Tag: writing

Today I am Compost

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story… Essay?

Because I meant to make a story today. I really did. I had this grand idea about organic material and how it feeds into one another. In it, there was a cute little mushroom who grew up learning the strange, constant flow of information from his connected family through the electrical impulses they send one another.

It’s actually science, that one. Not me making stuff up again. Mushrooms and trees are probably talking behind our backs under our feet right now, say (paraphrased) Plant Pathologists and Microbiologists.

But the text response I send to my brother is “I’m currently sitting in front of 2415 works I kinda hate about a mushroom. Gonna take a break.“

And I am going to take a break. I’m so mad at this poor, innocent mushroom for not developing himself into something publishable, even after multiple chunks of paragraphs, that I’m instead writing about how much I hate it to just get some words out.

I feel like you understand. We are all crafty in our own way- whether your medium is words or clay or wire or dough or dungeon-ous minifigures. And sometimes those freaking things get away from us, becoming their own thing instead of molding under our fingertips as requested.

It feels rude! Are we not their creator?!

But alas. My mushroom pal is not to be. So I’m allowing myself to grab the rare mini Dr. Pepper from the fridge. They’re delicious, and I will make up for the calorie deficient somewhere else today. I always think of author John Green when I grab a Dr. Pepper. Not in a weird way, but he’s brought up his Dr. Pepper obsession in two of his books and at least every other podcast episode so I cannot help but associate the two. He drinks the diet kind though, and I would never do something so sacrilegious as disobey the good Doctor’s prescription by replacing real sugar with artificial (please don’t come at me, Diet Coke fanatics, I’m actually rather afraid of you).

I’m taking my mini Dr.Pepper outside. It’s damp and humid from all the rain yesterday, but so lusciously quiet. Normally my neighborhood teems with the happy sounds of toddlers screeching, old men yelling at their lawn mowers, and the teen across the street working on his basketball dribble: Thump thump thu-thump.

But the dampness has kept them all inside. Even the wrens, known accurately for their talkative ways, are quiet. I assume they’re mad I haven’t replaced the birdseed after the storm and are either pouting or, more likely, harassing a distant feeder instead. Only me and the occasional mourning dove, who does not mind a slightly moist sunflower seed.

I have two oak trees in my back yard that I’m very fond of. They are the kind of tall and aged that makes one wonder what things such elders have seen. I often think they are quite cinematic, photogenic. But my attempts to subject them in my “artsy” Instagram posts have not gone well.

The deck chairs are damp, so I figure why not go ahead and sit with one of these lovely trees? I’ll have to change pants once back inside either way, so let’s just confirm the weird-neighbor rumor if anyone looks outside.

How to choose? They’re both good sit-spots. This is when I notice a bright orange blight at the bottom of the larger oak. What’s this?! I work very hard to keep my yard tended and healthy! Alright, I work kinda hard. I work hard when there’s time. I try.

Stomping over, I find that it’s not a big orange blight, but instead a strange mound of peachy mushroom. How appropriate.

“Mocking me, are you?” I ask the mushroom.

It doesn’t respond.

I stare at it a bit, and decide proudly that this is a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom. If I wait a few hours, I can confirm this by the soft, unearthly glow it will give at dusk. I’m getting to know mushrooms better, watching a foraging YouTuber and reading several herb books. I figure if our various leaders are going to blow up the world, we’ll still need to eat afterwards and best to figure out now what’s poisonous and what’s yummy.

The Jack-o-Lantern is on the “no snacking” list. It feels like this should be obvious- one should not risk putting glowing forest objects into one’s mouth. But unfortunately, there are three other kinds of mushroom that are of similar color, grow in the same places, and are excellent sources of nutrients. I know my Jack-o-Lantern is none of these though because as I lean closer, I can see the moss surrounding it has begun to recede in a slow retreat. This guy is apparently poisonous to everyone, not just us vertebrates.

But not dangerous to sit next to. And I’m enough of a stereotypical writer that I think perhaps sitting with a mushroom will help me write about it better.

What do you think- Is this going well? Is it helping?

