The Story

“Phillip, take that ridiculous thing off.”

I unclipped the throat chakra crystal necklace and slipped it into my pocket.

“Thank you. We can’t have the customers thinking we are some sort of hippy grape commune.” She sent me a short smile and quickly returned to her files.

“Yes, Ms. J. Sorry about that.” Once I was facing the doorway to her office, I rolled my eyes.

“Oh don’t pout with me, love. You know how picky I am about our atmosphere.”

How does she do that?

“Of course, I know.” And when I looked at her, those hazel eyes smiled in a way that I could not pout with her at all.

Ms. J had always been particular about her winery, and she was right, I’d known since my first day that there would be a strict dress code.

That first day, she’d hired me twelve minutes into my interview, and began to show me around the space. She then began a long speech about the standards she held for each of her employees. To match the Tasting Room, all servers were to follow exact outfit restrictions: Clothing must be black, white, navy, or cerulean. No silver jewelry, only gold. No casual shoes- loafers or heels, period. No hats, no headbands. And of course, no “hippy” clothing (a definition that included anything Ms. J thought of as too colorful, casual, frayed, or unusual).

However, Ms. J made up for all the rules of the vineyard with good pay and consistent hours, so we didn’t complain often. Well there is Molly. She was always trying to sneak in wearing bright pink flats or a ti-dye hair bow.

Sometimes I would catch Molly before Ms. J saw her, but not always. Like this morning, when Molly came in with a dang florescent clip at the top of her ponytail.

“Molly! You kids are going to be the death of me! Get that thing off your head!”

“Ms. J, it’s just a splash of color!”

“It’s nonsense. We’re a classy place. Take it off or head home.”

Molly smirked, “Maybe I will head home then. Then you’ll be a server short on the solstice- you know that’s bad luck!”

Around the room, all servers instinctively took a step further away in any direction we could go.

Mrs. J turned slowly, her tight silver bun spinning to the back of her neck in a way that reminded me of a spooked owl.

“Solstice? Luck?” She began to stalk slowly to Molly, “You think that’s what built all that surrounds you?” The older woman stood mere inches from Molly’s nose, and not for the first time I realized Mrs. J was actually very tall. Her eyes were set in a glare a solid four inches above Molly’s own fearfuleyes.

“No, no ma’am.” If she could have moved, I imagine Molly would have been shivering. It was noticeably colder in the room.

“Good. Because it didn’t. I built this. My siblings poured their savings into my dream, and my broken back lifted it up from a dirt mound into one of the most premier vineyards on the East Coast. Does that sound like luck to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” Mrs. J leaned back, and it was like someone opened the shades! Light poured back into the room and everyone buzzed with relaxed breath.

I gestured Molly to come over, the managers kept a box of extra hair clips, socks, etc. hidden in one of the decorative barrels. But before she could reach me, Mrs. J had reached the office door, and turned on her heel again to face the room.

“Oh Molly?” She called.

Her body still aimed at me, Molly turned her head, “Yes ma’am?”

“Take the day off, dear,” Mrs. J purred, “I’m sure we can do without today, and I think you could use some air.”

Molly turned back to me, but I couldn’t meet her eye. It was one of the first Saturdays the heat from summer had broken, and the winery would be packed with people happy to leave huge tips. Mrs. J was making a point, and none of us were missing it.

And unfortunately for Molly, Mrs. J was right. We were busy as heck, and I don’t think I or the others paused for even a moment. The sound of corks popping was so constant it turned into a kind of music, pop pop ba-dop, pop pop ba-dop!

But when the end of day came, none of us were really that tired. All of the customers arrived in happy moods and became pleasantly buzzed through the afternoon and into the evening. We didn’t have to call a single cab to pick up someone who had gone too far, nor had to invite anyone to never come back! As we finished cleaning and split the tips, we all felt a little jived from the success in the cool evening air, so we decided to have a little party ourselves. Manager Leanne put a few bottles on her tab and led all the servers to the picnic area.

We were as loud as one of the bachelorette vans that comes by in the Spring as we paraded from the Tasting building to the picnic area. Still though, a sound pricked my ear and I walked past the parking lot. There was a car there with its lights on. Odd, as we’d been closed for a little over an hour, and we’d left Mrs. J typing away in her office, as usual.

“Hey, someone leave their lights on?”

A few of the closest heads turned to me, then to the car I was pointing towards.

After a chorus of “nope”s, I decided to investigate. If it was a patron waiting to sober up or something, they’d need a ride called.

“Commin’, Phillip?” Leanne called.

“Yeah yeah, just going to check on this!”

“Alrighty, careful you don’t miss all the Sangiovese!”

They all laughed. God we were nerds.

I made it across the gravel of the parking lot and saw there was indeed someone in the lit car. It was a little spooky to come up to someone alone in a dark parking lot, but I’d come this far, right? And surely a buzzed customer wasn’t a danger.

I rounded up the side of the car and knocked on the driver’s window, “You okay in there?”

Aaaaand I spooked the hell out of Molly.

“Oh my GOD, Phillip!” She jumped out of the car after a little shock wore off for us both, “I almost maced you!”

“Well, thank you for not doing that. What the hell are you doing here?”

She slumped against the car, “I was whining to my mom about Mrs. J and she told me to drive back here after we closed and apologize.”

“Oh well that’s smart. I’m sure Mrs. J wasn’t actually that mad. Just pop in and say sorry then come join us at the picnic tables- we’re celebrating a busy day.”

“God, lots of tips?”

My turn to smirk, “You don’t wanna know how well we did today.”

“Damn,” she straightened up and began shuffling towards the building, “Will you come with me?”

There was nothing I’d rather do less, and I think that was clear on my face.

“Pleeeease, Phillip? She can be so scary!”

“Only cause you push her buttons.”

“We can’t all be perfect little Phillip with his checkered bowtie.”

“Hey! Everyone loves my bowtie!” But I reluctantly followed her to the building. Leanne had left it unlocked in case any of us needed a bathroom run, and enough lights were on to make it Mrs. J’s office door.

That light was on too, but Mrs. J wasn’t there.

“Think she’s in the loo?”

I stared at Molly, “The loo?”

“The bathroom,” she rolled her eyes and laughed, “I’m working on being more posh for this place, ya know.”

So we waited a few minutes, but Mrs. J did not return.

“Maybe she took off.”

“No, I’m parked next to her,” Molly answered, “She has that GrapeLady license plate. We would have passed her coming in here if she left.”

“Well, I’m sure your apology can wait,” I started to pull Molly back towards the entrance, “lets go get some wine.”

“No no!” Molly pulled back, “what if she stews about it? She could decide you all don’t need me at all! I need to find her tonight.” She began stalking towards the barrel room.

It seemed like a terrible idea to go snooping around in the dark when we didn’t know where Mrs. J was and one of us was already in trouble, but I think I was still a little wired from the day.

As we trundled down the stairs I tried to remember where the light switch might be, but there was no need. The barrel room had a soft glow coming from the glass panes of the double doors. And… music?

Nope that was chanting, definitely chanting.

“Yeah Molly this is a terrible idea. It’s dark, there’s weird glowing, we’re just out of screaming-range from people we know. We are literally at the beginning of a horror movie right now, and I just don’t have time for that.”

But she was already kneeling by the side of the door and peaking through the glass, her eyes were huge with whatever she could see.

Oh yeah, we were for sure going to die.

“Shut up and come here.”

“Absolutely no-” She pulled my shirt so I was next to her, and therefore had to duck to not be seen through the door.

I figured if I was going to die, I’d at least have a good story to tell whoever’s waiting for me in heaven, so I chanced a glance myself.

Mrs. J was standing in the middle of the barrel room, in a long blue gown I had never seen before. It had little shimmers on it that reminded me of constellations, but that couldn’t be right, because that did not fit the beige-and-white dress code she held for herself.

And there were other people standing by her. Some of them had the same silver/blond tinge to their hair, and as one turned I recognized him as Mrs. J’s big brother who I’d met a few times before. He too was in a dark blue color, his a suit sky-blue with a scarf of little golden zigzags. The other figures were similarly dressed, and similarly shaped as the two of them, probably the other siblings that lived further away.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Molly whispered.

“I don’ think I want to.”

But she did, she pushed the door open just slightly enough for the sound of hums and sighs to come rushing through.

When the sound stopped suddenly, I had to grab Molly’s arm so she didn’t let the door slam shut.

“Thank you all for coming again, on this beautiful solstice,” Mrs. J announced to her little circle, “You know how much more powerful this night is when we are all together, and the moon is ever so closer when I have you all near.”

There were little happy laughs as well as a few joyous, “here here!” in the small audience.

“As we begin tonight’s solstice ritual for the late harvest, and the blessings to lead us through winter, I’d like to offer you all a sip of sacrifice…” Mrs. J turned to a barrel on its end beside her. I realized her dark haired husband seemed to be attending it. He was dressed in much lighter clothing, like some sort of champagne silk. He dipped a clear carafe into the open barrel and offered it to her, red droplets hanging from his fingers.

Mrs. J nodded her thanks, and then poured the liquid into crystal gobblets for each of her siblings.

Molly breathed into my ear, “This is weird…”

“Shut up.” Yes, yes it was extremely weird. But I’d already given up my resignation to death and did not want to be caught there.

Mrs. J continued her speech, “Long ago, Demeter lost her daughter to the night, and froze the earth with her tears. Tonight, as she turns Summer to Fall, we honor her by consuming the blood of her enemy, and-”

Nope, nope, that was enough.

I grabbed Molly’s arm and flew back up the stairs, past the office, and didn’t even register leaving the building until I heard the gravel of the parking lot beneath my feet.

“Oh my GOD.”

“I know.”

“Phillip! Oh MY GOD.”

“I know.” But I didn’t. I couldn’t breathe. Fancy-pants-don’t-bring-hooplah-into-my-building-Mrs.-J was drinking blood to ask for a goddess’s blessing on the wine barrels.

“We have to tell someone!” Molly started moving to where our coworkers were shouting out some sort of card game at the tables.

I grabbed her arm again, “Absolutely not. We do not know what we saw.”

“We know exactly what we saw.”

“Nope. No we do not. We did not see a damn thing, Molly. We did not see a damn thing at all.”

She stared at me, I could feel her searching my face for an argument. “Why?”

“I think it’s safest. Mrs. J is filthy rich, and so is her whole family. I’m pretty sure her uncle is like a Duke somewhere in Europe and her husband is a lawyer. We would be walking into a minefield, and we don’t even know what we saw.”

“Fine,” Molly conceded, “we don’t know what we saw.”

“We don’t. Let’s just… lets just go join everyone. You can write Mrs. J an apology email.” A cool wind seemed to brush the sweat from my neck. It felt reassuring somehow, like the earth agreed with the choice of silence.

