The frozen dew of February stands in the shadow of towering firs. The sun rises slowly in the southern clouds, and shadows recede. An edge of bright frost curves with the shadow along the shoulder of Kersey Way, not realizing it was time to go.
Tag: literature
Daddy Warbucks; Or, Go in My Place
I get that my dad has to do all these stupid ceremonies; he’s the king, la-di-da. But, does that really mean I have to go to the things too? It’s not my kingdom— would it still be a kingdom if I ruled it? A queendom? Anyway, I’m not the ruler; I shouldn’t have to go to this drawn-out, fuddy-duddy event to celebrate the bicentennial of some old tavern with good hash browns. ‘It’s a landmark, blah blah blah, good for the economy, blah blah blah, boosts the morale of the citizenry, blah blah. The optics, Aerith, the OPTICS.’ Can’t you go in my place? You look just like me. You just need to get up on the stage or whatever, give some speech, point at that old dwarven guy, then leave. Ten minutes, tops. Ugh. His council probably expects some gaudy centerpiece for their table to project how important they are. Forgot about that. You can probably find something cheap at the market if you hurry.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
Orthopraxy; Or, A Mother’s Pain
I’ve haunted this temple since the day you were born, the day I died bringing you here. I’ve hid behind alters and candle flames, above rafters, under pews, to watch you grow into a man. I’ve tried to not interfere, let you bloom like wild sage, but sometimes I have failed. I’ve never felt a pain— while living, at least— comparable to seeing you hurt.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
Hierophanic; Or, Elyon’s Struggle
I've heard people say Pelor is here— breathing our air, walking our pews. I’ve spent my life reading His words, preaching His teachings. I’ve never wavered. But, I’ve always wondered why He took my parents away before I ever knew them; why I was chosen for this temple; why, in His wisdom, He chose to take my ability to move my legs.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
The Ballad of Coll Tabe
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from December, 2020.
This story is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
I. Sprunny, n.
The tavern din surrounds me, an undercurrent for a song I’ve heard before— a hundred times from a hundred bards. They sing and dance the way you do before your love is torn from you. I see her dancing with them— her ghost swaying with the lyre— the way she did before.
II. Celebrous, adj.
Polite applause from drunken patrons after his song ends— the same thing as every other act. Finally, then, they took the stage, shouldering their lyre. A legend ‘mong bards, whose name is known to fill souls with newfound fire. I first saw them perform here years ago on the Hash Brown Tavern stage. The first song they played, they called “Corse Boyfriend,” chilled me to the bone. In their chords, I heard his voice, I saw his eyes, I lost my breath until the last note died to a smattering of applause. I returned each week, to study their hands— to learn the chords to produce his eyes on my own. My bloodstained lyre keeps him from me still.
III. Auguste, n.
Whenever I perform, I stick to standards— the shanties they want from a halfling like me. They laugh and cheer, but I always fear That I, not the story’s fool, am the object of ridicule.
IV. De-Extinction, n.
The last time I held you, there were rocks flying over our heads. The last time I held you, your blood was soaking into my cloak. The last time I held you, they pried you away from me. The last time I was home, I watched you die in my arms. The last time I was home, they chased me to the edge of the forest. The last time I was home, they said my kind isn’t welcome anymore.
V. Briticism, n.
Leaving Mossmeadow meant leaving the winds of Lake Quarx. The capital isn’t far from Mossmeadow, but the way people talk in Arcton took time to understand— some words they use aren’t used the way I’d ever heard them at home. Leaving Mossmeadow meant leaving my son. Walking through the city, I see many families— many children learning the ways of their culture, the foods of their families, the stories of their elders. I think about who is raising him, how much he is missing.
VI. Bigly, adv.
“Coll, you’re up,” says the tavern keeper— an old dwarf whose auburn beard has started graying out. I down my ale to handle my nerves, grab my lyre, head to the stage. “Good evening, I’m Coll Tabe. This is a song I used to sing to my son to teach him about our history back when he was young. This is the story of Maro Lightfoot.” I play so loud the wall shake. I hope they hear me back in Mossmeadow.
VII. Magnalia, n.
The first love of my life was a baker who brought rolls to my family’s inn, and we’d talk ’til the church bell tolled. I asked her to dance in the village square under the setting sun. We were wed nary a year 'fore she died delivering our son. The second love of my life was a farmer who brought gourds to the autumnal market, and I’d buy all that I could afford. We drank one night in public for once, and then they made us run from rocks that flew and broke his skull, and then they took my son. I don’t know why the sky and sea must take them all away from me.