It’s better than the little gill-capped lad I was trying to create, I tell you that. Most anything would be better.

I set my Dr. Pepper down next to the mushroom on a flat bit of ground. Then, worrying about spores, I move it to the other side of me while giving the mushroom my best “don’t touch my stuff and I won’t dig you out and throw you on the stick pile” glare.

It doesn’t respond to this either.

A deep breath, that’s the ticket. Meditating has never been a skill of mine, but I do find a peace among the world’s natural sounds. The mourning dove is sending out an occasional curious “coorcoo?” wondering why it’s alone. The branches above me are playfully jostling in the wind. Something skitters in the back brush- probably one of the damn squirrels that digs in my flowerpots, little varmint- but I let that anger go and return to my breath.

A creak, probably the oak shifting, peering down at me. Perhaps it thinks Oh here’s the little one from the house leaning on me, how interesting. Perhaps I’m not interesting to the tree at all and the thought is more Lordy not another one, but I feel like we have an acquaintance at least. I pick up its leaves and fallen branches, spray it for invading bugs each spring. It shades my deck and holds up my bat house. We’re companions in a way.

This makes me look again at the mushroom, “Are you hurting my tree? Or just chilling?”

It shifts a little.

Had to be the wind but I huff a laugh, “Is that a yes or no, friend?”

It shifts a little more.

This would bother some people. But I am a certified Weirdo and am okay with the moving abouts of things that should not be moving about. Don’t get me started on the ghost that lived in my first apartment, for example. A mushroom shifting in the wind that… has actually stopped… blowing? Does not disturb me much. I do move my Dr. Pepper a little further away though, onto one of the rocks guarding my peony garden. Imagine a caffeinated poisonous mushroom!

Wait- is that my story? Do I add my little mushroom fella somehow getting his hands on a cup of coffee? Maybe I tie that into the new real world mushroom-coffee fad? And maybe say that mushrooms are trying to take over the world via our stimulant addiction??

No, no. Another deep breath. That’s far too much like the jellyfish story I’m writing. And that one is going better so I don’t want to sacrifice its good idea to fix today’s tale.

I look down again at the splayed pastels next to me. I wish I’d brought my phone out with me to take a picture of it, but I’m trying to do this new thing where I just walk away from my phone for a while. Probably good for my eyes.

Did I slide closer to it when I moved my soda? Odd. I give it a little more space. I don’t know for absolute certain that the only way it can kill you is if you eat it, I’m just pretty sure.

It is gorgeous though. Its caps look like spraying waves frozen in time. I wonder why this one, out of the multiple mushrooms that cosplay as nightlights, got the name Jack-o-Lantern. It’s not even the only orange one, if I’m remembering correctly. Maybe it was just discovered first?

It shifts again.

Third time doesn’t feel like the charm in this scenario and the little hairs on my neck stand in agreement. I’m about to head inside and talk myself out of my spooky thoughts (because really, it’s just thoughts, writers get carried away with our own fiction so often), when a black centipede shimmies out from under one of the caps.

“Oh it’s been you!” I address the bug, now glistening in a bit of sunlight, “You nearly scared me there, little guy.”

The centipede is not impressed with my musings and quickly makes his way up the tree without even a how do you do.

I shake my head. Out here for some air and I’ve not only personified a plant but made it eerie. Try to focus again. Deep breath. The dove coos again. Deeper breath. Close your eyes and feel the sun on your lids.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Ah, pavement must have dried up enough for the teen to come out for practice. Good for him.

Thump thump thu-thump.

If I focus on the bounces, which I must tell him next time I see him are defiantly getting more consistent, it’s almost like one of those drums meditation leaders use to help you hone in on a single thing.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The breath comes easier now, I can feel my own rhythmic system align itself, all my earlier frustration seeping out into the earth.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Something, perhaps a small bug, moves along my thigh, and I quickly flick it away and try to remain in the zone.

Thump thump thu-thump.

It’s lovely, really, out here in the damp moss, under a tree that has endured so much.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The bug lands on my thigh again. Did I spill some Dr. Pepper on it or something to attract him? Another flick, another deep breath.