But I did know what we saw.

And I know what the chant was saying.

And I never forgot.

As I continued my employment for Mrs. J, I rose through the ranks of server to Head Server to Junior Manager, then finally to Manger. Mrs. J trusted me with larger and larger portions of the business, and when I graduated college, she offered me to become a junior partner.

“I’m getting old, love. I need someone to carry it on when me and mine are gone.”

So September 21st, my first solstice as a partner, Mrs. J asked me to stay behind as the servers closed the Tasting Room. She led me down into the back stairs, through the glass doors, to where her siblings and their spouses were lighting candles all around the Barrel Room.

She introduced me to her niece, “She’ll be joining the vineyard shortly, she’ll be part of your team.” Mrs. J explained.

Then the chanting. Which wasn’t really chanting. No, it was clear her brothers, just like they had all those years ago, had gotten into the wine a little earlier than everyone else. And if I heard right, were doing their best acapella version of The Kinks’ ‘You Really Got Me’, which in turn echoed through the large room in a way I imagine would spook a couple youngens sitting just outside the room…

One of the sisters happily welcomed me, giving me a flowing amethyst scarf to put over my collard shirt.

“There dear, now you look the part too!”

I nodded, thanking her, but I was nervous. I’d known the further I got in my career, the deeper into the lion’s den I went. But ever since that night, I’d needed to know more. And I loved this vineyard, I was good at it! If there was some sort of rich witch cult that made the grapes grow then damnit I wanted in.

I was not excited about the familiar filled carafe that stood on its barrel though, Mr. J guarding it as he had each year.

Mrs. J began her speech, but instead of hearing her words of thanks, I felt only buzzing in my head. I’d swallowed a few glasses of Cab Franc this afternoon, knowing this was coming, but I’m pretty sure it was my own heartbeat in my ears rather than the alcohol.

She stretched out her arms, and it seemed for a moment the wrinkles I’d watched form these past years were gone in a moment. She accepted her husband’s offer of the carafe, and poured the goblets full.

“Let us give first to those who will lead us soon,” She nodded to me and her niece to come forward.

It helped that the young lady next to me accepted her goblet with a shaky hand. It made me feel better that I could barely hold my own still.

“Now raise your glasses of sacrifice for the solstice, the harvest, and the defeat of Demeter’s enemies!”

There was no turning back from this. No leaving, no end. Just me and my crystal goblet with its morose contents. In the moment it took to tilt back my glass, I prayed it wouldn’t be too bitter. That I could handle at least a sip to satisfy the onlookers, my now sworn companions.

Then it reached my lips.

Ah.

Pomegranate juice.

The Word

Ritual

(Noun): A religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order.

(Adjective): Relating to or done as a religious or solemn rite.

I almost feel I should leave this one alone for some reason, let you all ponder on it on your own time. It’s got a little humor, because I think life and writing is dull without it 🙂 But I do hope you enjoyed tonight’s story, and I hope you have a few rituals of your own that help you celebrate beginnings, commemorate endings, and welcome the harvest that comes in every season!

The Story

Being a mermaid is weird.

It’s supposed to be like… ethereal or magical or tragic but like, it’s just weird? You don’t really fit in anywhere.

People on land.

Fish in the sea.

I am literally half and half. And no body wants you! The fish are scared because you’re a predator. The humans would try to cage you. I heard some of them even made up these REALLY rude stories about us drowning people. Which yeah we have some monsters among us who have done some… not so kind things, but so do they. At least we don’t dump our murder victims into their house like they’ve done to us so many times. There were a few years where we just stopped visiting the piers of New York.

My granddad talks about once he was crossing through Italy, moving at night, quick and quiet, to get something or another and WHOOSH dead body dropped right on his head. He even has a scar where the concrete the poor human’s feet were stuck in ripped his shoulder.

Really the only creatures I get along with outside our village are the octopuses, and they don’t even have names. At least not ones that I’ve figured out how to say. They’re brilliant and I love their quiet touch language.

You’d think for as long as they have been around, they would have all these wise sayings. But as one I met in the Pacific told me, they bore with advising the world around them, especially when so few listen. So instead they tell the most outrageously raunchy stories! I mean, when I say they’ve seen everything… they have seen EVERYTHING. Sharks that eat their own tails, sailors that eat their own captains, anything and everything sexing up anything and everything else that moves. One had kept this little booklet it found from a shipwreck near the Arabian Sea that had humans bent in shapes that even in a current I can’t manage.

On top of that, octopuses are hilarious! Thousands of years to prepare the perfect punch line makes results. There’s this one that I visit down near Australia, she told me one that goes like this…

Did you hear about the red ship that collided with the blue ship? All the sailors were marooned!

Haha, I love it! Well, I guess that one wouldn’t be so funny for you.

Okay how about this one: Why was the ship shaking at the bottom of the ocean? It was a nervous wreck!

Not that one either? I mean, you have to be a little lighthearted about your situation, you know.

Like me- I know that my family and I are never really going to fit in. We tried once with the humans, but that’s when those drowning-rumors started. We were trying to introduce ourselves, and we figured the best place to start were the sailors who already spent a lot of time in the sea. But apparently all that sun and saltwater got to their heads and they couldn’t understand our language. They thought we were trying to seduce them or something. Like a mer-lady with any self respect would want to seduce a man without a dorsal fin. Ridiculous.

We still have fun with it, though! Sometimes my siblings and I will go by a cruise ship at night, or by a quiet beach, and hum a few notes, make a couple splashes, just to see what the humans do. They used to just gasp and run, now they try to get a picture of us! As if they could catch us!

And the sea creatures aren’t wild about us either. Most of them think we’re trying to eat them, and the other ones want to eat us. And it’s not just the sharks like you might thing, there are some big spider crabs that can get a wild hair sometimes.

Hair, ha, you know what I mean. Crabs don’t have hair. A wild claw? Mom says I’ve been spending too much time by the coast and I’m picking up these phrases that don’t make a lot of sense.

But if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have found you! And I don’t remember the last time I had such a lovely conversation. Don’t get me wrong, the octopuses are lovely but with their whole practically-immortal thing, they’ve kinda lost their sense of time and they can just taaaalk and talk and talk, you know?

I should take a note from that though and let you tell me about yourself instead of just going on and on. So! Are you from up there? Near the cliffs? Or were you visiting? Must’ve been a vacation with that big jump you did. There are these teenagers that come by every summer and jump off from those same rocks all whooping and hollering. Dad gets annoyed hearing them but I think watching them is so fun! They can’t dive well at all, so it’s funny. And they look funny too- with their bright colorful coverings like they’re trying to attract a clown fish or something!

I like your outfit better. Dark colors, long pants to cover the pale skin of those legs. You’d fit in better around here, it’s better to blend in to the ocean water than stick out. So would your friend in all his dark clothes too! The mask was weird though, he have to take that off to make calls underwater. Why didn’t he come in with you? Is he afraid of water? I’ve heard some of you are afraid of water, which I think is silly, beacuse-

Oh me! I’ll hush now and let you talk!

…

Sir?

…sir?

Oh. Oh no.

The Word

Unworldly (Adjective): 1. (of a person) Not having much awareness of the realities of life, in particular, not motivated by material or practical considerations. 2. Not seeming to belong to this planet; strange.

Unworldy- get it? She’s a mermaid! In the sea! HA!

Wait wait, please don’t go- I’ll stop with the bad jokes* I promise.

So we have a cute little story today, a young mermaid who may have found a victim in the ocean, but is way too excited to have a listener to realize she should probably find him some oxygen…

No big meaning or talk here, it was just a fun idea I wanted to share with you all! Have a lovely night, and be safe by the water!

*Maybe. Probably not.

Hello lovely readers! I work hard to make all stories stand on their own, but you will enjoy this one much better if you have read Today I am Yawn and/or Today I am Atonement before hand. Thank you :)

The Story

Of course there was a freaking tree. How could we possibly go on a quest without a freaking tree getting in the way of everything?

“Aw yes, as the prophecy foretold- ”

“Shut UP, Fendoialin! The captain is NOT here to make sure I don’t decapitate you so SHUT your GODS FORSAKEN mouth!”

McKoi stared at me, but smartly did his questioning of my outburst in silence. He knew that I’d been done with the Prophecy Keeper for decades and it was only a test of my patience that the Captain had made him part of my squad.

Private Genile quietly offered me water, then handed the flask to Fendoialin and McKoi before taking a swig herself. She had this way of making each water break a communion that forced us back under one banner. It’s just who Genile is. Her presence was the salve to Fendoialin’s.

“Thank you, Private. Alright does anyone have an idea-” I shot a withering glance at Fendoialin “-a USEFUL idea, that will get us to the other side of this tree portal thing?”

It was the first time my gem had hummed in over 60 years, and while these things normally led us to a glistening pool or grassy pathway, or even once a trip through quicksand that tumbled us into the correct timeline, mine just happily chirped in front of big damn pine.

The last time it had been my gem that called, I’d traveled with a few of the Called through an icy waterfall, and brought back a beautiful red head. Her name was Tara. God how I’d loved her. I’d fought it at first, thinking those rosy feelings in my stomach were just a combination of her being a Chosen One and those long pale legs she walked on so gracefully. But after the weeks of traveling and training, I knew it was really her- that I would never live as greatly as I did when those lightning blue eyes looked at me.

Of course, then she strolled in front of the Door and turned to stone. So. The heart may know what it wants, but it certainly doesn’t know what’s best for everybody. That’s for damn freaking sure.

I think about Tara a lot. The waterfall had landed us in the timeline of Australia, around June 1914. It was right before their first world war, and I was surprised to find a red head there. It wasn’t for another several decades that the country’s race profile got diverse, so I didn’t know how she’d gotten there. But after a few shots of whiskey, she told me about her Irish grandfather who had gotten jailed in Britain, sent there, then made a few sons and so on. I drunkenly made a comment about recessive genes that she didn’t get, but laughed anyway.

Her laugh was gorgeous. It pearled up to a quick high note before barreling down into a wheezy chuckle when she was happiest. I knew then that in all my lifetimes, I would never hear a happier sound.

Her trip through our homey little realm had not been easy. As a female of the early 1900s, she did not exactly have a lot of fight training. However, she’d lived in rough country, brought several calfs into the world and tangled with her share of cowboys so she didn’t shy from hard work either. She took her bruises and scrapes as well, though more often, as the rest of us.

But then the Door, and stone. Captain said they could bury the sculpture as they had with the remains of the others in our sad little cemetery, but I couldn’t bare the thought of putting her in the dark. So she stood, still smiling and gorgeous, among the dirt mounds signaling our sacrificial failures, like the angel markers I’ve seen in regular cemeteries. Her head is turned slightly as if she was about to call back to me. I will always wonder what she was going to say.

