The Story

It hurt, but not enough to stop. It was a sharp stabbing at the curve of her pinky toe. She was pretty sure that it was a rock, or some sharp seed or something. One similar pain instance had been an earring fallen from her dresser and into her favorite pair of running shoes.

It was annoying and it hurt, but other things had hurt worse and as she heard in some science class long ago “objects in motion remain in motion,” so she kept going as she always had.

The asphalt had become a good friend of hers. It could go as far and as long as she could. It never rushed her. It did not care that she was wearing her old track t-shirt instead of her nice workout clothes. It was quiet, which she could not say about many people in her life at the moment.  All the asphalt had to say was the occasional thwap thwap when it pushed back against her sneakers, and that was fine because she liked a little light conversation every now and then.

The run was not going to be enough to calm her today, though. She was not sure how long she had gone this time, as she had forgotten her watch flying out the door. However, when she returned, her roommate was in tears as the final scene of Dear John played on the TV. When she had left for the run, Channing Tatum was only meeting Amanda Seyfried and her roomie’s eyes were dry. So she’d run around two hours. Almost as good as a real timer.

“You’ve seen this over a hundred times,” She said to the back of the couch as she unlaced her shoes, allowing her poor pinky toe relief. Aw, so it was just a rock, how anticlimactic.

Sniffle, “I knoooooow, but it’s just so sad! How could she leave him?!”

Camellia Ramsey smiled at her sobbing roommate. Sometimes it was nice to come home and have things be relatively the same. Sweet Rachel would always be there doing homework and watching love stories. Camellia supposed everyone else’s life had not really changed much in the past few weeks. Just hers. She was the only one whose bed felt bigger and whose world felt much smaller.

She knew she was overreacting. It was just a breakup, and those happen. She knew that eventually it would be a small dot on her radar and she would be back to normal. But Michael had been exactly what she wanted and now her bronze-skinned, green-eyed god thought there was no time in his life for such a frivolous things as a girl with still a year left in her bachelor’s degree. Especially since he would begin a fancy real-person job in a different state in the coming months.

She understood. It happened to lots of couples this time of year and she had known it was a possibility. She could not stop him, and eventually that would be okay, maybe even good.

But right now it was awful. And as she peeled off her damp sports-bra, her irrational side kicked in with its whimpering and moaning, so she slipped into the shower before the tears started. As the bathroom began to steam, she thought back to the moment Michael had said it needed to be over. It was years ago, wasn’t it? Or was it just minutes?

Two weeks, one day, and a couple hours. Not that she knew exactly, or anything. She thought after a couple weeks maybe the details would start to blur, but they hadn’t. If anything, the scorching water rushing over her was making them clearer.

 

“Sorry, it’s a little cool,” he’s said, handing over the small gray mug he always grabbed for her.

“It’s alright,” though it wasn’t really. Camellia could barely stand for coffee to be lukewarm, but he seemed in a weird mood this morning. Not too unusual for the past couple weeks, but not the boy she was used to rising and very much shining in the mornings.

“Look- Cami. You know that I’ve been really busy a while…”

Her breath caught. Some instinctive part of her had read his tone and filled in the blanks within half a second. Now safe in her shower, she appreciated the irony of her brain moving so fast in that instant, when she’d been stuck almost a month trying to figure out what had changed. She laughed bitterly in the shower, but there in his kitchen she’d only held her mug close as her body temperature plummeted.

He’d started again, “I’m about to head out of town, and you know how I feel about long distance. We both knew we were always one of those short loves.” Then he’d taken a long sip of his cheap dark roast.

Oh, did we? She’d always been told that in those moments, your heart was supposed to stop. But either because of the previous cup of coffee, or because she’d hoped for anything else, hers had instead opted for nearly beating out of her chest. It was painful, but it at least kept her distracted while she hazily set her mug down and left straight to her car, with stupid store-brand aftertaste still on the back of her tongue.

 

“Skim milk and a sprinkle of sugar, steaming.” Rachel had the warm mug in Camellia’s hand before Camellia even had the towel fully wrapped around her. She accepted it, both grateful and a little embarrassed that her roomie had clearly caught on to the mood she was in.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, taking a long sip and letting the liquid burn her throat with a comforting familiarity.

“I was just brewing a few cups, thought you might need one!” Rachel plopped herself on Camellia’s wrinkled comforter, holding a mug with a much paler concoction in it. Camellia smiled when she noticed it.

The girls let the silence sit for a while. This was, in Camellia’s opinion, the best part of their relationship. Talking was nice, but never necessary for them.

“You can do cuter,” Rachel stated suddenly.

“Can I?” Camellia raised an eyebrow.

“Ha, well maybe not- he was pretty attractive,” Rachel got up to wrap her arms around her  her friend tight, “but sometimes the good die young.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Camellia spun in her friend’s arms, “is this heartbreak going to kill me?”

“No, no! Your relationship! It was good, but now it’s done, and you’ll find a boy who wants to keep the sweet thing that is my best friend!” She squeezed and then untangled herself, “but let me know if you’re gonna try to Ophelia yourself in the bathtub.”

“Jesus, English majors.”

“It’s what we’re for!”

 

Although Camellia’s mother had been hounding her for years that coffee was the way to go, she herself had always been a tea girl until Michael came along.

They met by chance, his friend happened to be the president of her Environmental Club, and he was dragged to a club social. After spending more of the night shooting glances at each other than paying attention to the speech on algae’s place in world-saving, he’d asked her out to “a casual cup of joe.” How could she say no to a boy with a voice sweet as southern tea? That afternoon, instead of admitting she hated the bitter-bean mixture and would have preferred an herbal loose-leaf, she said to just order two of whatever he wanted.

Of course that first sip had nearly killed her.

She had discreetly examined her cup, wondering if this new man had perhaps poisoned her, and that was why the drink had tasted so foul. But no, apparently that is what plain iced coffee is supposed to taste like. She had brushed a few of her strawberry locks behind her ear and prayed that this Michel kid would be worth suffering through to the bottom of her cup. They stayed at that table for two more hours, and though she declined a second cup, she was glad she had choked down the first.

 

Now, looking across to Rachel over her cup at their kitchen table, she was amazed at how her taste buds had changed so drastically.

“So, bad day for the ol’ get-over-him plan?”

“Yeah…”

“You know what they say, only better with time and all that.”

“Yep, which was said by some older man who had never been a young girl with a broken heart.”

“Well, that’s awfully dramatic.”

Camellia shrugged, “You were cliché, I was dramatic. It was fitting.”

The two girls smiled at each other. There was never much to say with a problem that could not be fixed. Maybe a little sleep would ease away some of the hurt first.

Of course, graduate school applications did not have a section for low-GPA excuses, so Camellia’s light stayed on late into the night instead. Essays and research had to be dealt with no matter what. Her coffee pot had little more rest than she did, as she kept refilling it with the attempt to keep her eyes open. She thought for a moment, as she measured out each scoop: it was not quite the same therapeutic feeling that measuring out fresh teabags had given her, but the caffeine was much stronger, and the smell more enticing. She watched with glazed eyes as the percolator buurrbled to life. With the first mud-colored drops beginning to collect at the bottom of the glass, she was taken willingly into another aroma-filled memory.

 

They had taken his dog, Cashew, on a cool fall afternoon stroll. It had been chilly and he said they needed some java to warm them up afterwards. He hadn’t taken her hand during the entire walk. She remembered that the most clearly, and then the mental speech she had given herself that perhaps the second date was too soon for hand-holding and maybe she was getting ahead of herself.

He had showed her how old his coffeepot looked next to his roommate’s new French-press and then argued that coffee was not supposed to be so fancy- “it was meant to be drunk, not dressed up in chrome and shit!” This time she had been able to sneak in a spoonful of sugar while he was in the bathroom (a hint Rachel had given her), but the sip after that choice was even worse than the first. She supposed that perhaps Michael had been right to drink it black then. It had been three more walks with Cashew before he put an arm around her to “keep her from catching a chill.”

 

Two more pages added to her essay on the loss of natural resources and she was closing her eyes to a cup of hazelnut flavored, thinking of the time she had broken Michael’s precious coffeemaker. She did not often spend the night at his place, but a few months into him referring to her as “his girl,” meant her presence in the morning was not unusual to his roommates.

That particular morning, Camellia had woken up before him and this time instead of curling up to him and waiting, she had wanted to surprise him with a fresh pot of his favorite addiction. Half an hour later, he had sauntered into the kitchen to find his girlfriend partially drenched, attempting to clean up the puddle of almost-coffee that was quickly covering the counter.

“Apparently you’re supposed to put the grinds in before you press ‘go’?”

 

She stirred in her drop of milk as she remembered that he could not stop laughing long enough to be mad with her, and was more concerned about the hot water having hurt her, than about his dirty counter. Michael had given her one of his priceless grins and magical long kisses when she arrived the next day with a brand new brew-er in her arms.

Now Camellia stared at her desk, shaking her head and reaching again for the textbook across from her. She opened it but her eyes refused to settle on the words. The night was getting to her.

 

 Siiiip.

“Do you have to slurp?” Camellia had been trying to edit papers for a good hour and a half, but in the last few minutes Michael had been doing everything he could think of to distract her from it.

“Yep. The music of my people.” Siiiiiiip

She slammed down her red pen, “and what people is that?”

“Drinkers,” he answered, setting his mug down on the nightstand and slyly getting up from the bed, stalking to her desk chair, “thinkers,” he kissed her neck, “winkers.”

He spun her around and gave her a slow, cheesy wink. She melted at the sight of his grin and allowed him to pull her to the bed. It was much smaller than his, but she liked that it meant they had to snuggle closer. He pulled her onto his chest, and she could feel his heat wrapping around her.

“Tell me about the papers stressing you out.”

“It’s an essay on marriage rates for Sociology. It’s depressing.”

“Oh?”

“It doesn’t look good for those of us who want to get married in the next ten years. At least the average says so.”

“You want to be married in the next ten years?”

Camellia paused. She had hit one of those subjects they say not to bring up with boyfriends for a long while. How to proceed?

“It was part of my casual plan.”

“Hm. I wasn’t thinking until like thirty-five-ish.”

“Well, like I said- casual plan.”

Michael rolled Camellia over so their noses were smushed against each other, her whole weight across his body, “I’m not worried.”

She smiled down at him, “You’re not?”

“Nope,” He began spreading kisses across her collarbone.

“Are you worried that I want a kid before I’m thirty?”

“I mean, I’m not even sure I want kids at all. But no, that doesn’t worry me either. It’s not like you’re measuring my ring finger when I’m sleeping.” He returned his lips to her skin.

“Oh.” Her stomach gave a confused flutter. Yes, this man she cared about was running his fingers along the waist of her jeans, but he had also hinted at a future much different than the one she dreamed of full of babies and farmers’ market trips. But that was okay. Or, it would be if he would just kept those kisses coming. Things change.

 

Well, I suppose they did. One of those short loves.

