It is imperative, Elliot, that you pay attention. Our fate may fall in your hands one day, and time may take me before then, so you must remember this on your own. There is a word my elders taught me (yes, there are people older than me) that has been passed down since gods walked among us that you must learn. Hausaflortum. It means ‘sanctuary’ in a language related to Celestial that branched off when mortals figured out how to talk to gods. Travelers from our village created safe houses in every corner of the world that open to that word in case any of us ever need it. There are stories of old adventurers who even used this spell to protect ancient temples, maybe even gods themselves.
Tag: Writing
Through a Fog
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from September, 2021.
I. padfoot, n.
They sit cross-legged, back against the fence, head low, next to a rock the size of a football painted in blue and green swirls. They murmur between deep breaths, place a dandelion by the rock, walk back inside their mom's house.
II. mycophilia, n.
Their stepmom is in the kitchen humming to herself, slicing white mushrooms, throwing them into a saucepan. They walk along the wall opposite her, a balance between quick and stealth, in an attempt to avoid any opportunity for her to ask how they’re feeling.
III. whangai, n.
Successfully back in their room unnoticed, they sit on their bed, open their laptop from school, get greeted by a log-in screen with a first name they wish would die, a last name from a woman they wish would leave.
IV. good-sister, n.
“Hey Z,” Layla, their brother’s wife, says as she enters their room. Since their brother’s deployment, Layla has come over each Sunday after her morning shift at Applebee’s. She flops on the bed, releasing a wave of french-fry-scented air.
V. goodsire, n.
“Your grandpa told me dinner should be ready in about an hour,” Layla says as she digs through her apron. “Should be enough time for the next episode of Wild Wild Country.” She retrieves a joint and her lighter, as is tradition.
VI. micromania, n.
While the citizens of Antelope describe how the Rajneeshees overthrew their local government, Z stares at their toes shrinking in the foreground of their laptop’s keyboard. Maybe their whole body with shrivel, finally take up less space. What kind of life is it when your sister-in-law is the only one who uses your name?
VII. mumblecore, n.
They lose the thread when Layla goes on about a movie she watched last week they’ve never heard of. Everything spirals back into place as they realize the episode’s credits are scrolling by. Dinner must be almost ready.
VIII. humidex, n.
After establishing an alibi for their bloodshot eyes, they walk with Layla into the dining room. Sweat drips down their spine. Their neck aches, their breaths shallow.
IX. urbanscape, n.
Luckily, their stepmom doesn’t notice Layla and Z enter the dining room, too busy going on about her trip to the glass museum downtown with her friends and their kids which Z wasn’t invited to.
X. boody, v.
Z experiences dinner through a fog. They eat silently, can’t hear anyone.
XI. gribble, adj.
You can’t be that surprised. You’re not her real kid. She wanted to be with your mom. You were just part of the package. Maybe Nevaeh left your mom because she just wanted to get away from you. You’ve probably always stood in the way of your mom's happiness. You are just a burden. When people talk about pride, they aren’t talking about you. When people talk about liberation, they aren’t talking about you.
XII. necessarium, n.
Put on pajamas. Go to the bathroom. Brush your teeth. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. A bottle of melatonin. A bathtub and hair dryer. A razor with a loose blade. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.
XIII. human, adj. and n.
While dreaming, Z isn’t confined to the body they were born in, which locks them in a box people force on them. They can exist in a body free of gender.
XIV. hens and chickens, n.
When Z wakes up, they feel it wash over them in waves. Dread of confinement in a body that doesn’t fit. Pressure to be someone else by everyone around them. Hunted by an idea of who they’re supposed to be.
XV. yom kippur, n.
Not wanting to be a burden to everyone around them, Z takes up less space. They don’t eat. They don’t speak. Maybe this will make up for how much they’ve worn out the people who have had to put up with them.
XVI. spiritdom, n.
After school, Z sits in their backyard watching their dog’s ghost chase squirrels through their mom’s garden.
XVII. min-min, n.
Lights float somewhere above the roof of their house. Closer than a star. Blurry and flat like an out-of-focus comet. They imagine Herry chasing a bone across the Milky Way.
