Tag: Writing

A Morning in Kroa

The sun rises over the Haurathon, the centerpiece of Kroa. Its spire shoots out 1000 feet above the neighboring buildings. The Haurathon is used as the symbol for Congress, who use it to decorate their lapel pins, our flag, our money. You are to never forget about the Haurathon or Congress— they own you.

Sunrises are my favorite part of the day. The way the sun peeks at Kroa, like it’s wincing, makes me feel seen. It looks at me directly, tinted in the haze of the green fog dissipating from the streets. I think the beauty may be in the way Congress’ night poison rises with the sun, like a final battle cry to the heavens.

“Aja. It’s time to wake up,” I say to my sister. She’s sleeping on the couch, as she does almost every night. Her feet stick out of a mound of blankets covering the couch cushions. 

White stitches stretch out where we sit every night. Our family has had that couch since both our parents were alive; I guess that would be at least eight years or so. The dark green upholstery, the color I remember old fir trees having, has faded a lot since then, too.

Aja rolls around under the blankets, making tired groans. She says half words and flails her arms. Usually, it’s around this time that I pick up one of the blanket edges to help her out. This morning, I do not.

There’s a picture on the mantle
in a simple black frame
with four people in it.

One was
a woman with a black ponytail
and wrinkles around her smile
and small, green eyes that asked you how your day was,
          and was Mom.

Another was
a man with a thick beard
and a lumberjack’s flannel shirt
and thick arms that would hold you up to see over the crowd,
          and was Dad.

The smallest was
a girl with brown eyes
and small hands that held an old 3DS
          and was Aja.

The last one was
a girl with dyed purple hair
and a shirt from a cyborg-punk band no one listens to anymore,
          and was me.

The corners are chipped and faded.
Dust layers tint the grass’ green hue.

I sit cross-legged on the coffee table, facing the window, the couch on my right. The Haurathon dominating the view. I can feel steam from my coffee graze against my chin out of the mug I made Mom back in school. It’s wide, the sides thick and lopsided. The purple paint starting to peel around the edges. Coffee stains line the rim on the inside, no matter how much I scrub it.

“Boa, any help would be appreciated,” Aja grumbles.

“You’re 14. You can figure it out.”

“Not when the blankets travel between dimensions!” Two mountains erupt under the blankets.

“There are only three dimensions, dummy.”

“No lines think there are squares, Boa.”

I pause, sip my coffee, bask in the bitter grip in the back of my throat. “Still dumb.”

“Boa! Please! I’m dying!”

“No you aren’t.”

“I can feel Death’s cold hand on my neck. He’s dragging me into the abyss! Boa! Take care of Cat for me! Noooo!!!” Her plea fades.

“Super dumb. Cat doesn’t even need us.”

“Fine.” Aja sits up, blankets cocooned around her.

Cat sits in front of the window, staring at us. She gives me a disappointed meow, stretches her forelegs, saunters off, her chin up. 

“Cat hates you,” I say, taking another sip. The sun starts to give definition to the clouds. I can see shapes forming, green and white clusters.

“Cat loves me,” the blanket pupa replies. “She could not live without seeing my beautiful  face.” The blankets peel away, and Aja emerges. Her short, black hair sticks out in all directions. She reaches her thin arm out of the oversized shirt she wears to bed and grabs my mug. She takes a sip and recoils harshly. “Nope. No. Still no. Never. How!? Why!?”

She quickly puts the mug back in my hands. “Get up. You’re going to be late for class.”

She lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “But I’m sick!” she counters, giving two well-paced coughs into a blanket. “I think I should just stay home and rest,” she continues, putting one of the blankets back over her head.

“You literally said the same thing two days ago.”

She pauses. “But the blankets are warm, and comfy, and I named this one Gerard.” She pulls out a quilt Mom made. It has red and white squares alternating in rows.

“No you didn’t. I named them Margaret before you were even born.”

“You were three!”

“Shut up. Go get dressed.”

She gets up, walks away slowly, leaving a trail of blankets in her wake. “I’m doing this under protest.”

“You know not to tell those jokes. They’ll hear you.”

“Whatever you say, Boa. I don’t think Congress has enough interest to keep track of what every apartment is saying all the time.”

I look at my coffee; it’s almost gone. I feel a chill growing in my fingers. “That’s what everyone said when the night poison started.” 

My eyes are fixed on the bottom of the mug.

Sunset.
Orange cirrus clouds
          streaked the mauve sky.
Tiny stars awaken,
dance above the rooftops.

You joked
about curfew,
and I laughed.
          I laughed.
                    I laughed.

Night.
Green stratus clouds
blanketed the roads.

Echoes
of doors and windows locking shut
bounce off the walls and sidewalks and stoops,
and I got inside.
          I got inside.
                    You didn’t.

“I know, I know, I know. Roads dangerous after dark. Stay inside, Aja. You don’t need to remind me again. This isn’t The Hunger Games.” Aja’s annoyed voice and the sounds of brushes falling on the counter fly out of the bathroom, the door wide open. The light seems brighter than usual. I look away.

“I’m sor—”

“You don’t need to do your passive-aggressive apologizing, Boa.”

