The Story

She is gorgeous.

This moldable creature, with the coliseum in the back landscape, her in the forward right-third. The setting sun at that delicious moment of movement between red and pink where it creates a strange bloody orange. It is perfection.

So it is  understandable that I must save this perfect instance.

It is, in fact, beyond necessary for me to capture the moment. I am an artist.  What if the fates have deemed this the very last perfect moment, and I the one blessed to convey the gift to those not present? That is what an artist must do, it is our curse and calling: We freeze forever that which a second moment may destroy. This one will not be lost, no not from me nor from any other. My fans will need to see it. The world will need to see it. Generations beyond my great-great-grandniece will desperately need to see it.

So I am doing an obligation by creating the art. No, a duty.  A charge beyond self. It is the art born within me that is commitment bound to still this moment for the future.

Which means…

Which means, really, that whatever I do to still the moment is okay- is called for. It is appropriate.

So of course I will be missing the dinner with my family this evening. That is a duty I have no problem shirking. And with little guilt, as all layers should be thrown off to throw my strength into carrying the burden of my work. They know whenever I am missing, I’m found at the studio. The should know better than to interrupt my work, but since they do not know such things, plebeians, I leave a note outside the studio door.

Artist at work. Do not disturb, even for emergency.

It will not keep them out forever, but it will deter them for at least a few days. If pattern holds, my aging mother will leave bread and cheese, maybe a little fruit, wrapped at the door. If this arrives upon the third day, I eat it. If it shows up on the first or second, I let it rot so that she can come back and see what I think about her trying to rush my process.

I must stop. I cannot let worries nor explanation get in the way of capturing the divinity of woman and sunset.

A few tools are always with me for instant recovery of momentary art. I sketch quickly, label angles, as well as short hand describe the way the sunset hits every inch of her. With this done, I grab everything I need for recreation and dash to my studio. The faster I can put clay and plaster to work, the more real the piece will be. Any artist worth his paintbrush knows the best tools are a virgin canvas and a fresh mind’s view.

If I work sufficiently quick and thorough, I will have both.

My contemporaries are creating carvings from stone. They embody talent, but not perfection. I crave perfection. The muse of true wisdom demands it. Their creatures have abs too taught, curves far too sleek, and cheeks plumped from childhood on adult shoulders. It never makes any sense. Perfection is truth. It is each callus expressed upon the fingertips, each dip in the hip pronounced. You cannot take that from stone that already is, you must build from the ground up, just as Prometheus did- from clay.

I start with the mouth. It is where sound and air begin, so it should be where I start as well. Some of our faith belief it is where the soul enters and exists. I’m not sure if I agree with that, but I understand the notion each time my thumb shapes the swell of her lower lip.

It is a struggle, but I push the clay into shape. Plaster catches every flaw in the molding, so I take my time in these next moments. The clay has be smoothed against the collarbone, the strong undermuscle of the arm, the bridge on the top of each thigh, and even each pock mark across the back. I wonder where these were from. A healed illness? Scars from a punishment in youth? I cannot know these answers, but I do know the way the sun’s last reach etched a tiny shadow across each of these markings. Still shifting the pasted earth, I imagine each different shade of stained plaster I will need to echo these small shadows. Hands conducting across muscle and clay, mind dancing through shades of shade, this is ecstasy. This is true ambrosia coursing through the veins.

I have been lifted through the veil of limitation into the lofts of immortal artistry. I am floating above my creation, above the limits of time and light. Above the law, above the rules of modern tradition!

And the sacrifice makes it all the more true, all the more divine.

Unfortunately, she will not be missed. My sculpture will be more valued than she ever was. The shame about this era is the most beautiful women are of the lower class. It takes not caring about one’s appearance to achieve the muscle tone, the natural glow, the loose casualty, tranquil zen of hard work. That of a goddess. It’s a shame, but one that works in my favor.

She is gorgeous. And always will be.

The Word

Serene (adjective): 1. Calm, peaceful, and untroubled; tranquil. 2. Used as a term of respect for members of some European royal families. (noun) An expanse of clear sky or calm sea.

