Five Year Anni

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Five years ago, today, a story seed was planted in the sod of this blog. It grew with the daily dew of love from readers—many who have become lifelong friends, mentors, and co-conspirators.  

That story has since been hewn down, but many saplings have sprouted from it. Thank the stars and sparkles for inherent strength in sprouts.

Here’s to roots that continue to spread. Here’s to long arms of new growth.

Here’s to Aimee and Wynn, to djinn, and to moments of magic that still, and ever, manifest all around.

Here’s to five more years, and beyond.

And, for sweet nostalgia’s sake, here’s where it all began--let me know in the comments which you would have chosen: 

Aimee is indistinguishable from any other girl walking down the street in  jeans and a loose gray-green jacket, perfect for the turning weather of autumn, and she likes it that way. When she wears her long, curling blond hair down, people look once, then they look again with their eyes slightly squinting as if they're trying to place her in their memories. So she wears it up and tied back tight to make it look straight. 

She's neither old nor young; she's not tall or short; she's closer to the high end of her BMI but that just makes her look curvy rather than lanky. She's never been rich, yet she always keeps enough change in her pocket to grab a quick coffee on the way to work in the morning -- a desk job she hates, but pays enough to keep her from looking elsewhere. 

Which is barely enough to make rent in the city she lives in, a pretty big place with lots of smaller sprawling cities around it, but is far from being one of those huge, swallowing metropolises. She has a tight group of friends that all live relatively close. Some of her family are near too, while others live farther away. She has only sisters, of which she gets along with about half.

She's been in love many times, but isn't currently in a relationship with anyone. The last guy she dated left her for the fourth girl he cheated with. Aimee would have forgiven him again, but he'd needed something more. Someone more. More brunette? "It's not you, Babe, it's me. I'm just screwed up." His razor is still in her bathroom. 

Now she has to make a decision, though. She has to leave town in a hurry, and doesn't have time to pack. She has a couple of purses -- more like overgrown bags with junk and random receipts littering the little pockets -- one of which she has to throw over her shoulder and run out the door with, hoping desperately it'll have some of the stuff she needs. She doesn't have time to check the contents.

Does she grab the red, wrinkled leather one that most likely has her wallet and cell phone?

Or,

Does she grab the green one that matches her jacket and hopefully has all the contact information both for herself and her friends and family, and a keyring credit card clipped inside?