Siiip

She found herself making the same sound and wondering why it sounded so annoying that night so many weeks ago. Tonight, it was the click of her keys that was driving her insane, so she printed what she had done and restarted with pen and notebook. Her mother always suggested that was how to write a good paper anyway. Her mother was right about quite a few things.

 

The first time he met her parents had started pretty well. Camellia’s dad had appeared so in love with Michael’s discussion on politics and his plans to continue in the PHD program, that Mr. Ramsey had apparently forgotten all about the age gap between this scholar and his own daughter. Mrs. Ramsey had made another of her huge spice-heavy dinners and was now slicing her berry-lovers’ angel cake for the four of them. No one had appetite left for a piece, but they all took a slice anyway. Camellia knew the copious amounts of food was probably due to nerves. Her mother always wanted to make her friends feel at home, and when Camellia had mentioned she’d be bringing Michael for the weekend, the older woman had decided to pull out all the stops.

“My baby’s in love, why can’t I make a few dishes without everyone getting their feathers ruffled?”

With the cake, Mrs. Ramsey placed three dark-filled mugs on the table before asking Camellia what kind of tea she wanted with her cake. The surprise on her mother’s face when Camellia had declined and asked for coffee as well was a good laugh for the table.

“She’s growing up and joining the obsession, hun!” Camellia’s father had chortled, finding all of his jokes a little funnier than anyone else did.

Mrs. Ramsey used whole milk, though, and Camellia knew that Michael must be trying to impress her parents when he said of course he would take some in his cup, and sure- some sugar too. It made her oddly happy to see him swallow what he would normally complain as a “messed with” cup, understanding the feeling.

 

It was normally her forth cup, which she was hitting now around two am, that she herself began to mess with perfection. She splashed some of Rachel’s flavored creamer in, not even registering whether it was the Very Vanilla or the Mocha Mint that frequented their fridge. She just needed to knock the edge off the bitter bite of her cheaper grinds. Her mother had sent a care package of expensive beans the week before, but Michael had taught her that such treats were meant for quiet moments, not nights of homework.

 

“You’d think that you would want to treat yourself if you were working so hard,” she had spoken softly, measuring spoonfuls into the filter with now-practiced hands.

“No no no, young grasshopper. The good stuff is for when the sun comes up and you get to take a moment of victory before hopping in the shower. Or after some really great sex.” He had murmured into her neck as he wrapped his arms around her waste. It was very distracting from her next task of chopping up eggs and celery for the salad sandwich she planned to take to class. Later that day he had surprised her with a to-go cup of “the good stuff” as she was coming out of an exam. He was normally busy in the lab this time of day, but had taken a break to make a java-run for “his love.” It was the first time he had called her that. She had nearly choked on the hot liquid, trying to keep her smile under control.

 

Perhaps six cups was too much. This was her four am thought, and her next one was that perhaps she should have just done the work on time instead of moping around the apartment. But she poured it. The pot had been sitting there too long, so she placed the mug in the microwave. This was something her father always did- make a big pot in the morning and just reheat it all day long. But Michael thought that was some form of blasphemy, declaring that coffee needed to be made fresh because the smell of it brewing was half the reason to be drinking it. It was one of the few arguments the two men had.

“When you have a wife and kids to worry about, you’ll take what little penny-pinching you can!”

“No way. I’ll always make a fresh pot.”

“So you don’t plan on sending your kids to college, then?”

“I think that’s a bit extreme for a few bags of coffee, Mr. Ramsey!”

The two men had stopped and stared at each other for a moment, neither really willing to give in. Camellia and her mother were staring from the table at the two men occupying the kitchen. The women had identically-arched eyebrows, for men fought about the strangest things. But then there was a chuckle, which grew to a full laugh, and the boys were done.

Camellia shrugged. She supposed it was better than politics or sports. Her parents had stopped for the day in her college town before making the rest of the trip to Charleston for their 30^th anniversary, and she was hoping they would go ahead on their way. She had not been expecting them and was pretty sure her parents had not expected to see Michael in their daughter’s apartment so early in the morning.

“Are we having a breakfast party in here?” Rachel had chirped, coming around the corner of her bedroom. Camellia had thanked her lucky stars to see her roommate’s bed-hair bop down the hallway to join them; it anchored Camellia to watch her parents hug Rachel tightly as everyone sat down for a quick muffin and chat before going their separate directions for the day. It had shocked her later when Michael had complained about the intrusion.

“Rachel? or I thought you liked Mom and Dad?”

“No thank God she was there to talk to them so we didn’t have to as much. I like them fine. I guess my parents did that when I was an undergrad too, I just wasn’t ready for it.” Camellia had let the strange moment go, but something did not feel settled about it. He did not often remind her of how much younger she was then he. And she was close with her parents. Didn’t he know that?

 

The dawn was breaking and the young woman had finally finished all of her work. She knew she could probably fit in an hour of sleep before she had to get dressed and head out, but she knew that a run and one more cup would most likely have the same effect. Stepping over half her wardrobe to hunt down a clean pair of athletic shorts, she knew she should probably take a moment to clean up later that day. Finally spotting the favored bright green shorts hiding under her winter boots, she paused for a moment. Had she really not put those away yet? The last snow had been several weeks ago now.

 

It had been a late snow, and Rachel had wanted to go out and play in it. She had a new boyfriend of her own and thought it would be romantic to take a wintery walk and build a snowman. So Camellia had dragged Michael away from his work and demanded that he join them for some fun. He had only relented when she said to bring Cashew with him and that there would be hot chocolate to follow the snowy escapade.

When they’d dried off, Rachel was laughing by the stove as she attempted to melt chocolate for an old-fashioned recipe. The tall boy she had brought over was tickling her neck with his scruffy chin, and Camellia found herself smiling at them. It was time that Rachel found someone as young-hearted as herself.

“They’re so cute!” she had turned to whisper at her own partner, but Michael was looking at the table, seemingly lost in thought.

“Babe?”

He looked up, “Hm?”

“Don’t you think they’re cute?”

“Sure. Think she’ll focus a bit and hurry up? I really have to get back to work.”

“They’re having fun, though. I can’t rush her just for cocoa!”

Michael stood, “I’ll just make a pot at home. I have to start back on my paper. See you, Cami.” He planted a short kiss across her worried lips, called Cashew to him and headed out the door without a backwards glance.

 

Camellia remembered the denial that had risen up in the back of her throat that evening. She left the shorts abandoned with the boots and returned to her kitchen. She was not hungry, just all of the sudden all too warm. She slid open the big window, careful not to knock any of Rachel’s little herb pots off the sill.

 

“You’ll be fine, dear. He was sweet, but he was all too busy for you.” Her mother had said.

“You’re too young anyway. You shouldn’t have been dating until your forties.” Her father had offered, laughing and thumbing her chin like when she was a child.

“You can do better, one who can actually cook!” Rachel had cooed.

But this morning her parents were many miles away and Rachel was still fast asleep. Camellia sighed, knowing that they might be right and they might be wrong but there was not much she could do about any of it right now.

She turned and got a clean mug out of the cupboard. Stopping her hand before she reached the mostly-empty bag of grinds, she paused for a moment. She slowly lowered her heels back to the floor, and was still. Then, she crossed to the pantry, collected her basket of teabags and sat on the cool tile floor. She picked a bag of each variety and held it up, slowly smelling the bouquet of nature floating off of them. Deciding the lemon-spiked chamomile would go best with her banana-bread breakfast, she stood up tall.

She would add honey, and she would be alright.

The Word

BREW (verb): 1. Make (tea or coffee) by mixing it with hot water. 2. Make (beer) by soaking, boiling, and fermentation. 3. (of an unwelcome event or situation) Begin to develop.

 

*Camellia's name sound familiar? You met her parents in Today I am Photophilous

The Story

Ah, born again to- 

The dung beetle’s first full thought was stopped by a grazing cow, who happily crunched upon its skeleton.

—

Alright. Born again to reign! Lets see, starving, need something to eat right now. Oh thank the gods this leaf is here and I can-

The young caterpillar was slurped up by an toddling owl, who only swallowed half before spitting it out at the sound of a much more enticing mouse-snack.

—

DAMN THAT HURT. 

The hatchling used its egg-tooth to labor itself into the world. Upon emerging, he immediately began to dig into the cool mud. His strange fin-like legs were weak, but finally he moved enough dirt out his way and then again onto himself to appear more like a small rock than baby turtle.

I shall not move until I have grown. I will not be humiliated by the failures of another inadequate form!

When Spring came again, an adult Painted Turtle scuttled into a nearby pond. He stayed to the edges, shadowed by leaning trees, where he could hunt for water spiders and fish eggs in peace. Save for one short encounter with a peckish raccoon, it was the most uneventful 27 years any creature had ever lived. The second half of which was mostly spent disappointed he hadn’t let the raccoon win.

A bubble on the surface of the pond indicated the last bored sigh of the elder reptile.

—

Finally. What have we here now? Alright, some sort of bird. At least that means I can fly from predators. 

The empire penguin shuffled forward, only to be quickly drawn back into its father’s legs.

UNHAND ME, FOUL FOWL. 

But the protest went unheard, and unanswered. The fluffy chick waddled on strong legs,  taking its meals from his mother’s gullet, ashamed of it as he was. Determined to succeed though, the growing fledgling quickly became the fastest waddler, the strongest diver, and the best round-rock-finder of the entire huddle.

He had almost lost the last of his brown baby feathers when a leopard seal decided it wanted a snack.

—

…VICTORY! Again, I am man set loose upon the world!  I will finally rise again and  BE THE END OF LIVES and the BEGINNING OF EMPIRES. 

The tiny babe scrunched his nose up defiantly.

“Oh look, he’s wiggling his little nosey!” Mary leaned down to the newborn and touched her nose to his.

Ah yes, a proper mother to nourish and protect me until I am again strong! Thank the gods to be human again. Foolish mortals telling me it could take centuries to return to my strength and glory! But NO, no universe has seen one like me before! I cannot be restrained!

“Look, Charlie, his coloring is just gorgeous!”

…my what?

“Yes, he’s perfect! A show boy for sure, what shall we name the tyke?”

Mary laid the kitten with the rest of the litter, “He looks kinda like a Sir Waddles to me.”

MY TITLE is Attila and you WILL resp-

Charlie popped a formula bottle into the tiny whiskered mouth, “Gotta go ahead and get you strong if you’re going to be pulling in the blue ribbons, Sir Waddles!”

The small kit could not yet open its eyes to glare at the elder Mr. and Mrs. Greensworth, but it severely wished it could. Even if the formula was delicious and every instinct told him to cry out for more.

God what a pathetic sound this form makes.

“Oh yes, squeaking for mommy! Not your turn yet, you’ve got lots of brothers and sisters! Charlie, run go fill up another bottle for our beautiful little runt.”

It took almost a week before he could even see his captors. Warm hands continued to pick up the small form and lean in, cooing words of praise each time he blinked at the round faced woman or chirped a request to the long-nosed man. He was cleansed, nourished, and adored while he slowly learned to stand and walk and meow properly. Each of his needs were carefully met by practiced hands.

It was awful.