Thump thump thu-thump.

This time when it lands, I let it. It’s too late in the season for mosquitos. Probably just a cranky fly. I won’t even dignify it with looking. I relax my eyebrows. If it wants to sit there while I breathe, fine.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I’m getting rather good at this meditation. Perhaps having that conscious thought means that I am actually not, but it feels like it. I can feel myself becoming less a bunch of limbs on the ground and more just space out in more space. Feels good.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The air smells alive. How nice to be alive with it. The sun seems to be moving away.

Thump thump thu-thump.

How long have I been out here if the sun is moving? I really am getting very good at this. In a moment though, I will have to open my eyes and go inside. Feed the cat, run the laundry, etc.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Just another moment though. This feels so nice. These breaths are so deep, entering my whole being.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I don’t feel the little bug anymore. In fact, I’m not quite sure I feel much at all.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I feel sedative. Feel pulsing as one with the soil.

Thump thump thu-thump.

We feel lovely down here.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Oh we do glow in the evening. Isn’t that fascinating.

The Word

Compost: (noun) Decayed organic material used as a plant fertilizer. (verb) Make (vegetable matter or manure into compost.

Gotcha! I’m okay- didn’t actually turn into a mushroom! That I’m aware of anyway. They do “communicate” via electrical impulses, and you’re reading this via a kind of electric impulse, so who’s to say?

This story did grow out of another one about a goofy mushroom. Maybe you’ll meet him someday, and maybe like many of his fungi brethren, he will never see the light of day. But today, I turned him back into the earth to come a new life- this spooky-ish story above. I don’t try stream-of-conscious often, partly because I’m a control freak and partly because it simple isn’t my forte. But how do we improve without practice?

And, Jack-o-Lanterns (the carved gourd, not the mushroom) were actually named from an Irish tale about a man named Jack who for makes a bad deal with the devil and has to carry around hell fire as his only light. So, Jack-o-Lanterns (the mushroom, not the carved gourd) are well suited for the realm of spooky.

And it’s very much becoming spooky season, isn’t it, dear readers?

Happy reading!

Today I am Radiance

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“BURN THE WITCH!”

“SEND HER BACK TO HER DEVIL MASTER!”

“HELLISH SIREN!”

“CLEANSE HER SOUL!”

Ropes dug mercilessly into her wrists. The spare lumber she’d been pinned to scraped painfully on her raw back. Welts formed across the glistening lines a whip had mapped from her shoulder to her hip. They caused such a swelling ache to rise in her neck, she did not dare look at her feet to see the fire’s progress. Her chin to the air, she was pleased it would look like bravery in the face of death and not that it simply hurt to hold her head any other way.

Her mother would be proud had she not gone to eternal rest many moons ago.

Many moons. It was these sort of phrases instead of ‘yesteryear’ that her neighbors claimed proved her deep unholiness.

But she could not help speaking as her mother did. Don’t all children do the same? No more than she could change the bright streaks that appeared in her hair under the summer sun or the many freckles across her skin that accompanied them.

Constellations, her mother had called the tiny spots. Witch marks, the priest had screamed.

It was not lost on Margaret that such devilish signs of her evil ways had been so graciously ignored by the entire village until she had refused to marry the mayor’s gangly nephew.

Oh, to have her mother here now. Perhaps she could not have saved Margaret, as the older woman had been quite frail with illness in her last years, but she would have cooed softly from the edge of the wood pile. She would have told Margaret her favorite tales passed from her own mother, just as she did when Margaret was a child refusing to sleep. A sadness settled deep in her chest knowing that this time she must go into the dark without her mother’s voice.

She closed her eyes. There was no reason to look upon any of these people for longer. Friends had turned fools and acquaintances turned accusers. Instead she conjured a vision of her mother, when health still glowed in her sun-wrinkled face.

Tell me a story, Mother. I cannot sleep.

Silent words raced through her mind as memory pulled from distance. A dangerous warmth seeped into her ankles but she dove within herself.