The roar of her hair dryer punctuates the conversation.

I look at the dregs of my coffee. Stains like layers of earth spiral to the bottom. Droplets stuck in place like fossils. I tilt the mug, watch them collapse, fall into a puddle at the bottom. Persistent coffee grounds swim around.

I hear Aja walk out of the bathroom, the light out. Her bedroom door creaks and clacks shut. 

She never understands. No one ever does. I’ve been told a thousand times that it wasn’t my fault. I’ve heard it from hundreds of faces; none of them have helped. My guilt is cold coffee I can’t swallow.

I was turning six,
and she baked a chocolate cake,
even with her two-year-old crying the whole time.

I remember the chocolate frosting and them smiling at me.
They sang to me.

The cake was delicious.

“When do you get off tonight?” Aja asks. Her black boots announce her approach.

“I’m opening, so I should be off around four.” I get off the coffee table and walk to the kitchen to wash the mug.

“Great, so you’ll cook dinner. Awesome. Thanks!” Aja quickly grabs her backpack and moves toward the door.

“That would only be the case if you somehow clean the apartment before I got here.”

“Bring home some fries, and it’s a deal.” Aja sticks her hand out to shake. She smiles confidently.

“Deal,” I shake her hand. “Go learn things.”

“I always does. I learn real good.” Aja grabs her keyring from the basket by the door. She uses Dad’s old Super Mario keyring. It’s faded, the colors starting to become a uniform red.

“I swear, Aja. Another F and I’m calling Skynet,“ I say, pointing a soapy scrub brush at her. 

“They’ll never find me. I’ll go off the grid. I’ll live off the land with my trusty bow, relying solely on my archery skills and stealth to stalk my prey.”

“This isn’t the Hunger Games, Boa.”

“Shut up. Bye.” She smiles, turns to the door. Her red coat swishing behind her.

It doesn’t take long for me to give up on scrubbing the stains out of the mug. I place it on the drying mat next to the sink and get ready for work.

It never takes much time. The beauty of working in the kitchen of a restaurant is that you don’t have to doll yourself up for the public if you don’t want to. Management likes it when you do, as they can force you to do more jobs that way, but it’s not a strict rule.

I put on some worn-in jeans and a red shirt with the restaurant’s logo on the left breast, “Rodwell’s” in some modernist font inside a neat, blue rectangle. It’s starting to fade, but they change designs every two years, so I think I’ll be fine.

I check the mirror before I leave. I try to make my hair go in one direction with a brush. It’s futile, so I put on a black beanie. Hat hair seems like a good enough excuse.

Cottonwood Seeds en Route: I. Violet Caligos

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2020.

This is the first entry in Cottonwood Seeds en Route.

I. Newelty, n. and adj.

“A new job,”
Mom said,
“back where I grew up.”

She was so excited, I hid
my apprehension.

The thing about new houses
in new developments
is they creak and grown
like ghosts
making sure everything checks out.

I’m afraid
of losing my friends,
of starting a new school,
of ghosts following me here.


II. Psychohistory, n.

Our Civic rattled down
the road that had all the stores on it—
Meridian, I think it’s called?
Every couple blocks, my mom
would sigh or smile
wistful.

“Violet,” she said
as we approached a stoplight
by a construction site.
“There used to be a park there.
Well, when I say ‘park,’
I mean a field
we would play in after school.
Once,
my best friend, Sidney,
got her hoodie stuck on a branch inside a blackberry bush,
and she cried and cried when she got out,
because she tore the seam
along her shoulder—“

Her chuckling tapered as she looked at
where the wooden skeleton stood.
A yellow bulldozer
ripped remnants of green grass,
added to a mound of soil
by a neon-orange, plastic barrier.

“Uhh… Mom? The light’s green.”
I tapped her elbow.

“Oh. Right.”
She blinked,
shook her head like escaping a spiderweb,
drove away.


III. Quadrantid, n. and adj.

Close
my bedroom door.
Sit
on the twin mattress in the corner.
Breathe
in cardboard air.
Stare
at the wall of boxes across the room.

Think
about what Maya is doing now.
Doubt
anyone notices my absence anyway.
Hug
my trembling ribs.
Stare
at the wall of boxes across the room.


IV. Contemperament, n.

They stand
along the side of the road
at the end of our neighborhood
waiting for the bus.

Thick jackets under grey sky,
no faces.
Put my hands in my pockets,
look at the white paint on the ground,
splotches chipped from its face.

The bus arrives with a screech.
We climb in
like telepathic instructions were given.
An open seat
near the front—
I claim it, lean my head
against the cool metal window frame.
The other seat remains empty.


V. Clabbydoo, n.

At some point,
the dashes of the road become a blurred line.
I can feel the distance grow.
I’ve never thought about
how weird driving is,
how strange it is to float above the ground.

The bus fizzles away,
the housing, floor, seats, other people,
until it’s just me,
the wind hitting my dangling legs,
the wet concrete flying by.
I feel like I’m about to fall forward,
roll like a ball down the road.

I gasp for air, and it’s gone;
the bus and the hum of students returns.
I hug my knees to my chest,
count the blue cars we pass.