He’d seen cats before. Several traveled on the wagons of his army for both companionship and pest control. These warrior assistants were feisty creatures who were occasionally thanked with a half eaten fish or a palm of wine, but never checked on and rarely even named. There were countries to conquer, and that left no time for any waste of sentiment or tending.

But these captors were strange. Instead of encouraging the hunt of real mice, he and his littermates were offered cotton ones. It was insulting, really, for them to assume he could not catch his own meals. But the man occasionally spread a few dried leaves on their moistened kibbles, which made quite the tasty dish. These particularly savory treats always seemed to calm the turmoil in the toddling kitten’s soul.

As time went on, he was not surprised to be admired above his siblings. However, it did irk him that rather than his premier pouncing abilities, or the fact that he could catch the dancing feather faster than any of the others, it was his appearance they seemed to treasure. These humans did not have their priorities straight. What were looks to a combatant?

“Just look how he’s developing, Mary. Perfectly round head. Not a straight line in sight.”

“Except for my baby’s cutie whiskers! Isn’t that right, my little knight?”

The kitten had learned quickly that tone of voice meant he was about to get “tiny itty bitty kitten kisses” all over his freshly groomed fur. He would have to start the tongue bath all over again. Even if he did occasionally enjoy the attention.

But only occasionally. Woman with her ridiculous actions should be embarrassed.

Self assurance was the only way to maintain dignity in the circumstances of this form.

Other captors came for his siblings. They each seemed to trade a hefty price for his inferior kin. Well, except for Peanut, who was given away for free due to his unseemly stunted tail. This did not bother Sir Wad- Attila. It did not bother Attila. With each sibling sold off, his climbing spaces and chaises became all the more luxurious. His favorite, of course, was the plush pillow with sparkling fringe, which stayed in the house office. In this spot, a regular sunbeam from the high window warmed his soft fur in a heavenly way. Also, by pure coincidence, Mary Greensworth was often in the same room, working at her desk. He would occasionally sit on her stack of books so she could admire him and tell him what a good kitty he was.

All for show, of course. Just need to do well here to move up the life chain.

Though the chin scratches were very much appreciated.

When he was 9 months old, he and Charlie had their first spat. Charlie wanted the cat to get into a small space with a door only Charlie seemed to know how to work.

ABSURD! I have burned Balkans to the ground! I am no mere object to stuff into a cage!

“Come on, Sir Waddles! Please don’t be a fuss on your first show day!”

PLEAD ALL YOU LIKE, peasant! I do not take orders from the likes of you!

As Charlie retreated from a failed attempt to admonish the hissing creature, Mary calmly approached. She put a kiss on the cat’s forehead, and a cheese cracker in the crate.

I can not be fooled, woman.

She placed a second cheese cracker in the crate.

…well.

A short drive later, the three Greensworths stood in a large stadium filled with other felines and handlers.

“Look at all your competition, sweetie! Don’t be scared, you’ll do great!”

Scared? I am a ruler of men. These creatures and their mews of disdain would not frighten my youngest soldier. I will defeat them easily for you.

His promise rang true, and the couple treated their victorious furball to a fresh can of tuna for his county win.

“Oh my goodness, we’re headed to state, Charlie! STATE!”

“I know dear,” Charlie spooned a bit more tuna onto the cat’s plate, “it’s a thrill! But we can’t lose focus now. I think he’ll need a brushing each morning and night to keep his shine up and his muscles relaxed.”

That does not sound like a terrible idea. A creature of my stature deserves such attentions.

With each show, the pile of blue ribbons on Mary’s office desk grew. During the week, she would show them to Sir Waddles and let him swat at the dangling charms to keep his competitive nature strong. It was not long before the appearance of his crate in the ring meant the forming of a long line at each show. He hated the ink Charlie dipped his padded toes into, but it made both of his humans so happy when a young fan scampered off with an “autograph,” so he tolerated the action.

Do not bite the stranger. Do not bite the stranger. OUCH okay maybe one little- no no do not bite the stranger.

“Oh no! He doesn’t like head pats like that.” Mary scolded the admirer as red anger rose in her cheeks.

There was a smirk beneath his whiskers as Mary loudly cancelled the rest of the line. She and Charlie whisked their beloved pet away to console him with snuggles and crunchy peanut butter treats.

Attila began to enjoy the competition circuit. There was something about watching the faces of the skinny and the straight laced challengers fall as they realized their defeat. His curled magnificence was unmatched. Each judge would admire his brilliant ginger saddle, his bright white collar with matching sock pattern. They would oooh at his rounded chin, and ahhh at his flawless stance. If he thought their reverence was enough, he would reward them with a happy chirp. This was his title-clincher, and he knew it every time a human’s eyes widened before they turned to Mary, remarking on what a sweet angel she has.

She’d smile at him proudly and nod, and he would smile proudly back.

This time though, he could tell his companions were nervous. They had been going on about the East Coast championship for days. To him it seemed as any other show. But Charlie and Mary, seemed to be anticipating a much larger occasion.

Watch, my humans. Be sure in victory as I am, for I have never seen vanquishment on a company capable as ours!

Head high, feet together, chip loud and clear. When the places were announced, he found no surprise in being correct on the subject.

“And for the Premiership of the East Coast…. it’s Sir Waddles of the Greensworth family!”

The crowd applauded, loudly calling their congratulations to their fan favorite. He was engulfed in his mother’s warm arms as she whispered her joy and pride into his pointed ear “What a good kitty! My sweet boy! My winner!” His father brought the trophy close to his whiskers so he could see himself in the shining gold.

Yes.

The champion cat arched his neck proudly.

I am Sir Attila Waddles. And I am the most beautiful fluff in the land.

The Word

Renascence (noun): The revival of something that has been dormant.

What could possibly not be hilarious about Attila the Hun struggling to reincarnate as a human and ending up as a champion Selkirk Rex*?

I chose Attila as our reimagined villain because much of what we know about him today is actually from very little proven documentation, so I felt he would be the most fun/uncomplicated to play with. In all his journeys, I imagine he came across cultures that believed in reincarnation, so he planned to return to human and continue his conquering. What he didn’t count on was loving the life of a treasured pet (and really, who can blame him? Who doesn’t want a life that’s mostly eating, sleeping, and being admired?).

So RENASCENCE fits for lots of reasons. First, I myself am no longer dormant. A little ibuprofen, tea, and sunshine has brought me back from my accidental hiatus.

Second, the word is not an exact synonym for reincarnation, and I like that. It’s not re-birth, it’s revival. So to me, rather than new lives, Attila is living out each part of him that’s expressed by different forms. And even conquerers have a fluffy side…

…well they do! We all have these strange sides to us that we let (or make) stay dormant for one reason or another. Sometimes we have to reach in and poke those sides of us, wake them up! Maybe not the bring-it-Byzantine parts, but the proud-beauties parts! What do you think it take to prod the parts of you that are too often quiet?

And I think it’s worth noting this kit goes from calling Mary and Charlie his captors, to calling them his parents, all because he allowed himself to enjoy what was around him 🙂

Too much metaphor for a talking cat? Yeah okay. But I like it. And I hope you did too!

Cheers to conquering our own dormant destinies!

---

*This is indeed a kind of cat. It has curly hair and is very fluffy. Also it was recently accepted into all of the premier, international leagues of cat breeding and competition. Yes, I googled this. Yes, I am aware this does not help my fight against Cat-Lady-Status.

The Excuse

Dear lovely excellent (hopefully fervently loyal) readers,

It is too cold and I am too tired to fight the writer’s block that has been riding me all day. I promise to make today up to you with a story worthy of your patience!

Thank you for your continued support,

The Quilled Sister

The Word

Abeyance (noun): 1. A state of temporary inactivity. 2. A lapse in succession during which there is no person in whom a title is vested

I wanted to find a better word than “procrastination” for this post and found this lovely one. I like it, and hopefully that means inspiration is only moments (or a good sleep) away 🙂

The Story

Daniel loved his plants. Ever since he’d watched a mung bean sprout in his fourth grade science experiment, he had been hooked on his leafy little friends. When his mother was tired of the all his botany books covering her kitchen table, she purchased him a moth orchid to watch over. He named it Donut, after his favorite snack, because his brother had just recently gotten a new hamster named Cheeto for the same reason.

Sadly, Cheeto was long gone. But decades later Donut still stood proudly, now at home in Daniel’s large greenhouse. His wife had the green house constructed for his 50th birthday, however he knew the gift also served as a way to save her home from an army of dehumidifiers the tropical plants had started to require. She knew not to ask him to get rid of some of the plants, but he’d already seen her sneak several of his succulents into their daughter’s car when it was packed for college that year. So, he collected all of his warmer-climate greenery and moved them to their new abode before any others found themselves sneakily shipped off.

He couldn’t say he minded a space that was just his own, though. Daniel absolutely loved to visit his greenhouse. From the door, securely closed behind him to maintain homeostasis for the space, he could proudly gaze at his full domain. Each morning he would take a lap around the small pavilion, checking the lighting on the three tired wall mounts holding his toddler Birds of Paradise. He would then note who needed pruning among his Ficus and Schefflera in the lifted trough that split the space in two. On the other side, where half was dedicated to a workbench constantly covered in different dirts and watering cans, he’d check on his experimental group. These were the random vegetables, herbs, or baby tree sprouts he cared for until they found a permanent potting home here or in the outside garden. Lastly, he’d speak to Donut at the workbench. Even as he’d expanded the greenhouse several feet in each direction to make room for new plants, Donut kept his place at the workbench. When asked why, Daniel always said that it was best to have an expert opinion to talk with while he worked.

Today, he discovered a new student in his little workshop. He reached up to pluck the chartreuse little air plant from where it hung on ribbon tied to a sun-lamp. In its skinny leaves it held just a sticky note with drawing of lips and a cursive Love you!

“Ah, an air kiss!” He showed Donut, “From Margie. I’m sure she sends her love to you too, bud.”

After spritzing here, checking soil levels there, he said goodnight to the leafy crew and went inside to join Marge for dinner.

The next morning found Daniel and Marge follow their usual Saturday routine of stopping by the Farmer’s Market downtown to support the local growers. Daniel loved to discuss lighting with the herb farmers, and Marge loved that this gave her time to buy a few cinnamon rolls from the baker. She returned from the stall with two of them and a large rosemary loaf to find he’d acquired several Piper nigrum seeds.

“Our own peppercorn, Margie!” He kissed her icing covered smile.

“Shznttatabine?” She asked, mouth still full.

“Yes! It’s going to need lots of room to vine out- I’ll need to get some new tomato wire on the way home for them to grow, course it will take a while for them to need that, but no harm in having them ready. And then of course I’ll need to look into how many I need to keep for replant so we don’t grind it all up and…”

She steered him towards the car as he continued.

When they got home, Marge shooed Daniel out of the kitchen to go plant his seeds. The last time he’d helped put away groceries while distracted with a new plant, her canned corn landed in the fridge and the ice cream melted in the cupboard before she realized what happened. She’d wanted to throw a fit, but instead just threw him permanently out of grocery duty. He was more than happy to oblige.