XVIII. urbs, n.
Z thinks about graduation — just a few months away now — then moving to the city for school, maybe, but mostly to get away from this house. In the city, they can be their true self without the shackles of their family, knowing it is also without the stars they can watch Herry chase bones across.
XIX. hearty, adj., n., and adv.
Sometimes, Z isn’t actually sure they’ll make it to graduation. They drag an anchor down every hallway until exhaustion grips their heart and brain and nothing seems worth all the effort.
XX. boohai, n.
alone, engulfed in the smoke from pickups trucks without mufflers.
XXI. tziganologue, n.
What if there is nowhere you will be accepted you for who you are? Maybe no one else will ever call you your name. You may be alone forever.
XXII. paddling pool, n.
Z sits on the side of the cafeteria with friends who forget what their name is, who say it changes too often to deserve extra effort. If high school is this and the future is made of people like them, then why would it be worth getting to.
XXIII. almondine, adj.
Z walks in from the backyard, past the living room where their stepmom sits on the couch eating almonds. She asks “Aaron” if they want any, clearly forgetting their name, their allergy. As usual.
XXIV. garden room, n.
From their room, Z stares out the window toward the backyard. They wonder about the height, how fast they would fall, the force with which they’d land on their stepmom’s tomato plants.
XXV. feastly, adj.
At dinner, they savor every last bite. Their mom, home for dinner for the first time in weeks, takes a large scoop of the macaroni and cheese she spent the evening making. Z eats until their stomach hurts.
XXVI. slow-bellied, adj.
A full stomach, they take slow, deliberate steps up the staircase. Committed, still, to the plan they made completely.
XXVII. pacable, adj.
It used to be bearable, when Herry was alive, when he could comfort them after a hard day. But since he died, each day feels more torturous than the last.
XXVIII. almuten, n.
A force beyond words. A slow crescendo inside their skull. Words they cannot ignore: You are a burden; Nobody wants you here; You do not belong; Everything you touch decays.
XXIX. hat tip, n.
Cold air through an open window. Cold words on crumpled paper. Cold acrylic of a bathtub. Cold steel of a razor blade.
XXX. alogical, adj. and n.
There isn’t really a word for the grief that drowns you when you find your child dead in their bathroom. There especially isn’t a word for the waves of grief and guilt when you find your partner’s kid, who you never particularly cared for, bled white, their final note in your trembling hand.
Maybe you don’t go back
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2021.
I. placcy, adj. (and n.)
You’ve avoided the inside of grocery stores for over a year. A pickup order every week, Fred Meyer insists on using their own plastic bags. Your bag of tote bags in the trunk remains unused; your stash of plastic bags under the sink steadily grows.
II. pseudosopher, n.
Your brother’s podcast plays as you drive up Meridian, back to your apartment, so you can know which propaganda the algorithm served him this month — which arguments to have and avoid at the family reunion.
III. zizzy, adj.
The engine revs louder as you climb the hill passed the fairground. As you pass the assisted living facility across the street from the private Christian school, the sky — orange with wildfire ash — comes into view.
IV. bearding, n.
Your brother’s voice becomes a yell as you turn down the side road to your apartment. He yells about a fraudulent election orchestrated the bankers and Hollywood elite. You know he means Jewish people.
V. off time, n.
Your Absence has been Approved This email is to notify you that your requested absence has been approved. The following are the details of the absence: Leave type: Personal Start date: Friday, August 13, 2021 End date: Monday, August 16, 2021 Confirmation #: 611391225
VI. baku, n.
You watch as buildings shrink under the wing of your plane. You sigh as the hypothetical gender critical rant by your aunt in your head fades under Antonioni’s "Malcomer" as you secure earbuds in your ears.
VII. lotophagous, adj.
You read the same line in your book four times without realizing it. The words unfocus into ridges of a nurse log along a trail you’re hiking alone. You swear your partner was with you, but they’re gone. Their voice flows through ponderosa pines; you feel calmer.
VIII. goombay, n.
Awoken by the thumps of wheels against runway. Your heart carries the rhythm as your book falls off your lap onto your bag between your feet.
