Tag: Fantasy

In Your Hands #4: You hunt for food.

Your bow readied, an arrow between your fingers. You crouch, walk toward the rustling on the balls of your feet.

You’ve hunted plenty of times before. Stalking always feels like it takes forever, but you know, logically, only a fraction of the time you feel actually goes by. Your eyes adjust to the shadows, the setting sun, making your slow steps avoid fallen branches and crunchy leaves with ease.

Pause. Wait for another hint, a misplaced step, to dictate your direction. You hear it: a leaf ripped form a stem, a hundred feet or so away from you.

One step. Another. Ready your arrow. A quick death. No chase.

Right before you release your fingers, an illuminated arrow sails from your left and the deer collapses on the ground. The sound of it writhing over dead leaves blends with two sets of footsteps from the arrow’s origin.

An adult and a child, maybe a human and halfling— hard to tell in the dark. Each figure wears a dark cloak. The taller figure holds a metallic bow. Portions of its pattern glow in the new light of a lantern held by the shorter one.

They start talking. The shorter one’s voice is high and nasally. “See? It harnesses the power of lightning within the shaft. When it makes contact, that bolt surges through the target. It’s genius, really.”

The taller one sounds tired, their voice a low drawl. “That mean the meat’s cooked then? I can just take a bite off the thigh there?” They lift one of the hind legs, bring it to their mouth.

“Sweet Sol, no! Stop that!” The shorter one knocks the leg out of the taller one’s hands. “There’s still disease in it! Obviously. Lightning shocks, it doesn’t cook.”

“There’s smoke coming out of the wound. The fur is singed. How is that not cooked?”

The short one sighs. “Selnk. I swear. You are smarter than this. That small portion may be ‘cooked,’ as you say, but the rest isn’t. You’ve stopped the heart; you didn’t roast it over a fire.”

“You’re no fun when you’re hungry.”

“Then pick up that carcass so we can cook it then! It took all day to put that enchantment together!”

Selnk bends over, flops the deer carcass over their shoulder. The arrow sticks out of the deer’s neck behind them. You could see the burnt fur, bulging eyes. The deer’s weight brings down their hood, revealing dark, wavy hair just above their shoulder. There are bags under their grey eyes, a scar creating a valley in their beard.

“Lead the way, Alri. You got the lantern.”

Alri holds the lantern up to inspect the carcass one last time. They throw their hood back to get a better look. The braid over their shoulder looks like a coil of copper. They poke the deer’s shoulder and nod. They lift the lantern and lead Selnk down the trail, debating what tea goes best with venison.

In Your Hands #3: You go toward the river.

You bend down a little to fit your head under the arch of the hollowed-out log. You carry your pack in front of you in one hand, your bow in the other. Brittle wood brushes against your hunched shoulders; a chunk falls on the ground behind you.

Out on the other side, the clouds begin to part. Sun rays filter through the trees in angles you can read which tell you it’s early afternoon. You step into and out of its warmth as you walk down the trail.

An annoying thing about being in sunlight, even briefly, if that you start to feel like a person again. Images from the morning come back to you in waves: an old scroll, alchemical formulas, a beaker in the rotten center of a stump, a westerly gust, an explosion.

That voice in your head felt familiar, even though you’d never heard it before. A woman’s voice. Whatever it was is gone now. You feel the absence. You only hear it like an echo from around a bend.

The river becomes louder. The trail gives way to a pebbly bank. Rocks shuffle under your step. You look at where you step and see blood drop from your face. Right. The blood. You need to wash your face.

You squat at the edge of the river, stick your hands in. Cold. The black clouds trails from your hands in the water. You make a bowl with your hands, watch it fill up. Tossing the water onto your face feels nice, refreshing. You wipe your hands across your face, brush your hair out of your eyes. Combing your hair with your fingers, you see red droplets fall from your knuckles.

You get a glimpse of your face in the moving water. A cut above your right eye, connecting your temple to your hairline, about the length of your index finger. You dry your hands on your jacket, dig out a bandage from the bottom of your pack, and dress the wound.

The sun’s rays lose shape, diffuse in the late-afternoon mist. Your stomach growls. No food left in your pack.

Downstream, dots can be seen in the windows of buildings in town. You could probably get there by nightfall, in time for a meal at an inn.

Upstream, a similar rustling sound from earlier can be heard over the river. There’s a good chance a deer or something similar could be hunted there.

You hunt for food.

In Your Hands #2: You choose a longbow.

You reach under your pack to defend yourself with your longbow. It spins in your grip as you nock an arrow, draw it back, aim.

It’s only a deer, you realize, foraging for acorns under an aging oak. As you relax your arrow, the deer lifts its head and looks in your direction. You see a vibrant purple gash in its face, right below its eye. It’s deep, bright, its edges spread out in tendrils wavy as a canyon river. It appears dry, the fur around it unstained. The deer startles itself, hops further into the forest.

You take a half-step after it, but stop. The amethyst from the crater, now behind you, draws you in its direction. The smoke from it is dissipating. You hear a voice coming from it, a little louder with every step you take.

“time— constant— it’s time—always now—an end— time— beginning—”

The crater is hardened, charred earth. Heat radiates through you. In its center is the amethyst, its pulsing glow, no bigger than a halved apple; it would fit in the palm of your hand. 

“time— it’s time—”

You reach for the amethyst. Surprisingly, it’s cold in your hand. You feel its jagged edges across your palm.

The gem’s light pulses. As it brightens, you feel something surge through your wrist. Your veins take on a violet hue under your skin for only a second. It doesn’t hurt. The wave fades as quickly as it came.

“the bow—” The voice is all around you now. “it’s time— the bow—” Maybe it’s inside your head.

You look back at your bow, untie the lather straps of the grip, exposing a small crevice in the wood. The gem is a close fit, but needs more space. You dig out the crevice slightly, carefully, with your pocket knife.

Once you’ve removed a few slivers, you replace the amethyst in the crevice. The wood glows in the purple light and you see small purple tributaries stretch from its center. You rewrap and retie the straps of the grip.

Always the scientist, you nock an arrow to see what happens. As soon as the shaft rests on the top of the grip, the arrowhead glows. You aim toward a log a few yards away.

The arrow sinks deep into its side, a bit deeper than usual. A polypore erupts from the point of impact. The bark around it becomes brittle. Lichen drapes hang from the edge of the shelf fungus. The quickened effect only lasts a few seconds, then the log and its decomposition seemingly return to the regular flow of time.

You become restless. The clearing’s stillness feels ominous. You gather your things and figure out where you can go.