I almost didn’t use Serene. It’s one of those more common words that gets to wear a flower crown as if it were special. I can hear someone in paperback book pausing at the patio edge of a rented mountain house saying “Isn’t it just so… serene?” This is the very moment a studio exec decides to buy the movie rights, and about the same time I want to barf.

But flower-crown words deserve some of their spotlight. They cause a casual left from the mildly mundane, and those words are special too. They have to be given their full volume, their full credit for either being a fancy word amongst casual speech or visa versa. Yes I think I’ve talked myself back into it, I like those kind of words very much indeed.

A note on myself,* I’m not quite confident in my ability to ride that line of unreliable narrator, so if you’d like an explanation to the above story, here’s a hint: There was a murder.** 

And if you enjoyed this piece, please check out a similar narration practice I did in Today I am Warden! Thank you, and good night!

*HA! This whole blog is basically a note on myself, so that’s a bit redundant.

**Thank goodness that is not what the actual Greek and Roman sculptors did, right? Haha …right?

The Story

Everything I’d read, everything I’d seen, said that the first one would be the hardest.

And if that were true, this was going to be easiest job I’d ever had! That was a swish, a homer, and a cakewalk all in one!

But they were wrong. Or liars. Which you think is worse really depends on how many times you’ve been screwed over.

I myself have been screwed over many times, but that comes with the territory of the circles I run in. They’re mostly good people. It’s just that criminals and thieves are used to lying and sometimes they can’t help it when stabbing someone in the back will make their life minimally better.

So back to killing people.

Your first one is actually pretty easy. There’s so much emotion pumping through you, and in my case a WHOLE lotta drugs pumping through them, that after the first couple hits your body thinks it’s defending itself and goes into fight or flight response. That gets the adrenaline going on full speed and your extremities lose all feeling, so you don’t even notice the knuckles in your left hand have turned to gravel until the next morning.

And I only noticed at that point because I tried to slap my roommate for barging into my room at 6am, just a couple hours after I’d finally landed in bed. He said it was worth it to watch me pretend not to cry while he fetched some ice and duct tape.

He’s a mole at a couple banks for the mob so he doesn’t have to work nights like some of us. He had an in for the job because his uncle shared a cell with on of the Family’s middle-men for a few years. Privileged ass.

Those of us moving up the ladder in a more legitimate fashion should be allowed to sleep  through the first several hours of daylight, in my personal opinion. Of course, my annoying little roomie got a bit more respectful of my sleeping hours when my third kill was to save his stupid butt. Well I’ll be honest, it wasn’t just for Ronnie the Roommate. I was happy for my name to be dropped in the monthly Family meeting when they discussed why the bartender Ronnie slept with and drunkenly admitted his intel to wasn’t a problem anymore. After that, I started being allowed to sleep until noon.

Oh the second? The second was kinda on accident. I was supposed to just get the guy to talk. But there was a miscommunication on my end, and luckily the ladies who put the order in didn’t mind too much. In fact, they became one of my regular customers. Fine group of gals- a little weird, an unusual amount of sweaters that have cats wearing sunglasses on them, but they always say thank you, and the check always clears.

Yes of course I use checks. What kind of assassin is dumb enough to work in cash anymore? This isn’t the 1800s, those things can get marked and scanned and all sorts of crap. Working in overalls but carrying 50s and 100s is not a good look. I’d just as soon put a sign above my head reading “THIS PERSON DOES BAD THINGS”. No no, those sweet dumb-dumbs get jailed within the week. Instead, you learn to adapt to modern times. And after the recessions, nobody minds a simple self-employed handyman putting a check into his account after doing a little pest control. Hammering out a few issues for a homeowner. That sort of thing.

What was my point again?

Right, riiiiight, killing people.

So it actually gets harder over time, rather than easier. All those Oscar winning crime movies that show a sad young person losing themselves in the hungry world of corruption are, as one my regulars call it, dog shit.

You don’t really lose yourself. You get bored. Go ahead and get over how crass that was, because it’s true. There are only so many ways to kill a person, and when it’s not ‘a crime of passion’ you follow the rules you set for yourself back around the sixth or seventh time you had to burn your outfit afterward.