When my gem went off again, warming for the first time in 64 years, I didn’t care. I’d had so many nightmares of it leading me to Tara’s cold granite body that I was numb to the stupid necklace. It was Private Genile who noticed the glowing beneath my shirt- who urged me to follow its lead. If she hadn’t just lost her position of Champion to a lightening strike, I would have told her to shut up and join the night watch.

But now she too had been tossed to the lower levels of guilt-hell where I’d been dwelling for decades, so I obliged if only to give her hope. The next morning when I told Captain, she’d sent me on my way saying I could take two privates if I took freaking Fendoialin. I knew McKoi would make a good balance to my skills, and I needed to take Genile, so off the four of us went.

And now here we four legendary heroes are, ageless and powerful, stuck in front of a frick fracking tree.

We’d circled the thing several times each, and run our hands over the bark searching for some sort of clue or lever. There wasn’t even a squirrel hole or wood pecker scar for us to try to squeeze into. Climbing it had made us all feel better because Fendoialin got to do his chanting meditation on the ground and we got to be several stories above said meditation. It was a reprieve, but when we jumped from the tallest branches, nothing happened.

I kicked the trunk, “I should make TIMBER out of you, you USELESS, overgrown SHRUB!”

“Technically,” McKoi offered, “trees and shrubs are different in both genetic makeup and growth style, as well as-”

“McKOI.” I reeled back on him, and I knew my eyes were fire above my gritted teeth, “You know how much I absolute LOVE your little fun facts but right now is just not the time.”

He pressed his lips into a line, and then stepped back from me and damned tree. Fendoialin opened his mouth to speak, but McKoi grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back into the shade of the other pines.

I felt guilt rumbling in my stomach. Our predicament was none of their faults. It was mine. Mine and my stupid gem that was going to take me somewhere I didn’t want to go. But I was the highest ranking officer in this small party and that meant I either had to be right or utter an apology which might demean my entire authority so…

“Look, I know I’m right about this.”

Genile made a small, but confident, step forward (note to self, I must remember to tell Captain how well she is doing recovering), “Sergeant Teak, if you are sure about this tree,” her eyes widened at my glare, “which I am sure you are, we need to start thinking of symbols that may need to be drawn on it, or hooks needed to be pulled, or other ways we have had to navigate hidden portals before.”

I pressed my lips together so it would look like I was thinking but really, I was completely lost. Sure, we had found before that little portals could be opened with pretty symbols or dramatic words. I thought about trying some of the versions the Called had used before, but we had also learned that no successful path for the Chosen One worked twice.

Fendoialin readjusted his robe around his shoulders, and I became aware we were losing the light of the day. No matter how much I didn’t like the guy, I couldn’t have an old man without a fire to warm him at nightfall.

“Lets make camp and maybe when we feel more sorted, something will occur to us.”

He ruffled his cloak again, and I thought he was thankful we would be settling in. But of course not, he was just puffing himself up.

“Soldiers!”

I rolled my shoulders, trying to release the tension that had tucked itself into my back.

“Fendoialin. What.”

The wrinkled wizard turned to me. I could see how in his youth his glittering silver eyes may have been attractive, but after years of his badgering, they seemed to just be cold steal. The eyebrows above them were bushy and grand. They were often the punch-line to the privates’ jokes on his possible flight abilities.

“Your gem warmed through your Called skin, basking in the light of your tasked charged to bring you the Chosen One. It shone so bright that even Private Genile could not deny the shimmer of your calling! We must treat this rare gift with respect and honor it with our vigilance!”

I stepped up to him, “I was thinking of you when I called camp! And no matter how many wrinkles you’ve got on that hawk nose of yours, I am still highest ranking in this party.”

He lifted his chin to defy me. Oh sweet heavens. Whatever lords may exist grant me whatever patience is left in this universe, I need every last DROP.

“There is no ranking in the eyes of fate, my dear.”

Do not punch the old man. Do not punch the old man. Do NOT punch the old man.

McKoi rolled his eyes. “Did you always talk like this, Fendoialin? Or only after you were brought into the whole prophecy telling shindig?”

I’m sure my eyes were wide, it was the first time I’d seen McKoi have an emotion stronger than mildly amused.

“My young ward, you do not know how the great mystery is passed on.”

McKoi gave me a wink and turned back to the old man, “No, do tell.”

“Well first, a wise and grand one must be picked, not someone from a muddy bloodline like-”

And that’s when I shoved him.

Right into the tree.

There was a short burst of light and he was gone. Damn wizard fell right through.

I froze, my hands still in the air. Wind whistled passed McKoi and Genile’s similarly still bodies. Somewhere far off, an owl cried its evening warning and yet none of us moved a hair.

“So…” Gentle whispered, “Are we going to…?”

I bit my tongue, shook my head. Nodded. Shit. Ugh. Shitfreakingugh.

“Yeah. Yeah frick it, someone throw me against the damn tree.”

The Word

Remora (noun): 1. Any of several fishes of the family Echeneididae, having on the top of the head a sucking disk by which they can attach themselves to sharks, turtles, ships, and other moving objects. 2. (Archaic) An obstacle, hindrance, or obstruction.

Obstacles are no one’s favorite. But without them we wouldn’t grow, we wouldn’t learn.

The hardest obstacles are unfortunately the ones we overthink. This is my particular skill. I have a Ph.D.* in overthinking problems. But, I am learning they wouldn’t be called obstacles if they weren’t in the way of where we needed to go. They’d just be… things. Random boulders and walls and stuff. So if it’s an obstacle, you must be meant to conquer it. And that’s almost a relief, right?

Hitting an obstacle and knowing it’s there to be conquered is a nice way of saying “it just hasn’t been conquered yet.”  It’s not something permanently in your way, it’s a CHALLENGE. (oh? Not as unhealthily competitive as me? YES YOU ARE GET OUT THERE SOLDIER.)

I believe in you, Obstacle Champion. You got this!

*I have two family members on the track to a Ph.D. so I maybe should mention I do not actually have one myself thank you.

The Story

The cabinet had been bothering Kristina for a long time. When her mother asked her to take it from her great aunt’s house, which was recently sold, Kristina had happily done so. The family was always a big believer in heirlooms, and the cabinet was indeed gorgeous. Though made of simple pine, its ornate carvings of bears, elk, and lynx made the cabinet into something out of a royal folktale.

Kristina only admitted to her husband how much she had coveted the cabinet as a child, thinking perhaps it was the kind of cabinet that could take you to Narnia or Neverland. It stood in a back guest room of her aunt’s large house, adding to its mystery. Young Kristina would sneak to the rear of the house after dinner, when the adults were talking about things she didn’t yet care about, and visit the fanciful cabinet. However, each time she’d opened it, the shelves just held her great aunt’s sewing tools and boxes of old tax documents. There was not a single clue or small door to lead her off to a magical land.

Despite the disappointment in the cabinet’s magical details, she still loved it. In her house, the cabinet took a much more revered place in the dining room, opposite the cherrywood buffet she and her husband had received as a wedding gift. Unfortunately, in the move from its old home to its new, the cabinet had lost its only key.

This hadn’t bothered Kristina at first. She was nesting a new home, and recently pregnant with her first child. There were much more pressing matters than an old cabinet, especially when her husband Sam said he’d just pry it open for her with a screwdriver when there was time.

But then the house was settled, the beautiful baby born, and the curiosity of the cabinet returned. She passed it each time she moved between the kitchen to grab a bottle for the baby, and back to the den where she greeted well wishers. And each time, the desire to open it and add it to the long list of her household items that had been fully cleaned and reorganized grew.

One day, when the small babe was in the middle of a nap brought on by a full stomach, Kristina could not take it anymore. She pulled the rocker into the dining room, and collected Sam’s tool chest from under their bed. She first picked a screwdriver, as Sam had mentioned. But it did not click anything in the keyhole, and the scratching only made the baby stir. She tried several different heads, and even pulled a bobby pin from her hair to see if she could accomplish the same thing she’d seen multiple movie spies pull off. Kristina’s frustration was winning over. Finally, she grabbed the chisel, watching her baby breath in and out. When she saw a long intake of breath, what may be a snore on a larger creature, she sent a prayer that Great Aunt Alena forgive her, and popped the door open, destroying the lock.

And there they were, the magicless shelves filled with sewing needles, thread bobbins, and scraps of fabric. Some cloth she recognized as matching that of Aunt Alena’s old vanity stool. She spent enough time going through these threads, deciding which were worth saving for her own sewing kit and which were not, that the baby woke and wanted to be fed again.

With the baby resettled, Kristina returned to organizing. Layers and layers of saved cloth, knitting patterns, and half-finished crochet projects took up her afternoon. But finally, there was a full trash bag of useless things, a pile of keepsakes, and her sewing kit full to bursting with fresh material.

Onto the boxes of tax documents. They were probably cute stationary boxes once, who were repurposed for their bright, flower-tapestry decorations. But they were faded now, and only reminded Kristina of a bad wallpaper job. She was tempted to just throw all the boxes in the trash, but the many warnings of her security-minded father rang in her head, so she carried the boxes up to Sam’s office and set them beside the shredder to deal with later.

Later didn’t come for several weeks. The baby had a thankfully-short battle with croup, the healing of which was of course the main concern for many days, and then lots of rest was required for all involved. But one afternoon, Sam was playing with the baby and she decided to relieve him of a few of the office duties he normally oversaw. She filed a few papers, scanned several receipts, and then when she heard the clanging of the toy piano coming from downstairs, decided it was okay to turn on the loud shredder. After the short stack of address labels and payed bills were sorted into the shredder’s teeth, she reached the boxes from Aunt Alena’s cabinet. Opening the first box, she was greeted by the same aging pages as she’d found as child. There was no reason to keep papers for fees paid at least two decades ago, so into tiny pieces they went. But after about an inch through the first box, the paper changed. Instead of the flimsy property papers from the years before TurboTax, these pages were almost card-stock thick. And upon it, what looked like fountain-pen script.

9 August 1931

I must write this down. It’s been bothering me for quite some time. I cannot bore sweet Sacha with this stress again, as there is already so much on her mind with the baby coming. 

What on earth was this? Kristina pulled the page up close, examining the ink itself. From the subtle scratches and small ink puddles, it must have been handwritten. It appeared the writer had a hard time forming Q and Ys, as if he or she were unfamiliar with the shapes.

I don’t want to leave her at such a time, and yet I can’t just trust chance to happen again, can I? I must go swiftly, and return even swifter. 