The soft roar of a river can be heard to your right, probably half a mile away. A hollowed-out log connects to a trail in that direction.

On the end of the clearing in front of you is a cluster of deer ferns, a small gap in their leaves reveals a narrow trail beyond the tree line. It seems to go back toward town.

You go toward the river.

In Your Hands #1: You wake up on the forest floor.

You wake up on the forest floor. You lie face down on a bed of moss. It takes a lot of effort to lift your head, to get onto your knees and hands.

The world seems to spin. To find which way is down, you squeeze your eyes, ball the moss bed in your fists. Equilibrium comes after a minute or so— time is hard to discern. When you open your eyes, the maple branches seem to move both faster and slower than you think they should.

There’s a layer of smoke between you and the trees. The clearing is filled with the smell of a campfire. Ash floats like snow.

Now that you’ve secured gravity, you look down. Your knuckles are pale as the falling ash. Relaxing your grip doesn’t last; your fingers slap back against your palm like a mousetrap. A drop of blood lands on your right thumbnail.

There’s nothing above you but clouds and ash. The diffused lights makes it impossible to tell what time of day it is. There’s a red circle in the moss where your head lay before. Your face is slick as you roll your hand over it. Your palm comes back red.

Your gaze sticks to the puddle of blood in your hand as you try to remember how you got here. So hazy. An explosion? But why? From whom? You? Was this your goal?

Sharp waves of pain don’t wash over you. Your limbs have the dull ache of overuse, a bad night’s sleep. You half-reposition, half-fall onto your backside, landing by your pack. Every breath is labored; your throat itches. Your eyes strain to take in light, focus through the blur of growing tears.

You take in your surroundings to see if it jogs your memory.

To your left, the moss climbs up a nurse log. Straightening your back to see over its crest, the moss yields to a grassy meadow. Black smoke emanates from a sunken patch of darkened soil a few yards aways. Something glows in the center of the crater, a slow pulsing amethyst. There are no other people in the clearing, no other bodies on the ground.

The urge to move is overwhelming. That pulsing light calls to you; it will answer your questions. It’s a slow process, getting to your feet, but you can eventually stand upright without leaning on the nurse log beside you.

A rustling emerges from the bushes behind you. A flood of adrenaline turns you around in an instant. You reach under your pack to defend yourself with your…

You choose a longbow.

Protect the Farm

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from May, 2023.

I. palabra, n.

What’s the word Dad told me
for when the sky
looks like spilled paint?

Maybe the answer
is behind that column of smoke
billowing from the silo.

II. folder, v.

I launch myself,
above the wheat.
Stalks topple in my wake.

Serena is at the base of the silo,
a torrent of water erupting
from the jewel on top of her staff.

Right. A water spell. That’s what
the word dad said was for.
I wobble as I land, prepare the spell.

III. groundhog day, n.

“My God, Finch,”
Serena yells over her shoulder.
“Any time now would be nice.”

Awkward syllables
leave my throat, water
shoots from my palm.

The charred silo glistens
in the moonlight once
we've extinguished the final ember.

“Every day,” Serena sighs,
“you’re running behind,
forgetting spells.

“I love you, etc., but
you need to get your shit together.
It’s getting harder to rely on you.”

I fidget with my wand,
not meeting her eyes, because
I know she’s right.

IV. bub, n.

When I was young,
I dreamed
of protecting the farm.

I never had Serena’s patience for
growing crops,
reading books.

Could never sit still.
Had to move. Had to run.
I needed the wind in my hair.

I could perform spells,
but not study them.
I needed to see them done first.

Dad understood. He taught
by example. He helped me
become the best flyer around.

V. misocapnist, n.

I take out a cigarette
at the end of our watch
as the sun rises over the ridge.

I take a drag, lean against
the door of stable.
Horses stir, ready to run.

Serena shakes her head, 
steps away to sit on
the tailgate of an old pickup.

She coughs. “I wish you’d wait
until I left to do that.
You know it bothers me.

“I think we should eat something,
then go back to investigate the silo.
How does that sound?”

My eyes are heavy,
my fingers twitch.
I nod.

VI. half groat, n.

Breakfast is small:
coffee, black;
toast, black.

Serena tells me about
the latest book she read
as we walk back to the silo.

I play with a coin,
flipping it between my fingers,
to stay focused.

VII. bonhomous, adj.

“Oh,” Serena says,
“sorry, Finch.
This must be so boring for you.”

I pocket the coin.
“No, it’s okay. I like
hearing what you’re excited about.”

She lifts an eyebrow.
“You’re sure? It’s just
a poet’s memoir about her divorce.”

“I’d rather listen to your TED Talk
than try to read a book,
so yeah.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,”
she laughs, shoves my shoulder,
then returns to her book commentary.

VIII. bloco, n.

Serena is talking about
her girlfriend's drum practice
when we return to the silo.

Charred chunks sizzle
in the morning sun
with an intricate rhythm.

Serena rotates her wrist;
purple mist flows from her fingers
to the pieces of silo shell.

"This should help identify
the fire's epicenter
and whether a spell was used.”

IX. char kway teow, n.

Purple tendrils spread
from chunks on the ground,
reach toward the silo’s missing torso.

Chunks and swirls
indigo and navy 
highlight on the body.

“There’s magic there,” Serena says.
She looks at me, smiles. “Let me guess.
“You want to see me do it again?”

I look between her and the silo,
move my wrist.
“Please.”

X. kalian, n.

She said the words
for the spell slowly—
awkward, archaic syllables.

I say them back to her,
rotate my wrist the way she did,
and violet strings unravel

from the spaces between my fingers.
They reach toward the silo,
but fall short.

“Hell yeah, Finch!
That’s a good start!
Let’s get closer to the source up there.

“Since my spell gave us an epicenter,
yours, up close, should be able
to discern the type of spell.”

I nod, float up the side of the burnt silo.
“Discern? Really?”
I perform the spell again.

“Fuck you. Read a book.”
Serena’s laugh stops abruptly
as her spell’s effects turned grey.

A vision appeared—
a tube, water,
so much smoke.

XI. anti-huff, n.

“A hose? And water?”
I tilt my head.
“Like a fireman?”

“Jesus. It’s 2023.”
She facepalms.
“Firefighter.

“Also no.
It’s a device that controls the fire,
prevents it from spreading.”

“So, they targeted our silo
specifically. Not even the whole farm.
But, why?”

XII. feechie, adj.

Lightning crashes,
dark clouds roll in
as we approach the ground.

“Could be real,”
Serena points her chin at the clouds.
“Could be a cover.

“They attacked our grain,
our main food source.
They must want to get to Dad.”