VIII. Slobberknocker, n.
A string breaks. Back on stage. The happy song had traveled with me into the memory, became a lament without my realizing. It’s apparent in the audience’s faces— it is not what they wanted.
IX. Anemious, adj.
It’s nights like this that make me move from city to city— a leaf on a breeze that never lands anywhere.
X. Zero-Sum, adj.
I sulk back to the bar. A fresh pint by my chair. “It’s alright,” the tavern keeper says. “You’re getting better, for sure. In the meantime though, their displeasure in your playing makes them buy more ale, so this one’s on the house.”
XI. Sportingly, adv.
“You really think that? That I’m getting better? It doesn’t really feel that way at all.” I take a swig. “Oh, of course, Coll. Everyone eventually gets better when they put in effort.” I shrug. “You think I was born able to make the best hash browns in all of Kardpaz?” I sigh. “It took me a long time to find the secret to cooking potatoes, Coll; It’s true. “You know, Uku was just like you when they started playing here all those years ago, too.” “What?” “You look up to them right? I saw you scribble notes after they performed ‘Raccoon with a Dagger’ last week— never cared for that raccoon friend of theirs— Anyway, you’re usually here when they perform, and you get so focused until their set’s done, then you start scribbling on whatever you got. It’s pretty obvious.” Dying inside, I clear my throat. “You must be real old, then, Rosti.” I gulp my ale. He laughs, “Older than stone.” He turns, back to work, helping someone a few seats away.
XII. Gee Willikers, int. and adj.
After Rosti leaves, I finish my ale, rest my forehead on the cool rim of my stein. “Hey, uh, Coll, right?” A voice behind me asks. I nod, tilting the stein with my forehead off then back on the counter with a soft tap. “I just wanted to tell you I thought you did well tonight. I’ve head Maro Lightfoot a lot, but never a rendition with so much heart.” Vaguely familiar voice. “Um, thanks. It means a lot.” I turn to shake their hand— a custom in human cities. A kind smile on an elven face the shade of night sky on the summer solstice. A poof of white hair. Uku Silve is standing in front of me. They’re talking to me. Wait. They complimented me?!
XIII. Bokeh, n.
“Wow! Um, thank you! It means so much!” I can’t keep my cool. “Sorry, I just never thought you’d know my name.” “It’s alright, dude. Don’t worry about it.” They gesture at the stool next to mine, “May I?” I nod fast as hummingbird wings. I stammer, “Mind if I ask you a question?” They nod. “Is it true, what they say?” “You’re gonna need to be more specific.” “Is it true you were kicked out of your village?” They sigh, nod slowly. “Yeah. My parents kicked me out as a kid.” “I only ask because I was kicked out of my village, too. And seeing you succeed, hearing your songs, just gave me so much hope.” “Your parents kicked you out too?” “No, it was my dead wife’s parents.” Uku nods, holds up a finger, writes something quickly on a paper, puts it in their cloak pocket. “That sounds difficult. How’d that happen?” “A lot of it’s a blur. They caught me drinking with my partner at the tavern, decided I was not a fit parent for my son, Towhee, took him and ran us out of town.” They shake their head. “Damn. Where’s your partner now?” “Qualen’s dead.”
XIV. Mentionitis, n.
“He died?” “Yeah. He didn’t make it out of Mossmeadow. They threw rocks while chasing us. He got one in the head.” “They killed him?” “Yeah.” “Your dead wife’s parents killed your partner.” “Yes. They didn’t approve of me being with another man. “They never really liked me. I think they blame me for Corvin’s death.” “How’d she die? Wait. That’s rude. You don’t have to answer.” “It’s alright. She died giving birth to Towhee.” “Shit. That’s a lot of trauma for a person. Was all that recent?” “Not really. They ran me out about four years ago; she died ten years before that.”
XV. Pastinate, v.
Uku sits with that for a while. “You’ve had to hold on to all that for a while.” “Mhmm.” I fiddle with my stein handle. “It comes out in what you play. It gives your songs a different hue than when other people play them.” “Is that… good?” “It makes you unique. You got a future, Coll.” They jab my arm. They say they have to travel in the morning, look forward to seeing my next set. They tell me to get in touch the next time I’m in the city, to maybe try checking out the temple of Pelor down the road to see a friend of theirs.
XVI. Sir Roger de Coverley, n.
The last time I met clerics of the god of sun and time, They played their lutes and sang their songs, the equinox was nigh. We halflings love to drink and dance; we let ourselves indulge. The steps are so important that a misstep would repulse. A shift they brought to people’s mind when songs and dances ceased. They looked from o’er their shoulders then, would scowl and glare at me.