These rules are as follows:

1. Lure the target to a place where blood makes sense. It’s not worth cleaning up afterwards. If someone dies that people care about, the cops are gonna look at their usual haunts, and if any of those are too clean, well, you get the point.
   • No, this is not a shipyard, you movie-going maniac. This is a back alley that gangs frequent, or a dumpster. Libraries behind dirty middle schools, that kinda thing.
2. Never poison. People have allergies, or sometimes decide to not finish their drink, etc. It’s ridiculous the amount of things that can go wrong in a poisoning. I tried it just once, ending up having to beat the head in ’cause the douche decided to “watch his calories” and not go for the second egg roll, which had my stuff in it.
3. Wear clothes that you would wear anywhere. Another misconception- if you’re wearing clothes that you’re clearly ready to throw out, or were maybe wearing the last time someone disappeared, you’ve made yourself a suspect. As a fake handyman, my entire wardrobe is pretty casual, but I still make sure to rotate the paint-stained t-shirts as usual, no matter the night’s duties.

That’s it. That’s the job. Being a reasonable human being with a task. You don’t even have to be that strong, you just have to not be an idiot. Well, and be okay with breaking the law as well as ending people’s lives.

But really, what job isn’t?

The Word

Profession (noun): 1. A paid occupation, especially one that involves prolonged training and a formal qualification. 2. An act of declaring that one has a particular feeling or quality, especially when this is not the case.

The Story

The evening was still, the type of summer-still that makes lonely hearts roll out of bed and stand on the porch in their pajamas. They look up into the stars, standing in solitude, unaware that by doing so, they’ve made themselves part of humanity’s largest association.

But that wouldn’t do for me tonight. Sometimes it was enough, but not now.

“For an English teacher, you sure don’t use a lot of words.”

“Why don’t you wait ’til the blood rushes back to my head for me to be poetic?”

It was nice. He was nice. He was warm.

That’s even more than I asked for earlier that night at the bar across from my favorite coffee shop. He’d been leaning over a lanky blond with legs longer than my student debt loan. But he was my type and smiled easy, so I chugged the rest of my Long Island Ice Tea and put a hand on his shoulder, “Look hun, she’s a 9 and a maybe. I’m an 8.5 and a sure thing. Your place or mine?”

It wasn’t anything like the words that normally come out of my mouth. But when you have anxiety as badly as I do, you’re willing to commit just about any social crime to either be alone all the time or never be alone ever even a tiny bit. I am the latter, and when my roommate took off to  Montreal to visit her girlfriend this weekend, I knew I needed a solution. Quick.

Usually I would call Geoff to meet me for mini-golf, but he had found his most recent soulmate so I was doing my best not to barge in on the honeymoon period. School had started back for MacKenzie so she was too far away, and my sisters have always had a limit of how much of me they can handle at a time (this is mutual).

So there I was in the apartment hyperventilating on the kitchen floor when the most brilliant idea I have ever had came to me: I was going to fuck a stranger.

No really, it’s the greatest plan: To find a stranger to fuck, you have to go to a bar. To be at a bar, you need to hold a drink. When you hold a drink, you look weird if you don’t sip it. When you sip alcohol, you get a bit tipsy, and don’t hyperventilate because that’s how biology works. When you don’t hyperventilate, and with the assistance of said alcohol, you can talk to strangers. Strangers at bars want sex. Sex means touching. Touching keeps the anxiety away. And who knows- the stranger could be a cuddler and then you’re golden for a night’s sleep without thinking your world is imploding or forgetting how to breathe properly. Brilliant plan.

And I had totally nailed it. With 9/10ths of the plan complete, I was feeling pretty brilliant myself.

“How about now?”

“For a lawyer, you talk an awful lot.”

“I do litigation.”

“Of course you do.”