XIII. sodom apple, n.

Fields look different on the way back—
the hue’s not right,
like an Instagram filter.

Dad’s voice is ablaze
once we arrive in the dining room;
his open palm full of ash.

XIV. waygate, n.

Dad paces the hallway
as mom reaches for an apple
from the basket on the table.

It turns to ash in her hand
as Serena and I tell them
about what we found at the silo.

Their worry is palpable;
it takes up all the oxygen
in the house.

Dad protests when I say 
I’m going to find
the person who did this.

Mom jolts to her feet,
her chair groans against the floor,
when Serena says she’s going too.

XV. washikong, n.

Mom lectures about
the dangers of traveling
as I tie my shoes.

I repeat our contingency plans to Dad
like a student cramming for an exam
as I pack my backpack.

Serena and I say goodbye,
fly across the farm
toward the city.

XVI. barber’s block, n.

At the edge of town
is a strip mall and
between a Great Clips

and a Wild Birds Unlimited,
there’s a cracked gutter,
and when you peel it back,

a doorway appears.
That’s where
the alchemist works.

XVII. buildering, n.

The alchemist’s shop
is at the roof of a building
hidden in the gutter alley.

For protection
(or just to be a dick),
there are no stairs,

no door from inside.
His magic affects gravity,
makes flying too difficult.

We have to climb the exterior—
fingertips on brick edges,
toes on windowsills.

XVIII. toyo, n.

The alchemist sits
behind his desk, a bowl
of fried rice in one hand,

a half-full bottle
of soy sauce
in the other.

He nods at us in the doorway,
wipes his mouth with his sleeve,
waves us forward.

XIX. geeksville, n.

We tell the alchemist about the silo.
He and Serena click instantly—
fucking nerds.

He has many clarifying questions;
Serena answers with many big words.
I run my fingertips over the labels

of potion bottles he has on display.
He snaps his fingers, flips through pages
of a floating, translucent spellbook.

XX. ohana, n.

The alchemist rubs his chin.
“Looks to be the work of a sorcerer
much too dangerous for you kids.”

I slam my hands on the counter.
“It’s our family. They have no food.
We have to fix it.

“Do you know who did it?
Or have something to stop the rot?
Or do we need to find someone else?”

XXI. cabinet particulier, n.

He pinches the bridge of his nose,
sighs. “Fine. It looks like
the handiwork of Rauldor.

“He’s a restaurateur
whose latest pop-up
seeks to redefine French cuisine.

“My guess is
your father refused his offer,
and this is retribution.

“I’ll arrange a reservation for you,
so you can get some intel.” A pause.
“Do you have… formal wear?”

XXII. adumbrant, adj.

Ties are so uncomfortable.
Whoever decided men
needed to be strangled

to show formality
has never had to work
with their hands.

Rauldor’s pop-up
is in the shadow of
the movie theatre’s spire.

The entrance moves down the street
throughout the evening,
disappears at dusk.

XXIII. zelotypia, n.

Rauldor has a vibe
which escapes words—
but it’s in his eyes.

There’s a constant sense
of calculation, comparison
in the twitch of his pupils.

He walks between tables,
eyes and rotates flower vases,
adjusts the knot of his tie.

XXIV. noctilucent, adj.

Serena casts spells
subtly under her menu
as we wait for bread—

bread, apparently,
from grain we grew
at home.

She says there’s so much
ambient magic in the air,
she won’t be noticed.

I twirl my fork,
watch the waitstaff walk
into and out of the kitchen.

Rauldor’s hair,
a storm cloud always visible
across the dim dining area.

XXV. broad acres, n.

This fucking guy.
As Rauldor makes his rounds,
he talks to each table about

his fresh ingredients,
his gourmet cooking,
his influences from his travels.

Insufferable.
Serena uses a spell to
tip over a platter as a diversion.

I turn to shadow,
roll along the baseboard
toward his office.

XXVI. milver, n.

I move around the kitchen—
smoke from the grill,
boiling water for pasta,

so many tubes
bringing water in,
sucking up smoke.

Serena said Rauldor
would probably have something—
a ring, gem, or scroll—

to undo the curse
once our father caved
to his demands.

Once through the gap between
the floor and the office door,
I see a banner above his computer which reads:

“‘Your focus
determines your reality.’
— Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Dad has the same quote,
the same banner,
in his office at home.

XXVII. paanwallah, n.

I reach toward the banner
slow as the summer sun,
lift the pushpin in the corner.

Focused, measured,
cannot make a sound.
There’s a picture behind the banner.

Rauldor, youthful,
a Culinary Institute hoodie,
and my dad in his UC Davis shirt.

Its corner bent,
taped down
hurriedly.

I peel the tape gently, carefully,
find a hole in the drywall with
a raindrop-shaped gem on the end of a chain.

It’s cold in the palm of my hand
as I scoop it up, but then
a ripple of heat emanates from the hole.

An alarm. Duh. I quickly
tape the picture down, replace the banner,
slip back into the shadow.

XXVIII. wayfere, n.

Rauldor’s French (I assume)
booms through the kitchen
as I slink to the bathroom.

I emerge in an empty stall,
wash my hands,
head back to our table.

I ask about the commotion,
pat my breast pocket,
say I’m too full for dessert.

Serena says a waiter tripped,
the check’s taken care of,
we’re good to go.

I feel like an alien
performing a human impression
as we walk out of the restaurant.

A man, outside, says
we’re dressed awfully fancy to see
the Super Mario movie.

We laugh hard,
whether to his joke or out of relief,
I don’t know.

Around the corner, we try to fly home.
While Serena is successful,
I remain planted to the ground.

The gem, she says, must have
some strange gravitational pull,
so we begin walking home instead.

Serena asked what really happened,
once at a safe distance, then lists
the shenanigans she pulled to buy me time.

The city’s not so bad—
streetlights, the moon
light our way home.

XIX. ombrology, n.

The gem throbs against my chest
as we approach the edge of our farm,
the silo’s skeleton in the light of dawn.

Something tells me—
a wordless radiation—
I have to crush the gem.

Serena stops when I walk toward the silo.
She yells when I take out the gem.
She takes off when my fist consumes it

and I pour
its dust
into the ashes.

The sky becomes white,
the air becomes cool,
and Serena tackles me.

She yells and cries,
bangs her fist on my chest.
Hopelessness consumes her eyes.

Then rain begins to fall.
Rain falls
and the fields turn green.

XXX. gordon bennett, int.

Serena laughs,
struggles to breathe,
falls back into the grass arms wide.

