talent for. They do their something in their houses, in their gardens, in the streets, in school, in their classrooms, at their grandparents houses, with their best friends. They do their something out in the open, in full view of whoever happens to be watching or listening at the time. They arent embarrassed. Some are more shy than others, but they still know that they have a skill, a talent, a meaning in their lives. Why be embarrassed about a something you are good at?

It does get tricky, though, if your something isnt quite drawing or singing or cooking or writing. What if it isnt at all what everybody else does? What if everybody else wouldnt even imagine that they could do it? What if your something attracts raised eyebrows, questioning, confused expressions, and astonished mouths gaping like goldfish (and what is more, if the possibility does in fact exist, shocked goldfish)? In that case, your something starts to feel a lot like embarrassment. You start to hide it, shutting it away as you realise that far from encouraging your something, people are scared of it. They avoid you. They cross the street to get to the opposite pavement rather than risk walking past you at close proximity.

You cant catch it! you want to scream.

Of course they cant catch your something. It was given to you before you drew your first breath. It is a gift, although sometimes it takes a while to recognise it as such.

This is a story about Stella and her something. It is a story about survival, and appreciating the talents you are given before you are born. It is also a story about accepting everybody elses something, which actually might look a lot more like your something than you first thought.

Even if seeing it does make you look like a goldfish in a permanent state of shock.

I have just crossed my bedroom on tiptoes and jumped into bed. I was on tiptoes for two reasons.

1. If I step on the cracks in the floorboards, something terrible will happen. Something unknown and unseen to me, but something terrible nonetheless.
2. If I dont catapult myself quickly into bed, my feet will hover too long and too close to the dark space underneath. Who knows what could happen in that case? Many a toy or notebook or set of keys have gone missing under there, never to be seen again. Oblivion is a terrifying thought. I swear theres a black hole under that bed, and I, at twelve years old, am far too young and far too clever to get sucked in to it. Ill jump into my bed if its all the same to you.

So, for reasons you now fully understand, I have just crossed my bedroom on tiptoes and jumped into bed.

I slide down into the coolness of the cotton sheets and pull the quilt up to my chin. This is one of my favourite times of the day. Especially on nights like this one, when the wind is howling through every crack and crevice in the house, whispering menacing secrets that you can never quite catch; when the night is so cold that if you stay out in it, even for a few minutes, your fingers become numb and stiff and feel detached from your body like ten long, thin aliens wriggling to free themselves. On nights like these there is nothing better than crawling into a warm, cosy bed, knowing it will stay that way until you next have to leave it.