IX. chicken rice, n.
Among the din of impatient passengers waiting to leave, you feel so alone. You start to text your partner to tell them you landed, unsure whether they’re sleeping or driving to work — you feel like an inconvenience. You wish they were here, but remember how they said during their first post-reunion dinner they couldn’t do it again after last time.
X. muharram, n.
Your father meets you at baggage claim. Happy to see you, but somewhat hurried, he keeps staring beyond you. Following his gaze, you find a hijabi woman waiting for her luggage. He remarks how she’s “just been standing there,” wonders how “those people are even allowed on planes.” You gather your thoughts enough to start explaining how wrong and racist he’s being. He waves his hand at you, says, “Better safe than sorry.”
XI. oscines, n.
His truck is loud; his radio is louder. He attempts to yell over the hair metal shaking the door frames to ask you about your flight. You struggle to focus on anything.
XII. machinina, n.
When you arrive at home, you ask for some time to unpack and nap — the problem with red eye flights is the sleep you get is always subpar. Your bedroom is as it was before you graduated. Posters on the walls, notebooks on your desk, a stack of novels on the floor by your bed. When you sit on the comforter, you remember the nights you couldn’t sleep, where you’d watch Red vs. Blue until three in the morning.
XIII. owczarek, n.
Groggy, half-awake, you hear paws pat at the door. A head rush as you sit up. You barely turn the knob before the door flies open, a white blur rushes in, lunges at you, licks your face. They somehow still remember you.
XIV. chinchy, adj.
You finally feel prepared for your family. You leave your room, walk down the hallway toward the dining room. Around the corner, just in earshot, you hear your parents tell your uncle how much you all still owe on your student loans. He groans about how foolish they were to pay someone to poison your mind.
XV. queenborough mayor, n.
When you were younger, they’d talk about how intelligent you were. When you were younger, they’d praise you for your computer skills. When you were younger, they talked about your bright future. When you were younger, they repeatedly said college was important. When you were younger, they cheered when you got accepted. When you were younger, they implored you to reconsider your major. You walk tentatively into the dining room.
XVI. oppo, n.
The subject of their conversation shifts abruptly when as you enter the room. They greet you, tease you for napping, ask how you’ve been, how and where your partner is. You make up a story: they couldn’t get off work to come. Your family accepts this and your other short responses to their questions.
XVII. changkol, n.
Guilt about lying to your family. Guilt about how easy it was. Guilt digs into your bone marrow. You feel seedlings sprout on your forearms.
XVIII. gentlefolk, n.
Quiet for the rest of the night. Claim to be jetlagged, but really just lament the actual reunion tomorrow, when your grandmother gets there. What questions will she ask? What lies will you have to tell her?
XIX. busybodyism, n.
Your extended family start arriving throughout the morning — a caravan of pickups and trailers. As you help set up the food table in the garage, you are bombarded with questions when each new group arrives.
XX. freemium, n.
You fill a kiddie pool with ice for the various potato and macaroni salads when the news breaks: The Taliban have encircled Kabul with little resistance; the US sends troops to evacuate citizens from the capital. You hear it from your father complaining about ungrateful savages who can’t appreciate all that the US has done to give them democracy.
XXI. pythoness, n.
Your mother chimes in, says she knew it would be a disaster after Biden “stole” the election. “Incompetent,” she calls him. A bang as she open a bag of salt and vinegar chips. “Senile bastard.”
XXII. dangdut, n.
It is constant — dog whistles and foghorns, racism and conspiracy theories you had filtered from your Facebook feed. It is overwhelming — your heart rate increases with your internal scream. You don’t know where to begin or how. It is bewildering — you’ve read so much, but your throat tightens. You are in a cage.
XXIII. ophiolatry, n.
Your grandmother finally arrives in a minivan driven by your brother. He helps her get on her Rascal scooter, then she slowly drives herself by each picnic table in the yard, excitedly greeting and hugging every person she can reach. You brace yourself for her proximity, her embrace, her questions, her theories.