“You must not repeat this, dear. Your grandmother told me and now I tell you: A story from the valleys of the old country…

…

Once there was a goddess. There are people who called her Diana or Selene and believed her to be the goddess of the moon. But these were warring men who do not know women. She was Fealuna, goddess of all the stars. The stars worshipped her with their shine and in return she guided lost wanderers and souls through the darkness. She and her bright warriors fought against all the evils that tried to lurk in the shadows. That’s why when you get lost in the woods, you follow the stars out before a bear eats you.

Here, Mother always pinched Margaret’s nose.

Her most dedicated soldier was Solghid, so bright a star and fierce in battle that she set him close to the earth to protect and warm the world.

And here, Margaret always laughed and whispered, “The SUN, Momma?”

“The very same, love. Now shhhhh…”

Fealuna and Solghid rode into battles against the darkness many times, and were held in high esteem by the other deities. But Fealuna was also beautiful, which for a lady can be both a blessing and a curse. Many of the gods wanted to take her for their wife. They argued viciously over who deserved her hand in marriage and they did not even bother to ask Fealuna who she would prefer!

If they had, she would have told them her heart belonged to Solghid. He was but a solider and yet she loved him almost as much as he loved her.

“As much as Father loved you?”

“Almost as much as he loved us.” And here, Mother would touch the cord around her wrist and be quiet a moment before she continued.

The gods’ quarreling turned to fighting and the great Aegreus, god of violent storms and deep seas, won out. Fealuna tried to protest but Aegreus in all his power was one of the god rulers and none dared oppose him. As he pulled her into the depths of his seas, she cried out for Solghid, who heard her and dipped low in the sky trying to reach her. But the other gods held him back so he would not scorch the earth. They chained him to the turning of the sky so he could not visit the night any longer. Fealuna was gone in the darkness.

The earth dimmed, as the other stars refused to leave the night searching for their goddess. Solghid wavered from furious to forlorn, searing the day or hiding behind the clouds to weep. The farmers and fishermen cried out to their own gods- the crops were dying, the animals of land and sea were confused and unruly, soon the people would be lost! The harvest goddess, for whom there are many names-

“Why does she have all the names?”

“Hush.”

-demanded the gods have her sister released back into her rightful place so the world could heal and the people could live. But the gods in their pride refused.

However. Women are clever, as we must be in this world, my love. There is always more than one way to complete a task.

So the harvest goddess whispered to the smaller spirits of the earth, her daughters- to those of the creek reeds and mud puddles, those of first blooms and saplings, of crystal stones and mountain shade. She asked them to save her sister anyway they could.

They knew they could not free Fealuna from the sea depths, but perhaps- they said- they could give her something that would help her survive in the darkness.

They gathered rocks and moss and crevasses, bits of last frost and firebug flight, slicking it together with the evening breeze and drops of morning dew, until they had a shield the size of ten villages! They lifted it into the night sky and called to Solghid. From his chained prison he heard them. A cry of hope for his love, which made him shine brighter than he had ever before. So bright was his light, that it sprang upon the shield and reflected on to all the earth, pulling back the sea so he could glimpse Fealuna in the depths. And Fealuna peered back at him. She saw his light on the great shield, saw her many stars. Overjoyed, she thanked her sister and the many spirits of the earth, bid the stars continue to protect the night, and made the great shield her sigil from there forward.

“Was it the moon, Momma?”

“Yes, it was the moon, smart girl. So each night when it is dark, Solghid’s light pulls back the sea to gaze on his love, and she smiles so tenderly up at him that the stars glitter with rejoicing. When their light is shining, you need not be afraid of the dark.”

And Margaret was not afraid of the dark.

The smoke began to billow and blocked out the sun, casting shifting shadows over her closed eyes. The skin of her thighs sizzled and ripped. She was fading out of day. But she knew in the dark there was light as well. She smiled and gave in, to the night.

The Word

Radiance (noun): Light or heat as emitted or reflected by something.

This is one of those stories that started somewhere, and ended somewhere else. I had wanted to make Margaret a siren, and have her lover save her and blah blah blah. Honestly, could still be cool to dive into siren-lore as spooky season is almost upon us.