As he whistled his way to the greenhouse that afternoon though, he found his path was blocked.

“Are you lost, soldier?” He inquired of the small jade plant resting on the gravel walkway. He picked it up, noting its dirt looked awfully dry in its small blue plastic pot. There was no note on it, no store sticker anywhere. He glanced around to see if the wind had blown one away, but there was nothing around. He turned back to the main house, looking in the window at Marge in the kitchen. How had she snuck this back here without him noticing? They’d been together all day. She looked up and caught his eye, waved. He gestured at the plant, pointing first at it and then at her. She shook her head no, lifted her hands in question. He replied the same.

“Oh well, buddy, so you got here on your own, I guess!” He laughed at his own joke, and escorted the new plant inside to his garden residence.

He named the plant Lucky, as Jade was a plant sign for luck, and also the plant was pretty lucky itself that Daniel found him before the afternoon storm had approached. “Could’ve knocked you right off your boots, little one!” Daniel told Lucky as he gifted it a much larger pot with fresh soil to call home. He placed him next to Donut so he’d had a friend while he healed up a bit.

Over the next few weeks, both Lucky’s branches and mystery grew substantially. Daniel questioned everyone he knew about the plant, but no one seemed to know where it came from or how it arrived in front of his greenhouse. This did not diminish Daniel’s love for Lucky, though. If anything, it threatened Donut’s stance as the favorite.

“You’re going to make the orchid jealous, going on about your new jade like this,” Marge warned him at dinner one night, “I just don’t know if Donut can take not being the favorite!”

Daniel swallowed his bite of spaghetti, “You know you’re the favorite, Margie.”

“Well there’s less mystery from me, you know where I came from.”

“Heaven?” He winked at her.

She laughed, “Georgia!”

“Same thing.”

The end of Spring was always a very busy time for Daniel. Work at the firm did not change pace, but it was seed season at home. For this amateur botanist, it meant a full rearrangement of the greenhouse. Each year as he collected the seeds from the plants finishing their flowering, he would try to keep the reorganization to a minimum. But then he would notice that the new cilantro plants would do better in the trough with the parsley, and really the Birds of Paradise were ready for their new pots and he’d just started healing an old Day Lily from his mother-in-law, so that would need a space where the sun hit right.

This annually resulted in a complete un-housing of every plant. Marge would make a large batch of sweet tea, with a splash of spiced rum thrown in, and the two would get to work pulling plants out, putting them back in, stacking seed containers, readjusting wall mounts, and everything in between. Donut and Lucky watched from the patio. As the only ones of their kind in the collection, they would most likely retain their honored spot at the work bench, but it was safest to stay out of the way for now.

“Oh my, look how big she’s gotten!”

Daniel and Marge both turned to the strange voice near their patio stairs. A young man wearing khakis, dark loafers, and a sky blue button down shirt began to walk towards them. Though this part of Palo Alto was a safe neighborhood, Daniel stepped in front of Marge as the man approached.

“Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to come check on the jade,” the young man gestured towards the deck, “you’ve done so well with her, I knew you would.”

Marge stepped around Daniel, “The jade plant? You left the jade plant here?”

“Yes, I did!” The young man said almost proudly. He put his hands in his pockets and stared at Lucky intently, seemingly waiting for it to greet him back.

Daniel tentatively held out a hand, “and you are?”

“Oh!” The man shook Daniel’s hand firmly, “I’m so sorry, I’m Liam. Liam Montgomery.”

“You’re Becca’s grandson! Oh honey, you remember Becca!” Marge relaxed immediately, and even went to hug Liam, “Oh how we miss having your grandma across the street! She is such a sweet lady! How is she doing at the hospice?”

“Well um, she was doing great, and then not so great.”

Daniel patted Liam on the shoulder, “Oh no, that’s a shame. Did she…?”

“Yes, beginning of March.”

“Oh sweetie, we’re so sorry to hear that. Here have some tea, it’s good and strong.” Marge passed Liam a tall glass.

“Thank you, wow that’s delicious. She went quiet, we all took it hard, but she’s better now so I’m getting a little better with it.”

“Yes, yes of course.”

A small quiet settled over the trio. Daniel always found it hard to say the right thing in these situations, to make it clear he cared without sounding cliche. He normally avoided the issue by dropping off a plant with the friend in need, but clearly that wasn’t the answer since this person had already left a plant with him instead.

“Wait, did Lucky belong to Becca?”

Liam recovered from a large swig of the spiked tea, “Lucky? What?”

“The jade plant,” Marge interpreted, “was it your grandma’s?”

“Oh yeah- ha! You named it Lucky? That’s awesome! Yeah, when they wouldn’t let Miss Kitty join Gran in the nursing home, we got her that plant to look after. She loved it, took care of it and spoke to it all the time.” He laughed with a faraway look, “I think she called it Miss Green, though.”

Daniel nodded, considering, “Miss Green isn’t a bad name.”

“Why’d you leave it here?” Marge asked, peaking at the plant in question as if it might speak up for itself.

Liam rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, when she died, everyone at the funeral brought these flowers and weird little topiaries. My poor mom had Peace Lilies practically bulging out of the house. But none of us got the green thumb from Gran, so of course everything started to die. But when Miss Green, or Lucky I guess, started to droop, I just couldn’t stand it. She loved that thing, and I couldn’t… I…”

“I understand, son.” Daniel guided Liam to the patio to sit down on the steps, the boy had gone just a bit pale in the sun.

“And she’d always talked about she knew everything about plants from her neighbor, that he just knew how to save any sort of rooted being. So I dropped Miss Green here, hoping you all would know what to do.”

“How did you know we were the right neighbors?”

Liam lifted his eyebrows, “You know you can see that greenhouse from the road, right? Thing’s huge.”

Marge shot Daniel a told you look, which he replied to with a laugh, “I suppose so!”

“Seems I made the right call, anyway. She looks great.” Liam stood up, offered a tender stroke along one of the jade’s leaves as if it was a small kitten that might run at his touch.

“She does, your Gran did a great job growing her out.”

Marge nudged Daniel. When he looked, she was jutting her chin at the jade and then at Liam, and back again. He understood.

“Hey, how about now that Miss Lucky Green here is doing so well, would you like to take her back? I can show you how to care for her.”

“Oh no no,” Liam stepped back from the plant, “I couldn’t stand if I somehow killed it. I’m much happier knowing she’s safe here with you.”

“Oh they’re not too hard!”

“I once killed an air plant.”

“…alright, maybe we won’t start you on a jade.”

“How about you roll up those sleeves and help us, let Dan here pick you an easier start up?” Marge threw an extra pair of gardening gloves at Liam.

“Least I could do,” he smiled.

A while later, as the sun began to set, Liam happily bounced away with dirt on his khakis, a toddler Snap Pea in one hand, and a full grown Gerber Daisy in the other. All the plants had been tucked into their new spots, with Lucky and Donut back at their dedicated pedestals.

“That one could use some watering, maybe a little more sun.” Marge said, nodding her head to Liam’s departing frame.

“Hun, I couldn’t agree more.”

*

Liam returned to the greenhouse in the Fall to report on both his successful attempt to keep his plants alive, and his upcoming senior year at college. Daniel noted that the young man appeared to see both tasks as equally challenging, which he found quite charming.

Thanksgiving break saw Liam back in the greenhouse with Daniel, having graduated to a calla lily for his dorm room and prepared to assist in pruning season.

Winter break, Liam arrived with gingerbread cookies for Marge, an electric soil-reader for Daniel, and a date proposition for their daughter Camellia. He returned to school with a large package of Marge’s double fudge brownies, a cute new girlfriend, and a cutting from Miss Lucky Green in a small gold planter. He was quite eager to see what Spring would bring.

The Word

Photophilous (adjective): Of or relating to an organism, as a plant, that is receptive to, seeks, or thrives in light.

Big word time!

Like all of Daniel’s lovely plant friends, I feel that I am photopilous. I’m happiest in a bit of sunshine! We all are, really. When we do our first big stretch to the morning sun, are we not unfurling leaves to get some of that sweet, sweet photosynthesis going? …Alright the metaphor gets a little muffled, but you understand what I am saying: Light is good. Light is life.

Daniel and Marge are both gardeners. They have raised many plants, a daughter, and a few nieces and nephews over the years. When Liam arrives as a slightly-wilted sapling, how can they not take him in and spruce him up?

I also just love to talk about plants. I have several in my apartment, though I am closer to Liam than Daniel in my abilities to keep them thriving (I haven’t killed an air plant yet, though! They’re all doing great!). Having life growing in your space is just very calming, and very rejuvenating.

And, it reminds us just how much a little clear water and sweet sunshine can do!

The Story

Everything hurt. How could everything hurt?

She was a was a ball of forfeit in the corner of the bathtub. The water was as hot as it would go, and she did not care what the water bill would be. She was pretty sure the only thing keeping her alive in that moment was the steam she continued to breathe in.

“Everything alright up there?” A motherly voice floated past the shower curtain, but it could not have been meant for her. There was not a single chance that anything could ever be alright again, and anyone who knew anything would know that.

But then again, she knew that if the voice went unanswered, next would come the concerned footsteps up the stairs.

“Yep!” She called, her voice cracked. Great, and now they would all know she’d been crying. The only thing worse than being totally and completely devastated was for everyone to know you were.

It had happened so quick. One minute, she’d been packing up her softball gear, watching her boyfriend approach from the football field. The next, she stood frozen, watching her ex-boyfriend walk back to his team.

The rest of her team had jeered at him as he walked away. They consoled her that at least it was done after practice and she could go home. Her coach told her to take it out on the field at the next game for some hard-hit homers. Some teammates told her to go ahead and move on, others offered to wallow with her. Out loud she choose the former, but her heart knew it would be the latter.

“Ah well, the first breakup is the worst,” her father said when he picked her up. He’d patted her back and promised they’d order pizza for dinner. After saying that her mom would probably understand better, he launched into a speech about how healthy experiencing all feelings are, which led to the tale of his own first heartbreak. She’d already heard this story, so did not feel too disrespectful when she tuned him out to begin the diagnosis of every single interaction she’d experienced with the boy who was undoubtedly the love of her life. She would need to remember every single of these moments, memorize them, lock them away in her heart for when she wanted to remember what joy felt like in the many lonely years to come.

Now though, her stinky brother was pounding on the bathroom door.

“Unless you want me to karate chop you into oblivion, there had better be some hot water left for me!”

Although threatened many times, she had yet to be karate-chopped. But she also didn’t want to lose another discussion with a male today, so she finished up her grief-bath and scampered back to her room to sob until dinner was ready. As she clung desperately to Mr. Snugglewomps, her blue teddy bear from childhood, she knew this icy pain in her heart would never cease, and the rest of her days were to become the dreary shadow of true life.

 

Seven years later, her husband landed next to her on the couch with a mug of tea for them each. The office was about to be transformed to a nursery, so her old photo boxes were next on the list to be organized or thrown out, depending on her mood. She knew the box she currently sifted though had been from high school, mostly because of the dried blue paint on the backs, where she had glued them to the wall. Her mother had not been pleased.