XXIV. tom tiddler’s ground, n.
You hear your name. She exclaims it as soon as she turns away from your cousin’s table. She brings up how long it’s been since she’s seen you. Her questions are rapid-fire: How is school? What can you do with that degree? How’s your partner? Where are they? Why aren’t you married? When are you going to have kids already? You struggle to catch your breath.
XXV. irritainment, n.
They seem so coordinated, they must have spent weeks planning, rehearsing what to say to upset you. It must be funny to see you silently fume, to see if they can find your breaking point.
XXVI. spinback, n.
When your brother starts explaining how Jews corrupted the US military, siphoned off billions from the budget, and made us lose in Afghanistan, you’re done. A quick rush of air catches in your throat. The dam’s concrete fissures. The dregs at the bottom of the lake surface.
XXVII. antwacky, adj.
You see red. Your brother is yelling, but he sounds far away. He’s saying something about his First Amendment rights. Now, your mother is telling you to not ruin the reunion by taking things too seriously. Your uncle tells you to stop forcing your beliefs on everyone.
XXVIII. genteelism, n.
Walls are rebuilt one goosebump at a time. You offer an empty apology, excuse yourself, head back to your room. The closed door, a silent monolith of judgement. Its corona filled with shadows and laughter of people happy to be around one another, probably happy to not be around you.
XXIX. bonny clabber, n.
Things get quiet as night falls. Your room’s ceiling darkens the longer you stare at it; you stay wide awake. The afternoon keeps replaying, every comment echoes. You miss your partner; they’d know what to do or say. You can’t stay here anymore.
XXX. cantopop, n.
Hastily pack your suitcase, download Lyft, request a ride to the airport. Leave a note on the kitchen counter apologizing for ruining the reunion and leaving early. To stay awake, your driver plays loud, uptempo music by an artist their dash calls Zpecial. It’s enough to make you feel far away from that house and those people. You can breathe again.
XXXI. merdeka, n.
In your partner’s arms barely through the threshold of your apartment. Welcomed. Accepted. Loved. It’s all here. Why did you ever leave? Maybe you don’t go back.
Asleep in a Campfire
The sun is orange, the sky a textureless grey. Haze. It’s hazy. ‘Haze’ is a kinder word than ‘smoke.’ What does a deep breath feel like? When was the last time you had one? The sun turns red, the sky a uniform pink. Tree line looks rubbed with a cheap eraser. Ash floats soft as snow. Will it bury you? Will you ever see light again? All is greyscale. Lay awake. Toss when you finally fall asleep. You may not wake up. Will smoke consume you? Will embers swallow you whole?
There’s always a chance you’re wrong
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2021.
I. hen scratch, n.
An omen, they say, crawling across the sky. Hard rain, thunder, lightning will scar our cropland.
II. baksheesh, n., adj., and adv.
To stop the storm, we offer a loaf of bread wrapped in a ceremonial woolen cloth buried beneath an ancient cedar’s roots.
III. zinger, n.
“You actually believe in the burying bread thing?!” my son laughs. “You might as well ask them to make Monday follow Tuesday!” He shakes his head. I sigh. “You’ll understand when the rain calms and the clouds burn away.”
IV. noctambulist, n.
Moon walks behind the layer of blue-black clouds — a bruise across the sky. Stars appear, sprout rays toward the moon, which set clouds ablaze — a sheet of pale flame.
V. astrogator, n.
I point at the clear morning sky. “You see! You see! They took the offering” My hands wave back and forth. “They cleared the storm with the moon’s fire!” “Preposterous. There must be a scientific explanation for all that,” he dismissively shakes his head.
VI. seven-pennyworth, n.
“Look here, right here! An explanation for the storm!” He points to an article in the newspaper. “An abnormal weather pattern brought about by the changing climate. It’s science, Dad.”
VII. amazingness, n.
I scan the article. “Reasonable, I’ll give you that, but you cannot be certain.” Pointing to the final paragraph, “There’s always a chance you’re wrong. It’s science, Son.” I sip my coffee. “The climate, the moon, or the stars — The fact is: the storm is gone.”
VIII. dunger, n.
A quiet drive in my old truck, a Ford whose red paint has faded to the hue of a house finch’s breast. Its motor’s hum, the only sound between my son and me.