VI. Basta, int.

you are alone
violet
you will always be alone
they will hate you here
just like all the others
before

no no no no
it’s only your first day
violet
it’s fine it’s fine
it’s fine
get off the bus


VII. Mocotaugan, n.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Uhh… Violet.”

“Cool! I’m Crystal. I’ll be showing you to your classes today to help you get used to the building. Your first class is… shop? Did you have that at your last school?”

“Uhh… no… Can I change that? Table saws seem scary.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. The big saws are for the upper-level classes. In the intro class, you mostly sand and maybe whittle with some fancy knives.”

“… They trust students with knives?”

“Well, they’re not like switchblade-knives. They’re using these weird knives with a crooked handle right now; Mr. Anderson’s husband is an anthropology professor at TCC, so he likes to bring some cultural studies and history into the projects and stuff. It’s way cooler than some generic birdhouses.”

“…”

“You should try it before you jump right out. Plus, the semester ends in like three weeks, so you can choose whether you want to stay or transfer into choir or yearbook or whatever. Mr. Anderson’s really cool though— Ugh. Class is about to start. His room is right over here by the art room. I’ll be back at the end of the period to take you to… algebra, alright?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”


VIII. Altricial, adj.

Crystal walks away,
waves at someone going into the band room,
probably relieved
to not be around me anymore.

Entering the shop room feels like being transported
into the middle of that intersection in Shibuya
that’s in every anime—
more people than I can count
walking in every direction
carrying blocks of wood, sandpaper, clamps.

They bring walls of sound with them
that close in around me, linger
like the hum of electricity pulsing through lightbulbs.

It’s hot
for January, but
I’m the only one sweating.
It’s loud;
my ears start to hurt.
How is there no air in this room?

“Hello, good morning. You must be Violet; you can call me Mr. Anderson. Are you alright? Coming into the class at this point in the year can be a bit overwhelming. Do you need a minute? I have some earmuffs behind my desk—

“Take a walk down to the water fountain at the end of the hall that way, take a drink if you need, then come back; I’ll get them started on their projects and bring the muffs here for you when you get back.

“It’s alright. We’ll figure this out together.”


IX. Herky-Jerky, adj.

Around two weeks ago,
I laid in bed,
watched my alarm clock start a new day.
It contained
the same strained muffles from the floor below
as yesterday.
I could hear them, but not understand
most of the words.
Mostly, vowel sounds made it through,
some harsher, shorter,
a breath between each sound.
He said her first name,
all three syllables, and she yelled.

A vibration climbed the staircase;
my door slammed open.
My mom rushed to my bed, frantic, sputtered,
“Violet. Get up.
We’re going to stay with your grandma
in Puyallup.”


X. Johnny Appleseed, n.

“Around two years ago, I had a student on the autism spectrum. They struggled a lot with writing, talking, most interaction, really; they excelled at crafts though, it was their outlet. So, their guardians decided to try to put them in shop.

“The intro class is mostly sanding, some whittling— Crystal brought you here, right? She had this class last year, she tell you this already? My apologies—

“Anyway, things were going well at the beginning. I had to learn how to read their nonverbal cues, their work. That was, until we had to carve. A student at the table behind them slammed their block on the table to surprise their neighbor. It overstimulated the student with autism— sensory sensitivity is often comorbid with autism.

“It was a clumsy oversight on our part; no denial. Their eyes welled up with tears, swiveling their eyes between me and the door, trying desperately to hold a scream. I could see the strain in their face, feel all the ropes in their muscles tighten.

“I took them into the hallway, walked them down to a quiet room with Ms.Ruiz to decompress, as was the protocol in their IEP.

“I needed to figure out how to help this kid stay in my room; they were excited for shop, their guardians were excited for it, Ms. Ruiz was excited for it— this was the best outlet for this kid.

“I realized that we had a bunch of these ear muffs for the seniors who used the power tools, but we don’t use them at all in the intro class, they just sit in a bin at the back. Plus, this kid couldn’t be the only one who is going to react this way to the noise level that’s bound to happen here. So, I took a couple pairs and kept them by my desk to be used for times like that. As soon as the option came up, multiple students asked for them. Their focus improved. Their work improved. The room felt— calmer. Calm for a shop class anyway.

“That’s why I had these ready for you, Violet. That’s why there’s another pair on the wall behind my desk. That’s why the pair I gave you say ‘Taylor.’

“So we never forget to think about the needs of those around us.”


XI. Schmick, adj.

The rest of the morning was a blur
obfuscated
(thank Ms. Hendrix’s word of the day board)
by Mr. Anderson’s shop class.

Crystal found me sitting in the hallway,
ear muffs on, alone.
Mr. Anderson had to go back to his class, but checked on me when he could.

She helped me up, asked what happened.
I felt embarrassed— a fussy infant.
She asked if I wanted to talk to a counselor;
I shook my head.

“You should sit with my friends and me at lunch.
I know I’m biased, but trust me, you’ll like them.
That is, if Isabella can look up from her Physics
textbook long enough. That nerd.”