It was a diary. Someone’s incredibly old diary pages. She lifted the rest of the sheets from the box, and popped the lids off the others. They too were filled with papers carrying a very slight yellowed tinge, and the same shaky script. Kristina knew it was not her aunt’s lettering- Alena’s handwriting had been curved and regal. This scratch seemed to be from someone who struggled with either how to write, or with what they were writing.

It’s been too long since I stopped seeking redemption for my brother’s sins, and now here the chance for forgiveness has been laid at my feet. I must go. God watch over Sacha. 

While not exactly the magical bridge she had expected, Kristina knew a doorway to another world when she saw it.

11 August 1931

Sacha told me I should go, but she cried when I left. This hurt me greatly, but did not dim my need to go. They say they’ve found the girl, and I have to see her.

I write this now, for my child still in Sacha’s belly, for the children after this one, and for their children too. You must know the sins of your uncle, and the sins of your father, and how I tried to right them both. So as this train swallows the distance, I will start from the beginning.

We were born in the village Pokrovskye, he ten years before me. I remember many faces that dwindled as I grew, and when I was 12 and he 22, my brother told me of the many siblings between he and I that did not survive. 

When his later deceptions began to come into the light, he told me to hide, that he would pretend his family were all dead. Then records confronted him with rumor of a living sibling- he claimed it his youngest sister he’d wanted to protect from shame. I wish I had been able to laugh when I read the stories of his one beloved sister, knowing that is supposed to be me, but instead I feel an odd melancholy for my lost place in history.

I was furious when he left to marry that farmer’s daughter. He said he had to start the next generation for our family, but I just felt abandoned to our aging parents. That fury was nothing compared to the bright stab of betrayal I felt when he gained power, courtesy of the royal family. He was sipping from crystal goblets while I begged for bread? Women of the court bowed at his feet while I shared our rations with his wife? And the foolish rich. The naive monarchy. Did they really think he was magical? I could tackle Grigori to the ground even when I was half his size! The idea that God would choose such a man for miracles was ridiculous. He was no David in this story of Goliaths. He was just my brother. 

The village buzzed with each arriving drop of news. It was split down the middle whether we should be proud of a man so close to the Czar or disgraced by the rumors that followed him. I was never divided. I was ashamed of what was being said about the most famous member of our family. A cult leader? A succubus? An affair with the czarina? No matter the power, no matter the riches, there was nothing to be proud of here. 

Then his disappearance. The revolution. The whole world in upheaval. And God all of them killed. The entire imperial family! I too wanted a new government, but not like this. Not the starvation that forced my father into a grave, the heartbreak that forced my mother to follow him. Certainly not the nightmare of screaming young children that has continued to haunt me. Because whose fault could it have been except his?

He had gone there. He had told them not to run for safety. My own brother had convinced the imperial mother, her daughters, her son, that faith in God was the only security they needed. Never mind all the chances God may have given them to escape. The grace the Lord may have placed on the road away from the palace, if only they had taken it. But no, Father Grigori Rasputin had said to stay, so they stayed. And then it was too late.

But perhaps it is not too late for me and mine. I have heard a rumor there is a woman that looks much like an older Anastasia. My family owes an apology to hers, and though the one who truly owes it is gone, I will do my best to offer it. 

“Can you believe this?” Kristina handed the pages to Sam as they sat up in their bed that night.

“Honestly, it’s hard to. Google says Rasputin only had a sister that survived, Feo-doh-sia. Fi-du-sia? Something Russian with an F and lots of vowels.”

“But this diary mentions that change, and Aunt Alena’s father was Feodistic. When they immigrated to Pennsylvania he introduced himself as Fido.”

“Like a dog?”

Kristina playfully smacked him on the arm, “That’s my ancestor you’re talking about.”

“Hey, mine were just a bunch of cowboys. Yours might have ruined the lives of the entire 300 year old Russian monarchy.”

Kristina glared over her glasses at him. “Oh shut up and read.”

15 August 1931

I have made it to Okhotsk. To my children reading this, you have no idea how long this journey would have taken before trains. I would have written this entry on my arrival after weeks, perhaps even months during the wrong season, that now I write only days later. But I am sure you will hear many of my old-man memories, so I will tell you now only of my current journey.

I feel on the edge of the world here in Okhotsk. Coming upon the village I felt as if I was being tricked and was to be thrown from the rails straight into the ocean. But there are many people in this working place on the mouth of a river. I asked for the family name, which I will replace here for their sake with Sokolov, a name common to the region. It took the question of many local shopkeepers before a butcher knew a neighbor of theirs.

Now I am riding a car even further out. This family is apparently fishermen, sending in their catch on a morning trolley with a young son that brings back any news or needed groceries. 

The roads have gotten rougher, and the houses further apart. God give me strength. 

“So what do you think?” Kristina asked the following morning, coffee in one hand, bottle held to the baby’s lips in the other.

“It is well written, that’s for sure.” Sam answered, spooning oatmeal for them both.

“But do you think it’s real. Do you think Aunt Alena’s dad could have been Rasputin’s baby brother? MY great great grandpa? An actual brother of the ‘mad monk’?”

“A lot of details seem to fit. But scientists think they found Anastasia’s body. And it’s such a common fairytale to think you’ve found Anastasia. It’s even got a soundtrack.”

“Well,” Kristina answered, “I’ll read more today, see what other fanciful things he’s got to say. If nothing else, it’s a good story…”

16 August 1931

What a sweet, kind family. Even before I could introduce myself they were welcoming me in to join them for their lunch. I embarrassed myself by not immediately telling them why I was there, but hopefully their gracious hospitality is enough to bless us all. 

Around the table was Mr. Sokolov, Mrs. Sokolov, their widowed niece Mada Sokolov, and Mada’s son, Nikita. Even with grey streaks through the crowns of the elder Sokolov’s, this is an exceptionally good looking family. I tried to hide my intense read of Mada, but I am sure her son noticed, as he watched me closely. Her eyes were the same as the paintings of the imperial families, and her chin was indeed sculpted like that of a Romanov. But am I only seeing things that I want to?

They offered sausage, potatoes cakes, small slices of sharp cheese, and bread. After a journey filled with such anxiety, it was like a feast to the heart. Then Mrs. Sokolov offered tea and we adjourned to their living room. When we had all settled, sharing tales of the weather from our own parts of Russia, Mr. Sokolov nodded to his wife, as if in response to an unspoken question. Then he turned to me.

“So, my welcome sir, what can I or my family do for you?”

I swallowed a last sip of tea to gather my thoughts. Years I have practiced several answers, and yet nothing seems right in the moment.

“Hopefully, I can do something for your family.”

There were many looks exchanged between my four hosts. 

“What is that?” Nikita, a young boy yet the eyes of a wise man, leaned towards me from his chair.

“Niki, manners, please.” Made whispered.

“No, he is right. You are owed an explanation.” 

I took several breaths. It seemed there was not enough air in the world to ask for what I was not owed. But before I could begin, Mrs. Sokolov looked at me with disappointment, and what seemed to be a little pity.

“We know the rumors,” Mrs. Sokolov stated calmly, “but I assure you, as I have assured others, that the rumors are only that. We are simply the victims of enjoying a quiet life away from the cities.”

“You misunderstand!” The room had grown colder with the accusation. I stood from my chair, was prepared to go to my knees.

“Clearly,” Mr. Sokolov answered gesturing for me to retake my seat. When his wife began to protest he held his hand to stop her, “He has shown no signs that concern me. I want to hear the reason for this heavy look in his eyes.”

Thus I began my explanation. How I was raised beside the monk in Pokrovskye, and yet we become, hopefully, entirely different men. How the rumors of survival had not inspired my interest, but my guilt. How I would love to grovel at Anastasia’s feet for forgiveness. They asked how I could prove my relation to the great Grigori Rasputin, and I told them there were birth marks and gestures I myself had provided to the guard when his body was found. They asked, of course, why they’d heard of a sister and not a brother, and that explanation was tricky, but I managed to speak it. Nikita laughed, saying he hoped should he have a sibling, to be remembered as the brother he was. 

“Your story, Mr. Rasputin, is indeed a fascinating one. And though I wish you could receive here the peace you seek,  I’m afraid the papers are correct, and we are not related to the royal family.” Mrs. Sokolov replied. Yet somehow, they sounded like practiced words. 

“If only we were!” Mr. Sokolov laughed, “There are still those that hate them but ah, the money would do nicely against the cold river mornings!”

I smiled and nodded, but I pressed. Something inside me demanded I press. 

“Why then, has this quiet rumor landed upon your family?” I asked.

“I fear,” Mada spoke for the first time, her voice quiet but clear, “that is my doing. When I lost my husband to the war, I could not bare to be alone in this world while baring a child. I ran from my hometown to my uncle and his wife the same year that the imperial family lost their lives. The coincidence, along with the anchoress hopes of loyalists, has led to many assumptions.”

“Pardon my rudeness, Ms. Mada, but you appear… slightly older than the year I am told Anastasia would be. And though I see the resemblance, one would not say it undeniable. Why have such rumors persisted after meeting with you?”

“Momma is not old, she is beautiful!” Nikita glared at me, “People say she has the prettiest eyes this side of the capital! And some even ask if she is my big sister!”

Mada patted Nikita’s knee, and I bowed my head in apology, “I’m sorry son, I am only looking for the right feet at which to lay my guilt.”

The room went quiet for a moment. It was a moment long enough for them to realize my true intentions, and I to do the math. Mrs. Sokolov opened her mouth to speak, but I raced her to words.

“But that is the truth, yes? Of course, how could there be another truth. They found all of the unfortunate bodies, and the rest is but a fairytale for children and traitors. I just wish I could find her, or any member of that family, and provide my condolences for my brother’s faults. For his ability to coerce, and for my silence until today. To let them know my heart is with them in all seasons, and that if there were anything at all I could do for them, it would be done in a breath.” I nodded my head, said a quick prayer, and began to take my leave. There was enough sunlight left to make it into town if I walked quickly.

“My good man,” Mada’s hand fell on my arm and kept me still. I turned to face those unmistakable eyes, the gentle smile, the regal hold in her shoulders.

“I am only a country widow, but I know, if our souls can hear, your plea has been heard. If there was ever a darkness against you, it has been forgiven and forgotten, by those wronged and the Lord himself. Please, do not go from our door with such a weight on your shoulders.” 

Overwhelmed, I did my best not to weep at her feet, and instead took their invitation to stay for dinner as well as the night before my return journey. 

The morning I left, the sun was unusually bright, the river path to the ocean remarkably clear. I thank the sweet Sokolov family for their hospitality, and apologized for my intrusion on their routine. They, being gracious hosts, insisted it was not an intrusion at all but a welcome visit. 

Before I left, I shook the firm hand of young Nikita, “Son, you are brilliant beyond your years and a man of great strength. Should you seek work in the capital, you will do me a great service to stay under my roof.”