IX. okada, n.
The truck hiccups, comes to a complete stop. “Did the moon and stars kill your truck too?” He laughs, pulling out his phone. I pinch my eyebrows. “So what if they did? We’re stuck either way.” He calls a friend who lives nearby, who can get him to the station on their loud motorcycle.
X. krump, v.
I stay with the truck to poke at it, see if I can figure out what the problem is. I turn on the stereo on the seat which I bought after the built-in one broke to find a radio station to help me think. It catches when I try to start it up, and I pop the hood to find something moving around the engine.
XI. odditorium, n.
A bushy tail. Eyes red as arterial blood. Two long claws on each paw. A claw cuts a cable. A hiss through sharp teeth. Two wings unfurl, carry it all away.
XII. seventhly, adv. and n.
Dave arrives to tow me home. “What the hell happened? Leo said your truck just died?” I completely forgot the plan we came up with when we saw Leo only had enough service to text. I can’t keep my voice down. “I don’t know! Did you see that?! Why are there so many omens lately?! “What is happening?!”
XIII. ovulite, n.
Dave cannot draw the connections himself, so I help. I talk about the storm, the stars, the creature in the truck, every weird occurrence around town, how each element fits together like sedimentary rock.
XIV. dogleg, v.
Dave listens as he tows me home, curves around the backroads, nods politely as I talk.
XV. automorphism, n.
It can’t just be me. Everyone must see it too; it’s too obvious. Dave gets it. He doesn’t say so, but he does.
XVI. staycation, n.
“I think the sun might be getting to you,” Dave says as he maneuvers my truck into the driveway. “You might need to rest a while.” His sentence punctuated by the grip of the emergency brake.
XVII. papri, n.
Dave leaves. I pop the hood, the knife of my leatherman unsheathed, ready to strike. Nothing emerges. I find the broken cable, unattach the loose halves. I get Leo’s road bike from the garage, ride it to the AutoZone by the strip mall. Its thin wheels hum in the wind.
XVIII. mandela, n.
The stereo on the counter blares some talk radio voice in the store; its antenna pokes over the register. I pace through the aisles ’til I find a replacement cable, then return to the counter. Ger methodically rings me up, grumbles, “Always namedropping insteada doing anything to change anything.”
XIX. custard pie, n.
Ger holds the cable in his callused hands. “How this happen?” I sigh, “The truck died, and a monster under the hood cut it.” He looks at me, then at the cable, raises an eyebrow, then guffaws. “Musta been one scary squirrel, Harv!”
XX. butin, n.
Not wanting more ridicule, I notice the month with no clouds, but say nothing. At least the storm didn’t destroy our crops.
XXI. buster suit, n.
Midafternoon. Condensation pools around a glass of water on the table. In the waves above the road, I see myself as a child running in the soft rain of early fall.
XXII. star shot, n.
An omen, a message from the stars, hanging from the sitka spruce branches, I say. A common mold, a fungus without meaning or purpose, Leo says, showing me a picture on his phone.
XXIII. olive branch, n.
Lift my cap, scratch my head, “It wouldn’t hurt to leave an offering just in case.” “A loaf feeds us for a week. We can’t afford to waste it.” He rubs his eyes with both hands.
XXIV. rebetika, n.
Midnight — when the moon and stars meet to discuss their plans. Midnight — when crevices and faults open to release demons to our realm. Midnight — when I take our last loaf of bread to bury under the ancient cedar’s roots.
XXV. genteelness, n.
“Dad. What the hell? Where’s the bread?” Leo slams the cabinets shut. I rub my shoulders. “We can get by without it. The offering had to be made.” Before he speaks, I hold up a hand. “Now hold on. Listen. Rain will come and save us and our crops.”
XXVI. roman à clef, n.
I try to read the stars as they appear just after dusk, to see if they’ve listened. Without a cipher, I don’t recognize any of the names they mutter to themselves.