The rain’s cool on my face.
From the ground, I see beams
reposition themselves into a silo.

When we get up, we realize our clothes—
the alchemist’s formal wear—
are covered in mud.

The walk back to the house is slow.
The rain feels right, new.
Our house even looks brighter.

Mom and Dad are
double-fisting apples while
two steaks cook on the grill.

They stop when they see us, cheer,
lift and spin us around in celebration,
then eat their steaks off the grill with their hands.

They hadn’t eaten all day, Mom says. 
Afraid to destroy what they had left.
The rain told them something was fixed.

XXXI. blood and thunder, n.

Around the third knife fight,
Dad starts to doubt
my story.

Worse, Serena
doesn’t even back my up.
She tells them the truth,

even though our parents’s
unfounded fear of the city
is hilarious.

When explaining how I got the gem,
I hesitate mentioning the picture;
it feels too private, something I shouldn’t know.

But, Serena operates on
a whole-truth principle,
so I bring it up.

Dad’s quiet, makes a face
that looks like he has to chew
his thoughts into words.

“We were friends in college, yes,” he says,
‘but Rauldor’s changed a lot since then.
You’ve done enough, Finch.

“You’ve served your family well.
Thank you.
Let me take care of the rest."

Always Empty

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from September, 2022.

I. ghost hunt, n.

There’s just something missing
on the battlefield.
The thrill of the kill is there,
the electricity of bloodlust,
but iron helmets, visors
hide their eyes.

I want to watch the waves
calm within their irises.

II. beeline, v.

In the old days,
I’d strike from a shadow,
dagger to throat.

I could feel
the tremble of their larynx
on the blade’s edge
with my fingertips.

III. tots, n.

There’s a big celebration at camp
after our victory in battle.

My steps through blood-soaked dirt
become steps through drunken soil,
potatoes float in puddles of wine and ale.

They toast me as I pass,
slurred cheers of “Captain!”
I feel so empty.

IV. fabulism, n.

There was a future in my head
when I started down this road.

It did not include power, status;
it included revenge.

V. leading light, n.

A singular ember
in my chest —
A dense anger.

A vision of their bodies,
rivulets of blood
over the edge of our bed.

VI. endarkenment, n.

Their corpses felt me
empty.

The rush of the kill
from a just vengeance, 
did not fill the void.

I left town, got a job
doing the only thing
that made me feel alive.

VII. amazake, n.

A soldier hands me a chalice
of some drink or other
as I enter the captain’s tent.

A strategist from the capitol
holds up a communication scroll
bearing the king’s face.

He congratulates me on the victory,
rambles about honor and other shit
he knows I don’t care about.

VIII. Monogyne, n.

When you hold someone’s light
in the palms of your hands,
get to choose when and how
you clench your fist, see it rise
like steam between your knuckles— that
is power. That is the feeling
of control, of being alive.

IX. altaltissimo, n.

Does this dude ever
take his crown off?

When I bound my fate to his,
I didn’t anticipate
having to listen to his
incessant blathering
after every victory.

It’s not even for me—
it’s for the nobles who believe
his brother suffered a fatal heart attack.

X. anjeer, n.

I look at the palm of my glove
while King NeverShutsUp tangents
to lofty goals for the next year.

It’s stained with dried blood— mine
and others, probably— I don’t remember
when they were washed last.

It looks like a noble’s robe would
after a festival, covered with remnants
of spilled wine, fallen fruit— trophies.

XI. rachmanism, n.

The strategist drops the scroll
when he applauds for the king
as he talks about defending
the freedoms of his subjects.

This behavior is beyond me.
‘Freedom’ and ‘subjects’
don’t seem like complimentary terms,
but I don’t collect tax revenue,

so what do I know.

XII. sibsomeness, n.

Sometimes, I fear
what will happen to me
if the king has his way—
peace comes to the kingdom
and he no longer needs me
or my protection.

XIII. nash-gab, n.

The king asks questions about the battle
after the comm scroll with his head
has been properly restored.

My answers are short,
my nods curt.

I wonder what it would be like 
if he didn’t fear me
or he actually cared about the details.

XIV. deliverology, n.

I met the King
when he was a prince
in a tavern on the outskirts
of his territory. Peasant clothes
to hide his nobility or feign camaraderie,
a pint in his hand. 

He slurred through ways
the kingdom could be better
under his name. Cheers and ale
bounced off the walls with his exclamations.

I asked what he was willing to pay.

XV. xennial, n. and adj.

In the predawn dark, he was torn
between the traditions of his older brother
and the ideals of the youth in his bones.

But he saw it, for a moment,
in the flickering candlelight: the crown
on his head, the power in his voice.

He offered piles of gold, a legal pardon;
the future boredom was palpable.
He stammered, sweat on his temples.

I asked for a seat on his council,
command of his army. He thought me
a mindless killer. We shook hands.

XVI. psionic, adj.

He never asked me how
I got rid of the king.

People don’t like hearing the details
of shadow magic, especially, I assume

when your power would be questioned
if anyone ever found out.

I use it on the battlefield still:
pits that swallow squadrons;

shadows that consume brains,
flood the whites of their eyes.

After our first victory, he asked me
how it was done. I told him, “Like before.”

XVII. segotia, n.

The king closes his address
by inviting us for a feast at his castle.
The strategist accepts the invitation
for both of us: a knee jerk reaction.

The king’s face fades
into the off-white of the scroll.
He looked excited to see the people
he considers his friends.

XVIII. bird dog, n.

The road back to the city is long.
Soldiers practically skip in anticipation
for a warm welcome home,
feasts with their families.

I keep seeing faces in tree bark—
faces I’ve seen before,
ones I haphazardly sent into shadows
before the king found me.

XIX. requiescat, n.

Part of me remembers my wife—
the way she’d knead sourdough
with the heel of her hand, singing
a melody in the morning light.
I miss her then, want her soul to feel
peace.

But then, I see her fingers entangled
in the hair of someone else: the alchemist
with smooth hands; a thick, braided beard.
I see their slit throats, their blood pooling
on a bed I could never return to, and I wish her soul
pain.

XX. parapublic, adj.

The king’s army is made
of young men who break rank
as we travel through a village
outside the city walls.

Rundown buildings,
families in tattered clothes,
who anticipate their return,
who worry about and love them.

XXI. adyt, n.

I don’t stop them from running
to the open arms of their families.

I don’t force them to walk
through the city to the castle.

I don’t subject them to the king’s
lengthy speeches, empty accolades.

I don’t pressure them to eat
mediocre roast in the king’s dining hall.

That’s a job for me.