XII. Amour Courtois, n.

The commons has
the electricity of a battlefield.
Crystal brings me to a table with
four girls:
one scrolling through something on her phone;
one poring over a physics textbook;
one chuckling at a book called Candide;
one painting a miniature of a knight,
sword and shield in hand.

“Suri, I don’t get
how you can paint here,” Crystal laughs.

She sets the knight down gently,
the brush eased onto a napkin,
exhales through her nose,
then her brown eyes rise to meet ours.
“It’s about control, Crys.
It’s meditative,
focused.
Plus,
Kordra needs a dope helm to woo their prince.”


XIII. Manducate, v.

“How was your first day?” Mom asks,
placing two bowls of tomato soup on the kitchen table.

I open the drawer next to the oven,
take out two spoons.
“Uhh…
It was a lot.
The classes are way bigger
than they were in Sequim.”
Two paper napkins between my fingers,
I fill a glass with water in the sink.

“Puyallup is a bigger place;
more people
out here. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.
Did you make any friends?”
She places her phone
face down across the table from her seat.

“It’s not that easy, Mom.
I can’t just make friends in a day.”
I blow on a spoonful of soup to cool it, take a sip,
realize then how hungry I am,
realize then how I didn’t eat all day.

So warm.

“They assigned a girl to show me around today.
She seems really nice,
her friends too.”


XIV. Musophobist, n.

I didn’t realize yesterday, but Nadine—
one of Crystal’s friends at lunch—
is in my English class.
I ask if I can sit next to her.
She nods,
looks at the board, sighs.

“Ugh. I hate poetry.
Such pretentious
nonsense. Purposefully esoteric
to feel superior
when readers don’t get it.
Random line
breaks to
fake
some deeper meaning.
Absolutely.
Atrocious.”

“I thought you liked reading. You couldn’t put down Candide yesterday.”

“No. Candide is different.
Stories are straight-forward.
They tell you what’s going on,
and it makes sense.
If it doesn’t, it’s confusing and bad.

“Poetry
is always confusing and bad.”


XV. Ambagical, adj.

Violet Caligos
1/10/20
Ms. Hendrix
Symbol Poem

A cottonwood seed floats on the breeze, searching earth, searching for a place to land. A cottonwood seed floats in the wind, tossed tossed tossed by the gusts. A cottonwood seed tumbles, land then sky then land then sky. A cottonwood seed follows a current away from what it knows, away and alone. A cottonwood seed lands in a field, overgrown grass all around it. A cottonwood seed digs into the Earth, something familiar, a new home. A cottonwood seed sings to itself as it waits for tomorrow.


XVI. Prescind, v.

Maya!!!! I miss you so much!! People here are just not the same. They’re nice and stuff, but my classes are HUGE! My english class has 42 kids in it! Plus, there’s no one I can talk to about the Good Place! Did you see the last episode?! I don’t even get their memes here! Anyways, how have you been? I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but it feels like FOREVER since I got to talk to you!

Read


XVII. Contempo, adj.

Back in eighth grade,
back in Sequim,
Maya and I
had the same US history class.

It was December
when they taught us
about the three branches of government.
It was the month after Trump was elected
when they taught us
about checks and balances, the amendments.

Maya asked a lot of questions.
Our teacher stumbled through her what-ifs.

I remember
hearing snickers from the back of the room
when she asked how impeachment works.
I remember
the teacher drawing diagrams
to stall, to scan their words for bias before answering.

I wonder,
as I grab a copy of today’s Seattle Times
from the stack by my school’s entryway,
if Maya is following the process too.
I wonder,
as I wave at Crystal sitting by Isabella
at one of the common’s tables,
if Maya is still asking questions.


XVIII. Telegenic, adj.

Walking through Emerald Ridge’s hallways
is intimidating.
Not just in the a-lot-of-people way,
but in a how-they-dress way.

Their clothes fit
their bodies and personalities
like they all had to pass an aesthetics class
or they all got Tan-Franced.

My clothes are
the first shirt and leggings I find
in the clean pile
with my mom’s high school track hoodie.


XIX. Schlockbuster, n.

I walk up to the table,
put the paper in front of an open chair.
Isabella looks up from her phone.
“Violet.”
Her phone punctuates my name,
collapsing onto the table
from her open hand.
“Have you seen The Last Skywalker yet?”

“Good morning to you too?
Haven’t seen it yet,
no time.”
I take off my backpack,
tuck it under the table,
sit.
“Why?”

Crystal sighs.
“She saw it last night
and has not stopped talking about it.
EVEN THOUGH SHE KNOWS
IT’S NONSENSE.”

“You hush.
Yes, the science is bad,”
she eyes her physics textbook,
“We know about the parsecs.
Yes, the story is haphazard.
Yes, the galaxy doesn’t make sense.

“But look
at what those hundreds of humans made.
Think about
the collective effort and talent
poured into that spectacle.
It’s a miracle.”


XX. Scripophilist, n.

Time feels like it moves slower
when you move to a new place.
Learning new people, places,
memorizing every face.

So these few weeks feel like years,
and Maya’s absence echoes.
I reread our old emails
and scroll through our old photos.