I caught the beam of pride from Mada, and knew this was the best I could do. The walk to the closest train station was tiresome yet welcome, for there was much to think on. All these years, I sought redemption from Anastasia. But it was the sweet Mada and her son who cleansed my soul. 

Children, I write this for you to read and pass on through our family. Not to take to the papers, for the Sokolov’s are only a humble fishermen’s family, but to hold in your heart. Forgiveness is both the greatest gift we can bestow and receive. May this lead you to a life of light and happiness.

28 October 1931

God be praised, my child is born! Alena you are my first child and a light in the world. Your mother is healthy and as in love with you as I. Your eyes are bright with wisdom, and your cheeks red with our kisses. May all our journeys end with returning home to you!

Kristina watched Sam from the corner of her eye as he read the last page.

“Well?” she whispered, partly because the baby had just been put down, and partly so as not to disturb the dust of history they appeared to be walking through.

“Wow. That’s all I can say. Just… wow.”

“Do you think it’s true?” She curled into his shoulder.

“I don’t know. But knowing doesn’t seem to be the point. Your great grandfather went seeking forgiveness from Anastasia, and found Maria Nikolavena survived instead, perhaps even passed down the royal genes. Perhaps the Anastasia rumors could be one of history’s greatest cons to throw people off the trail of the real living sister.” He chuckled lightly at the thought.

“Sam… I believe him. I think he found her.”

Sam kissed the top of her brunette-crowned head and sighed, “Yeah, I’m afraid I do too. Do you think we should tell anyone?”

“No… no I don’t think so,” Sleep was tugging at the end of Kristina’s words, “He wanted forgiveness, nothing else. Let’s let him have it.”

“Of course, my little czarina, of course.”

The Word

Shroud (verb): 1. Wrap or dress (a body) in a shroud for burial. 2. Cover or envelop so as to conceal from view.

Grief is an ugly thing, isn’t it? I don’t mean that rudely. It is just simply hard to look at. It’s not pleasant or pretty. In movies, they make grief this gorgeous event with wistful stares and tears that don’t smudge the eyeliner as you sit in your cubicle pretending to be fine. Movie grief is thunder without lightening- sound without impact. But in reality, it’s just plain ugly, and the impact is random and jarring. The veil worn over the face in olden times is now worn across the heart. And in today’s fast paced world we are expected to move on quickly. The news has changed, the fads have changed, how can you possibly still be sad? Why can’t you dance around like everybody else? Why aren’t you as fun as you used to be? It’s ridiculous. It’s ugly.

I am immensely blessed in the amount of joy I am able to find in the people and events that I grieve. The sunny memories paired with lasting love and influence are not to be taken for granted. But there are still days when the dark clouds win over. Lately I’ve been thinking and reading on people who were never able to escape those dark clouds, which oddly enough led me to a documentary on the fall of Russia’s monarchy (yeah, I know, weird trail but that’s what us right-dominate-brains are good at). Today’s tale comes from the combinations of that ugly side of grief and drinking wine while watching a well-constructed documentary. But Stephen King once wrote The Shining based on falling out of his hotel bed onto an ugly carpet, so I feel like writers are just odd when it comes to visions. Hopefully at least the likes of him will understand today’s weird inspirations.

May your dark clouds move quickly. And if they do stay, may they bring rain for the flowers to grow. Goodnight.

The Story

Camellia was furious. She’d done everything she could think of and still her tomato plants were wilting.

There were exactly 6 inch diameters around each rooting. The deep trough had been aerated at the bottom with treated soil at the top to maximize nutrients. Individual vine cages had been bought just tall enough in case the plants grew bigger than expected, but with a small enough braid that the wrens visiting the bird feeder would not fit through to snack on the budding fruit.

Yet there was no fruit to protect. The leaves that were supposed to be happily winding themselves around the cages were instead struggling for life. Camellia had checked water levels and soil PH several times. There was no spotting from disease, no yellowing from sun. Just dreary withering in each leaf. Every single factor had been considered, researched, and planned for! Her parents’ gardens were vibrant with life- how had she not inherited the green thumb?

“Betcha got bugs.”

“Ew! No! Why would you even say that?” Camellia screeched at her boyfriend through the phone.

“I’m just thinking,” Liam answered, “your dad had those aphids on his roses last year. Remember he tried to get your mom to order all those lady bugs to eat them?”

“Yeah…” Camellia kept pacing around her apartment, “I guess I should look.”

“Put me on speaker in case it’s something gross.”

“Aw you’re sweet to comfort me- but I’ll be okay.”

“No no, I want to hear your scream!”

Camellia hung up on his burst of laughter. She glared over at her tomato plants out on the patio. Would they really betray her and be housing disgusting little creatures? Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.

She dug through the huge gardening tool box her father had given her we he realized half of his succulents and bonsais had migrated to her apartment. There were so many tiny tools in there that she did not understand the purpose of. Four different sizes of shears, several convertible spouts for a water can, something that looked like a basting brush? Finally she found what she needed: the bifocal magnifying glass (with attached belt clip, of course).

With her pug Moonpie snorting his support behind her, Camellia inspected each of her would-be tomato plants. There were a few sticky spots that she couldn’t figure out, but no noticeable bites, nor any hornworm caterpillars mascaraing as smaller leaves. Her father would be relieved there were no signs of aphid life either. So the confusion continued, until she flipped a leaf over.

She was very glad she hadn’t left Liam on speakerphone, because there was indeed a small screech when she discovered the tiny white eggs lining the leaf’s veins. She checked another, and another. Over half of her sad little leaves had their underbellies covered in the tell-tale dots.

So it was the 5th on the list of pests Google had provided- whiteflies. She hadn’t considered them as an option because her plants had not even made it to full fruit, and these pests normally fed on the fruit’s juice. Perhaps she had a neighbor growing a strawberry plant or something and her patio had just become the nursery. Ew. Her poor tomatoes were doulas. For bugs.

“Well, what are we gonna do about this, Moonpie?” The pug rolled on his back in response. Tummy rubs were his answer to most of life’s problems.

Camellia scratched the pug’s round belly as she thought. She knew there were pesticides and plant soaps that would take care of the bugs. She’d add those to her grocery list, but it might be too late for the tomato plants to be saved and it was too late in the season to start from scratch again. She’d have to pick up some half-grown plants to brighten her porch again so the sad little trough wasn’t empty until Fall.

It bothered her that she hadn’t thought to check under the leaves before. Camellia took after her dad in wanting to get to the bottom of a plant problem, to learn the aspect and signs of an issue to be ready for next time. However, unlike him, she did not have a large greenhouse in which to do her experiments. A smaller laboratory would have to suffice, so she plucked off an egg-heavy leaf and dropped it into a mason jar with a damp paper towel.

Sticking her face close to the side of the jar, she glared in at the tiny specs. “Oh we’re gonna get to the bottom of you little suckers. You’ll see.”

It took 8 days for the little jerks to hatch. Camellia thought she would see bites in the leaf from teeny baby jerk-bug bites, but the leaf remained whole. It did start to shrivel though, just as those on her tomato plants outside.

When Liam visited that weekend, baring coxcomb and a Gerber daisy to cheer up his girlfriend and her previous-tomato-trough, he looked in on the bugs.

“It’s like they’re sucking the life out of the leaf.”

“How do you always come up with the grossest option?”

“Well it does!” He plucked a leaf off the daisy and plucked it into the mason jar lab, “Like they all have tiny straws. Bet Google will tell you I’m right.”

“I’m doing this without google.”

Liam stood up straight, “Why?”

“Because I have smarty pants you,” she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, “and it’s more fun to figure it out.”

He laughed and carried the daisy out to the porch for potting, “Whatever makes you happy.”

It made Camellia very happy to see the little crawling nymphs in her jar begin to molt over the following weeks. She offered them more leaves to work with so she could continue her observations. A notebook sat by the jar, and each evening after finishing her university homework, Camellia wrote up the changes she was seeing in the bugs:

Day 18: Buggers had not been as interested in the daisy leaf when they were younger (not as juicy?) but are now nomming on it happily. Going to add another leaf tomorrow.

Day 19: Holy crap, I’m glad I added another leaf they have gone right through it.

Day 20: Some of them have wings. About 5? Hard to count as they’re moving around a lot more now. Kinda grossed out, kinda proud of them.

By the next time Liam came to visit for the weekend, all of Camellia’s lab rats bugs were winged and she was having a debate with herself on releasing them or not.

“They ate your plants- why would you want to let them out to maybe eat your other plants?”

Camellia stretched her legs out across his lap on the sofa. Liam was always reminded of a cat in a sunbeam when she did this. They’d gone on a short run and the entire two miles back, she had discussed her findings on the whiteflies and their interactions with her tiny eco system.

Her head back on the armrest and eyes closed, she let out a large sigh, “I just feel bad after seeing how long it took them to grow up, just to dump their whole jar in the trash or something.”

It was cute that she cared about her little bugs, after her determination to find their weaknesses just to destroy them. “What if,” he offered, “you asked the science department at your school if there’s anything they can do with the bugs?”

Camellia shot up, “That’s brilliant! They might have a purpose or something!”

“Or be crazy people that like to watch bugs and then accidentally get attached to them.”

Liam barely dodged the pillow launched at his head.

The next Monday, Camellia approached the Administration desk of the Biology department. She had barely been able to concentrate in her Contemporary Historians class that morning, afraid that someone would notice the jar of pests in her backpack. She thought that would not go over well in a class where she was the only student not in a beige cardigan.

“Good morning! I have a weird question…” She offered to the pepper-haired gentleman behind the desk.

“Then you’re in the right place, dear. What can I do for you?”

Camellia brought out the jar and explained her situation. The man stared only at the jar while she spoke, making Camellia worry that she was about to be led to the mental facility. But when she stopped, he finally looked at her, and a large smile spread over his face.

“So you’ve been working with these little guys for a few weeks, hm? I know just who you should speak with.”

He stood and led her down the hall, stopping to knock on the fogged-glass door of an office that boasted Dr. Rebecca Arrowood, Entomology Department Lead.

“Entomology?” Camellia asked.

“Study of insects!” The short brunette now in the doorway answered. “Hey Arthur! Whatcha got?”

The man -apparently Arthur- gestured to Camellia, “I think you’ve got a little larva here, Rebecca.”

“No they’ve nymphed and some of them have wings and-” Camellia started, but Arthur had already taken off back to his desk.

“Oh whiteflies! It’s that time of year! Come in, come in, let’s take a looksie.” Dr. Arrowood pulled Camellia into the office.