These are the things I knew about him:

• His name was Chad (ew)
• He was an English teacher for high school students (honorable)
• There was a scar along the front of his left shoulder that looked vaguely like the state of Tennessee (cute)

These are the things he knew about me:

• My name is Terra (lie)
• I am a criminal lawyer (half-lie, patent attorney)
• I have exactly 23 freckles (oddly true)
• I have severe anxiety (too true)

Yeah, I told him about the anxiety. Why? Because one night stands looooove freaks! The more horrifying backstory, the better. Freaks are weird, we do weird things, and we make for great stories at hangover-brunch the next morning. Bonus: he probably knows he won’t have to deal with too many repercussions because seriously, who is named Chad anymore? We are both liars, clearly, and won’t see each other ever again. A flawless deception.

“So, Terra The Litigator, what valiant fight for those wrongly accused have you fought?”

I opened my eyes against the chest where I had curled up. Peaking through my smudged mascara to see if he was joking, I found he was not. Apparently we would do this small talk thing.

“Ummm, I’m not supposed to talk about cases.”

“I see. So what do you really do for a living?”

Damn. Maybe I’m not the slinky lady of the night I thought I was.

“I am a lawyer…” I said to the Tennessee scar.

“Mmhhmm. What kind?”

“Copyright. I love it.”

“Then why say criminal?”

“It sounded sexier… in my head.”

“You think being surrounded by dirty murders is sexier than being surrounded by books and notaries? You said this to an English teacher?”

Ah, truths and lies between strangers who will part happily. Nothing like it.

“So… you’re actually an English teacher?”

“I feel like you’re new at this. Should we start over?”

He sat up on his elbow, causing me to roll down into his lap. My pulse started to quicken, but I refused to give up on the last bits of anxiety-relief an orgasm brings, so I stayed there.

“I’m Chad.” He held out his hand.

I sat up straight then. “Your REAL name is Chad?!”

He threw his head back laughing, and I noticed how nice the auburn trail of eleven-oclock-shadow looked parading down his chin. When he got his breath back, he looked at me with eyes much brighter than a few hours ago. Apparently my accidental hilarity was quite sobering against a couple whiskey sours.

“That is a first! Why would I give you a fake na- wait.”

Damn. Damn damn damn what a stupid idea. To sleep with a complete stranger! Just to get rid of anxiety! I should have just gotten drunk and passed out in the middle of a panic attack like a responsible adult! What had I done?? Was I CRAZY?

“Soooo Terra my dear,” he chortled, “Or should I say….?”

I bit my bottom lip. Not in a cute way; in a shit I’m caught and it’s not cute at all way.

“…Audrey.”

“Well, it has some of the same letters.”

“Yes… yes it does.”

And then he wrapped his arms around me. I squealed when he fell back against his pillows, pulling me down with him. Was this man going to crush me for my lies? Who would know where to look for me? I don’t normally do this- no one will even know to check with the local bartenders! I’d left none of the clues behind that’d I’d seen on Law & Order and my roommate was going to put that on my tombstone: Watched too much daytime TV for us to not know what happened. Loser.

But then instead of strangling the air from my lungs, he tucked me into the curve of his shoulder, and with his free arm clicked off the bed side lamp.

“I like Audrey better,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Thank you. Me too.”

“Why tell a lie to someone you probably won’t see again?”

“I saw it differently.”

He chortled again, “Clearly.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m looking forward to telling my friends about the crazy hot lawyer I slept with.”

“See- that I was right about that part.”

His breathing slowed. Was he falling asleep? Was this conversation over? No no- I have to fall asleep first or this doesn’t work. I bucked my hip against him, scrounging up the last of my sexy confidence.

“Yes, Terra-Audrey?”

“I’m not done with you,” I purred.

“Yes you are. You’re trying to seduce me through yawns.”

“Am not.”

“You’re very tired. And you want to rest up for morning sex, so don’t sneak your clothes on and leave before I wake up. Would you like a really boring story about my students?”

I stared at him through the dark. His eyes were closed, one hand wrapped protectively around my waist and the other cradling the back of his head casually.

“Yes, actually. I would love that.”

“Alright. So there’s this kid who has trouble with Greek mythology. Recently I tried to get him hooked on the Hunter but he never brings his book so I sent him to the library and he said she wasn’t in any of those books and so I made him do all of the history stories that led to her quote unquote ‘birth’, and you know with all the legends that covers. So first there’s the…”

Out like a light. I was right- a brilliant plan.