XXI. Downtick, n.

a cold front comes in,
drags in a blanket of clouds.
then the snow comes,
my shadow vanishes
in the scattered light.

hard to talk to anyone
with roads iced over,
layers of jackets
protecting fragile bones.
maybe i’ll just lay here and sleep.


XXII. Ambergris, n.

In the morning, the kitchen is filled
with her perfume
as she bags a sandwich, slides it in my backpack.
It takes me back to

a month ago, when the dining room had
three placemats.

Now, she talks about
making a soup in a crockpot on Sunday
to portion out through the week.
She rubs her eyes, yawns,
wishes me a good day at school.


XXIII. Brussen, adj.

Crystal invites me over to study
for our civics test
on the Boldt Decision.
Her house has two stories,
matching furniture.
She shows me to the living room,
then helps her sister
start her math homework in the dining room.
Some complaints
about letters being in math
echo off the portrait-covered walls.

Her parents
offer to let me stay for dinner.
Her dad
gets a pizza from Papa Murphy’s on his way home.
They all
sit at the dining room table
together
when it’s ready.


XXIV. Apaugasma, n.

Large waves as cars splash
through the parking lot
trying to go home.
Bright gray sky reflects off darkened concrete.

Crystal told me 
trying to drive home within a half hour after school
wasn’t worth it;
Emerald Ridge sits on a dead end off a dead end—
only one road out for 1400 students.
So, I sit on a bench
under the covered walkway by the gym,
watch the parking lot empty,
until she’s done interviewing
a teacher for something in the yearbook.

Ripples flow across the clouds in the sidewalk,
blurry with constant rain,
bright as stage lights.
The gray swirls and low hum all around—
feels like I go somewhere else.

Don’t notice Suri’s face appear,
don’t realize she says, “Hello,”
until she sits by me.
“Waiting for Crys?” She asks,
opening her sketch book
to start shading a half-drawn knight.

“Yeah. She’s giving me a ride home,” I say,
rubbing my hoodie’s cuff between
my thumb and forefinger.


XXV. Boerekos, n.

Suri closes her book on her pencil,
exhales through her nose,
then digs in her backpack
for a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos.

“I don’t know what to do about Kordra,”
she says between Cheetos,
tilting the bag in my direction.
“I can’t figure their armor out.”

I take a Cheeto.
“I don’t know much about— heraldry?
But, wouldn’t his kingdom have a crest or
color scheme that all the knights wear?”

“Their kingdom; Kordra’s non-binary,
which is why they got kicked out of the
kingdom’s training camp. It’s why
they work to be so strong, to be the best.”

I pause to think.
“So, Kordra wouldn’t be able to use
the kingdom’s crest,
because THEY got kicked out of there?”

“Like Kordra would want to use
their lame eagle crest anyway.
Those fools didn’t want them—
Kordra’s too good for them anyway.”

Suri’s getting heated, almost yelling.
She stops to breathe, eat three Cheetos.
I say, “They could use Cottonwood then?
A white and green palette, renewal?”


XXVI. Cockaigne, n.

Our bench feels like an island
surrounded by torrents of rain—
protected, somehow, and warm.

Suri shows me
more of the sketches in her book,
always quick to say
what’s bad about them
(they look great to me).

Lulls in our conversation come
when she has an idea,
has to write it down or draw it.

Crys finds us,
tells us about her interview with
the coach of the girls basketball team.
She asks if Suri needs a ride home.
She asks if I’m ready to go.

I see Crystal’s writing; Suri’s art;
Isabella and Nadine; how welcoming they all are;
and feel like this is all too good for me.


XXVII. Boojum, n.

I’ve looked at the
“Read”
at the bottom of my last text to Maya
for weeks.
It seems to grow by a pixel
every day that goes by.
Why didn’t she answer?

I’ve worried since we moved.
I’ve thought about calling her,
but each time I see that she
read
and didn’t respond,
it feels like our tectonic plates drift further apart.
When does it make sense to stop?


XXVIII. Peacocking, n.

Back in Sequim,
I walked down the halls,
smiled and waved
at students and teachers
when they’d say hello.
It was automatic—
done without second thought,
regardless of the previous hours
or days.

I don’t know why it’s so hard to do that
here.
People say good morning,
then ask if I’m okay.
Even when I think I’m passing,
even when I think I’m happy,
they look at me
with pity in their eyes.

I know what
I am;
I’m not going to try being what
I’m not.


XXIX. Paralogism, n.

don’t get comfortable rainier is due the ground below your feet is faulty and can fall away at any moment they hate you they feel sorry for you that’s the only reason they put up with your pouting that’s why maya doesn’t talk to you anymore that’s why no one from sequim even thinks about you you are forgettable not worthy nothing nothing nothing a burden a manifestation of a minus sign a weight that drags down crystal that wastes suri’s time that sucks the joy out of nadine’s day that dumbs down isabella they would be better if you just left them alone


XXX. Hipparchy, n.

don’t get comfortable rainier is due the ground below your feet is faulty—

“Morning Violet! I found the earmuffs that were lost yesterday. They’re on my desk. They have a post-it with your name on it to make sure you get ‘em.”