XVII. Ruck, n.
I do not sleep. All night, discomfort— I toss and turn, pace around my room in the tavern. I do not sleep. Cannot forget, but should I forgive people who hate me for how I live? I do not sleep. Uku said that they have a friend there; they would not send me into danger. I do not sleep. I hear her last breath, see his blood spill, feel hollowness that cannot be filled. I do not sleep.
XVIII. Meeja, n.
The sun rises— the clerics describe it as Pelor greeting us, reminding us of his grace. The sun rises. I can see it arch over the temple’s bell tower through the window from over the bed’s edge. I’ve heard the praises my whole life— the background of half of our songs. Pelor’s temples always the largest, the most polished. Their clerics travel throughout the kingdom to convert more fanatics. Begrudgingly, I make the decision to get out of bed and go to the temple.
XIX. Hysterology, n.
Above the temple doors, a giant seal of Pelor. Gold, intricate details of His face in the sun. Around the necks of vendors, small symbols of Pelor. Metal pendants on small chains, they grasp and whisper into. Behind the tavern counter, a sun carved into a plaque. Silent and everpresent, always watching from above. Entering Mossmeadow, a yellow sun on red banners. Tall humans in long cloaks want to help, spread the word. In songs they sang to us in school, the sun god saves the day. He feeds the starving, heals the sick, deserves all our praise.
XX. Pronoid, adj.
Even in the early hours of morning, the temple is full of people praying alone, lighting candles, confessing to clerics and priests. Lost in a forest of humans, I look for a cleric to ask about Uku’s friend. I bump into someone, turn to apologize. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” “It’s no problem,” says a cleric, a young human sitting in a floating platform— a chair with no legs. “Are you okay?” “Yes, thanks. Um, actually I’m looking for someone, a cleric.” “Well, I’m that, so can I help?” “I’m looking for someone specific.” “Okay. What’s their name?” “I’m told they go by Applelegs?” “No one goes by- Who sent you here?” “Uh, Uku Silve.” He nods. “Yeah, that sounds like them. You’re looking for me, I’m Elyon.” “Why Applelegs?” “When we met, I used parts of an apple box for my chair.” He taps the side of the floating platform. “I assume they thought it would be a good joke. Which, to be fair, it is. “They and their friends got me this new chair after our, uh, adventure.” “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have the chair?” “Oh, I can’t use my legs. Never could, but, thank Pelor, I was raised in this temple, so I was well taken care of.”
XXI. Nirl, v.
“I know what that face means,” Elyon nods. “You don’t need to pity me; I get around fine. The way I move through the world may be different from yours, but I am no less of a person. I’m not some charity case to remind you of your privilege either. Had to go through a whole thing with Uku’s friends about it— they were obsessed with trying to ‘fix’ me. “So, can we skip that whole bit?”
XXII. Teh Tarik, n.
“Right, sure. You’re right.” “Good. Why did Uku send you?” Elyon scans the pews. “I’m not entirely sure. They watched me perform at the Hash Brown Tavern last night. We talked afterward, and they said I should stop by the temple to see Applelegs.” “Well, that’s ambiguous,” he chuckles, squints at the stained glass over the temple’s entrance. “Follow me.” He floats away from the pews, down a hallway with fewer people. “Have you eaten?” He asks, opening a door. “Not really,” I say, walking into a cafeteria in the side of the temple. People in rags and bandages sit at tables, huddled around warm mugs. Clerics serve food, sit with them. Elyon gestures at an empty table, floats behind the counter. He returns with two mugs of something I’ve never seen before. He hovers across the table from me, sips from his mug. “Uku usually sends people to me because of their past or ours. So, which did you talk about?”
XXIII. Gorger, n.
I recount everything I told Uku about my past. Elyon nods; sips from his mug; loses attention, gets tense when an older man enters the cafeteria. His robe adorned with thick metal chains, a staff in hand topped with an intricate carving of Pelor. A priest.
XXIV. Futzing, n.
Elyon clears his throat. “Ah. I think I understand now.” He places his mug down, eyes it, rotates it slightly with his thumb and middle finger, aligns his napkin by it with his index and ring fingers. He holds his hand up in a fist, analyzes his arrangement, nods. “You’re stuck. Uku probably thought I could help you get unstuck. Follow me.” He floats over to and up a spiral staircase at the end of the cafeteria. I follow him. “Stuck?” “You haven’t noticed how much you talk about their deaths? Your loss?” I pause. “It’s normal thing to struggle with; I’m not saying you should shrug it off— just that I think I can help.” I nod. “What happened to your family? Your parents?” “They’re still in Mossmeadow. Why?” “That’s lucky. Traditionally, people have their parents as a support structure.” “They didn’t really try to help me when shi- things went down.” “Oh. Should’ve seen that coming.” He sighs. “I never got to meet my mom, so I kinda idealize parents— assume the best in them— I guess.” “You never met her?” “No. She, um, also died in childbirth. Delivering me, actually.” “Oh. I think I understand why Uku sent me here now, too.” My thighs start to ache. “How much further are we going?” “Oh, right. Here.” The stairs arrive at a platform. “That was convenient,” I gasp, bend over to stretch my legs. “Well, it’s a magic staircase. It pops you to whatever floor you want.” “What? You could’ve done that the whole time?” “Yeah, but we were in the middle of a conversation. It would’ve broken the rhythm.”