The Word

P.S. Doing my best to make stand alone-stories again, but if this gal sounded a little familiar, please check out Today I am Passion 😉

*“Tomorrow, your job is to change the world into a better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

“A moment’s beginning ends in a moment”
― Munia Khan

“It was a delightful visit;—perfect in being much too short.” —Jane Austen

“Be sincere, Be brief, Be seated.” —Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Hello lovely reader! If you're new around here, you will probably want to read Today I am Yawn and Today I am Atonement before this installment for The Called. Or enjoy any of the stand-alone stories The Quilled Sister has to offer! Thank you!

The Story

This is a terrible plan. I know it’s a terrible plan, but at the same time, I just… don’t care.

When Captain ordered me to be part of Anise’s pity party, I voiced my disapproval and walked back to join McKoi at his watch post. We’ve all seen shit by this point, there’s no reason to let yourself drown in it like the last rat off a boat.

But Teak found me. She always does. I can hide from genetically-enhanced bat radar but not from Teak.

“Come on, Darluth. You know we all have to take part of the load.”

I turned my back to her, catering to the emotionally weak does not count as part of the load.

She sighed behind me.

“McKoi, could you?” I heard her grumble.

“Yes, Sergeant.” McKoi saluted her, gave me the cool it dude look, and returned to camp. Coward.

When the sound of McKoi’s footsteps had retreated far enough away, I felt Teak’s lean arms incircle my waist, her forehead nuzzle between my shoulder blades. Even though it was warm and I liked it, I shook her off.

“You can’t cuddle me into thinking it’s okay to baby Private Tillum.”

“I could order you to, though. Which would be kinda hot from my end.”

“Not from mine.”

She moved toward me again, slipping her hands in my pockets to intertwine our fingers, “I could order you to pretend you thought it was hot.”

I allowed a small smirk. “I would appreciate if you didn’t.”

But she was right. She could order me to do anything, and because of rank and a million other reasons, I’d have to do what she said. Yet she didn’t. Sergeant Teak was not the ordering type. She just had this way of being right that made it easier to agree, rather than look like a fool in front of her later.

And  that’s why I am here. In the middle of this terrible plan that is basically useless. If we were still mortal, it might be nice to sit at a bar with a martini every couple of weeks, but alcohol burns off too quickly before it can do anything in bodies built for battles along the time/space continuum.

Blessedly built the ugly wizard says.

I do like the barkeeps. I won’t admit this to Teak or anyone else, but I do get mildly entertained watching the watchers. It’s been true throughout history- barkeeps see everything. Everyone talks to them, from the most powerful sultans, down to this nonsense cat lady next to me tonight. And they’ve got the best view of humanity too, in my opinion. People are raw when they sit against a bar. They don’t feel like they’re facing another person, just their drink. So the words and faces that flow out of them for the barkeeps to see are unfiltered not just by intoxication, but by some odd agreement of conversation I’ve yet to experience anywhere else. It’s a handy way to get secrets out of people, and I’ve used it many times myself.

It’s a busy Saturday night at The Swan, so it’s the managing barkeep and her little protege- Caroline and Neal. I wonder if either one of them realize she’s training him to take over. She’s on to bigger things, the smell of success wafts off her like an expensive gin wafts off the bachelorettes waddling out of here. Teak would say it’s a shame, because the girl seems happy here. But I’ve never seen happiness as a reason to hold oneself back from potential.

Of course worthless assignments hold oneself back from potential all the time. Clearly.

There is one interesting little being here. The rest of the bar gossips about her because she just sits at the bar staring at her drink. But I think it’s more interesting that she’s some sort of immortal.

I know she’s not one of us, we entered this world together and are able to sense each other’s movements. But she’s powerful and wild. I do wonder what she’s doing here, sitting with a bunch of useless people, staring, and then sneaking out the back door when she thinks no one sees.

But I do. I see everything. It’s my specialty.

So of course I notice when my target enters The Swan. But everyone does, she’s sort of a celebrity.

