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."
M. Espinosa 