XXV. Jough, n.
Elyon takes me to his room, an entire wall covered in bookshelves. “First things first,” he gestures at the shelves, “please don’t touch any of the books without asking first. The last time someone was here, they knocked over the shelves and I had to spend hours putting everything back where it belongs.” He sighs, “It was Uku’s friends.” I hold my hands up. “Not a problem.” The door creaks behind me. “Morning, Elyon.” The priest is outside the doorway, a mug in hand. He takes a sip. Elyon turns around quickly, lowers his head. “Morning, Father.” “I trust you’re showing your,” he looks at me, “guest the best hospitality?” “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.” “This won’t impede your duties in the temple, I gather?” “No, sir. I will complete all my tasks, sir.” “Very good. Have a Blessed day, Elyon, Elyon’s guest.” He turns. His steps echo from the staircase going upward. Elyon releases a breath. “You alright?” I ask. “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s okay.” “That guy seems intense.” “He can be, but he had his morning drink, and, well, he can be better whe— well, it’s a balance.” “You live and work here with a guy like that? A guy you tense up around all the time?” “Well, yeah. He’s the high priest. He raised me. He took me in when I was a baby.” “He doesn’t seems to... like you at all?” “He’s just stern, you know how religious people steeped in tradition can be.” I hear rocks bouncing off tree trunks, breaking Qualen's skull. “Uh, yeah. I guess. That doesn’t mean you need to put up with them though.” “Coll, the sun shines on all people regardless of who they are, what they do or think,” he pauses, “or who they love. “The people who killed your partner do not represent Pelor or His will. They are hurt people who hide behind His name. “I hope you would not lump us all together.”
XXVI. Howzit, int.
I’m quiet, imagining different timelines— where I return and they welcome me, where they never ran me out, where I return and they reject me, where Qualen didn’t die. “You alright?” Elyon asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. Back in the present. “Um, yeah. I’m alright. I just- I can’t just-“ Elyon nods, clasps his hands in his lap. “How can I just forget and forgive everything? How is that a reasonable thing for a person to do?” He bites his cheek, looks over at the bookshelves. “Some say being in the shadows is a choice a person makes. Pelor shines on all land, all people, indiscriminately. His light will hit anyone who wants it— it is a choice to go into the shadows, a choice to stay there, a choice to avoid His light. “He cannot keep you warm all the time; He must attend to the needs of all people, of course. But night ends, and His light and warmth returns— if you choose to embrace it.” “Are you saying I’m choosing to be upset at Qualen’s murder? At Towhee being taken from me?” “Of course not, Coll. You should be upset. Anyone would be. Avoiding to grow or move from it is a choice though. What you do with the hand you’re dealt is a choice. “No one can steer your life but you.”
XVII. Zeroth, adj.
“I get that Pelor has done a lot for you, and you have lived in His service your whole life, but leaning on some dude in the sky can’t be your only plan! “To assume everything will work out comes from a place of privilege, Elyon. You’ve had a safety net your whole life that will catch you if you fall too far, too fast. “I don’t have that! I’ve been on my own for years! If I fall, I hit god damn ground!”
XXVIII. Throgmorton Street, n.
“I hear you,” Elyon says, grabs a book off the shelf, offers it to me. “Make yourself a net then.” I take the book, open the cover. “You want me to have this?” “You can get it back to me when you’re done with it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have chores to do.” I thank Elyon for his time and the book, leave the temple, then find a bench to sit. The book is Elyon’s journal from the time he spent with Uku and their friends. I read listening to the din of the market.
XXIX. Radiatore, n.
I eat dinner at the Hash Brown Tavern, Elyon’s journal by my pint on the bar. Closed, fully read, his story echoes in my head. Rosti waves a hand in my face. “You there, Coll?” I shake my head, rub my eyes. “Yeah. Yes.” He places a plate by the book. “The daily special.” “Thank you,” I say. He knocks twice on the bar, moves on to someone else. I stare at the plate. Looks like a pile of open ribcages in a pool of blood. A vision? The past? The future? What am I to do now?