XXII. binge-watching, n.

Does this guy ever shut up?
It’s astounding
he’s capable of eating any food
while moving from story to story.
Is anyone even listening?

XXIII. sharenting, n.

I look between family portraits
which line the walls
of the dining hall.

So many stoic children
forced to stand at attention
in perpetuity.

Would it be so bad
if someone pruned
this tree?

XXIV. garbler, n.

A tendril of shadow
coils around my boot,
slithers over dried blood.

I left a sham marriage
just to enter into
the cage of power. 

Misery and emptiness
follow me like anchors
slogging through loose sand.

The shadow is hungry. I
am hungry. My fingers
twitch, nails ready

to dig into flesh.

XXV. nosey, v.

Pay attention to the small actions:
the way he flicks his wrist,
talks with both arms,
saunters across the hall.

There’s information hidden there
that’ll help identify his weak spots,
expose patterns he never talks about.
That’s what I need to kill him.

XXVI. stepford, adj.

The castle guard wear similar armor—
shiny, the king’s sigil on the breast
strong, but inflexible, slow.

They go through rigorous training,
all of them, mastering the same techniques,
exposing the same weak spots.

XXVII. pretenture, n.

Humans build to keep out enemies,
but shadows flow over them with ease.
Yet another example of overconfidence,
misunderstanding of our world’s nature.

I slip along the lines of mortar between
the castle’s stone, let threads of void
ensnare the guards, flood their eyes
with visions of tortured, mangled bodies.

XXVIII. melpomenish, adj.

The king’s chamber is filled with
garish trinkets—  objects to look at,
no utility.

Under thick quilts with intricate designs,
his snores mix with the fireplace’s crackling.
No challenge.

I envelope the flame in a shadowy blanket,
knock a goblet off the mantlepiece
for the drama.

His shoulders shift, a bleary investigation.
His face when his eyes fell on me—
exquisite.

XXIX. anonymuncule, n.

He begs, pleads for his life,
offers riches, titles, land.

He says they’ll find me out, whisper
my name in every corner of the kingdom.

Even in death, he
just never shuts up.

I grip his heart in a shadowy fist,
feel its rhythmic tremors.

I squeeze until it finally stops,
until he’s finally silent,

until the waves in his irises
become stagnant pools.

XXX. leso, n.

I rearrange his body and his blankets
to look like his heart failed in his sleep.

Intricate patterns, expensive dyes, his quilt
reminds me of the dresses my wife wore

back when she was alive. And, like that,
a void settles in my chest again.

Always empty. All is fleeting.
I exit under the cover of the dark moon.

A Mutual Aching to Leave

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from March, 2022.

I. cardiffian, n.

I start my day
watching river water
flow into the bay.

II. barley sugar, n.

A candy shop by the footbridge
switches its sign
from closed to open.
The display case filled with fudge,
hard candies my mom would like.
I consider buying them, before remembering
she’s gone.

III. beastie, n.

A dog walks by that looks like hers.
No matter how far I travel,
I cannot escape her memory.

IV. interrrobang, n.

I keep landing on
inconsequential memories,
not ones with thematic resonance
or impactful consequences.
Why do I keep thinking
about the time her tea kettle vibrated
on the element, her worried exclamation
asking me what I did, her laugh
afterward scolding herself
for jumping to conclusions?

V. toyetic, adj.

I used to run across the house
barefoot on Saturday mornings
to beat her to the tv
so I could watch cartoons.

She’d bring me breakfast,
which I’d absent-mindedly ignore
while children would command
small monsters to attack each other.

VI. kente, n.

I head back to my hotel;
wrap her urn in a cloth
made by her best friend,
gifted at her memorial back home;
place it in my backpack
to take her on a Dr. Who walking tour —
something she asked for
in the hospital.

VII. anythingarian, n.

As I walk
from landmark to landmark,
I debate
what to do with her ashes.
She told me
many different ideas, locations,
never settling.

VIII. chipmunk, n. and adj.

During a break for lunch,
a chipmunk approaches
my table outside the cafe,
looks me dead in the eye.
I see her. In those eyes. It’s like
she’s sending me a message.

IX. bandulu, n. and adj.

A voice emits from the eyes.
“Rialto Beach. Scatter me
on the rocky shore.”

I open the permit application when I get
back to my hotel, but the letters
blur, the boxes checker.

I book a flight back home.
I’ll just go the coast and
do the thing.

X. zombocalypse, n.

People walk around the airport
like packages on a conveyor belt.
I sit alone by my gate
in an uncomfortable pleather chair
when someone walks toward me,
sits in the seat right next to me.

It is my mother.

XI. cuddy wifter, n.

A notepad appears on her lap,
a pen in her left hand.
She draws quick lines
to make feathers
of a great blue heron
standing in a still pond.

“I want so much to be at peace.”
Her voice a tired drawl.

XII. amaxophobia, n.

The ceiling dings. An announcement
about my flight boarding soon.

“I can’t believe you flew my ashes across the planet. You know I hate flying.”

“You said you wanted to see the places in Dr. Who. And it was a walking tour.”

“You can’t believe everything a dying woman tells you.”

XIII. bassa-bassa, n.

The ceiling dings.
My boarding group is called.

She stands before I do, stomps
her feet, yells at me for putting her
through this.

People walk through her
as she screams.

XIV. belove, n.

She continues to guilt me
as I walk through the skybridge,
down the aisle to my seat
near the back of the plane.

I’m sure she will go on
for the whole ten hours
until we land in Seattle.

I will do whatever is needed
to give her peace. It’s what
a son should do.

XV. overshare, v.

My guilt is immense.
Guilt about making her travel;
guilt if I hadn't traveled in the first place.
There is no winning.
My guilt is immense.

XVI. utopiate, n.

My ZzzQuil kicks in somewhere
over the Atlantic; I fall
asleep. My feet bare,
toes dug into the edge of sand
pulled under by the surf.
Soft wind, quiet roar,
the sun behind
a pale canvas of clouds.

XVII. flaithulach, adj.

The last time
my mom saw the coast —
winter — a last escape
before chemo kept her
homebound.
She stood on driftwood logs,
arms wide, a deep breath of salty air.
Ocean spray or tears, I’m unsure.

XVIII. powfagged, adj.

An overhead announcement
of our imminent arrival in Seattle
wakes me. My eyes struggle open.
My mom's voice crescendos
as blurs transition into shapes.
She scolds me for falling asleep
while she was talking.

XIX. credentialism, n.

Baggage claim, she draws me in
a graduation robe, holding a diploma cover.
“I wish I could have seen it.”

“Me too.”