Camellia stood with her jar, a little stunned, and looked around the room. There were oil paintings of butterflies in every growth stage lining one wall. On another, a cartoon of a beetle-looking-creature on top of a large brown ball stated “Shit happens! Roll with it!” On the large desk were stacked shadow boxes with wings in every color and every shape with neatly written labels under each one.

The professor plucked the jar from Camellia’s fingers, “So you’ve raised these little ones?”

“Well not really raising, they were on my plants and I-”

“Wanted to see how they worked. Tomatoes or blackberries?”

“Tomatoes. Wait, blackberries?”

“They loooove to hatch under blackberry leaves. Lots of sap, easy to get to the fruit. Same as tomato plants.”

“Oh that makes sense. They didn’t really like the daisy leaf I gave them.”

Dr. Arrowood’s eyes lit up, “You tried to give them different kinds of leaves?”

“Well my boyfriend gave it to them, but I watched them and it took them until they were older to get interested.”

“You kept track?”

“I kept a journal…” Camellia pulled the little notebook out of her backpack and handed it to the professor.

Dr. Arrowood leafed through the pages. Her smile seemed to grow with each entry she read.

“Have a seat, sweetie, we have lots to discuss.”

Forty-five minutes later, Camellia skipped out of the building, waving at Arthur as she went by.

“See you soon!” He called after her.

She told Liam on their Skype date that evening how she had changed her major.

“Entomology!”

“The study of bugs? I like it.” His smile reassured her of the move her studies had taken that afternoon.

“There are just so many! And did you know there are more species of ants in the world than of any other living creature? And although spiders aren’t technically insects they’re still gonna teach us about them because they fit best there- which will be so cool. So since I already took the bio 101 class last year, I can go straight into the focused classes and she said in the first we’ll just get general info and…”

Liam listened happily, thinking insects would be a good study for his own little love bug.

The Word

Plantlet (noun): A small or young plant.

Some words are simple but just sound really nice. Plantlet. Plantlet. Say it out loud- doesn’t it feel good and cute and make you think of tiny pale green leaves streeeetching out for its first rays of sun?

Not to get too hippy on y’all, but really, we are all little plantlets. Even if you’re reading this thinking “Nope, my roots have been fully grown for a while!” you can still be a plantlet. You’re just a perennial- meaning that you come back fresh each year at your growing time to be a new and fresh little plantet that can grow into a new full flower/fruit!

The mint in my own patio garden is very strange looking. That’s because I mixed up the herb markers, and it is actually catnip. This became clear when the leaves flattened out and my cat wouldn’t stop rubbing herself up against the pot. Sometimes we’re not sure what something is until it grows a little, gets a bit more of its own shape. For Camellia, that was her studying future- from History to Entomology. Maybe for us, it’s where we work or where we live or whether to take music or swimming lessons. We just have to keep giving ourselves sun and nutrients until we grow big enough to be able to see where we are, what we need next.

Today it is sunny, and I took my little plantlet self to church for the first time ever without a member of my family (even the one time I went to a friend’s church, one of my brother’s was there too on a trip for Confirmation class). I was a bit nervous to go somewhere new, but I needed the nourishment to grow into whatever I am! Take yourself out in the sun today. Give yourself some clean cool water, and find the nourishment you’ve been needing.

It’s the growing season, y’all! Happy rooting 🙂

The Story

There were whispers, of course. But that was to be expected.

Her husband’s secretary had last seen him with a young, mysterious, interesting woman.

And when she looked in the mirror, she saw none of those things.

Young? HA. She kissed that adjective goodbye several years ago. She was happy to embrace her silver streaks but was not as grateful when cashiers stopped asking for her license to officiate senior discounts.

Mysterious? No. Not even a single magic trick up her sleeve. She was a firm believer in blunt interactions and the truth of the matter. She wore her feelings and her wealth on her sleeve, and was proud of both. There were no secrets here. Well, none that belonged to her.

Interesting? She’d railed against this one. Her husband always introduced her as the “one with all the good stories” but those stories weren’t hers, she just told them well.

Her family found her interesting. Her daughter-in-law told her once “you’re the most fascinating being I’ve ever met!” in that cute Minnesota accent. Yet she knew that was mostly because the poor gal had never been fed a proper peach cobbler or heard a tale that started with “So we were out listening to the junebugs…”

But Pepper certainly didn’t feel interesting.

And now she had proof she wasn’t. Not even Clark, her husband of multiple decades, found her interesting enough to stick around for. He said he’d be gone a few weeks to clear his head. It was many silent months later when she gave up on his return. Their children were distraught, positive he’d been kidnapped for his wealth in a foreign country, or dramatically lost at sea and was still desperately trying to get back to them. Pepper was never really sure what to do when these hypothesizes were discussed. She didn’t want to dissuade her children from the romantic tragedy of their imaginations, as it would be easier to heal from than the truth, but she also was not going to entertain them as far as sending out cross-country search parties. She knew the actual, real truth. Clark was dead.

She could tell for months before his disappearance that he was getting restless. She had tried to bring in new projects for him to play with- bought a new location for a hotel, redesigned his office, took him on a cruise to Alaska where he could fish for the big salmon like he used to with his father. She’d even started telling her stories again.

He loved her stories. She knew he married her because she was reliable and low-risk, but he fell in love with her over time because of the stories she had begun to tell their children. Each night from the first born to the fourth, she’d tell of the mischievous nymphs and rowdy pirates she’d met to escort their young imaginations into fantasy filled dreams. She told them of their great-aunt who vanquished monsters and could see through time, and their own grandmother who met regularly with kings and queens of other worlds.

One by one, as the children became the teenagers and then adults, they stopped begging for story time after dinner. But Clark never stopped. He would beg for them when their nest was again empty. Even when the grandchildren arrived and all the old stories were told again, he would sit with the smallest in his lap, the same eager expression on both man and child as they listened. He said he loved the sound of Pepper’s voice, and admired her adventurously creative mind. Sometimes when she’d finish a wild tale he’d say “lets do that someday, my love.” And she would laugh, saying Mars or Zeus or Atlantis were too far away, but maybe someday.

She supposed Clark decided someday had come, and he’d left without her. But she knew he’d intended to come back. He’d loved her. He’d respected her. Perhaps he had no longer found their marriage exciting, and run off to have a little affair or steamy vacation, but he would have come back to her if he could. That’s just who Clark was. He wouldn’t have left her on her own like this, to mind the children and run the company. So while others mourned the loss of a good man gone bad, she quietly grieved a great man who was just… gone.

That was why her heart was not just broken, but irreparably shattered. She almost took comfort in knowing it would never heal. It was the hope that one day everything would go back to normal that always killed people. She would never really be okay again. That in itself, was really fine. Deep down, no matter how much they’d loved each other, she always knew he’d leave one day. She just didn’t know it would be because he would go looking for a story of his own. Pepper thought it would be when he realized all of hers were true.

So she put in the life insurance paperwork. She assisted the children through their grief, and showered her grand-babies with love and attention so they would not feel the loss of Papa Clark in the room.

For the next 10 years she devoted her life to creating an empire from the hotel and tourism businesses Clark had built. She played her part in this new timeline, the widowed grandmother with time to babysit the young ones and meet her friends for tea between investor meetings. There were suitors too, of course. They would approach what they saw as a grown woman who knew what she wanted. And they were right, but what she wanted was to be left alone. Her kids and friends alike pushed her to date again. She almost did just to comfort them, but really it held no interest for her. Her broken heart wasn’t a shield, as her eldest daughter accused her one evening, but simply a state of being. It was like the laugh lines around her eyes and the ache in her left knee- simply a way her body was now. Something time had given, and would not be taking back.

Pepper spent the several weeks before her 67th birthday reorganizing and simplifying all of the business accounts. After blowing out the candles on a red velvet cake from her favorite bakery, she promoted all four of her children to partners in the company, and retired. It shocked all of her family so much that she was halfway done with her slice of cake before any of them spoke again. They were obviously teetering between grateful and worried, and Pepper decided it was fine to let them choose which side to fall on. She had always promoted independence in her children. She laughed with they split evenly over joy for her retirement and concern for her, what her plan was to do next. It was sweet, really, the way their eyes narrowed cautiously above their smiles. They had never seen their mother without something keep her busy!

But oh, she would be very busy indeed. There would just no longer be board meetings or jets to construction sites or early morning calls to board members. Now, there would be her stories. Instead of investors, now the hunt was for listeners. And where were the best listeners in the city? The same places where people pretended not to hear: extravagant bars, expensive hotel lobbies, regal halls, and old libraries.

She attacked this plan much like she had every other success in her life. First, there was a battle plan sketched up on whatever object was nearby when inspiration hit- this time, her bathroom mirror (Clark had started leaving dry erase markers there after she ruined her favorite lipstick to make sure she didn’t forget her exotic ballroom plan before she dried her hair).

Second, she would type it up officially on her laptop with a full pot of coffee nearby. She listed names of coffee houses that held weekly poetry readings, libraries looking for volunteers, karaoke nights that welcomes the bold.

Lastly, she jumped, and hoped there was ground somewhere below.

This jump was taking herself on a starlit date to downtown. She closed the clasp on her diamond necklace. It was a backup plan, there to shimmer if she didn’t manage to herself. She left her professional gray blazers in the closet, and pulled on the mink coat Clark had gotten her for her 40th birthday. A thrill went through her at the thought of being one of those interesting characters a passerby noticed as he shuffled to his next stop. After slipping on heels that would make her feet ache in the morning, she called for the driver. Tonight, she’d start somewhere familiar.

“The Swan, please.”

The Word

Return (verb): 1. Come or go back to a place or person. 2. Give, put, or send (something) back to a place or person.

(noun): 1. An act of coming or going back to a place or activity. 2. A profit from an investment.

Hi again! I think the word for this story is pretty clear. Just like Pepper, I’m back to telling my stories.* Also like Pepper, I am very excited to do so. I hope you enjoy this little dip into her tale!

Just a note on what we’ll call Family Matters- as you may remember from Today I am Steady, we learned that Pepper is Peter’s grandmother. Which meeeeeans, Peter’s very stiff mother we met in Today I am Carry is Pepper’s one of daughters. This is correct. It may not seem like a gal raised by the caring and comfortable Pepper and Clark would turn out so stiff, but I think with what she may have experienced due to her parent’s lives, her personality can be understandable. Perhaps one day we’ll get her side of the story…

 

*No, I do not imagine myself as Pepper or vise versa, she’s far too humble for me! And also I don’t like French 75s 😉

The Story

So, reader, a little about me: I’ve always been cursed.

It’s true! No matter what I have done, where I have gone, it has followed me. I was aware from a very young age. I called it… The Writing Curse.

Oh my goodness, you think, what tragedy! What could be the details of a such a frightening hex? Perhaps she is doomed to write adventures but never her own? Is she spelled as the poor Trojan Cassandra and no one will ever believe her words? Or each word written is one less breath she takes in life?!

