September 11, 2001: A date that was possibly one of the most devastating for the United States of America. Two planes, hijacked by terrorists, flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center; another into the Pentagon. A fourth, en route to an unknown destination, was taken back by the brave souls who rode it and crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. So much death. So much darkness and sadness. And yet, it inspired the American fighting spirit that perhaps had been forgotten for a long time. Tears were shed by many and fear, along with the spirit of stubborn fight, was also brought into the hearts of each citizen of the United States. The young and the old all have some memory of this event, and I am no different. I was 5 years old when it occurred, and though my memories are vague, I do have an interesting perspective on what happened.

When the first plane hit, and the tower began to fall, my mom and I had been out shopping. We heard the news in bits and pieces as we drove home, and soon enough, my mom was flipping through television channels just to see what was going on. As she flipped through, the second tower fell. I remained sitting behind the chairs in the living room, playing with my horse toy figures, lining them up and drawing them along the living room floor in little family groupings as the herd always had to be. I, being only 5, seemed to not be paying attention to the traumatizing events that were going on. My mom tried to make it seem like everything was okay. She didn't want to scare me.

But I payed attention more than anyone could have imagined. Though I may not have completely understood what was going on, I did see, and I did know that something bad had happened. When my dad came home from work, I came up to him and gave him a detailed account of all that had happened. Parents were surprised at my account, and realized that I saw more than they thought.

As I said before, my memories of these events are vague. But this was an event that helped shape me and shape my story-writing in the future. I have always loved telling stories with the written word, and I have always been intrigued by the macabre where that is concerned. Often, I have wondered why this is, but then I remember my attitude after the events of September 11, 2001. My 5-year-old mind had been opened. The innocence had been, to some extent, crushed as I saw evidence of the evil in the world. And though my understanding of that evil was limited, it followed me in my games.

After 9/11, in my games with those horse families, a darkness, vague and obscure, was always following. That darkness was just the beginning of the darkness that entered my stories. Evil was evident in the world. This could not be denied. And that dark spirit that followed my horses was merely the five-year-old perspective of broken innocence and introduction to sin.