Her husband reached out, picked a random shot. In it, she was young and smiling, in a shirt declaring “We’re #1! Go Foxes!” with the large arm of a football player wrapped around her waist.

“Who is this young stud next to my future wife?” He asked, wiggly his eyebrows at her.

She laughed, “Oh my goodness, I’d kinda hoped you’d never see me with braces on. Gosh that’s… um. Greg? Gregory? No, Tedd. Tim? I can’t remember. He was my first boyfriend, dumped me ’cause some popular girl asked him to prom.”

“Well,” he kissed her cheek, “thank God for me he made such a terrible mistake!”

She laughed as he began to cover her whole face in kisses, and the rest of the photo boxes went forgotten for the evening.

The Word

Defeat (noun): An instance of defeating or being defeated. (verb): Win a victory over (someone) in a battle or other contest; overcome or beat.

This is another EXCELLENT word because look- its two primary definitions are exact opposites! Isn’t that amazing? Words are AWESOME.

This short story is extremely short indeed, but I’m trying to take the “if you say more than you have to say, you’re wasting everyone’s time”* approach.

I feel like we all had that one moment in our lives that we thought would last absolutely forever, and then all the sudden it was done. Or maybe you have several. Either way, it’s weird/funny to look back at those and remember how completely certain you were then that the end of your timeline had very much arrived.

Since I was once a dramatic teenage girl, it was very easy to think like a dramatic teenage girl (I even had a karate-chopping brother… still do!) for this story, but I think it applies to every gender and every age. What we have to remember is that defeat has two meanings: to lose, and to win. In these moments, it is our privilege to decide which definition we are going to choose. And I think that applies down the line, including everything from heartbreak to New Years Resolution that have fallen by the way side.

So what kind of defeat are you going to be today? Win, or lose?

_______

*This quote is by someone, at some point, that you may or may not heard of.

The Story

“Here, darlin’, hold my chardonnay.”

I took her still slightly-frosted glass without question. She reached into the drawer of the marble-topped side table, pulled out a silver barreled revolver, and shot her husband twice in the chest.

“There we are. Now darlin’, give me that back, thank ya. You were trying to tell me about this fancy new hotel job. When are you moving up there? And I know your momma’s gonna miss you, sweet pea, but you got to do your own life, so dontchu worry. I’ll check in on her when ya go!”

I stared blatantly at the warm corpse lying casually across the floor, blood seeping into the bright rug. I was unable to respond.

Aunt Anise had taught me what I saw as some of the most important lessons of my life: When I was five, she showed me how to pinch a person’s arm-fat just right so they let go of my ponytail. At twelve, she ushered me into her backyard so she could coach me on lowering my shoulders and pivoting so the big kids in the neighborhood would flip right over me between kickball bases. My seventeenth birthday saw her and I seated at her kitchen table with several filled shot glasses between us because, as she said, I was going to know what I could handle before I even dared thinking of walking out the door to college.

Eight years later she held class from her pink antique sofa, instructing me how a little bit of baking soda mixed with vodka would take a bastard’s blood right out of her new carpet before it stained.

“There baby, it’s all in the dab,” she toasted me with her glass. “The Russians got very little right- but when they took potatoes and put them in a jar, mhhhmmm they made something that would cleanse the mind and the furniture.”

“I, um. I’ve always been more of a gin girl, I think.” And apparently an accomplice to murder.

“Too flowery for me,” she took a sip of chardonnay, “but I respect that. Every woman should know one hard liquor they like for when it’s needed.”

I sat back against the wall, pretty uncomfortable with the fact I wasn’t uncomfortable or really all that surprised Aunt Anise just killed her husband in front of me. It must be shock. I’d heard shock can do crazy things, maybe one of them was calm you while you hid a crime scene? I threw the dirty rag into the old bucket I’d found in the closet, took a swig of the vodka. Gin was definitely better.

“Yes ma’am. So… what are we gonna do about Uncle Carl?”

Her gray eyes landed on the body as if she’d already forgotten about him. She pursed her lips at it, her sign of disapproval. “I suppose he can’t exactly go out with the garbage.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Hm.” She glared at him, as if it was his own fault for being such a hassle even after death.

“Maybe the recycling?”

“HA!” She bent over with her loud cackle, her silver curls bouncing along with the rest of her. “Maybe they can make something better out of him!” She hooted a minute longer, each of her large jewels clinking and clanging in the little symphony of laughter. I would have been concerned she was heading into a break down, but that just wasn’t like Aunt Anise.

“Oh baby, I needed that. Alright, get me the phone. We’re gonna have to call it in.”

“Auntie, you’re going to get arrested.”

“Nah, arresting an old lady like me is too much work. We’ll just tell ’em what happened. He came in screaming and hollering like a mad man. I was scared for my sweet grand niece’s safety, so I defended us.”

I was not entirely sure Uncle Carl’s shuffling approach and mumbled “I’m leaving you.” counted as hollering, but who was I to make that judgement call?

“Yes, ma’am.” I stood on surprisingly steady legs to pull the receiver and cord across to her side table.

Then, grabbing the bucket, I went to the kitchen. Squirting way too much soap into the bucket, I filled it with water until the suds covered the red hand towel. Lady MacBeth came to mind as I washed the combined smell of vodka and blood off my hands. Damned spot, indeed.

“Hiya! Yes this is Mrs. Tillum down on East Bolton. Oh Marcus! I thought it sounded like you!” Auntie’s voice, warm and rolling like marbles in molasses, floated in from the living room. “How are ya, hun? Mmhmm, and how’s the new grand-baby? Well, of course she is! With such a strong poppa how could she not be!”

I peered around the corner, gave her a head tilt to remind her this was not gossip hour. She shooed my worry away with one wrinkled, yet finely manicured, hand.

“Now hun we’ve had some trouble tonight. Mmhmm, you might need to send somebody out here. Yes yes, real trouble. Well it’s Carl, hun. He’s dead. Oh yeah I’m sure. Well hun I shot him. Mmhmm. Defense, of course. Came in yelling curses, and my baby niece is here, poor thing. Oh yeah she’s fine! Just got a fancy new hotel job up in New York! We’re so proud. Well thank ya, I’ll tell her! Mhmm yeah she’s okay. But ya know I couldn’t have him even think about hurting her. He was lookin’ crazy as a bobcat, Marcus, just crazy.”

Crazier than he did lying in the middle of the floor?

Dead bodies, it turns out, do not look the same in real life as they do on TV. There was no calm facial expression or gently closed eyes. In fact, Carl still had his eyes open in shock and his mouth stuck wide around an unspoken exclamation. His dusty comb-over had come unpinned, flapping to the side. While all the detective shows try to make bodies look realistic, Carl was starting to look very fake. He wasn’t stiff or blue yet, but his skin had this odd dullness that made him resemble unbaked clay. His weight was very real though, and as I dragged him onto a couple of trash bags, I cursed him for all the pork rinds I’d seen him eat over the years.

Now this may have been more tampering with a crime scene, but well, the carpet.

Marcus and his partner arrived about half an hour later. They did not seem bothered that I had dragged my dead great uncle out of the living room and into the foyer, destroying any and all logistical evidence along the way. The partner, who introduced himself as Dan Elmer, just stepped right on over poor Carl to get to Auntie and ask her a few questions.

I shut my agape mouth when Marcus put his strong hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, you doing alright with all this? Must have been a scary confrontation.”

His hazel eyes were so kind, so concerned as he searched mine for any pain or fear. I couldn’t lie to those eyes that had watched me grow up from next to my father at the grill. But I knew if I looked away, he’d suspect I was either upset or guilty, and I didn’t know which would be worse for him to see.

So instead I responded to his big brown mustache that I was fine, just a bit stunned. I focused on those silver streaks in his chestnut hair as I retold our story: I described Uncle Carl walking in, how his “raising hell” had frightened me, and how just as I had stood up to shield Auntie, he’d started at us and I heard the pop of a gun.

“Well, that’s a shame. A damn shame.” He squeezed my shoulder again.

“Yeah, who knew?” That Auntie could make such a clean shot. That I could handle this. That our lie was so easily accepted.

“Well ya know I heard that when he was younger, ol’ Carl here could cause quite a dirty commotion after a drink or two. And you can smell the vodka in here, gosh he must have been hammered.”

I nodded slowly, doing my best to not glance to where the blood stain was supposed to be.

Marcus continued, “And of course the gossip about him sneaking around on your poor aunt. Don’t know how she managed.”

“What?” This was news. “Where did you hear that?”

“She didn’t tell you?” He shook his head, “Good sweet Anise trying not to bother anybody.”

This made me snort, but I managed to turn it into a sniffle. “That’s Auntie for you.”

“Yeah it is. So you can imagine how mad we all were for her when the town gossips began to cluck. Some little young gal from the city was trying to get all of Carl’s money, telling him everything a man wants to hear, especially at his age.”

“Oh. Ew.”

“Ha ha,” he patted my back, “we old farts are still red-blooded, hun! And some dogs stay dogs, ya know?”

“Yeah, I do.” No, I did not.

“Well, it was sweet of you to move him out here so your auntie doesn’t have to think of a dead unfaithful man in her fancy living room.”

“Yep,” Sure that was it. Moved him out so the death-aura wouldn’t bother Auntie. Nothing to do with her worrying he’d stink up the place with his “dirty ol’ man dust,” no sir.

I dared to cross my arms, wondering if having them down by my sides this whole time made me look stiff and suspicious. Then I decided that crossing them was worse, let them swing down to my side again. But then that made me feel as if I looked just like Carl there on the foyer floor. I could not give away how terribly fine with this we were, and thankfully Marcus read my attempts at looking innocent as being mildly stricken. Really all I was thinking about was if we got sent to jail, Auntie was going to throw a fit about how clashing the jumpsuit looked on her.

However, at that moment she was cool as a cucumber. I could hear her laughing with Mr. Dan Elmer, having already charmed him to believe anything and everything the beautiful old woman said. Marcus told me that a young lady such as myself did not need to be around death like this, and encouraged me to head on home to my daddy. He even offered to drive me, but I knew I would be fine. Not only had the shakes stopped, they’d never really started.

I walked back to Aunt Anise, asked if she preferred I stay here with her.

“Nah hun, this handsome man has already called your momma and your nanna and they’re gonna come take care of little ol’ me.” She winked at the officer before turning back to me. “You go’an home, get some rest. I’m just glad you’re safe.” She reached up for me from her seat on the couch, and I fell into her hug like I’d done since I could walk.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she whispered in my ear, “all’s gonna be alright. One less dirty man in the world never hurt a thing.” She gave me a light squeeze, and I returned it. I kissed her cheek and let Marcus walk me to my car.

He leaned into my open passenger window, “You sure you’re alright, now?”

“Yes sir, thank you.”

“Alright then, you be good and safe, ya hear?” He patted the top of my car as if it confirmed I would.