XXVII. unplug, v.
Leo makes breakfast the next morning: coffee, eggs and toast. I stare at the plate. “Where did you get more bread? I thought we couldn’t afford it.” “I dug up that loaf you buried. The soil kept it cool, the cloth kept it clean.” He smiles at his own cleverness. He has no faith in the process, no idea what he’s done.
XXVIII. Henatrice, n.
A hellish caw echoes over our acreage, shakes the window frames. In the sky, a winged beast, feathers and scales and menace in its eyes. It soars over the house toward town, death in its wake.
XXIX. ang moh, n. and adj.
Looking at the window, blood drains from Leo’s face, now pale as calla lilies. “I- I don’t- I don’t understand,” he stammers, wide-eyed, mouth agape.
XXX. Parafango, n.
I get out of my seat. “You took its offering. Now we need to fix it.” I gather all the pieces of the loaf, blend a mixture of wax from a prayer candle, ash from the wood stove. After coating the bread in ashwax, it’s wrapped in a woolen cloth, reburied at the cedar. Shielding my eyes while running back to the house, I hear its caw as it returns.
XXXI. Greeze, n.
“How did you know that would work? It’s nonsensical,” Leo scratches his head, as the beast flies away. I take a deep breath. “It’s drawn to the ash and wax, something the elders said worked long ago.” “That’s all superstition though! That’s not scientific at all!” He grips the hair above his temples. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Science isn’t an answer; it’s a question.”
A Calm Lake
Stillness permeated from the lake. Trees stood still, branches stoic in the wind. Actually, it felt like wind died as it approached the lake, or maybe all the molecules found their spaces to be. No evidence of animal life anywhere — no tracks nor droppings or food. Not even insect bites on leaves. You’re sure the ecosystem ought to be suffering, but it’s lush and green.
Ali Shuffle; Or, When We Met
At the edge of the forest, I saw a madrone bent by ancient winds and remembered the way you danced at the festival by the palace when we met. I wondered what you were doing — whether you were serving tourists in your family’s tavern — whether you missed me. When we made camp that night, the firelight shimmered on cedar trunks, and I saw your hair reflecting in the sunset again. When we threw a fir branch on as it got dark, its pines popped so quick— like your feet when the beat picked up— like my heart when I saw you.
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.
Padkos; Or, You left so suddenly
I hope you’re alright. You left so suddenly — you needed to go somewhere to save something — it’s what adventurers do. I know that; I’ve worked in this tavern my whole life. I hope you’re not hurt. News came in from a scout that a chasm opened along the trail south, where you said you were going. They said they found a modest grave a couple yards off the pathway near it. Before you left, I got up early, split our family’s culture, kneaded it into some dough, let it rise. I sang songs to it from my family — stories of tavernkeeps from long past — and from my favorite local bard who can never settle on a name — songs of decaying drow corpses and sacrificing souls to Nerull — before baking it in my family’s hearth as old as the grove itself. I snuck it into your pack before you woke up, so that maybe when things got dire, you might find a second wind and be able to ride it back to me.
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.
During a Heatwave
You step out into the yard, feel the heat’s weight descend on you. The grass is warm, dry between your toes. You think about how the only way for an individual to escape the effects of climate change is to add to it — a never-ending cycle that you may not live to see humanity escape. You check the weather app every five minutes to see if all of this is even real. You try to read a book on the couch, feel the heat seep in through a gap in the caulking of the window, fight the temptation to sleep. You try to think about cold things, because it worked for Gus in that one episode of Recess you watched as a kid; it does not work for you here. You imagine what you would do if the power went out, whether you would secure what cold you’ve collected inside, run away, or just lie down and wait for the sun to consume you. Ninety-three degrees in your apartment at 10 pm. You scramble to turn on and adjust every fan inside. You cannot find any air.
at what cost
click enter on your search — an electric impulse through an algorithm spanning an incomprehensible index, maintained in server farms across the globe — scroll through results — the first ones the most profitable for the engine’s parent company, the second ones bought by other companies — on your phone — put together by child labor in Asia from materials mined by forced labor in Africa — to view a content — for which the creator makes fractions of a cent, if they are compensated at all — which will vanish into the ether — as soon as you close the tab or open a new one.
M. Espinosa 