Pepper Tillum Rivkin. Of the Northeastern Tillums, who migrated from Egypt several centuries ago for unknown reasons. She married Clark Jameson Rivkin at 27, a hotel founder on the way to big money.  That’s when we entered, screwed everything up, activated Private Anise’s guilt, who then proceeded to insert herself unnecessarily into a normal’s life, and now I’m stuck here. Wasting a perfectly good winter night when the Kishi will be in hibernation and I could be stealing all the good pome-berries that grow in their fields. Teak loves when I make little hand pies with them.

But I’m here instead. For no reason, as it’s the same thing every time. The target walks in like the head of a parade, all these little plebeians bask in her social radiance, and then she sits at the biggest curve of the bar, holding court and passing out kernels of advice as if it was gold thread straight from her asshole. After everyone has admired her glorious wisdom, she drops a humongous tip, and saunters back to what I imagine is a diamond encrusted cave.

Which is why I entertain myself by dropping my tip in the form of whatever last country I’ve visited. She tips for us both, and I have no reason for random foreign coins. Neal seems to be starting a collection, so I always make sure it’s him that’s nearby when I take off.

Oh lookie there, Target’s shaking it up tonight. We’re going to go bother immortal-lady. See I don’t know if I can respect a fellow immortal who can’t be bothered to shimmy off the humans. It would be so easy for her to put on an off-putting cloud like me- a tiny spell that makes me visible, but erases anyone’s desire to come near.

Pepper’s probably going to bore her with some nonsense about living truly or following your heart or investing while young, or whatever. Once she realizes the little immortal doesn’t want to impress her, she’ll prance back over here and continue her performance.

So I keep a third eye on her while I peruse the bar. Surely there’s something here that’ll keep me awake until I’m allowed to go back to camp.

There’s an Assistant Attorney General with his hand on the thigh of a newly wed, about to ruin his career because her husband is a lawyer for a publicity firm.

Across the bar is a groom getting married in a few days. He’s so in love with his bride, but trying to impress his friends, so he’ll say yes when they offer to take him to a strip club, but then he’ll hide in the corner. Teak would want to interfere, but I can see that he’ll make better friends after his marriage.

In the back room is a second date. It’s going terribly.

Next to me, mister regular John is on another first date. It’s going wonderfully but he’ll call the guy the wrong name and that’ll tank the whole relationship. He’ll bring in his soulmate a few weeks from now but won’t notice because he’s still too gun-shy from the mistake he’s about to make. Again, Teak would beg me to interfere. But that’s not what full-sight is for. It’s for seeing, not getting involved. It’s more about being able to read the whole big picture. Should I raze the entire Amazon Rainforest for the broken heart of a cane-toad? No. But that’s the whole philosophical debate Teak and I get into every time I see something she thinks should be fixed. God I wish this martini effected me.

aaaaand I lost her. I lost the Target. Can’t sense her anywhere. Shit.

The Word

Daedal (adjective): Skillful; ingenious. Cleverly intricate.

I think today’s word is pretty obviously tied to the story, which may be a first for me! I still think it’s an excellent word.

Sometimes when I write a little chapter for The Called, I feel like I’m discouraging new readers from becoming return-readers, because there’s so much they need to know before hand. On the same token, I really enjoy weaving everyone together. It’s interesting to build a world step by step, and have to match rules that were set in previous stories. There is probably a beautiful middle ground of creating stand-alones that still continue a chapter, but I’m aware I haven’t hit it yet. I’m going to continue to work towards it, but if anyone has a good idea for a step towards that goal, I’d be happy to hear it! As a new writer, I love hearing feedback, so if you have any feelings on this, hit me up via the Contact page!

The Story

People joke about it these days. Like oh she’s such a crazy cat lady. But it’s no joke. No ma’am.

This is serious. The Society of Cat Women have always held up rigorous traditions and rules. You can’t just one day become a Cat Lady! You have to earn that title.

I myself have held the title for over a decade, and when we vet newcomers, nothing has changed. No no. We are not like these ridiculous institutions that have lost their way. You think getting into an Ivy League is the same now as it once was? Or the Bohemian Club? I mean they recently gave an honorary membership to a rapper who doesn’t even have a grammy. Can you believe that?