they hate you they feel sorry for you that’s the only reason they put up with your pouting that’s—

“Violet! Thank god! I forgot we have a test in algebra today. Did you fill out your notecard? And also can I see it?”

you are forgettable not worthy nothing nothing nothing a burden—

“Hey, would you mind reading my civics paper at lunch? I feel like I’m missing something, but I don’t know what.”

a manifestation of a minus sign a weight that drags down—

“Bro!! That cottonwood idea was genius! It fits them so well! Check this out— it’s Kordra slamming their warhammer into a werebear that’s attacking an elven village! That human saving that crate of tomatoes in the background is you!”

that wastes—

“Okay. I concede. Not all poetry is confusing and bad. Brown Girl Dreaming was actually really great. Thanks for recommending it to me… Nerd. Now, you have to read Slaughterhouse-Five.”

that—

“Violet!! I finally caught up on the Good Place last night! You should come over to watch the finale at my house tonight! Shut up, it’s fine— my family loves you, they always get too much pizza, and I already told them you’re coming.”


XXXI. Summa Rerum, n.

“They’re looking for more people to
welcome new students,”
Crystal says as we walk to civics.
“I think you’d be great at it.”

She’s so excited, I 
actually consider it.

“Why would you say that?
You’ve barely known me a month.”

The thing about Crystal
is she always has her reasoning at the ready.

“1. A person who cried that hard at how the Good Place ended is a good person.

“2. You know what it’s like to be new. You’ll be better at understanding what new students are going through. You haven’t forgotten how it feels to be surrounded by so many unknowns.

“3. You could help admin do something that’s better at getting people used to ER. There has to be something better than what we’re doing, which is practically giving them a schedule and hoping they figure out where to go.

“4. You’re great, weirdo. Deal with it.”
She mic-drops her binder on her desk.

I place mine down in the seat next to hers.
“Whatever, nerd.
You did great, and you know all the things!
I know, at most, SOME of the things.”

I pause. It’s hard
to get a deep breath, but
I think it’s a good thing
this time.
“Okay. I’ll do it.
Will you go to the office
with me
so I don’t chicken out?”

“Duh.”

Continued in Part II. Crystal Coleus.

At Four in the Morning

The room is filled with the dark of night. Red bricks of light that connect into the shapes of “4:30” are the only light. The numerals imprint on my eyelids.

I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It hangs like a Monet piece if he had met Yves Klein. The ceiling always fades away eventually. Not into the black of sleep, but into a blur as I start to see through it. I move through an eggshell fog and wooden frame and see clouds. But I’m still in the bed, it is still dark, and I still cannot sleep. 

I roll over more, on my right side this time. I see the open doorway to the master bathroom, its edges hidden in shadow. In horror movies, the doorframes have straight, clear lines. The monster is in there, yeah, but there is a line of division that it cannot pass. Not here. Not really. The doorframe was slowly being eaten away by the monster. It was winning battle after battle, spreading its rule. How long would it take for it to get to me? It’s 4:35 am. 

I give up on sleep. I convince myself it’s the logical choice, but, if I’m being honest, it’s a purely emotional response. I slip on some old shoes that I don’t need to tie and walk out of the apartment to my car. I need to move. I need to go somewhere. I need to drive. 

–    –    –

When I was in high school, I’d walk down Forgoen Avenue at four in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. It was something you could do when the town’s population was fewer than 2000 and the closest house was another farm a half mile away. 

My parents’ house was a blue, one-story rancher that sat on a plot with a small apple orchard in the back acre. A small barbed-wire fence drew its perimeter. Their apples didn’t go much further than the small family-owned grocery stores in Oatsdale, about two miles north on I-85, or Brenton, three miles east on Highway 234. 

At four in the morning, when I wasn’t able to sleep, I grabbed my shoes and my house keys and headed west on Forgoen toward the Hilltop Mart. The house keys were a formality I learned from various shows we’d watch on NBC; my parents never really locked the doors to the house.

No one was on the road at four in the morning, and, because of the lack of local funds in Karnapa, no streetlights punctuating the road. The lack of light pollution let the moon and stars pick up the slack, though, so not all was lost. The lay of the road was so flat and so straight, that you could tell the exact molecule the horizon sat on. It was like the first drawing they make you do in art in elementary school; the one where they try to tell you about perspective and you just draw lines from the bottom corners to the center. That’s literally what Forgoen looked like, even with the few hastily-drawn trees sprinkled in after the teacher said you didn’t put in enough detail.

There was a space after the Herston’s land, the farm a half mile away, and before the Hilltop Mart where the transmission towers stood, giving a lane for the power lines to travel to us from Karnapa proper to the north, the central part of town with the library and the city hall and the paper mill. There was a light popping under the power lines that you could only hear at four in the morning, because the rest of the day had too much sound for you to observe it. I’d stop for a minute on my walk and listen to it. I’d look at the stars and imagine every pop being the birth or death of a star, somewhere out there hidden by their boisterous friends. 