But then I got really into the love is love and love is powerful of it all and so instead you get a new myth! Two women thrust into darkness because of choices they didn’t make (sounding too familiar, current world climate?). And our hero doesn’t always win. We don’t always get to escape. But we can survive, in whatever way we mean the word.

And yes yes, those of you who paid attention in History or English or watched any media in the past century know that I butchered some god and goddess names to create my own for what I wanted. But the Romans did it, why can’t I?

Happy reading!

Today I am Gifted

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I can see.

This is one of those first not-thoughts a baby probably has. You spend nine (coughTENANDAHALF) months cooped up in a dark safe space and then AHHHH AHHHH shluuuurk there’s light and sound and some weirdo counting your offshoots. It’s no wonder we enter this world screaming.

It’s so damn bright.

The mammal eyeball is arguable among scientists to be the most complex evolved organ. There are some biologists, whose papers are still under review, who would like to argue that the jellyfish rhopalia is even more complex, and its mysteries are still hidden within the divine.

To this I resolutely say: So? That’s still an eye. Dang, why are we arguing about eyeballs? Or, excuse me, visual-interpretive physiology.

It’s all very complicated. Pupils and ocellis and gook. Yet not a single one of us: human, jellyfish, bat, butterfly, bird, even those mantis shrimp who can perceive all those extra colors, can adjust to see as fast as a light can shine.

We are all weak to the bursting illumination. It is so damn bright.

Conclusion being, I should not have felt too embarrassed to find out the deafening scream shaking my soul was coming from my own throat.

Because oh my actual God that was an angel.

“Be not afraid.”

“HOLY FUCK!”

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, for we come with-“

“HOLY. FUCK. WHAT THE HELL.”

There was a long, silent pause. Perhaps they were trying to give me a moment. I needed far more than a moment.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a-“

“OH MY GOD. SWEET JESUS.”

Perhaps it was the painfully intense rouge of the sunset, but in a short moment of awareness, it seemed that the hundreds of eyes squinted in irritation.

A hum moved through the air.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a path-“

“OH. MY. GOD. ARE YOU FUCKING ANGELS?”

I was apparently still alive and in a timeline that had some sort of relevance to my own, because I did have a millisecond to recognize this was a stupid question.

Because if not angels, what else were they? Everything I’d heard or seen (admittedly, in amateur horror films) about demons were dark and/or red, and these… Beings? Were, well, I’m not entire sure what color pure light is. I’d like to say white, but it’s more so such a brightness that color bows out of the equation.

I swear I heard a sigh.

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, we come with good news.”

Oh damn, maybe I was dead.

Because let me tell you- I am no shepherd. I mean, I shepherd a couple technical deployments for government branches who are planning on launching missiles before all the other government branches I also work for do, but I don’t feel like that’s the same as sheep, despite what some politicians say.

The only alive people I could think of that angels spoke to were shepherds and virgins. And thanks to Charlene Carol sophomore year, I wasn’t that either.

“AM I DEAD?”

I could not stop shouting. Honestly, I wished I could. I felt rude. But you see a being made from God’s first drafts and keep a level tone, then you can judge.

“Steven Winters, you shall live. You shall live on the path chosen for you alone, which we bring to you this day and-“

“HOW MANY LANGUAGES CAN YOU SPEAK?”

Where this question came from, I do not know. But I’d been working with our AI agent on understanding foreign characters so I could suggest turn it off and back on again to international spies researchers, so perhaps it was just on the brain.

There was the not-squint again. I was perhaps testing eternal patience.

“We can speak to all His Children, despite their language. You may hear us in your tongue.”

I nodded back as if this was normal. As if my backyard frequently hosted the divine. I glanced towards the grill, abandoned when a great thundering announced the presence of my current guests. Should I offer them a tuna steak? My mother had instilled host priorities deep into my bones, surely that applied to the other worldly. Or this worldly. Next worldly. Whatever.

Plus it would make an okay excuse to get take a second, get my heartbeat under control. I gestured with my tongs at the grill in a (what I hoped was) universal want some? conveyance.