And do not get me started on the Free Masons. They just let anybody in who wears a knife pin under their necktie these days. Shameful. Yet they wander around thinking they’re all that and a bag of catnip. A couple of documentaries get made about you, you get included in a best selling novel, and all the sudden you forget your roots?

Not so with the Cat Women. We’ve been around longer than any of them, and we have never abandoned our honor!

Sure, the Free Masons like to pretend they’ve been around since the Library of Alexandria. But who built the Library of Alexandria, hm? Oh that’s right, Ptolemy Lagides, a secret priest of Bast, the cat goddess of Egypt. It was a sanctuary for the society his wife remained dedicated to, hidden within a temple of knowledge. But the Templars couldn’t let us have one thing, could they? Once they had a few roman captains on their roster they burnt it down. Bunch of overgrown jocks those ones. Then they had the audacity to go back into hiding and pretend they started up a century later just to pillage cities and plant seeds for that whole witch-hunt nonsense against us. Oh look a lady with a cat and a sense of self, must burn her at the stake! They shook our numbers then, but we’ve never been ones to stay down.

Because we go all the way back to the first societies, you see. Our seal still holds the LV for the Leeu Vrou, or Lion Ladies, of the first tribes in Africa, who learned hunting and teamwork from the packs of lionesses and instead of taming as men did with wolves, became wild with the lions! Now THAT is what I call evolution!

Of course you know the society spread, fighting for women and cats everywhere. If our membership were not sealed, you’d find pharaohs, viking chiefestes, a certain golden queen perhaps, czarinas, suffragists, congresswomen, First Ladies, astronauts, teachers, and everything in between. It’s quite humbling to remember who you stand next to when you take the pledge.

But even though we have members in every corner of the world, we do not just accept anyone into our ranks willy-nilly. No, it takes a special gal to become a Cat Lady. You have to first establish yourself as an independent female, cannot be leaning on anyone for the ability to take care of either yourself or your feline familiar. There must be a clear bond between you and your creature, as well as a willingness to give up all there is in the name of the society, be it your human companion, your luxuries, or your life.

We get a bad rap because of those ridiculous old ditzes who horde poor creatures. They’re unkempt, both them and their household, and that is certainly not who we are. You can be a homebody surely, many of us are due to the intense amount of work, but you must always preen as if there were an audience. This is of course something we learned from the cats themselves, who no one has ever seen satisfied with a mediocre appearance. It is best to be prepared for any situation- whether that is an unexpected visitor, or a mission’s call to action.

Oop… pretend I didn’t say that last part.

Anyway, then you have the fakes. To me, they are worse than the ANAK Society when it comes to being just over the top and full of themselves. A bunch of peacocks really. They go to these shows and flaunt their poor pets for their good looks or quirky talents. Does that sound even remotely what our ancestors intended? Those t-shirts with the odd sayings “it’s not drinking alone if the cat is home!” or “my scottish-fold is smarter than your honor student!” just make me sick. They need to be plucked like feathers for an indoor-toy, I say.

Now I know this all sounds very strict, and it is, but that’s the best way to keep the true goals of a society at the forefront. We do, however, allow honorary membership, or companionship, to those who may not quite fit the bill but have done us a great service. These are kind, brilliant, people who understand what the Society of Cat Women do for the world, and want to aid even if they cannot be among the ranks.

These are greats such as Ptolemy Lagides, who I mentioned earlier. Also some craftsmen and businesspeople we have brought into the fold, who worked tirelessly to build secluded meeting places and shelters for us, or donate large funds to our cause. And others whose contributions may seem small but are extremely meaningful, like one of my neighbors actually. He’s a famous artist, a billionaire with his paintings in castles, yet he chooses to live in seclusion for the peace and quiet. Also, he takes care of me when I get home torn apart from a mission as well as makes the best damn gluten free muffins this side of the equator.

There’s also a president or two that has worked with his First Lady for us. I know what you’re thinking- why haven’t you installed a Cat Lady as President yet? Dear, everything has a time and place. You cannot rush greatness. You also cannot rush a society where the mascot sleeps twenty hours a day! HA! You’ve got to have a laugh, even in serious business.