XXX. Acheronian, adj.
“Coll, you’re up,” says the tavern keeper. I down my ale, grab my lyre, head to the stage. “Good evening, I’m Coll Tabe. This is... a song.” An improvisation: your boat’s in a river shrouded in smoke out to deliver your soul down below you look up t’ward the sky trying to find anything warm to dry your drowning mind he greets you with eyes black deep as coal mines you’d seen them before back in empty steins shattered skulls on cave walls painted in blood of everyone in your life who made you feel loved shattered skulls on cave walls painted in blood of everyone in your life who made you feel loved
XXXI. Bicky, n.
Silence after the last note dies, but I don’t mind. There’s an old elf in the back with misty eyes. I go to the temple of Pelor in the morning to drop off Elyon’s journal with a cleric. I go back to the tavern to say goodbye, and Rosti is cleaning the bar, removing steins. He looks up when I enter, signals me o’er offers a bread wrapped in cloth. “One for the road.” Leave the tavern and realize where I should go. Need control of my story. I’m going home.
Some Visions
In the canvas of the overcast sky, there are blurry molecules or curly hairs floating. Through a stye on the underside of my eyelid, the streetlights look like they’re crying. In the evening after a full day’s work, trapped photons bounce around inside my eyelids. Through dilated pupils after being prescribed readers, the Christmas tree lights look like a wall of frozen explosions.
A Note Should Suffice
There’s a tower out on the horizon.
You’ve lived in this forest a long time. So long, in fact, that you’ve started to name the trees— not the species names, like spruce, cedar, hemlock; those you learned on your grandpa’s nature walks years ago— names like Rela, Sophia, Brett.
The black face of the tower is stark in contrast to the orange-green hue of the treetops across the valley in the morning light. Its top half is coiled like a serpent around a shaman’s forearm, coming to three sharp points a hundred feet above the western red cedars at the base of the mountain.
The tower wasn’t there yesterday. You’re almost certain. You don’t remember a tower living there— isn’t that where Storm River started? At the base of Thunder Falls? The face of the glacier still sunbathes on the mountain. It must still drift there. You don’t remember the last time you really paid attention to that area. You don’t remember the names of those trees, if the trees are still there.
You strain your eyes, grasping at the finer details just out of reach. Soft, faint, purple cyphers flow along the tower’s coils, glowing in a slow pulse that climbs up the snake’s spine.
The colors of the treetops by the tower are washed out. The leaves and pine needles pale, white as day-old coals. The bark’s black as night. No life there, no movement. You could almost feel the absence of the grubs that crawled within the folds of the bark.
It’s cold, as mornings here tend to be. The sun, contrary to what city people say, is not a morning person; it takes its time stumbling over the mountain. You’re halfway through your earl grey, meaning you’re toward the end of the hour between dawn and when the sun is actually visible.
Your porch is quiet in a loud way. The quiet has a presence, and it demands to be known. One morning, about a week ago, a crow landed on a maple branch on the northeast corner of your front yard. It cawed, then froze and, you swear, lowered its head apologetically before flying away.
You finish your tea, then pack several days of supplies in your backpack. Your partner is still asleep. Not wanting to wake them, you leave a note on the counter saying what you’re doing, where you’re going, when to worry.
But before that
Inevitably, the universe will end; electrons will no longer spin around nuclei, and everything will stop. But before that, the Milk Way will be consumed by the blackhole at its core, leaving only void in its wake. But before that, the sun will swallow Earth as it grows into a red giant and explodes. But before that, living on Earth will no longer be sustainable; temperatures and sea levels will rise beyond the point of any coping mechanisms. But before that, you will die; a small tragedy on the scale of things, but a tragedy nonetheless.
A Moored Ship After a Storm
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from November, 2020.
I. Spiritato, n.
Rosa sits between her sister, Haylee, and Uncle Martin. Tired from the four-hour drive across the state. Her grandma asks Uncle Martin to lead the family in Grace. He clears his throat loudly, so that the kids in the other room hear too. His Grace is long— as it is every Thanksgiving— expressing thankfulness for every event in the family’s year he gathered from his Facebook feed. She stretches her neck left and right, looks at each bowed head with closed, reverent eyes— utterly baffled at the sincerity.
II. Volcanello, n.
Uncle Martin closes Grace quoting the priest of his church which Rosa stopped attending her junior year in high school after he gave a sermon about women’s role in the home. She bites her cheek, metal on her tongue, closes her eyes, a scream escapes as a restrained sigh.