The many eyes opened wider, and an orange shimmer skipped over the many encircling rings hovering a few feet above my bird feeder.

“Yes, Steven Winters. We would love a tuna steak.”

“Faaaaaantastic. Sauce?” Food was a language I understood.

The warm hum filtered through the air again. Then, “We will receive the offering spiced only.”

I pulled the fish from the grill. Despite the unique interlude, it was a perfect medium rare. I plucked a piece of cilantro from my scraggly herb garden and placed it atop the best looking slice.

Hesitantly, I placed the plate at the mossy ground before sticking a fork in the piece I prepared for myself. It had a little char, but I liked it that way.

I opened my mouth to ask how to better serve the angelic being (do they need cutlery?), but before I could, I saw the plate was already empty.

“Thou art kind and artful with the meat given of the waters, Steven Winters.”

“I, uh, thank you,” I said, navigating a large piece into my mouth with my shaking fingers to stop talking. It was indeed the best tuna I had ever cooked. I unashamedly moaned. Must remember to re-up my subscription to Penny’s Spices.

There were several moments of silence passed between us. The evening cooled, the dusk overturned to dark. A few bats soared out from the house I had set up for them, but spotting the bright being, scattered to the trees for shelter. My neighbor loudly strolled his garbage bin to the end of his driveway, waved casually at me, and returned inside.

“Steven Winters.”

“Yes. So sorry. Never had literal divine intervention before.”

“Mmm. Mmhmm. Be not afraid.”

“You very much hesitated that time,” I pointed at it with my fork, because I was clearly insane and apparently manners were the first thing to go, “so I feel like afraid is maybe something I should consider.”

“No, Steven Winters. Thou wilt receive a gift.”

“But is this like a genie gift? Where it seems like a gift but it’s really a curse?”

I knew I was pushing it. My soul ricocheted inside me from the tip of my forehead to my slippered toes, as if pacing itself through my horrible decisions. I couldn’t help myself. I had been a good kid in Sunday school! I knew Abraham had to psychologically torture his own kid. Mary had to leave her home and straight up had to watch her son get killed! Moses gets blocked from paradise, Hagar got lost in the desert, Jacob? maybe Job, it’s been a while, had to freaking wrestle divinity itself! I was not in comfortable angel-witnessing company. Yet I pushed.

“I’m just saying, y’all’s track record-“

“Steven. Winters.”

Oh yeah, I had upset them. Too bad shutting-up was not among my talents: “You have to be at the wrong place.”

Because I was a nobody. Not in the way Mary was a Nobody, quietly descended from King David and righteous in all her actions. No no- I was born a white, dirty blond, 5’9″ Presbyterian, barely baptized by unenthusiastic parents, drank too much and had not made it past a situationship with a reputable woman. These shiny things had landed in the wrong backyard. Or! Or. Or I was having a very hallucinative seizure. I hadn’t quite ruled that out yet.

“The Lord Your God does not lead astray.”

Oh okay, then explain Charlene Carol, but whatever. At least I had almost recovered control of my vocal cords.

“What can I… do for his… His. Lordship?”

The being seemed to shimmer with satisfaction. Cool cool cool.

“Steven Winters. You are shown a path into the wilderness. Your Lord God chooses you to lead His children into a place of safety until the storm hath passed you by.”

Oh good. A Noah-level task. I could barely put my Ikea furniture together with an automatic screwdriver and a six pack. I should really not be trusted with an ark.

Before I could object- and I was going to object- there was a noisy rustling around me. Cinnamon, a deer I had so named due to her gorgeous dusky copper fur, stepped out from my hydrangeas with her spotted twins and several unfamiliar siblings. A raccoon family pulled themselves from under my shed while two possums loaded with their litter skittered down from my half-dead oak trees. The few bats I had thought ran off settled next to the wrens on my fence, as multiple hummingbirds buzzed by my ears. I looked down at my leg to inspect a new sensation, seeing the mainecoon-ish stray cat I’d been calling Booger curling around my feet.

“These… children?”

I turned to set my plate down, but it was gone and my hands were free. Fine.