Alright well no, nothing like that. But to a young girl with a young heart? It sure seemed like it sometimes.

I first noticed it with sweet Daniel. He had bright green eyes and dark auburn hair. He liked it when his sister and I played kickball with the boys at recess, and he thought the joke from my Laffy Taffy wrapper was very funny.

Obviously, I was in love.

So I wrote him into my nightly tale. Oh, you didn’t write nightly tales as a kid? You didn’t have journal upon journal hawked from your brothers’ school supplies or your dad’s office drawer filled with your first fantasy novel? Well now you sound like the crazy one.I spent several pages turning Daniel into a knight that saved the mermaid princess who only vaguely (aka exactly) matched my image.

The next morning in real life, he could not take his eyes off our classmate Jessica. That’s right. Not me. Her. So I made sure to out run Jessica in gym class, which I felt probably was the same as having your tiny second grade heart broken.

Then there was Matt. Matt was everything Daniel hadn’t been: Blond, blue eyed, and tall. He was probably the tallest guy in third grade, and that was very appealing. Third grade is when homework gets a little more difficult (cursive was hard, okay?) so it was a while before I returned to my writing. But once I made Matt into my story’s Tarzan, he was over me.

I started to catch on.

When Petey had an obvious crush on me, because come on- no one shared their cafeteria cookie that often with a girl they weren’t crushing on- I decided to conduct an experiment. I had to take the risk that it would not only hurt my wee little feelings, but may also risk my daily a chocolate chip share. This was serious, but I had to know. So I wrote Petey’s freckles and his thin nose into a pirate lord searching for his sea goddess, who again, looked an awful lot like me. But I chickened out. I didn’t want to miss Petey, even if he did like baseball better than soccer. Couples overcame much worse, right? So I got out my big eraser and scarred the page to rid it of my little spell.

The following day, that 1/2 a cookie went to Rebecca. Oddly enough, they’re married now.

So it was true. I had the magical abilities I had always dreamt of, but like any true heroine, it was not what I had expected. And it was even stronger than I’d imagined! It was not just the writing itself existing, but the mere creation of the words that triggered the bewitchment! This was a great power with terrible consequences. Oh how the worry that I could accidentally use it on a friend or family member plagued me. I created only strangers in my tales from then on. The prince, the princess, even the villagers and warriors had to be people I had never seen, eye colors that were never natural, hometowns I’d never seen- no uncertainty could be overlooked. For both my people and my heart, I needed to remain vigilant.

That of course lasted until Mike. He was my first kiss and my first mixed CD, both equally important to a twitterpated high schooler.

Telling my diary that night, I dismissed my previous entries that whimpered about The Writing Curse as the overactive imagination of a child. I was 14 and a half now, practically a grown woman! I had no need for infantile fears. There was no reason at all for me not to write every single disgusting detail of my first kiss and how I’d defiantly lost my good chapstick on the bus immediately afterwards. That was important documentation that I would need to look back on to make sure our grandchildren had the luxury of every last triviality!

So, you know, of course I wrote about him, and of course we broke up within the week. It was not a coincidence. It was not, as my parents suggested, the fickle heart of a young man. No no. He’d made me a CD, we were a serious romance. You don’t just make a mixed CD for a girl you’re not head over heels for! There was no other explanation than The Curse.

I became paranoid. When Ben began winking at me, I made sure to keep from telling even my diary. I refused to include any details to my best friend Dana in our notes during band class- it was too dangerous. Ben had brown eyes with flecks of blue and he was popular. I was not going to lose this one.

Months went by, and I began to get a bit comfortable. Christmas break was coming, and there were tests to study for as well as gifts to wrap. My talent of creating interesting strangers for my stories was growing well. I had gotten to the point where I no longer needed to fight the urge to make the male lead look overly familiar. He was given silver hair or purple freckles. His skill lied in archery or horseback riding, certainly not biology or the trumpet. Nope, couldn’t risk even those similar ties.

Yet still, after the town Christmas parade, both my tongue and my ego were scorched: one by overly hot cocoa, and the other by Ben’s decision that we should just be friends.

I let myself cry. Because really, this was the first time I was actually getting rejected! All the other times had been The Curse. This was the first time that my string had truly been cut simply because the other person didn’t want to hold it anymore.

But… wait.

I ran to my room, shuffled through the papers on my desk. My pen pal had such better handwriting than me that I used to write out my letters once to say everything, and then a second, slower, to make the words more legible. Gel pens went flying, my napping cat yelped in alarm as she was flung to the floor, but finally I found the draft. What had I done!? I’d be so careful, and yet it had still won! I had been so pleased to get her letter days before and quickly write her back that I had not stopped to process or filter! And there it was in bright blue ink of the second paragraph: I’m actually really excited to have a boyfriend over Christmas break! We’ll make apple cider and throw snowballs and it will be like a cheesy movie!

There were 3 things wrong with this: 1) I fell into The Curse. 2) I didn’t really like apple cider at the time but it sounded more grownup than Swiss Miss. 3) We lived at the bottom of Texas. No way was there going to be any snowballs for Christmas.

My heart was truly broken this round.

This pattern repeated itself over and over and over again. Each year I grew older, I would attempt again to pretend The Writing Curse was not real. But its power was immense. Within the week of any written mention of my heart’s new desire, the flame was extinguished. I was victimized by a sticky note to my lab partner, or a short entry in my required “inner journey” notebook for the philosophy course. Attacked with my own doodles or MadLibs with the roommate. Nothing was safe.

Then there was Zander. He was cute and soft. A smartass and adorably stupid at the same time. He was just the right balance of needy and sarcastic and useless that a young lady looks for in a temporary partner to scar their world view on partnerships. Perfection.

Unfortunately, I got a little older, got a little wiser. I had to let this nonsense boy go, and yet I couldn’t bare to do so. We broke up and got back together repeatedly. We screeched accusations and then whispered apologies. We insisted that we were knotted together but really it was just a frayed rope we refused to drop.

In one of the many aftermaths of our fights, in a fit of rage and sorrow, I reached under my bed for my Not So Secret Box of Secret Things. In it were old birthday cards from my family, a teddy bear I only pulled out when my roommate wasn’t home, and my writing journal. Pen to paper, I wrote that boy out of my life.

Every wisp of dirty blond hair was described. Each flake of yellow in his brown eyes meticulously recorded. I gave him dialog and called him by name. For the first time ever, I wielded the power of The Writing Curse for my own needs.

“Why?” He demanded.

Because I had to.

“Why when that’s one of your biggest stupid superstitions, would you write about us?! You’re so freaking dramatic!”

When the phone call ended, I knew it had worked. There would be no apology follow-up call. There would be no knock on my door to take it all back. We were finally free of each other, and I hated it. I hated knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that I’d heard his voice for the last time. There would come a day when we both moved on and were happier, but it wasn’t that evening. I’d had to write him out, and The Curse is not gentle.

 

The Word

Logophile (noun): A love of words.

Honestly, I’m a little impressed with myself for making it all the way to May before using this word. It was so easily a word that was going to be used in this blog, but I wanted to put it off until a story felt right. Since this one is literally about me writing* I figured it would be appropriate.

Also, if you don’t see the connection between my own curse and the movie Practical Magic, please go watch it until you have most of the lines memorized. It’s really for your own good, you’ll enjoy yourself I promise!

Alright lovely loyal readers, thanks for reading this change-of-pace story. I have a few new stories in the works that are back to my regular style. We’ll be hanging out with our friendly neighborhood regulars again soon!

*All names and locations have been changed even though it wasn’t really necessary as I guarantee you these people have no idea I have a blog. 0:) 

The Story

“QUIET!”

But the 32 students were not. Tammy was sure this was the day she would finally lose her mind.

The kids had been rowdy since morning. It started small, with a few of the boys trying to launch their empty juice boxes to the trash can, and missing terribly. She had noted that she would need to speak to the gym teacher about their aiming abilities. When one girl tossed her water bottle and had a successful swish, the boys saw a call to war.

Since then, it had been seven and a half hours of agonizing patience, prodding, and begging to get the kids to do their work, to pay attention, to simply sit in their god forsaken chairs!

Days like this were not new to Tammy, but they were more exhausting than they’d once been. In her first years of teaching, she would take a deep breath, corral her students, and continue the lesson. As the years went on, the deep breaths turned into several deep breaths, and then long sighs, but she was still able to bring the loudest of students back into the fold.

Today, however, they had won. Now that she thought of it, they won last Thursday too. And the Monday before that. Was she losing her touch?

She knew the real reason though. Her husband’s bakery was becoming more successful every hour, so she joined him there both before and after school. If there is anyone that can smell a tired, weakened adult from a mile away- it’s a student.

Not that she wasn’t proud of her husband! She was immensely proud of him. It was her honor to fret over his long hours and to assist his assistant. She wanted to be by his side and help grow his dream.

But these kids weren’t going to discuss the horizon layers of soil on their own.

“Mrs. Morris! Conner stuck his gum in my pencil case!”

Tammy bit the inside of her cheek to keep the growl in her throat from escaping out loud. Instead, she turned her no-nonsense glare on little blond Conner.

“Conner, you will sit in front of my desk with the wet wipes until Jessica’s pencils and pencil cases are shiny and spotless.”

“But Mrs. Mo-”

“And you will bring me your gum.”

Behind her, a loud bubble popped.

“And so will who ever popped that bubble! Gum is not allowed in class! If I have to check everyone’s desk, I will double the homework tonight!”

There were many grumbles and a small argument between a couple students before two packs of gum were placed in Tammy’s waiting palm. She knew there were more in the classroom, but at least this was a little win for the hellish day.

She tasked them with a worksheet, and though she told them twice to work silently, there were constant whispers and grumbles. Where the happy chatter of children learning normally warmed Tammy, the complaints and whines were like an icicle straight to her temples. It would be two glasses of wine tonight.

When she was finally able to escape her classroom and duck in the back of Preston’s Pastries, her energy was at an all time low. The short, silent car ride over had not been enough to calm the pounding in her forehead.

She didn’t have the icing skills of her husband or his junior baker Maddie, but she liked to do the dipping and pouring of glazes. Tammy felt it was a bit like meditating. Pick, dip, lay on cooling wrack to set. Pick, dip, lay. Pick, dip… grab dropped cookie out of glaze, lay. Pick, dip, lay. Pick, relax, dip. Lay, breathe, pick.

“Maddie!” She heard Preston call, “Where are the pecan pies?!”

“Two more minutes in the oven!” Maddie called back from behind Tammy’s spot at the icing bench.

“Bring those out when they’re done!” Preston called again from the bakery door.