III. Pastinaceous, adj.
Grandpa Leo carves the turkey, serves a slice to each person around the table, same as he does every year— a tradition passed down to him from his father, from his father’s father— a taproot reaching down so far no one can see the end.
IV. Overberg, n. and adj.
A polite smile on Rosa’s face as she accepts her slice from Grandpa Leo. He pauses, smiles. “We’re so glad you were able to make it this year.” She nods, fidgets with her napkin on her lap to avoid eye contact. When she looks up, it feels like looking at a mountain range from a fire lookout.
V. Sprusado, n.
The Walker-Estradas are not a sedentary family. As soon as it seems like everyone’s done eating, there is no sit-and-talk like business people during a lunch rush. No, the dining room is abandoned for places to stand— the kitchen, the patio, the living room. Rosa gets up from her seat, pinches the button-up she wore on Wednesday’s shift through her cardigan, flattens any potential wrinkles, adjusts her tie. A deep breath before she grabs her water glass, tentatively walks toward the patio.
VI. Hot-Brain, n.
Rosa didn’t really plan ahead— the decision to drive over the pass to see her mom’s family for Thanksgiving was last-minute. She was wiping down the tables and booths in her section after the last party left— the Wednesday before Thanksgiving always nonstop. All night, she heard people talk about their plans— seeing their families, elaborate recipes. The hosts were talking about it while wrapping silverware in napkins for Friday when the dam broke— she missed home. Afraid of chickening out, she stopped by the Arco on the corner of the parking lot, bought gas and a 5-hour Energy, drove toward the highway. Her only stop was at a rest area outside Srague for a nap.
VII. Cheesed, adj.
Maybe it was a reasonable response, maybe it was because she slept in her car, but when she got to the patio, heard Uncle Martin grimace about “illegal votes,” she groaned, “Oh shut up, man!” All eyes on her, every conversation halted. “Um, excuse me." She sips her water, walks back inside.
VIII. Chedi, n.
Solace in the bathroom down the hall by the guest room. Rosa places her glass on the counter next to a picture of her sister waving from the top of a ladder leaned against exposed plywood. She sits on the toilet lid taking deep breaths to center herself. She stares at other pictures, souvenirs on the wall from Haylee’s white-savior, voluntourism trip to Mexico with her church group.
IX. Waynpain, n.
Before enough time passes that her family would think something’s wrong, Rosa flushes the toilet for the illusion of normalcy. She washes her hands— pure muscle memory— stares at the soap dispenser. She remembered an afternoon when she was a child watching Legends of the Hidden Temple reruns when her dad came in after working in the yard, his shirt inside out over her ears, draped like a ponytail. “Wanna see a magic trick?” he asked between gulps of water from a weathered half-gallon jug. Rosa jumped up from the couch, followed him to the sink. He ran the water. “Clear, right?” He filled his jug to illustrate. “Watch.” He paused, concentration on his face. “Abracadabra!” He shoved his hands under the water, gripped his fists, twisted them like he was trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube. The water pooling in the sink turned brown, matte. “Whoa!!!” Rosa exclaimed. He snickered, leaned close to her face, whispered, “I turned it into poop.” Rosa continued yelling, but out of disgust, as she ran back to the living room.
X. Presentific, adj.
Deep breath, Rosa. They’re family, Rosa. It’s going to be okay.
XI. Earthfast, adj.
Hand on the knob of the door, one step from rejoining her family, after practicing all of her small talk. She freezes. Her fingers twitch. Her breaths short. Fully conscious of how long she’s hidden in the bathroom. Move. Move. Move.
XII. Pricket, n.
She closes her eyes, counts to ten between inhales, exhales. Thaw the ice in your skin, Rosa. She gulps the rest of her water.
XIII. Spiritus, n.
She breaks through the door like a pika out of its burrow, fueled by adrenaline and guilt.
XIV. Callidity, n.
"Oh, don’t worry. I’m alright.” Interspersed head nods, sustained eye contact. Ask follow-up questions to avoid saying more than necessary. Be a screen they can project onto.
XV. Ambilogy, n.
“Oh, you know, work’s work.” “Yeah, bills have been tough, but I’ve managed.” “No, haven’t really been up to much else.”
XVI. Fascine, n.
To get a break, Rosa walks over to the fireplace, a fresh cord of wood on tightly layered kindling. She sits on the carpet, cross-legged like she did as a child during story time. Closing her eyes, she feels radiant heat wash over her. She imagines it mixing with the warmth under her cheeks. She starts to cry. It shouldn’t be this hard.
XVII. Brewstered, adj.
She could feel the distance palpable between herself and her parents— her shoulders and the mantle accented with plaques, senior portraits. A dark marble slab floating in a red brick facade.