“Steven Winters.” I swear the voice that made my bones buzz sounded happily tempered now, “Much is to come. You are to go into the mountains. You are to lead His Children up the path. At the peak, where His sun rises and sets, you will find a home where you will remain until you are Called.”

I looked at all the creatures peeking nervously back at me. There were hooves and fangs and wings. I had placed feeders to lure them, traps to dissuade them, and now I was to lead them?

“Well. Alright then,” I felt suddenly solid, decision made, “can I… can I get a stick? A stick seems good.” All the best guys in stories had a stick.

A staff appeared in my right hand. It was twisted gray driftwood, yet sturdy in the soft ground.

“God be with you, Steven Winters.”

The Beings, the light, the tuna steak, were gone.

Just me and my new stick and a bunch of wide-eyed forest creatures.

Cool cool cool.

“Alright gang,” I said, feeling two of the bats settle on the hood of my sweatshirt, “let’s get going.”

The Word

Gifted (adj): having exceptional talent or natural ability.

How many of us were in the “gifted” program in Elementary/Middle/High school? How many of us thought that would do literally anything for us in the adult world?

Me. I did.

It’s several years too late to talk to Gen-X and Millennials about the trauma we accrued from Gifted Programs. But settling into the other side of young-adulthood, it’s really sinking in that no one is coming to deliver us from the regular class to play mathematical board games.

For me, this lesson came HARD in my first job- where my naturally bubbly personality was viewed as ignorant and flirtatious. It wasn’t enough to be right, I had to be right in the right way. I had to dull my gift to be seen as the correct kind of shiny. I hated it, I still hate it, and I feel deeply for a world we could have where we were actually ourselves and the work got done.

Today was a particularly hard day for “gifted doesn’t mean everything is a gift to you” lessons. I stared it in the face, and crumbled. I had to call for backup, I had to rally the reinforcements, I had to drink some wine and cry.

And from that turmoil came Steven Winters. Who is nobody. Who just happened to be exceptionally good at math in his younger years, and although it got him a scholarship, all it’s done since then is make his life monotony. Until he finds a much greater Gift than Gifted is upon him whether he likes it or not.

I hope the same for all us formally-Gifted kids. That, if we haven’t already, we might find that bearing of purpose in a tumultuous sea of expectations. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if someone just told us which way to go? Alas, we are not all Steven Winters.

Just a note- I am totally plugging Penzy’s Spice. Or I tried. But autocorrect kept making it “Penny’s” so I gave up and decided it was a sign about copywright or something. Anyway, Penzy’s Spices is awesome.

Happy reading, my dears. And may a compass always be nearby when you feel lost.

Today I am Lament

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I take a deep breath, feeling my shoulders go up. I take another one, forcing my shoulders to retreat back down.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, I want to give a longwinded shoutout to my man, Mercutio.”

There are several snaps muffled through the crowd. A little “Woot!” is called from the left of the stage.

“ahem…

Could steal your girl

But he doesn’t want her,

Tarnish his honor

But don’t squander the love scholar.

The original bad bitch

A casual curse witch.

He’s the Greek chorus, does more for us

Than a priest could

And you’re down good

With a princehood.

If master M approves of you

Grooves with you

Chooses you

Makes rough good with you

Makes you what thou art,

Art,

to Mercutio’s tongue,

by his tongue,

Placed a curse

So I place a verse

And I hope it hurts

Less than a mistook

Across a sleeping soldier’s neck.

Lie back maiden,

Stay on track maiden.

There’s an opal, a diamond, a crack, maiden.

The horse jolted

The fool’s bolted

And I’m here with

my heart in my hand

blood on my man

your heart in my hand,

and it starts to fleet,

I can’t complete

a lack of heat

and silence.

The bard’s gone

It’s near dawn

And I’m lost

in a wilted rose garden

tilted too far then,

off the edge of the map

There’s monsters here

and I’m monstrous there,

Begging thin wings to hide me

fly me

Up to the silver lining

of the devil between us

of the heaven between us

came life between us

Came death.”