“Yes, sir.” I started to put the car in reverse, but he leaned back down to my eye level.

“Oh, and Pepper?”

I stopped, ready to finally be handcuffed. What had given me away? Did I look too eager to leave? Too calm to be driving? Poor auntie was gonna be in that dreaded jumpsuit just because I couldn’t fake a few tears.

“Yes sir?”

“Good luck at the big New York job, don’tchu forget us little people when you’re big!” Marcus laughed.

I smiled and nodded, but he’d already turned back to the house. God I needed a drink. Not vodka, as I didn’t feel particularly dirty. But some gin would be good. Maybe something with bubbles, too. Just a glass, then I needed to get back to packing up my closet for the move.

After all, Auntie Anise always said “The keys to life are peach pie and moving forward!” Her lessons hadn’t been wrong yet, and I wasn’t about to start doubting them now.

The Word

Fidelity (noun): 1. Faithfulness to a person, cause, or belief, demonstrated by continuing loyalty and support. 2. Sexual faithfulness to a spouse or partner. 3. The degree of exactness with which something is copied or reproduced.

Fidelity is an awesome word. Not only is a synonym for loyalty, which is one of my favorite characteristics in a creature, but also it has done a great job of entering the modern world while still have a medieval feeling to it. With all of the language updates and combinations happening these days, that’s pretty impressive!

As you can see, loyalty plays several parts in the story today. Carl’s failed fidelity, Pepper’s successful fidelity to her auntie, and a third way we’ll look further into later this year. That’s the great thing about words- not only can they have multiple definitions, but also several different weights to them. I love it.

And yes, we’re getting to see a little bit of sassy Pepper’s beginnings. I’m very excited to explore her lifeline, as I think she’s a fascinating gal and I hope you all agree.

I cannot think of a clever sign off tonight, so I’ll leave you with a lovely Hellen Keller quote with today’s word: “True happiness is not attained through self-gratification, but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.”

The Story

I am just so excited that it is finally happening! I have been waiting literally decades for this, ever since I first made it out into the world.

Now, I have indeed already had some great adventures. The Pacific Ocean was a great place to pop up and float through, seeing all those strange creatures at the bottom and then all the wiggly ones near the top. Then I traveled a long way and ended up raining on the Congo. It really was an honor to be a part of the river basin there. Excellent animals, but oh the noise! It was just too loud there. I was glad to steam out of there at long last. After that I spent what felt like forever in a little lake somewhere cold. It was a joy to watch the big geese come and go through the seasons, but it seemed each winter that we were the ones with the least to do, having the least fun. I was very jealous, and so very pleased when I got to rise up again for a new experience.

And now, now I get to see what everyone has been talking about! I felt it early this morning. Our whole community was getting awfully heavy and cold, but I did not want to get too excited. I have seen that before and just ended up as rain again, slapping against blurry umbrellas over and over gets so boring. But this time it was different. Everyone started shaking and shimmering with anticipation, turning themselves into brilliant frozen diamonds. I followed suit.

Then the fall.

Oh the fall is so much better like this! It is diving through the air like those big birds who skim the ocean surface. It is slicing through wind like some elegant sword.

As instructed, I grab hold of as many of my friends as I can reach and down we tumble. They know this is my first time, so they let me be in the middle of our little formation. We branch continuously until we are a proper form, which slows us but the thrill is still there! And there is this musical silence to our descent. It is almost a rushing, but nothing like the fast breach I rode with the whales or the loud splatters on forest leaves. This is the sound of us alone, muffling the noise of the surrounding world into a quiet hum. I love it!

I try to enjoy this moment, heaven knows when I will see one like it again. But, cannot help anticipating the next. Will we be the dusting on a picturesque pine, crouched next to a cardinal’s nest? Or maybe one of those big creatures I have heard we can be rolled into? Or MAYBE we might be formed into one of the smaller balls and thrown again! Oh to fly like this once more!

We are zooming toward Earth and it is just so beautiful from up here. I see we have an audience! Lots of people have come out to watch us, and they are in all shapes and sizes just like us! Isn’t that adorable? I steer us until we are above one of the smaller ones because he just looks so cute, all bundled up in his purple scarf and yellow-tussled hat. I decide this would be a lovely place to land, and so as we melt to a slower cadence. We are now just enough big and bright for him to admire us, so we land on his curly black eyelashes. He looks up to our old cloud home, and I can see all of us falling through the same race I have just completed. We are truly breathtaking. A mittened hand wipes me away, and I begin to melt into the warm wool. I don’t even mind, a rest would be nice after such a wonderful occasion.

Ah, what a lovely ride. I hope to be a snowflake again soon.

The Word

Cumulate (verb): 1. To gather or pile in a heap. 2. To combine into one.

Yay snow! Our many inches have almost melted away here, but there are still many piles left. I had this thought driving by one today about how much a bummer it must be to be one of the snowflakes stuck in that pile instead of going back through the the cleansing experience of the water cycle (or… what I imagine is a cleansing experience, as I myself have actually never been a raindrop).

This story is very short for two equally important reasons:

1. I wanted to try my hand at a children’s-story level, and those tend to have short lengths. It’s actually difficult to make a character clear and multifaceted in a short amount of time, so you may see me work on this again in the future, as I have obviously not mastered it on my first go-around. If I had, you’d see this published in Times next week (if this is published in Times next week, I will update this section).
2. Today has been a very long day at work and I have a cold.

I have found many famous writers who create their best work for similar sets of reasons. Although, writers are also known for making up statistics about each other  to suit our needs… so who knows 😉

Stay warm, stay together, stay excited!

The Story

The doorbell sang the arrival of another customer. Preston looked up from the cupcake he was icing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Linton! In early today, come on over.”

“Morning dearie! Yes I am, lots to do today!” The middle aged woman strolled in wearing her neon-green t-shirt that read ‘Mommies of Vista Middle’ and Preston sighed inwardly. This outfit only meant one thing. She would need-

“I need two dozen vanilla and chocolate cupcakes with the raspberry icing, a lemon bread with white chocolate glaze, and as many Death-by-Chocolate cookies as you can spare.”

“Can do!” He smiled back at her, but she was already making eyes with the pastry display.

At the end of every month, Karen Linton came in the day of her PTA meeting for a large order to feed the other Mommies of Vista Middle. She never made the order beforehand, and though Preston had tried to prepare for her before, she always switched the order up just enough that he couldn’t guess it. Today it was the lemon cake. He thought she’d go for his new Orange Cream loaf. Luckily, he’d put a few lemons in the oven as well when he got in that morning. He rushed into the back kitchen.

“Maddie, man the front. I need to check these.”

Maddie, his sweet junior assistant, was elbow deep in a basin of cream cheese frosting. He noticed she had a little in her blond bangs. “The front? It’s barely 8am, no one’s coming in yet.”

“It’s PTA day.” He mumbled with his head halfway into the oven.

Maddie grimaced, “Linton. Alright fine, I’ll go make chit chat. And stop that. The oven has a window for a reason.”

Preston smiled at his lemon loafs as he heard Maddie’s voice jump a few pitches to greet Mrs. Linton. He pressed down slightly on the crusts, a slight bounce back and just the hint of crisp on the very top. Perfect, as usual.

With Mrs. Linton served and back out, Preston and Maddie could return to their biggest task of the day: Three wedding cakes sat waiting for icing and fondant and fruit-flowers and sugar sculptures and maybe some glitter if there was any left. He did not know how they could get them all done by the times they were to be picked up. And they absolutely had to be, not only so he wouldn’t have angry brides mobbing his shop, but also because they had to start on two more for the next day.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the business. When he’d first started Preston’s Pastries, there had not been very many orders at all. He survived on his local regulars, who upon discovering his red velvet crinkle cookies were to die for, had sworn allegiance to his bakery alone.

But then he’d applied to The Big Bad Bakeoff Show and made it. The show’s concept was a little unclear when he’d been flown out to California, so he was a bit surprised that he and the 12 other contestants had to be able to complete athletic challenges along with the baking. He’d raced through egg-covered mazes, dodged large beach balls colored like donut holes, and balanced on a beam shaped like a breadstick over a pool of “cannoli filling” that he was pretty sure had actually been shaving cream. But between his long legs and his fantastic buttercream, he’d made it to 6th place before a chocolate ganache didn’t set and he was sent home to Virginia.

When his wife Tammy met him at the airport, she kissed him and asked, “Should I tell you how proud I am first, or how many orders there are?”

And there had been many orders indeed. It seemed like all of the East Coast was driving into Fredericksburg to get a cake made by someone “famous”, and of course a dozen of the Death-by-Chocolate cookies, which had saved him from elimination during the show’s third week. He’d quickly hired Maddie, a recent college graduate who had a talent for icing, and begged Tammy to come in on the weekends. But as the weeks went on, and the orders didn’t slow, Tammy had graciously left her job at the high school and joined Preston in the kitchen permanently. Sometimes he felt terribly guilty about this, but when he saw her smiling at her improving sugary sculptures or planting a kiss of whipped cream on his cheek, he knew she couldn’t be too upset.

“Alright, so lime jam is ready for the margarita cake. What’s the chocolate cake need?”

Preston checked the order sheet and called back to Maddie, “Umm caramel cream on the bottom layer, raspberry on the second, caramel again on the top.”

“On it. The crumb coating is done on the black forest- I’m going to stick it in the fridge then it just needs piping.”

“And the roses.”

“Nope, lilies, they called this morning and changed.”

“Damn, alright, check that we have any lili-”

“Tammy’s picking some up on her way in.”

“Great, great, thank you.”

The doorbell sang again.

“Preston, we’ve gotta lock that thing until noon.”

He wiped uselessly at the colored-sugar stains on his fingers, “Not a bad idea.”

January’s especially cold temperatures were not slowing the customers even a bit. If anything, it drove them inside for seconds and thirds of his gingerbread macaroons and pomegranate short bread. There were so many customers today, Preston could have sworn someone had accidentally attached the doorbell to the second-hand of the clock. Tammy and her tray of dipped stroopwafels dodged him as he tried to escape back to the prep room to continue on the wedding cakes.

“Sorry love!” He called behind him.

“It’s alright, but you might have some ganache on your shirt now!” She called, then continued to refill the display case. Preston realized they’d been so busy, he had not seen when she’d come in. But there was evidence she had been there a while, as the Black Forrest cake Maddie had been working on stood completed with the fresh lilies speckled with gold sugar dust.

He made a mental note to treat his helpful wife to something special soon, and then returned to the quiet mind space required to ice a delicate lace across the waiting fondant.

“Yes thank you! Next week we’re rolling out the new season’s cookie flavor so be sure to stop by!” He heard Tammy call out and firmly lock the front door behind their last customer.

They had passed another daily test. With cookies and cannoli marching out the door constantly, they’d also managed to get the three wedding cakes handed off to event planners and Mother of the Brides without complaint. Preston had sent Maddie home just a minute ago to rest up and was finishing a crumb coat on a what would be a carrot cake covered in coconut snowflakes.

“Prezzi?” Tammy leaned against the door separating the front of house from the prep room and freezers.