“You shouldn’t have taken that semester off.”

“I had to. You are more important than a piece of paper.”

“I was dying. That ‘piece of paper’ would have been your key to a successful future.”

XX. bestiary, n.

I wait for my Uber
in the parking garage.
Midmorning, the smell
of concrete and gasoline.
Five Subarus drive by
ten people and one ghost
waiting for their getaways.

A blue Prius pulls up.
The driver leans their purple hair
out of the window to announce my name.
They offer to help with my suitcase,
but I decline, placing it in the backseat,
until my mom mutters
under her breath. I put it in the trunk.

XXI. wych elm, n.

The driver makes small talk
while my mom complains
about how everything’s changed.

They stop the car just past the driveway
under the tree in our front yard
whose branches leave
a fluctuating pattern on the hood.

I transfer luggage from their car to mine
while my mom taps her foot,
stares at the mailboxes down the road.

XXII. free solo, n.

I take 512 to I-5 to 101 for a beat,
route 8 to 12, then back to 101,
but clockwise,
along the coast —
the sun sinks into the pacific.

She watches it all in silence.

XXIII. siu mei, n.

The full moon exposes
a near-empty parking lot.
The rocky shore tinted blue, except
for an orange spot at
the driftwood’s edge.
A family sits on logs around it,
laughing, singing.

XXIV. light fantastic, n.

My mom walks
over the logs to the wet sand
— no footprints —
and dances to the singing family.

XXV. imagineer, n.

I wake up to an overcast sky —
a matte canvas
behind my fogged windshield.
My mom's urn secure
in my backpack beneath
the passenger seat.

It’s time for her final walk
along the coast.

XXVI. archaeobotanist, n.

“Before you were born, your father drove us out here for a weekend in the summer. Rialto was pretty unknown back then — hardly any other people were walking the shore. You could really hear the waves crash and the rocks shuffle beneath your feet.

“We sat on a log right around here for a break halfway to Hole in the Wall, and I just stared at the horizon. The crashing waves surrounded me. Then your father, that sweet man, put this flower in my lap — looked like a paintbrush imbued with fire — so orange, so warm.

“I kept that flower in a notebook for years. I pressed it between the pages I wrote about the trip.

“I never wanted to forget.”

XXVII. dayside, n. and adj.

After a rest, Hole in the Wall in sight,
I take her urn out of my backpack.
It feels like
she would want to see it approach,
feel the sun
one last time.

XXVIII. saketini, n.

She squats over a tide pool
to poke a crab hiding
under an anemone.
It flinches, untouched.
She laughs. “Yes,” a sigh,
“That’s what I needed.”

XXIX. chip, v.

The rock juts out into the water.
Hole in the Wall, an arch at its end.
Tide’s coming in; I have to move fast.
I step around tide pool edges
barefoot, quickly, before they’re buried.

XXX. monophobia, n.

Under the arch, anemones sway
in tide pools sloshed by the incoming tide.
I hesitate. Her urn, opened, in my hands.
I know I need to. I know she needs it.
But what will happen? What will happen
when she is finally gone?

XXXI. jeune premier, n.

I scatter her ashes along the tide pools
on the north side of Hole in the Wall.
I look south to her standing on the other side.

She walks toward me through the arch,
dissolves in beads of light, which expand
to the Hole’s rim, fade to an overcast sky.

A Traveler’s Hymn

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2022.

I. caravette, n.

He packed his bags and threw them back
behind the driver’s seat.
His destination was not known,
but still he headed east.

The engine revved, the shifter clicked,
and gravel stirred below.
His horn honked twice, he waved his arm,
and turned onto the road.

II. limbo, v.

The highway’s flat and straight until
the city’s skyline spouts
and overpasses form above
his head so full of doubt.

He ducked his head — no logic there —
when under every one.
And all the morning, he did chase
his guiding light: the sun.

III. hagiologist, n.

He prayed to Bona, Pisa’s saint,
as dusk became the night.
She watches over travelers, when
the sun is not so bright.

His eyes were heavy, night was young;
at some point he must stop.
He hoped that Bona'd keep him safe;
his head his arm did prop.

IV. chutzpasik, adj.

He drove nonstop throughout the night
to see the coast at dawn.
Not tired, he said, then shook his head
when lines began to yawn.

His car’s warm hood, while parked askew,
sent steam into the sky.
The sun did peek from o’er the sea;
its beauty made him cry.

V. hagfish, n.

When hunger fin'lly sank its teeth
into his quiv’ring ribs,
he walked across the parking lot,
and tore off trash can lids.

He dug around to find some food
inside curled fast food bags.
A bite or two to get him through
that morning’s final drag.

VI. belongingness, n.

He ate, returned to beach’s edge,
and inhaled salty air.
He combed his matted hair by wind
and at horizon stared.

He breathed in tandem with the sea —
the tidal ebb and flow.
He wanted this to last fore’er,
but knew he had to go.

VII. driving box, n.

The driver’s seat was worn and cold
and sighed when sat upon.
He had to find a job so that
he’d have new clothes to don.

His wrinkled shirt from Applebee’s
was fading, tearing more.
It’d lasted sev’ral summers, but
no longer could be worn.

VIII. up a daisy, int.

He drove until a hiring sign
did fin’lly ‘pear downtown,
then par’lleled parked across the street,
the visor’s mirror down.

A deep breath there, then slapped his face 
and stared into his eyes.
“You got this, Adam,” said he then,
and donned a clip-on tie.

IX. ghostbuster, n.

“For months now, we have heard these wails
from down below the shop.
We’re ‘fraid a spirit’ll one day rise,
the floor our blood will mop.

“Now, I’ve been told a spell exists,
or something science-y,
to rid us of this blight. Can you?
We’d pay you handsomely.”

X. inadvisably, adv.

No hesitation in his voice,
he took the job and said,
“I’ve never failed to catch a ghost
or zombie or undead.”

The shopkeep pointed to the door
that to the basement lead.
His confidence successf’lly hid
a plan to fake instead.

XI. gee-whizzery, n.

Atop the stairs, she left him there
to go down on his own.
Her glasses fogged with nervous sweat,
her legs were heavy stone.

He closed the door to hide his work
and falsify results.
So dark and cold, a thick’ning fog
reveals something occult.

XII. zom-com, n.

A paw broke through the concrete floor
with saggy, patchy flesh.
Long nose and tail, now on all fours,
teeth flared to eat afresh.

Then Adam reached behind his back
to find something to throw.
He didn’t know ’til out his hand,
it was a squeaky bone.