But we do have a timetable for all sorts of takeovers- I mean, accomplishments, that include putting more Cat Ladies in charge throughout the world. And it’s not even for nonsense reasons like the Free Masons who just want to keep their little secrets hidden and spend literally billions of dollars keeping their most famous members from talking too much. No, we want what we have always wanted, since the very beginning:

A healthier and cleaner earth!

Equality for all whether they be cat ladies, dog persons, or even bird people!

World peace! (based on a complete overtake by the Society to ensure that such peace is maintained, of course)

And a sunbeam to lie in when the work is done.

The Word

Ailurophile (noun): A lover of cats

So first of all if there are any readers that hold membership in the above societies I have mocked in today’s story, please know this is fiction and I totes respect you and please don’t egg my house or like curse my family line or anything, k? Thanks!

And yes, I do have a coaster that says “it’s not drinking alone if the cat is home!” so know that when I mock, I mock myself too 🙂

You may have noticed I have done several of these one-sided conversations (like Today I am Unworldly and Today I am Warden). I really like studying how one person’s perspective can shape an entire world when they are uninterrupted. How would different events look from that very biased side of things? What actions would be good or bad based on this one speaker’s experience? If we have no one to rely on except this one person, what context do we have to fill in ourselves based on the givens? Sometimes this makes me the strange feeling of sonder* which can be cool and creepy all at the same time, so I really like looking into this. I know my voices for these types of writings is a weak spot, but since I love it, you’ll probably see it a lot because I want to improve. If you have any tips/tricks for improving at this, or want to boost my ego when I start to improve with these voicings, hit up that Contact page!

Oh also! If the artist neighbor sounds familiar, feel free to jump over and read Today I am Komorebi 🙂

*Yes this word is going to pop up soon! Hint hint!

The Story

“Phillip, take that ridiculous thing off.”

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

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

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

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

How does she do that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ms. J, it’s just a splash of color!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, ma’am.”

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

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

“Oh Molly?” She called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, someone leave their lights on?”

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

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

“Commin’, Phillip?” Leanne called.

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

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

They all laughed. God we were nerds.

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

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

Aaaaand I spooked the hell out of Molly.

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

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

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

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

“God, lots of tips?”

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

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

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

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

“Only cause you push her buttons.”

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

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

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

“Think she’s in the loo?”

I stared at Molly, “The loo?”

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

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

“Maybe she took off.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nope that was chanting, definitely chanting.

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

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

Oh yeah, we were for sure going to die.

“Shut up and come here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’ think I want to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope, nope, that was enough.

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

“Oh my GOD.”

“I know.”

“Phillip! Oh MY GOD.”

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

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

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

“We know exactly what we saw.”

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

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

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

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

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

But I did know what we saw.

And I know what the chant was saying.

And I never forgot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it reached my lips.

Ah.

Pomegranate juice.

The Word

Ritual

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

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

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

The Story

Being a mermaid is weird.

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

People on land.

Fish in the sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

Sir?

…sir?

Oh. Oh no.

The Word

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

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

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

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

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

*Maybe. Probably not.

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

The Story

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

“Aw yes, as the prophecy foretold- ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look, I know I’m right about this.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Soldiers!”

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

“Fendoialin. What.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when I shoved him.

Right into the tree.

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

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

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

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

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

The Word

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9 August 1931

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

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

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

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

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

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

11 August 1931

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like a dog?”

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

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

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

15 August 1931

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16 August 1931

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were many looks exchanged between my four hosts. 

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

“Niki, manners, please.” Made whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

28 October 1931

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Word

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

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

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

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

The Story

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

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

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

“Betcha got bugs.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No no, I want to hear your scream!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m doing this without google.”

Liam stood up straight, “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liam barely dodged the pillow launched at his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Entomology?” Camellia asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomatoes. Wait, blackberries?”

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

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

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

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

“You kept track?”

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

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

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

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

“See you soon!” He called after her.

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

“Entomology!”

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

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

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

The Word

Plantlet (noun): A small or young plant.

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

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

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

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

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