“Mmm?” He wanted this layer perfect; it was the governor’s daughter getting married tomorrow and so a lot of eyes would be on this cake.

“Almost finished up? I locked the front, did the finance stuff.”

“Wow, that was fast.”

Tammy laughed, “Not really, love. We’ve been closed an hour.”

Preston lifted his gaze from the cake, “What? It’s been like 5 minutes…” but his watch said Tammy was right. He’d lost himself in the sugars again.

“Tammy, I’m so sorry. I was just thinking today that I need to do something big to make this all up to you.”

She wrapped her arms around him, nuzzled her face into his flour-covered apron, “Make what up to me?

“All this,” he gestured around the room, “it wasn’t your idea to open a bakery, to be covered in egg whites for the foreseeable future.”

“No,” she tilted her head and a sweep of her auburn hair fell across her face, “but it was my idea to marry you. And that was a good idea. So this must be too.”

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“Probs gave one of your marble loafs to either Cupid or Aphrodite in disguise.”

“Probably. And I know you love the store but something for just you, and I-”

“Preston.” She pulled away to look into his face. “You’ve already given me something.”

“…what?”

“Come on, Preston.” He saw her eyes shimmering with something unfamiliar, a little glow he hadn’t noticed running back and forth all day.

He stepped back, held her at arms length, “Don’t tease me, love. Are you? Are we?!”

She winked at him, “Looks like one more bun in the oven, Mr. Baker.”

“We’re PREGNANT?!” He picked her up, squeezed her, put her down, checked it was okay to squeeze her with a baby, picked her up, and squeezed her again.

“We have to celebrate!” He rubbed the back of his head, getting more icing in his hair, “I’ll make an angel food cake. No, a tiramisu! Wait, no more coffee for you- a sachertorte!”

Tammy laughed and tried to contain the whirlwind that was her husband, “No Prezzi, no, we don’t need any of that.” She turned him around and pressed her forehead against his. “Nothing special, just us.”

“I think we’re pretty special.”

“Yes, so we don’t need you to slave away at something fancy.”

He kissed her forehead, “Then what can I make you? This is amazing. I need to make something. Just tell me what I can make for you.”

She untied his apron, hung it on its hook. “How about we stop at the grocery on the way home, pick up some break-and-bake chocolate chip cookies, and some sparkling grape juice?”

“That… that sounds perfect.”

 

The Word

Simplicity (noun): 1. The quality or condition of being easy to understand or do. 2. The quality or condition of being plain or natural. 3. A thing that is plain, natural, or easy to understand.

Simple is sometimes best, don’t you think? I had this thought this morning. I was sitting on a couch, eating an egg and sausage burrito with my boyfriend, while we watched David In The Kitchen on QVC (which started out as a joke but now we love him and watch him every Sunday we’re together). We had been worried that we’d be bored all weekend because it was simply too cold to do anything, but we’d had a really good couple of days cooking and catching up on our movie list. He and I are always talking about the next adventure we’ll take- but a quiet weekend was absolutely lovely.

Simple is something I’m trying to focus on more in life. It’s so easy to let everything become complicated, whether it’s tasks at work or DIY projects at home, or even Preston’s 7 layer caramel chai Opera cake. And complicated is certainly good in some cases! Complications make things interesting and challenging. But simple is where the calm lies, and so I’m trying to seek out more spaces of that. Tammy wants to seek that space out for her and Preston, because although the beautiful complication that is now their very popular bakery is a success, all they really need for themselves is something simple to celebrate. I mean, don’t get me wrong- I like tiramisu as much as the next person (perhaps more. mmmmm espresso cream) but break-and-bakes will always have a special place in my heart.

Anyway, happy Sunday! I hope you all have an easy, simple week ahead of you!

__________

If you aren’t obsessed with The Great British Bake Off, here are some bakery definitions from the story:

Sachertorte – A specific type of chocolate cake, or torte, invented by Austrian Franz Sacher in 1832 for Prince Wenzel von Metternich in Vienna, Austria. It is a chocolate sponge cake, with apricot jam, and dark chocolate icing. It is one of the most famous Viennese culinary specialties.

Stroopwafel – A waffle made from two thin layers of baked dough with a caramel syrup filling in the middle. Stroopwafels are popular in the Netherlands, and were first made in the city of Gouda.

The Story

All that’s left of the guy is a smoldering pile of ashes.

“Damn,” Captain Collins sighs, “just damn ridiculous.”

I can only stare at the pile in shock. I hadn’t really liked the kid that much, but I did think he was the One. He had the right skill set, a nice bloodline. He even had that charming-savior look to him.

I wasn’t taking it as hard as Private Jones though…

“Son of a BITCH. I can’t believe this! We come all the way out here again just for THIS? Just one more motherfu-”

“Private!” Captain reels on Jones. He freezes.

“Yes. Yes, Captain.”

She sighs again, pushes back her armored hood to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “Thank you for volunteering to collect the remains.”

“Yes, will do Captain.” Still red with fury, Jones lumbers his big body to the tiny ash pile. He pulls a small canteen from his belt and begins to fill it with what had once been Leonard Smalls.

Leonard Smalls. We should have known. What kind of name is Smalls for a Prophesied Champion?

“Sergeant Teak.”

I look up from the disappointing ashes to see Captain coming towards me.

“Yes Captain?”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. Her back is straight and her grip is tight, but her eyes betray how tired she is. I can see the lines at her temples deepen each time we lose One.

“Gather the Called. We’ll camp here, take off in the morning.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She pats my back, takes a step away and pauses. “I really thought he was gonna do it.”

“Me too, Captain.”

She nods. I hate seeing her so defeated. We’ve been at this for centuries, and the weight of leading our rudderless legion is starting to drown her.

She offers me a fake smile, “We’ll find ’em. One of these times.”

“Captain, I’m just thinking- maybe we should get one that’s lightening proof.”

This brings a real smile out of her. “Yes, Sergeant, I think maybe so.”

A raspy voice behind us scoffs, “The Prophecy is nothing to chortle about, Sergeant!”

God I hate this guy.

“Shut up, Fendoialin.”

“I shan’t!” He raises his wrinkly fist to the sky, “Keeper of the Prophecy shall never fall silent! For it is foretold! The Lost Champion shall be found born under the Second Star, know him by the mark upon his cheek! And when he stands to the Door of the City-”

“-the City shall open to her people. We know.” Captain rubs her temples. “We know, Fen. Let it go. He got struck. It wasn’t him.”

Fendoialin launches into another of his long, withering speeches, so I decide it is indeed time to go collect the Called. Or anything else that takes me out of hearing range of the Keeper.

The Called are not pleased to be brought in from their posts. They all know it means another dead human, another lost chance to get home. As we set camp, we begin to discuss the corners of the earth we haven’t searched yet, where everyone can split up to cover next.

I ask Darluth to join McKoi on watch. Jones is still too hyped up, grumbling furiously at the fire and taking angry bites of his stew. It makes sense. He’s the youngest of us so I don’t think he feels as resigned as we do to never getting home. I’m pretty sure I lost hope at the 8th One. She was strong and witty, trained well and got along with Captain. She didn’t fall in love with anyone like the first guy or the sixth, which I was personally glad for because it always wrecks priorities. The girl even helped us get past the damn Thunder Kishi without getting dramatically hurt like the 3rd one or mortally impaled like clumsy 11. I liked the idea of having her as a leader. But then we got to the Door and the earth opened up to swallow her whole. It was damn shame.

“What about the eastern islands? We haven’t been there in 300 years, maybe they have a couple kids we can check.”

“You just want to sit on a beach, Yoland. I say we go farther south. The people of the volcanic lands have to have some good warriors. Maybe one of them was born under a second star.”

“Nah, remember- that short dude was from the south. Had the right scar and everything and just burst into flames at the Door.”

“Oh right… He was hot though.”

“Yes, very hot. Especially during the flames bit.”

Fendoialin scoffs again, “The PROPHECY is nothing to JOKE ABO-”

My spoon hits him right between the eyes.

Those around the fire laugh. At least we’ve still got our good spirits, and each other. All sixteen Called are still intact. Well, Clint got split into a couple pieces when we encountered some weird witch-sisters in the marshes once, but we got him back together. Other than that it’s just a couple scars here, a broken leg there. Those can mend, and I’m very proud we’re still alive at all. Now if we could just find the freaking chosen One.

Private Genile turns to me, a sadness resting in her violet eyes.

“Where do you think we should look, Sergeant?”

“Maybe…” Maybe nowhere. Maybe we give up. We’ve survived fine out here for the past thousand years or so. Perhaps those stuck inside the City are doing fine too without their divinely-choosen warriors. They’re locked away from the world, so there’s not much they need protecting from anyway.

Well, I guess the evil conquerers and angry beasts and vengeful gods and stuff. But it’s been so long, will there be anyone left to save?

Looking at Genile, I know that’s not the answer she needs right now. She found this last kid, and so took on the role of Companion. The strike on her collar bone from where she took an arrow for him is still healing. I know what it feels like to lose One you’ve been bound to.

I offer her a smirk, “Let’s go north. Find us a polar bear.”

She smiles, lifting the shadow under her eyes a bit.

The Captain stands, “Alright, alright, enough for the night. Watch has been scheduled, we’ll take off back to the mountains in the morning.” She puts her hands on her hips, a sign she’s about to deliver some heavy words. “We lost today. We lost this One. He was right, but not worthy, I suppose. But we’ll keep going. We will continue the search, the fight, and the oath for our people. And to do that, we’ll need some rest. You’ve all served well and deserve a good night’s sleep, I hope you have one.”

A round of “Yes ma’am”s and “yes Captain”s rises from around the fire. Captain walks to her tent, but before she goes in she turns back to us.

Her voice is soft but strong “We have been Called.”

As one, we solemnly respond “And we will answer.”

She nods, “There it is. Alright, goodnight my beloved little maggots.”

I turn in too, lying with my head outside my tent and staring at the sky. I stretch out each sore muscle, and fall asleep watching for a second star.

The Word

Yawn (verb): Involuntarily open one’s mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom. (noun): a reflex act of opening one’s mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom.

I’m tired. I told y’all I’m just not a Winter gal and it just keeps being January. So this word and I have been very close all day.

This story’s basic premise has been circling in my head for years now. In every fantasy story out there with a fancy shmancy chosen savior, there are the sidekicks. I’ve always wondered what the sidekicks were up to before they found their champion, especially when the companions are super trained or blessed with cool ninja skills and then it turns out the kid they’re looking for is some orphan who knits (although… a knitting warrior would be kinda cool… alright putting a pin in that). Sometimes these armies are frozen or made of stone, but a lot of the times they’re busy fighting bad guys and trying to survive until Mister Main Character finally saunters in.

So here we’ve met a band of sidekicks, the chosen warriors the prophesied kid will lead to glory. But they can’t find the guy and thus have to continue training and searching until they do. That has to be at least as tiring as walking through snow and then driving to work and then getting to work right as the car heats up. Maybe. I don’t know, we’ll call it a draw.