XVIII. Badderlocks, n.
“Hey Rosa!” She shakes her head, back in her body. Haylee is behind her, leaning to her left, a plate in her right hand. “You doin’ alright?” “Uh, yeah,” she stammers, rubs her eyes. “I was just, uh, cold out there. Needed a minute to warm up.” Haylee straightens up, nodding. “Mind if I sit with ya?” She scoots over, gestures at the space before hugging her knees to her chest, placing her chin in their crevice. Haylee sits, picks a grape tomato off her plate, eats it. She asks, still chewing, “Want one? I grew ‘em in the planter out back.” Rosa looks at the little bulbs on the tilted plate, smiles. “Sure.”
XIX. Reptiliferous, adj.
“You think you’ll ever tell ‘em?” Annabelle asks from the bench adjacent to Rosa’s. She wedges her mask down to sip her mocha, readjusts it back up. “I don’t know.” Her head shakes. “Maybe.” “Why wouldn’t you?” Annabelle asks, adjusting her scarf back over her nose. “I don’t wanna pressure you, but they should know.” “It’s not- it’s hard. My family’s not like yours. We don’t- I haven’t even been back home in two years. “And, like, everything I say has to go through so many filters when I talk to them. Layers of social appearances, Jesus, money- I can’t just… say it.” Annabelle nods slowly, sips her chai tea. “They know you’re gay, right?” “Uh, yeah. I told them in high school. It wasn’t a big thing.” “You were able to tell them that. Is this that different?” Rosa stares at where the sidewalk ends. “It feels different.” Annabelle reaches an arm forward, clasps air, struggle in her eyes. “Is there anyone in your family you could tell?” She takes another sip of her mocha. “Haylee, maybe.”
XX. Molly-Blob
Haylee runs her fingers through her hair— blonde as marigolds— over her ear. Always protective of Rosa, even though she was the younger one by two years. Less judgmental than her youth group friends— bridges she’d torch in public if scripture was quoted to justify hate. A pang of guilt in Rosa’s heart— their roles worn backwards.
XXI. Cockle Stairs, n.
“So, uh, how has Whitworth been?” Rosa asks. “It’s pretty good, actually. I mean, as good as it can be with all the remote learning stuff. Got to save money by staying here though.” “That ever annoying? Like, not getting the actual college thing as a freshman?” “I mean- yeah? I get why, but it IS disappointing, y’know? Plus, Dad decided to start a new project, ‘cause workin’ from home wasn’t enough for him— turns out, most of his work day was talking to his coworkers. “Before he started building that outdoor living room for Seahawks games, he’d try to talk to ME while I was in class. I learned the mute button REALLY fast. “It’s like- I don’t know- like, we’re all trying to get through this, be better and responsible, right, but it feels like no matter how much we do, we keep ending up in the exact same place.”
XXII. Footpad, n.
Rosa nods slowly, sips the last drops of water in her glass. “What about you? How have you been?” Haylee asks, nudging her shoulder into Rosa’s. She regurgitates her rote response. “Oh, uh, it’s been alright.” “That’s good to hear. I’ve heard it’s been really hard over there— closures and restrictions on restaurants and all.” Rosa gulps. “I worry about you is all.” Rosa bites the inside of her lip. “Well, uh” she starts. Deep inhale, exhale. “It actually has been hard.” She nods, swallows. “Most of my cash comes from tips; when everything closed, that dried up fast, let alone the reduction of shifts.” Haylee places a hand on Rosa’s knee. “I, uh-“ A gulp. A breath. “At one point, my dinners were leftover fries. I’d, uh, tell the cooks one of the tables wanted another helping of ‘em, and since Red Robin does endless fries, they wouldn’t question it; they’d just scoop some in a basket, place it in the window. I kept a to-go container under my coat in the back, and stash ‘em there.” “Rosa, you know we’d help you if we knew-“ “I-“ Rosa cuts her off. “I- I know. It’s just…” Rosa doesn’t finish the thought. Her sister does what she always did: hold her close and tight, tell her it’s alright. Rosa does what she always did: nod, go limp, cry into her shoulder.
XXIII. E-Waste, n.
In that moment— a puddle in her sister’s sweater— Rosa remembered what she really missed about home. She thought about the memes her family shared on Facebook spouting love and support unconditionally, how hollow each one left her. But here, it feels real, full.
XXIV. Ambigu, n.
Her grandma’s turkey, her mom’s cheesy mashed potatoes, her uncle’s rosemary garlic bread, her sister’s tomatoes. Warm, familiar, home.