XIII. scrimmaging, adj.

Like lightning, pounced the dog on bone,
whose squeaks to heaven cried.
Its rubber shards like mist in fog;
its tone grew low and died.

The dog’s eye sockets, empty voids,
to Adam turned at once.
T’ward him a blur of fur did dash 
like he’s the prey it hunts.

XIV. bridle-wise, adj.

In grade school, Adam wrangled cows
at Uncle Nathan’s ranch.
When bored of ropes and tying knots,
he’d settle calves by hand.

His callused palms had softened since,
but muscle mem’ry stayed.
He took a stance to catch the dog
in order to get paid.

XV. ghoulishness, n.

He caught the dog with thund’rous boom,
the hind legs in his hands.
The sound of crackling tendons popped
like snapping rubber bands.

Adrenaline had blinded him,
so fearing for his life.
Removed both legs, then broke each bone
and grabbed his pocketknife.

XVI. summum malum, n.

To throat he took his knife to slice
to separate the brain
from body; with no signal then
on concrete floor it lain.

From out the neck, a thicker fog
as black as void did rise.
It filled the walls, and ‘cross the room,
as red as blood, were eyes.

XVII. sitooterie, n.

Engulfed in black, no gravity
nor distance clear, alert
he was to all. A canvas rip 
below him revealed dirt.

He staggered back onto his feet.
A willow tree gave shade
to chairs, a man in tailored suit
with red eyes said his name.

XVIII. cardioid, n. and adj.

“Now Adam, why would you do that?
My heart, you drive a stake.”
His voice consumed all other sound,
left silence in his wake.

“You’ve killed my dog, I can’t forgive
this slight upon my house.”
He raised his palm, a flash of light,
in flames, the willow doused.

XIX. garden bean, n.

While burning branches fell around
his twitchy, icy hands,
he balled his fists, assumed the stance
that he, for ages, planned.

He knew the man with eyes of blood
would find him once again.
His constant moving to escape
from every demon sent.

XX. fantysheeny, adj.

His pocketknife, passed down to him
on father’s bed of death,
vibrated harsh — a phantom pain,
perhaps his final breath.

Unsheathed then clicked the blade in place,
glowed yellow, orange by flame.
“I’ll exorcise you with this knife
that bares my father’s name.”

XXI. baje, adj. and n.

He lunged with blade in hand and dodged
a fist engulfed in fire.
He stabbed with a calypso beat
against the well-dressed pyre.

So many holes, his knife did leave,
in that maroon suit coat.
No blood did pour around its waist,
no fibers drenched or soaked.

XXII. witching, n.

Despair set in; defeat was near —
he’d die without a sound.
Blue waves of light flowed ‘crossed his knife;
he spotted dewy ground.

He plunged the blade into the spot,
then twisted it in place.
His arm aimed toward the eyes of blood
set in his father’s face.

XXIII. spirit-stirring, adj.

He felt a stream of water flow
from blade through arm to chest.
A geyser ‘rupted out his palm
at he so finely dressed.

He heard a scream, ethereal,
while launching his attack.
His father’s howling scream was there
to take his body back.

XXIV. meet-cute, n.

The flames extinguished, eyes of blood
evaporated then
in mist unholy darkened sky.
His father back again.

The sky, grown black, engulfed the tree
and everything around.
He woke up ‘gainst the shopkeep’s chair,
the basement door unbound.

XXV. ram-stam, adj., adv., and n.

He wiped his hair, and dust and ash 
cascaded to the floor.
“Your problem’s gone, I guarantee.
No ghosts will haunt your store.

“About your door, I’m sorry that
I broke it off its hinge,
but can your help me to my feet?
my lower back’s a twinge.”

XXVI. jai, int.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, so, so much!
The door is no big deal,
‘cause you have saved us all. Can I
repay you with a meal?”

She blushed, and o’er her ear she brushed
her soft magenta hair.
She did not meet his eyes, because
the floor is where she stared.

XXVII. toydom, n.

His heart still fast, like jumbled words,
the pictures in his head.
His vocal cords did vibrate, but
he knew not what he said.

She helped him off the floor and walked
across the shop. Sunset.
His body moved all on its own —
strung like a marionette.

XXVIII. swag, n.

A wave had crashed along the shore
as they had sauntered by.
His lungs were full of salty air;
he felt he’d never die.

His thoughts and limbs back in control;
his body fully his.
He fin’lly asked her ‘bout herself;
she said she goes by Liz.

XXIX. banteringly, adv.

The restaurant Liz chose was lit
by candlelight’s dim glow.
The sun, which set o’er harbor west,
was split by masts of boats.

They joked about the days they had
way after food was done.
The conversation was so nice,
he felt no want to run.

XXX. drivel, n.

The truest form of ease, of home,
is when you talk about
whatever happens to come up,
as free as geysers’s spouts.

So, Liz and Adam talked all night
until they kicked them out.
But then, they just walked ‘round the pier —
a moonlit walkabout.

XXXI. haggard, n.

Throughout the night, unceasingly,
his thoughts returned to home:
an aging farm, his father back
to tend it on his own.

He built a shell, their future pruned,
he tried to not look sad.
“As much as I would like to stay,
I need to help my dad."

Truefast; Or, Inherited from the Gods

It is imperative, Elliot, 
that you pay attention.
Our fate may fall in your hands one day,
and time may take me before then, 
so you must remember this on your own.

There is a word my elders taught me
(yes, there are people older than me)
that has been passed down
since gods walked among us
that you must learn.

Hausaflortum.

It means ‘sanctuary’
in a language related to Celestial
that branched off 
when mortals figured out how to talk to gods.

Travelers from our village
created safe houses in every corner of the world
that open to that word
in case any of us ever need it.

There are stories of old adventurers
who even used this spell
to protect ancient temples,
maybe even gods themselves.

There’s always a chance you’re wrong

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2021.

I. hen scratch, n.

An omen,
they say,
crawling across the sky.

Hard rain,
thunder, lightning
will scar our cropland.

II. baksheesh, n., adj., and adv.

To stop the storm,
we offer a loaf of bread
wrapped in

a ceremonial woolen cloth
buried beneath
an ancient cedar’s roots.

III. zinger, n.

“You actually believe in
the burying bread thing?!”
my son laughs.

“You might as well ask them
to make Monday follow Tuesday!”
He shakes his head.

I sigh.
“You’ll understand when the rain calms
and the clouds burn away.”

IV. noctambulist, n.

Moon walks behind the layer of
blue-black clouds —
a bruise across the sky.

Stars appear, sprout rays toward the moon,
which set clouds ablaze —
a sheet of pale flame.