This makes me think of Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. The poor Grail Knight has been sitting there for hundreds of years and then this handsome stranger just comes in and wrecks everything. Sir Dude was all excited that his replacement had finally shown up and bam- Indy and his buds destroy the whole place. His little wave in the last scene seems to be so resigned. “Alright ya know what? Fine. I guarded the place for a millennia, you ruin it in under an hour. I’m so freaking tired. I’m going to go lie down.” I think the Called in our above story would really connect with him.

Thanks for indulging me these past couple of posts while I dipped my toes into the Fantasy genre. I’ll be steering back into my niche of interesting-regular-people, but I like these characters too so we’ll probably check back in on them from time to time.

It is late, and it is still cold. May you all have a good rest!

__________

PS: Kishi are cannibalistic demons, half-human half-hyena from African lore. In my head they’re kinda like evil rabid centaurs. Honestly I needed a weird creature that were hard to fight and just like most writers, I prefer to steal creatures from other culture’s folklore instead of thinking them up myself. I also kinda enjoy the idea that these guys have to deal with whatever creatures are the lore of the places they’re visiting. We’ll see where that goes.

…also if anyone caught the tiny Star Trek character reference I’ll send you a cookie.

New to the blog? Welcome! Before you read this post, you will probably want to check out Today I am Effervescent first!

The Story

I rest my chin on folded hands atop the marbled bar, eye level with the curved crystal glass. I follow a particularly large bubble from its creation at the bottom of the drink, all the way to its joining with the sweet foam crest. Again my gaze drops to the bottom and follows a new floated journey.

“So she never drinks it?”

Yes, I know they’re talking about me. Neal either doesn’t realize his voice carries across the room, or doesn’t care. I certainly don’t care. They can talk all they’d like, I’ll still be here.

Caroline’s hushed voice responds, and I know she’s trying to quiet them per usual. I don’t really need her protection, but I enjoy the kindness of it, so I always align my visits with her work hours.

Most people have a favorite bartender because of good conversation, but luckily Caroline doesn’t push for that kind of connection. She simply creates the drink when I sit down, offers a smile, and then attempts to guard me from the onslaught of curious humanity until I finally slip away.

My first night, a few months back now I suppose, I hadn’t really meant to show up here at all. I was wandering aimlessly, hoping to find a little light in the dark world of mine, wrapped up in myself as much as one can be. But through the door there was a little bit of soft music, a shimmer from the chandeliers, and the occasionally burst of laughter that warms a room. So I made my way in, chose a seat at the end of the bar, and waited.

I love the bar here. It’s made of white marble. Sometimes while I’m waiting for Caroline to see I’ve arrived, I’ll trace my fingers across the veins of stone. Grays and blacks and almost-blues seeping through the white. It makes sense to me these days.

She was quite chatty when we first met, which almost drove me away. But after a few brief small-talk questions, she asked what I’d like. Sweet or strong?

What an excellent question. Can’t you be both? I’d seen both many a time. But I wasn’t feeling very strong, so I answered sweet.

“How about something with bubbles? You seem like you need a few to lift you up!”

I nodded, bubbles did sound good.

“How about a pomegranate fizz? With a little lime?”

“No. No pomegranate, please.”

“Allergic? Or don’t like it?”

“Both.”

This caused the tall brunette to giggle. I didn’t mean to make a joke, but it was lovely to see a young girl laugh.

“Alright, none of that then. Anything else you don’t like, to rule it out?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Alrighty… Oh! I know just the thing, it’ll put a spring in your step!” She winked, and turned to her bottles and gadgets.

A spring was indeed what I needed.

When she presented me with the glass, I was enthralled. Tall crystal held golden bubbles, with a deep wave of red. She had crowned it with a bright peel from an orange. It was gorgeous.

“Prosecco with Chambord, a little fancy with out the fluff. What do you think?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Great! The names Caroline if you need anything- I’ll check in on you in a bit and see how it’s treating you.”

I held my breath as from within the fuchsia current, a small pocket burst forth, rushing through the gleaming liquid and escaping to the surface. It was… relieving. I found another bubble and watched it race to freedom. A soft light bloomed within me, a little rare ray of joy.

So the next time I found myself dark and alone, I ran to Caroline and her little goblet of miracles. Sitting at this bar, watching my glass, became my safe place. I do the expected smiles and gratuitous tipping that will keep it that way.

I never need to drink it, no. I get all I need just watching those bubbles rise.

Though the people here are indeed fascinating. I’ve seen a million faces so I don’t watch, but I’m always listening.

There’s Neal, Caroline’s loud coworker, who’s charm makes him more handsome than his rectangle face and chop of black hair.

Every Saturday, and most Tuesdays, a middle-aged woman I’ve heard called Jeanie will settle into the rounded edge of the bar, almost opposite me. She tells bad jokes about people no one knows and does not tip very well.

John has a new date every time he comes in, but I like him. His voice is deep and melodic. Even when his jokes are about me, I enjoy them. He usually aims them at Neal anyway.

Usually a group of older women will come in early on a Friday. They drink Brandy Alexanders with their pinkies extended. From the way they talk, they think they’re quite brilliant.

Then there’s Pepper. Oh to be like Pepper, wearing her age proudly and still seeming to take the world by delighted storm. Everyone adores when she comes in, diamonds around her neck and mink coat on her shoulders. Patrons and waiters alike crowd around her to listen to her sage advice and raunchy tales. For such a noble woman, she’s got a dirty laugh. She’s my favorite.

I think she’s probably everyone’s favorite, even Caroline’s. I’ll admit that makes me a little jealous, but I know that’s a silly feeling. She’s just doing her job.

Tonight the bar is crowded. When I first started my little dates here, the noise bothered me- all these people packed inside. However, as I allowed myself to relax into this world, I found it makes a nice buzz, like a hive of bumble bees thrilled to communicate a new found patch of lavenders. It’s lovely, really.

There’s a bachelor party going on in the front corner. They seem to be having a little too much fun, but what business is that of mine? John has brought in a little redhead with a high voice. I’m curious to see if this one sticks around longer than the others. And Pepper is shedding her large coat onto a chair, a sure sign she’s in for a long night. I am thrilled.

I need a long evening with my glass tonight. I need to lose myself in it. Winter gets longer every year and my body is exhausted. I hate the cold. That seems a mutual feeling with the way the icy wind pulls at my skin and the cold breaths freeze my heart. Ugh. To be young again and willing to fight back.

With this thought I almost fall back into my sorrow, but I’m brought to the surface by the ascending golden spheres again and again. Time passes, but I don’t know how much. I used to meticulously watch the time. But others would lengthen it and shorten it, twist it around, so now I just let it move on its own.

Pepper has stood, far too early to leave. She’s breaking away from her little audience and coming towards me. I can feel Caroline’s apprehension on the air. Sweet darling girl, still looking after me. I wish she was able to stop Pepper’s approach. I am in no mood for company.

The chair next to me scrapes out, then scrapes back in, now with the decorated woman upon it. She sets her glass beside mine. I do not know if she expects any sort of conversation, but she says nothing. I study her out of the corner of my eye. Tonight she’s wearing a black velvet dress, with long bell sleeves reaching each dainty wrist. Her diamond necklace is in place, this time joined by a set of pearl earrings. The one I can see appears to be gleaming slightly, almost moonlike. Even in her silence there’s a little warmth radiating from her, and I am actually quite calm to sit there, watching my glass as she watches hers. Her drink is tall like mine but smells of lemon. It reminds me of harvest, and I am almost homesick in a comforting way.

Finally, I realize my own peace in her presence. Of course. I have been so determined to be among strangers, I did not feel the recognition in the slightest. I lean in close to her, our shoulders grazing.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

She nods, her soft cocoa eyes meeting mine. There’s a smile in them, a mischievous glimmer of our little secret.

It’s a rare creature that knows me these days. I used to be notorious the world over, but most have forgotten. I’m like the Mona Lisa now: a figure to study or a discussion to have, but my reality and identity have been lost somewhere along the age.

Really, I shouldn’t be so surprised Pepper has seen me. She has spring in her eyes and summer in her soul, I can feel it. As creatures age, they have a choice to make- either become a shell displaced from the world, or allow the barrier between themselves and the world to blur. Pepper has chosen the latter, and it looks marvelous on her.

She leans back into me. “Are you missing her?”

It sounds like a question, but she knows the answer.

“Very much.” I whisper.

“Cheers to her health, Demeter. May she return to you soon.”

She lifts her glass, clinks it gently against mine. I see her time has come, so I lift my glass also to toast a life well lived. For the first time, I sip. The delicious amber nectar coats my tongue as each of those heavenly bubbles tickles my throat. It makes me smile, and Pepper smiles with me. We sit there for a few sips more, sharing a full silence that is sacred to women who have seen the world over.

When our glasses are empty, I offer my hand to her. “May I walk you out?”

“Yes dear,” she puts her hand in mine, “I’d like that very much.”

The Word

Alveolate (Adjective): 1. Hollow and large. 2. Cavernous. 3. Pretaining to honey, as in honeycomb.

Demeter, goddess of the harvest, watcher over the cycle of life and death! (Sometimes checks in on the law, good gal.) I had not fully planned for this girl and her glass to be an earth mother mourning Persephone’s yearly jaunt with Hades, but as I said on Sunday, I’ve been thinking on the nature goddesses a lot.

I’ve also been thinking of cycles, of growth and renewal. It’s hard not to in this season with the turn of the new year, planning New Year resolutions, starting all those new habits and cycles we do with each spin around the sun. It is so interesting to me that we start these new little lives in the dead of winter*. You’d think we would wait until Spring and burst open with the flower buds, turn a new leaf with the new leaves, ya know? I think that’s why this word spoke to me so much. Its first meaning is hollow and large, then cavernous. I just see this big, empty space that light has a hard time filling. But then we get to its last definition- pertaining to honey …What? Of course, smarties that you are, you know this really means in the idea of the honeycomb structure, which has lots of little caverns. But still- honeycomb is not empty for long! It’s quickly filled with honey, or a little baby bee** which are both sweet signs of joy and a successful, continuous life.

I’m not a good Winter-er. I am a Spring baby, and I like it that way. There’s a jar of Vitamin D supplements in my cabinet that prove I just was not built for snowy clouds and gray days. Demeter, of course, is not a huge fan of Winter either (whether you think this is her own fault or not will determine if you have Greek or Roman ancestors). But I wanted to give her some little happy place she can hide from the cold while she waits to bring forth the fruit of life again. Then Pepper’s warmth reminds her that it can actually be an honor to watch over the cycle of life and death.

And that’s really what Winter is, isn’t it? The other side to the cycle? It’s like a cleanse, a wipe of what life brought before, leaving behind space again to grow in the sunshine.

Cheers to fresh beginnings, and the endings that bring them!

__________

*Well, except you, Australia. But in the middle of such a hot summer I imagine you feel a tiny bit “dead of” too. 

**Yes brothers and other nerds, I know these are called larva but that word is gross. This is not a gross-word post. I’ll make one some other time.