XXV. Cryonaut, n.
Uncle Martin appears above them, clearing his throat. A plate in each hand. A slice of pumpkin pie her grandpa baked, a scoop of ice cream for each of them. He purses his lips, nods, offers a plate to both sisters, who accept their desserts. Rosa scoops a bit of pie and ice cream, bites. She’s five, playing tag in her grandparents’s backyard with Haylee and their cousins. Sundown. Only able to see by the lights outside her grandpa’s shop. Their mom calls them in for dessert. She’s 40, returning to this house again— probably by self-driving hover car or something— maybe with Annabelle and kids of their own, who play tag with Haylee’s kids, and she calls them in for dessert. She realizes she had never imagined a life that far in the future for herself before.
XXVI. Magnanerie, n.
In her head, the house was plain, peeling paint, full of insects gnawing at everything good. She felt, now, her misconception, saw the bigger picture— the soft sweater sleeves wrapped around her torso. “Haylee,” she hesitates. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
XXVII. Amouring, n.
Not ready to say it in front of her whole family, Rosa leads Haylee outside to the driveway. On the way, she rehearses what to say, remembering July— when the cases were low, when she told Annabelle, who immediately drove to her apartment, despite Rosa’s protests, saying: “In an emergency, you have to break protocol.” That night, after it all calmed down, as their legs were entwined on her bed, she felt human connection for the first time in months. Her head on Annabelle’s chest, her heart a metronome in her ear, up and down with her breath— soft as a breeze through cedar branches— like a moored ship after a storm. “You didn’t have to come here-“ she started, waves of guilt in her eyes. “Stop. I had to. I love you,” Annabelle interrupted, then tenderly kissed the top of Rosa’s head. Rosa started to feel like maybe it was worth being alive.
XXVIII. Empedoclean, adj.
The driveway, a large patch of gravel— jagged fragments of earth shift under her feet as she walks. The fireplace, a glimmer flickering in the window, barely visible through the November mist. Deep breath, cold air fills her lungs— a brisk bite, the kick she needs to move. “Okay,” Haylee shivers. “What’s going on?” Rosa sighs, holds her elbows. “So, uh- It’s hard to say.” Haylee rubs her biceps. “It’s alright. Take your time.” “Things have been... worse than I told you. “When everything shut down, I, uh, got laid off for a while. “In July, when it seemed like everything would turn around, “my hours stayed low, and I couldn't covers both bills and food, “I was so isolated— couldn’t even see other people, so-“ She winces, looks away from Haylee, toward the stars over the road. A gulp. “I tried to kill myself.” She lifts her shaky hand, rolls back the sleeve of her shirt and cardigan.
XXIX. Slummock, v.
Haylee stares at the scar on Rosa’s wrist. Quiet. After a few seconds, maybe hours, Haylee speaks. “That’s a lot to process. I appreciate you telling me; it must have been hard.” Her jaw clenches. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Were you afraid to tell me?” “No, no- I just- I didn’t want to worry you,” Rosa stammers. “Well,” a frustrated exhale, “you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I’m always here for you; I’m always going to support you. It’s my job.” “I want to tell you. I wanted to tell you then, but I didn’t know how.” She rolls her sleeve down. Haylee grabs Rosa’s hand, ice-sickle fingers around Rosa’s palm. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Rosa nods rigidly. “I, uh, made the decision around 4, when I would have gone to work. A steak knife from the knife block on the counter. I held it in my hand; I could barely think. I texted Annabelle to say I’m sorry. She called me as I, uh-“ Rosa gestures at her wrist. “I froze, heart racing, dropped the knife on the floor. The clang broke my concentration, and I answered her call. She came over immediately, told me to put a towel and pressure on it and not move until she got there.” A gap. A space for Rosa to breathe. “She saved me that day. She helped calm me down, didn’t try to push me into anything— just sat with me for hours. “I don’t know if it was the blood loss or the heightened emotion of the whole thing or the first time I’d been with her outside of work in months, but I was overwhelmed, lost control over myself— I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her like-“ “Rosa. Gross.” “Oh, right. Sorry.” Haylee laughs, hugs her sister tight as kite string in coastal wind. “You don’t have to apologize; I’m so glad you have a partner like her.” She cries into Rosa’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re still here.”
XXX. Hammer, n.
Her brain may be where shadows loom; where memories echo in jarring fragments; where thoughts, feelings, breaths are held for someone else’s sake. But in the gaps between fractured earth, in the secondary light of the moon, in the warmth of her sister’s heart, Rosa felt like she could overcome them.
trees in maryland
mid april after a cold snap their trunks twisted agony branches desperately reach a merciless blue sky amber leaves on cold earth
M. Espinosa 