The Hilltop Mart was maybe a mile and a half one-way. It was an odd name, since it wasn’t on the top of a hill. It was on a hill, sure, but it was in the middle of a hill at best. It’s possible the hill of trees and Methodist chapels weren’t there when the Hilltop Mart was built, but that seemed unlikely; the trees were tall and the chapels didn’t have plumbing. It was open 24 hours a day because of the slim minority of me showing up at odd hours in the night, but mostly because of the two gas pumps outside of it and the state law that said an attendant had to pump your gas for you. 

The aisles were empty, like the road the store sat on, but the shelves were full. Three aisles were devoted exclusively to American beer. Budweiser had cases stacked on cases in the aisle with a neon sign of the logo above, the fluorescent lights drab in comparison. I gravitated toward the snack aisles during my morning walks: plump bags of chips bursting from the shelves, candy bars laid in an orderly fashion in their little cardboard houses. 

The nights in summer got down to the mid-60s. I grabbed a glass bottle of Snapple from the refrigerated section on the south wall, just before the refrigerated beers, and a Milky Way. I brought them to the counter where the clerk, Gill, stood. Gill was a middle-aged man with straight, shoulder-length, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a flannel shirt tucked into denim pants, his belt buckle changing every couple months. On this day, his belt buckle had a picture of a cowboy riding a horse, lasso raised in the air. Gill usually went with old Hank Williams songs when he was in charge of the store’s radio. The only thing he was missing was 10-gallon hat, I realized as an adult, but that never occurred to me then; that was just what Gill was like.

I gently eased the Snapple bottle onto the counter to make less noise and followed it with the Milky Way bar. A sad twang of steel guitar filling the store. “Hey Gill.”

He looked up from yesterday’s crossword. “Hey Pete.” His voice had a low drawl to it. When he talked, you didn’t see his mouth move so much as you saw his mustache roll. 

“How’s business?”

Gill met my eyes. He raised his right hand, palm up, and gestured to the empty northern wall on his right to the empty southern wall on his left. “Booming.”

We laughed. It was the kind of joke that works at that hour in that small of a town. Gill scanned the tea and the candy bar, and I pulled out the five I had in my pocket that I earned from my summer gig as a bagger at the Safeway by the library.

The register opened with a pang, the jostling of coins ringing out of its mouth. “Eight-letter word. Person from Calgary or Edmonton.”

“Got any letters?”

“Ends with N.” He answered, placing my change on the counter and picking up his pencil. He looked at me expectantly.

“Canadian?” 

“Tried that. Doesn’t fit with nine-down. Country where David lives: Italy. It ends with T-something-N.”

I pictured a Canadian map on the neon Coors sign and split it into provinces. British Columbia, Manitoba, Ontario, “Albertan.”

“Ah. Right. Thanks, Pete.” Gill started scratching the letters into the squares.

I nodded. “Anytime.” I shoved the bills and coins into my pocket, picked up the Milky Way with my left hand, Snapple with my right.

The door to the store closed with the dinging of a small bell. After walking down the steps to the road, I placed the Snapple on the edge of the stoop to open the Milky Way. I tried to do it while walking once, and I lost half the tea to a ditch. I’d walk the mile and a half east back home, listening to the last bit of the transmission tower’s electric popping with the sun peeking over the Herston’s silo.

–    –    –

I get to my car, which I had to park several buildings away in the complex due to all the free spots being taken by other freeloaders. It’s a green Kia I got at a “pre-owned” dealership last fall. I went on about the weird euphemism with the dealer; how it wasn’t a good term since it was longer and more complicated than the original term, “used,” and in response, he said, “I need your signature here, here, and your initials here.”

There’s no one on the road at four in the morning, because, it turns out, sane people just aren’t up that early. It isn’t just true in rural Karnapa; it’s true in suburban Harpen too. These roads have streetlights though. The people in Harpen want to play God and make the roads live in perpetual day. No sleep for you, Lauren Drive. 

I drive south on 267th, winding through a dim forest that’s been partially emptied for a couple houses every hundred feet for lake people who can’t afford to live on Lake Rhonda, but want to live by it. Their houses blend in with the tree trunks at least, peeling paint, cedar shingles, whatnot.

I take several turns in places I don’t think about; all muscle memory. The car just drives to a place, and I am on the journey with it. The drive is about a half hour. I end up in the parking lot of Valley Middle School, where I teach. It’s 5:15 am. School starts in two hours. The first day of the year.

In Kia’s trunk is an emergency stash of clothes I am expected to wear as an adult at a school: a purple button-up with thin, dark, vertical lines; a black tie; jeans that don’t have any holes; and shoes that don’t have visible holes. I keep some deodorant, a comb, a toothbrush, and toothpaste in my desk as well; I’m not worried.

I get out of Kia and stretch my back, on my tiptoes, trying to grab the clouds. Harpen isn’t as warm as Karnapa— it’s in the low-50s— and there’s fog hovering over the fields behind the school. I rub my forearms a little, feel the goosebumps travel up them. I climb onto Kia’s hood and sit cross-legged, not resting my back on the windshield.

I watch the fog flow around the fields and lap the parking lot. I look at the building, with its red-painted, cinder-block facade slowly getting chipped away. There are dots in the places students had written something in sharpie the previous year that hasn’t been painted over yet. A tennis ball lodged in a vent above the door to the science hallway. A blue frisbee (literally and figuratively) sitting on the roof above Ms. Spencer’s history classroom. 

