Doves and Demons (Taking Flight Series: Book One)

PROLOGUE

Inside each of us, there is the seed of both good and evil. It's a constant struggle to which one will win. And one cannot exist without the other.

-ERIC BURDON

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So, here I am. Back at the very place I swore I'd never return. I was baptized here. Confirmed here even-Geez, it's hard to say out loud-married here.
I gave my grandfather's eulogy right at that very podium, three months later did the same for my closest cousin.

Under the speckled prism of this same stained glass, I've seen life transpire. And, as the years have rolled by, I have seen it end. Some people call it the circle of life. I call it a lesson in creative writing.

At your baptism, you're surrounded by a small group of loved ones, a close knit of family and friends. It's on this day that you've unknowingly opened the book to the first page of your personal story. It's also the day that you're given the chance to decide exactly which words will one day blanket the pages.

Everything in the beginning is always good. You're protected by a safety net that is the people you love, while the choices in life are made on your behalf. For your sake, this cluster of protectors has-for you-rejected Satan, accepted God, and promised a life everlasting.

Someone else has picked up the old-fashioned quill, dipped it in ink and penned the details of the fairytale they hoped you'd one day get to live. It's here, in this moment, where- "Once upon a time..."-actually does exist. Where you innocently trust with all your heart and fiercely love with all your soul. You believe in the good of man. You have faith in the sanctity of humanity.

Then life happens. No more can you blame your decisions on adolescence, wrong doings on inexperience. Misfortunes are no longer anyone else's fault but your own. The training wheels get ripped off and you've yet to learn to ride. The quill has been passed on and you've yet to master the art of legible penmanship.

You're a chef without an oven. A surgeon without a knife.

You've suddenly become the sole heir to your very own destiny, and no one cares whether you're ready to accept such an important mission or not.

If anything is worthwhile to remember, let it be this-Not one person, at any time, will ask you if you're ready. They won't, at any time, see if you're prepared. Of course, they can try to hold your hand, but they'll never once be able to walk in your shoes. For the town can only pave the streets, it's the driver that must learn to navigate the terrain.

You see, the world never stops spinning. The sun will rise just as sure as it will set, and neither is contingent on whether or not you're prepared to travel the long road ahead. They don't give you a map. They don't scribble down directions.
It's up to you to find your way.

Somewhere down this road, a few pages of your book will become tattered and ripped. Others have been lost all together. You find that there are days where you seemingly have nothing to write, while other days, there doesn't seem to be enough room to jot it all down. Then, there are the days where you're just doodling along the edges of scraps and loose leaf, chasing away uncertainty and cursing away despair. To be lost in the peace that comes from swirling your pen around the page will understandably be your only solace in a life that's often full of chaos and disaster.

Along the way, try to remember that the middle is often the hardest, as it's the part of your book where, "once upon a time," really means, "when shit actually made sense." The part that determines how the end will play out, the prelude to the conclusion of your life. Will you sink? Or, will you swim?
Here, you test your own limits, walk those thin lines and play Russian Roulette with your morals and values. It's the introduction to true temptation, the part they warned you about in the beginning. The part you were too young to remember. It's a coming out of sorts. A true testament to your strength and the basic foundation of your character. When the devils arrive to declare war with the angels. When just one bad decision is all it takes to determine what the future will hold.

Then, like most things in life, it's here before you know it. The end is your future and your time to change the script is gone. If your story was worthwhile, someone will stand at that podium and extract excerpts from your book.

With tear stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, she'll read them to the crowd before her and they too will shed a tear for the one they've lost. The contents of your book will determine who shows up to say farewell. That is, if your story was worth an audience at all.

Some who have traveled to pay their respects will take what they've learned from your book and rewrite their own endings. Others will remain complacent, arrogantly assuming they'll have their own set of mourners regardless.

Writing your own story will never seem as important as it is until now. Until of course, it's too late. When you realize this whole time, you were the teacher of the lesson. Those in the crowd-your students.
It's my own story that I'm worried about. In my short life, I've not only danced with the devil, I've slept in his bed. I've allowed his touch to singe my skin, and his presence to devour my soul.
For Eve, he came in the form of a deceitful snake. For me, he came in the form of love.

As I watch the faithful flame pass from stick to candle at the feet of St. Peter, I pray, hoping that I'll live long enough to finish this story myself.

I never planned to be back here.

I never planned for any of this