V. astrogator, n.

I point at the clear morning sky.
“You see! You see!
They took the offering”

My hands wave back and forth.
“They cleared the storm
with the moon’s fire!”

“Preposterous. There must be
a scientific explanation for all that,”
he dismissively shakes his head.

VI. seven-pennyworth, n.

“Look here, right here!
An explanation for the storm!”
He points to an article in the newspaper.

“An abnormal weather pattern
brought about by the changing climate.
It’s science, Dad.”

VII.  amazingness, n.

I scan the article.
“Reasonable, I’ll give you that,
but you cannot be certain.”

Pointing to the final paragraph,
“There’s always a chance you’re wrong.
It’s science, Son.”

I sip my coffee.
“The climate, the moon, or the stars —
The fact is: the storm is gone.”

VIII. dunger, n.

A quiet drive in my old truck,
a Ford whose red paint has faded
to the hue of a house finch’s breast.

Its motor’s hum,
the only sound
between my son and me.

IX. okada, n.

The truck hiccups,
comes to
a complete stop.

“Did the moon and stars
kill your truck too?”
He laughs, pulling out his phone.

I pinch my eyebrows.
“So what if they did?
We’re stuck either way.”

He calls a friend who lives nearby,
who can get him to the station
on their loud motorcycle.

X. krump, v.

I stay with the truck
to poke at it, see if I can
figure out what the problem is.

I turn on the stereo on the seat
which I bought after the built-in one broke
to find a radio station to help me think.

It catches when I try to start it up, and
I pop the hood to find
something moving around the engine.

XI. odditorium, n.

A bushy tail.
Eyes red as arterial blood.
Two long claws on each paw.

A claw cuts a cable.
A hiss through sharp teeth.
Two wings unfurl, carry it all away.

XII. seventhly, adv. and n.

Dave arrives to tow me home.
“What the hell happened?
Leo said your truck just died?”

I completely forgot the plan
we came up with when we saw
Leo only had enough service to text.

I can’t keep my voice down.
“I don’t know! Did you see that?!
Why are there so many omens lately?!

“What
is
happening?!”

XIII. ovulite, n.

Dave cannot draw
the connections himself,
so I help.

I talk about the storm, the stars,
the creature in the truck,
every weird occurrence around town,

how each element
fits together
like sedimentary rock.

XIV. dogleg, v.

Dave listens as he tows me home,
curves around the backroads,
nods politely as I talk.

XV. automorphism, n.

It can’t just be me.
Everyone must see it too;
it’s too obvious.

Dave gets it.
He doesn’t say so,
but he does.

XVI. staycation, n.

“I think the sun might be getting to you,”
Dave says as he maneuvers
my truck into the driveway.

“You might need to rest a while.”
His sentence punctuated
by the grip of the emergency brake.

XVII. papri, n.

Dave leaves. I pop the hood,
the knife of my leatherman
unsheathed, ready to strike.

Nothing emerges.
I find the broken cable,
unattach the loose halves.

I get Leo’s road bike from the garage,
ride it to the AutoZone by the strip mall.
Its thin wheels hum in the wind.

XVIII. mandela, n.

The stereo on the counter
blares some talk radio voice in the store;
its antenna pokes over the register.

I pace through the aisles ’til
I find a replacement cable,
then return to the counter.

Ger methodically rings me up, grumbles,
“Always namedropping insteada
doing anything to change anything.”

XIX. custard pie, n.

Ger holds the cable
in his callused hands.
“How this happen?”

I sigh,
“The truck died, and
a monster under the hood cut it.”

He looks at me, then at the cable,
raises an eyebrow, then guffaws.
“Musta been one scary squirrel, Harv!”

XX. butin, n.

Not wanting more ridicule,
I notice the month with no clouds,
but say nothing.

At least
the storm
didn’t destroy our crops.

XXI. buster suit, n.

Midafternoon.
Condensation pools around
a glass of water on the table.

In the waves above the road,
I see myself as a child
running in the soft rain of early fall.

XXII. star shot, n.

An omen, a message
from the stars, hanging from
the sitka spruce branches, I say.

A common mold, a fungus
without meaning or purpose,
Leo says, showing me a picture on his phone.

XXIII. olive branch, n.

Lift my cap, scratch my head,
“It wouldn’t hurt
to leave an offering just in case.”

“A loaf feeds us for a week.
We can’t afford to waste it.”
He rubs his eyes with both hands.

XXIV. rebetika, n.

Midnight —
when the moon and stars meet
to discuss their plans.

Midnight —
when crevices and faults open
to release demons to our realm.

Midnight —
when I take our last loaf of bread
to bury under the ancient cedar’s roots.

XXV. genteelness, n.

“Dad. What the hell?
Where’s the bread?”
Leo slams the cabinets shut.

I rub my shoulders.
“We can get by without it.
The offering had to be made.”

Before he speaks, I hold up a hand.
“Now hold on. Listen.
Rain will come and save us and our crops.”

XXVI. roman à clef, n.

I try to read the stars
as they appear just after dusk,
to see if they’ve listened.

Without a cipher,
I don’t recognize any of the names
they mutter to themselves.

XXVII. unplug, v.

Leo makes breakfast the next morning:
coffee, eggs and
toast.

I stare at the plate.
“Where did you get more bread?
I thought we couldn’t afford it.”

“I dug up that loaf you buried.
The soil kept it cool, the cloth kept it clean.”
He smiles at his own cleverness.

He has
no faith in the process,
no idea what he’s done.

XXVIII. Henatrice, n.

A hellish caw
echoes over our acreage,
shakes the window frames.

In the sky, a winged beast,
feathers and scales
and menace in its eyes.

It soars over the house
toward town,
death in its wake.

XXIX. ang moh, n. and adj.

Looking at the window,
blood drains from Leo’s face,
now pale as calla lilies.

“I- I don’t-
I don’t understand,”
he stammers, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

XXX. Parafango, n.

I get out of my seat.
“You took its offering.
Now we need to fix it.”

I gather all the pieces of the loaf,
blend a mixture of
wax from a prayer candle, ash from the wood stove.

After coating the bread in ashwax,
it’s wrapped in a woolen cloth,
reburied at the cedar.

Shielding my eyes
while running back to the house,
I hear its caw as it returns.

XXXI. Greeze, n.

“How did you know that would work?
It’s nonsensical,”
Leo scratches his head, as the beast flies away.

I take a deep breath.
“It’s drawn to the ash and wax,
something the elders said worked long ago.”

“That’s all superstition though!
That’s not scientific at all!”
He grips the hair above his temples.

I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Science isn’t an answer;
it’s a question.”