An hour later, the sun rises over the portables that sit between the school and the fields. The clouds are whipped-cream streaks over strawberry puree. The portables’ antennas like small spoons dipped in it, stuck there.

“Sure. Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath of fresh morning air. I get my clothes out of the trunk, and walk toward the building.

Meditations on Driving

You were driving,
and I was sitting next to you
in the passenger seat
of your late-80s Tercel.

I sat,
slouched,
my forehead on the cold glass of the window.

I saw the white lines on the road,
bright from your headlights,
and I thought of long, thick lines of cocaine.

Because that
is a simile I would put in a poem
when I was in high school,
a line that I would feel proud of,

I smiled.

–     –     –

He was driving
his company truck
across Oregon
for the fourth straight hour.

The seats were covered
with old day-planner pages and safety forms,
empty sunflower seed bags and
leftover fast-food napkins.

Wind screamed through the open window
over his music—
the bass up,
doorframes buzzing—
while his hand sailed in the sun.

He steered with his knee,
his hands off the wheel
to open a water bottle and drink.

He told me bad jokes
about drinking and driving,
described obscure landmarks
like family members at a reunion.

He memorized mileposts and exit signs,
infused them in his veins.

–      –     –

She was driving
me back from a doctor appointment.

The radio was off;
the car filled with the engine’s drone,
rain drumming on the roof,
the wipers keeping time.

I looked at the streetlights
reflected in the puddles
on the side of the road—
and if you do,
you see the actual shape of the filament
instead of the light it projects.

She asked me
what I was thinking,
what I was feeling.

I didn’t know what to say,
so I didn’t
say anything.

–     –     –

I was driving
home
from the school where I work
two hours after my contractual day ended.

I was on the highway
headed east
on 18 toward Snoqualmie.

I looked at the lines on the road,
the dashes,
the clouds above.

The exit sign glimmered in the October twilight—
wet pine needles stuck on its face.

I saw the off-ramp,
thought
about missing it,
not coming back,
starting anew
anywhere else.

My foot hovered over the gas pedal—
I took the exit.

You want to be a teacher.

You want to be a teacher.
 
 Maybe
 you had a great math teacher in middle school;
 maybe
 you had an awful history teacher in high school.
 It doesn’t really matter—
 you decide to go to college.
 
 You struggle with the idea
 that
 there is a singular source of information,
 that
 there is a singular way to learn or master a skill.
 
 You get
 a piece of paper
 signed by
 a man
 you’ll never meet
 that says you are a competent educator.
 
 You sub in a couple school districts.
 You call it “gigging”
 to make it feel more temporary,
 impermanent—
 a low tide at dawn.
 
 Your lesson ideas come
 like meteor showers—
 somewhat predictably, all at once.
 You put them in a folder on your MacBook
 called “One Day.”
 
 You get an interview.
 They ask you:
 “Why do you want to teach language arts at Rainier Middle School?”
 You want a job.
 
 You get hired
 in the middle of the school year.
 You adopt the building’s rules,
 their calendar,
 their lessons.
 
 The next year,
 an idea
 grabs you,
 won’t let go.
 You deviate from the calendar,
 tell no one.
 
 Your students get excited.
 Your students get engaged.
 Your students show you YouTube videos they found because of you.
 
 You get a new administrator.
 
 He demands fidelity
 to a curriculum he never used;
 one he knows next to nothing about.
 
 You feel walls sprout from the ground around you.
 
 You try to become a leader.
 You run a program
 only to see everything you built get thrown away.
 You apply to another position
 only to get turned down by building and district administrators.
 
 He talks to you like you don’t know how to teach.
 Your district liaison talks to you like you don’t know how to teach.
 Your new program head talks to you like you don’t know how to teach.
 Maybe
 you don’t know how to teach.
 
 There is a good five minutes between
 when you arrive in your parking spot
 and
 when you exit your car
 where you sit and breathe.
 
 You don’t know what you want.

Snow Remembering December

First, there was the fall.
I was floating at the base of a maple. It was cold. Through the sky’s slow blinking, the leaves changed, shriveled, dove. The puddle rippled as they landed, sent small waves to the forest shore. Gaps revealed a wide, grey tent propped up by tree limbs.

Then, there was the fall.
I was floating on a current over some town, small buildings hastily decorated with a single strand of multicolored lights. I saw people walking around with overstuffed bags. Small steam clouds came out of their mouths, trying desperately to return home. I saw them rise, slowly, wistfully, taking the scenic route here and there, as I felt a chill run up my spine. My limbs stiffened, and I started my slow, swirling descent.

Last, there was the fall.
I was lying on the slope of a hill by a building. There was a hemlock there, sleds propped up on its trunk. The sun peeked out from a tear in the canvas, and I felt warm. I felt my arms loosen, my legs stretch. I rested my back on a blade of grass and looked up into the hemlock’s branches; its small needles trying to stitch the sky. The grass bent under my weight and sent me sliding to the soft earth. Curled up, I pulled the covers over my head and slept.