Before it closed behind him, the sound of the front of house floated past the door into the back kitchen. Then a ding from the register. A mother asked her children to stop touching the glass of the display case, and Preston laughed that it was alright. What sounded like a couple was loudly discussing a cake design: “Is there a difference between magenta and pink?” “Yes, Brad, of COURSE!”

Maddie whistled while molding fondant. The large-batch mixer was whirring with ingredients that would eventually be chocolate-chunk muffins. The oven timer went off. The doorbell rang through the building. The dishwasher chugged and chortled.

And finally, the pressure in Tammy’s neck began to fade. Her shoulders relaxed into the weave of sound and movement. She began a little hum to accompany Maddie’s whistle, following the beat with each whoopee pie she now half-dipped in chocolate ganache.

A long time later, Tammy felt a kiss on her cheek and laughed as Preston had to follow it by wiping his mouth.

“How did you get icing all the way up on your face?!” He laughed.

She just rolled her eyes and held up her hands, which were also speckled with icing, all the way to her elbows.

“Ah. Good day at work, though?” He asked, clearing up the space around Tammy and stacking bowls for wash.

“No,” Tammy smiled at him, “it was terrible.”

“Oh?” He stopped, looking concerned. “Then why the smile?”

“Because summer is coming. And I’ll come here to work with you.”

“Aw love!” Preston turned her to plant another kiss, this time on her forehead, “I love when you get summers to be in here, but we’ll take a real vacation too.”

Tammy laughed, “No no, I’m done at the school. I’m going to be here with you. And Maddie!” she leaned around Preston to smile at the younger baker, “Permanently.”

The Word

Mellifluous (adj): Sweet or musical (of a voice or words); pleasant to hear.

God bless the teachers of the world! It is not an easy job and they don’t get enough credit/pay/respect for it.

But teaching was not for Tammy. It was noise, and she wanted sound again. I think we can all understand that. There are tones and tunes that, even if intended to be pleasant, make us anxious or stressed. It’s the difference between the racket of life and the melody of a good day. It’s important to really hear what is around us, to let our systems tell us if it makes us happy or not. And those aren’t always the same spaces for everyone- the resonance of a bakery might drive someone crazy, while for Tammy it’s a safe place. Maybe your spot is where you can hear the movements of a river, or in the middle of a loud family event. Just find your sounds- find your space!

Happy listening, friends 🙂

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This is a sister-story to Today I am Simplicity if you would like to go read the other side of this tale!

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Shoutout to my girl KR, who found the word for today when I wasn’t feeling inspired by any of the ones I was reading!

If YOU have a word that you think can inspire a story, please go to the Contact page and send me a message!

The Story

Caroline let out a long, happy sigh. Her last patron trundled out the door, and she waited half a minute before rushing to lock the door behind him.

Spring had finally overtaken the cold, so she was tempted to reopen the door after seeing the gentleman turn the corner. But she decided the fresh breeze was not worth the risk of a passerby thinking the bar was still open.

Weekdays were always quiet, and therefore always handled by a single manager. She’d sent the new waitress, Maddie, home an hour ago, but continued to serve the melancholy man until he was ready to leave. She didn’t always let people stay passed closing, but this gentleman had been in several times, never got obnoxiously drunk, and left a good tip.

She turned and leaned back against the door, surveying her little domain. There had been two interviews and a full bar audition to earn the coveted spot as a lead bartender here. Caroline had heard of an opening, and practiced for weeks after shifts at her old hole-in-the-wall bar to master her movements as well as her spirit knowledge.

The Swan was no place for flipping bottles of vodka high in the air to impress co-eds. This was the favored bar for both the quietly wealthy and the want-to-be famous of the city. These people wanted smooth over showy, flowing and easy movements that told them they were in confident hands. They needed someone who knew sorrow called for strong yet pure, and different joys begged for different flavors. One needed to be as cool as the marble curled in front of tall arched chairs; as peaceful as the azure walls stretched high to meet with crystal chandeliers that shimmered even in the dim evening. Yet still as warm and approachable as the overstuffed leather couches circled farthest away from the door, where the larger groups liked to gather. Caroline was proud to belong here, both in the rush of Saturday evenings as well as the hushed Tuesday nights.

These quieter evenings, or rather early mornings, when the seats were empty and the doors locked, that is when Caroline’s true regulars arrived.

The shadows in the edge of each corner and every doorway, those had been with her since she could barely toddle. They arrived each evening in her childhood bedroom to stay until dawn. When she’d lay down at night, she’d stare at them, wide eyed and determined to stay awake. She thought if she kept a watch on them, they could not creep any closer. If the dared to do so, she sprinted to the sanctuary of her mother’s sleepy arms.

Shadows followed her to her first apartment too, where there was no parental shelter. Part of the reason she took a job with so many night shifts was to avoid the eerie darkness waiting for her at home. Yet, her first closing night of her bartending debut, there they were. They followed her everywhere.

The knocks and wind-filled whispers had joined her as companions around her teenage years. With growing pains came growing anxiety, and the nightly random pitches were its soundtrack, her speeding heartbeat the metronome. She’d known then she was too old to still be afraid of the dark, but the sounds still shook her. A little scratch there meant danger, a bump here meant imminent peril.

The chill along the back of her neck joined her in the nights after her college graduation. Abroad and alone, nothing prepares the body’s system to lose the last safety net, so this chill happily filled in the void.

She had one regular that who no longer courted her, though. Though they’d left their shadowy accomplices, the hidden monsters themselves left her five years back.

Before that last long night, she had checked each closet corner and under the bed every day since she could remember. As she’d grown, she would try to creak open the closet doors as quietly as possible, so her siblings or roommates would not hear how childish her fears remained. Sometimes, she would have to recheck each dark space again when she woke in the middle of the night.

But he’d taken the monsters with him. After the last fight, in which he had said the only monster he saw was inside Caroline, she watched him walk out her door. She stared at the closed door for several long minutes, and then simply went to bed. It was only when she was halfway through the night she realized what she hadn’t done. But the sobbing and heartbreak were too heavy for her to rise and do her nightly rounds. The next night came, and she again felt no need to check. She knew there was no reason to inspect the empty spaces. Whether it was because he was right or he was wrong still weighed on her mind. Either way, the other monsters took their leave along with him.

A little older, a little more worn, she welcomed those she once tried to chase away. Sometimes the world was too bright, or the glare from a busy shift too painful, and the gloomy corners softened the pain around her eyes. They’d become more shade than shadow.

The bumps and thumps fought of the silence. Now they were only her sunless symphony.

She rolled her neck back and the chill creeping there cooled the steaming sweat from a long shift.

Caroline wiped down the marble bar, humming to the dark places. These were her regulars. These were the patrons she always served, and a good bartender was kind to her loyal customers.

The Word

Hello, reader! Though can stand alone, I think you'd enjoy the following piece more if you read Today I am Effervescent and/or Today I am Alveolate beforehand. Thank you, and enjoy!

The Story

Neal was simply exhausted. Thank goodness his shift was finally over. His back hurt, his feet hurt, and sangria had been soaking through his pants for the past hour and half. Damn bachelor party.

On top of that, Caroline had been distracted half the night watching over Pepper and that quiet chick, leaving him to deal with John’s date’s need to order every single complicated cocktail under the sun. If he’d had to blend one more godsdamn egg white, he was going to start foaming himself. But this was the second time John had brought the redhead in, a new record, so between that and the tips, Neal kept a smile on his face.

Mr. Silent Martini had come in again, too. At least this guy fascinated Neal. The gentleman always ordered whichever martini was on special, sipped it about halfway down, and then left. Now Neal understood saving some cash via the happy-hour method, but he was confused how someone could happily enjoy a mango martini, espresso martini, old fashioned dirty martini, and even the Valentine’s Day cran-raspberry martini with the exact same reaction: a little inhale of shock on the first sip, and then several confident swallows. The guy would then straighten the dark sunglasses he’d pushed up into his brunette buzzcut, even thought they hadn’t moved a single centimeter since he sat down. Exactly the same movements, every single time. It was an interesting enough ritual that Neal mostly forgave the guy for the wrong currency he dropped as a tip after signing the tab.

But the bachelor party had done him in. Eight dudes ordering pitchers of sangria until they couldn’t see straight. As instructed by the Mother of the Groom hours earlier, Neal called the Father of the Groom when the group began to repeat their old college fight song, and helped the older gentleman put each of the men in their hotel room in the Ritz across the street. He was thanked with a handshake and a tip that would pay his rent for the month.

Neal stood on the curb for a minute to breathe before going back into the bar.  The wind was cold. It was late in the season, yet winter was roaring with its claws still firmly hooked in the air. He was so very tired, and he knew his shoulder would remind him of the groomsmen’s weight in the morning. Neal shivered a little, but was glad to have a quiet moment in the dark.

His breath taken, he moved to cross the street back into the light and sound of the bar. Then he saw them.

He froze mid-step. Pepper was walking arm-in-arm with the quiet girl. No, quiet woman. Had he missed her face before? She seemed a little older than he’d thought, with intriguing hazel eyes that seemed to shimmer across the distance. He blinked, no- she was young like he’d thought. His eyes must have been as tired as the rest of him. Still, she had a little glow, a little spring to her step as she walked with Pepper. He was not surprised that Pepper seemed to glow a little too. She always had.

A BMW’s horn reminded him he was in the middle of the street.

By the time he was safely on the other side, the two ladies were gone, and he wasn’t sure why he’d stopped to watch them. The small part of him that wondered what they were up to was pushed aside when he saw the room still filled with patrons. Just one more hour, then he and Caroline could take off and leave the darkest hours before dawn to the next shift.

During a small lull between pouring tequila shots and refilling chardonnays, Neal wiped the various shades of liquor off the marbled bar. That’s when he noticed Pepper’s coat still draped across a tall chair. He realized when he’d seen her outside, she hadn’t been wearing it. Neal tried to never judge a woman by her age, but he thought one with Pepper’s laugh lines shouldn’t be just leaving their fancy coats when out to a walk in the dropping temperatures of a northern February. Perhaps Pepper was just walking the young lady to a cab and would be right back in. A deep part of him knew that wasn’t true. The same space within him suggested that evening had been Pepper’s last visit to their establishment.

Still, he gathered her soft mink and placed it on the employee coat rack in the back for safe keeping. Until she returned.

 

The Word

Apricate (verb): To bask in the sun.

Important word note from Dictionary.com: Latin apricatus, past participle of apricari “to bask in the sun,”from apricus “exposed” (to the sun); perhaps contracted from *apericus , from aperire “to open.”

I just like that this word to bask, can also come from both “exposed” or “to open” because those are the same thing, one is unwilling and one is willing.

Anyway 🙂