A round of polite clapping joined more snaps and a smattering of “here, here”s with a rare “yeaaaah.“

I nod appreciatively and make my way off the small platform, rounding the seated crowd towards the back.

Leaning against the scuffed pine bar, my long necklace tap-tapped against it, shooting a kaleidoscope across the ground as the soft overhead globes hit its sparkled spinning.

The poet who took my place on the stage has begun. Some sonnet about growth. Ugh.

I raise a few fingers in a greeting, but the bartender is already coming my way. He’s grinning into his dimples and flicking dark chocolate bangs out of his eyes. A silver shaker rocking madly in one hand, he sets the other one on the bar so I can fully appreciate his tanned muscles. Painfully beautiful. When I stare into his gray eyes, I feel like I’m staring into another’s from too long ago.

He comes in close, almost whispering, “What’ll it be, my rhyming mademoiselle?”

I grimace at the bad come-on but try to morph it quickly into an interested smirk. He is just doing his job.

“A friend of mine recommended something, but I can’t quite remember the name,” I purr, leaning in more than necessary, “it’s a bubbly one, with a country in it.”

“A whole country? I don’t know if I can fit that in a glass,” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

I afford him a small chuckle. He’s trying.

He finishes his shaking and pours something orange into a tall glass, sliding it out to an awaiting hand, “You’re looking for a French 75, I believe.”

“Yes! That’s the one.”

“Coming right up,” he winks at me, apparently unable to help himself.

There was a time when I would have just gobbled up one like that. He’s playing the heartbreaker well, but I know an eager dreamer when I see one. Can practically feel their heartbeats under my own skin.

Alas, it has been quite some time since I played my old part. It’s just not the same these days. And my own heart aches- some days less, some days more.

A tall glass is placed before me, golden bubbles racing towards the top to kiss a dainty lemon peel.

“There you go,” he pushes a black napkin towards me as well, “I’ll be back to hear how perfect it is,” he smirks again and saunters to the other end of the bar to make a group of heavy-eyed girls giggle.

They will all think of him later tonight. I am sure of it.

My first sip of the spritely concoction stuns me. It’s refreshing in an almost aggressive way. Perhaps I should have asked for something simpler, something dryer. I didn’t need to be making a fool of myself and everyone else in the room tonight.

My second, third, fourth sip convince me that it is indeed, delicious. And that I’ve always really loved fools. Wasn’t that part of my problem in the first place?

I turn to watch the intent crowd, leaning back against the cool, sticky bar.

There are several couples pulled close together at small tables- peering at each other over a fake candle, believing each verse their love song.

A few patrons sit alone, nodding their heads to the spoken verse or tapping a pen to half-filled notebooks. Those are some of my favorites. Are they artists searching for inspiration? Detectives on the hunt? Did they plan their whole day around sitting by themselves in a hazy bar or did they find their feet wandering in from the street without a care?

The groups of three or more are few, but present. These are the scholars on assignment, or students on a dare. These are the “we said we would go out more!” friendships, each pondering if they should have just stayed home.

So much potential. And I drink it in along with several more bubbles.

“You’re becoming a bit of regular,” He is near me again, and I turn to watch those dimples dance, “I can add you to the locals’ tab list if you’d like. Gets you a 10% off on Thursdays.”

The nerves finally show in his pale eyes as he waits for my answer. So much potential indeed.

I shrug as nonchalantly as possible. A local? Ha. But I do wander here from time to time, to shake out everything swirling in my mind. To give him my name though… well, what’s in a name?

“Sure, put me in there, big guy.”

His smile springs with his relief, “Lucky for us! And what’s the pretty name of the pretty lady?”

I answer just as the performer behind me yodels into a limerick.

“Mag?” He begs, tilting an ear towards me, “as in, Maggie?”

“Mab. As in Queen.”

The Word

Lament: (noun) A passionate expression of grief or sorrow. (verb) Mourn, esp. a person’s loss or death.

From when I was first forced to read Romeo and Juliet as a dispassionate middle schooler, to when I was hungrily pouring over it in my theater studies at college, I have always thought Mercutio was the best part.

Sure, I can get on my soapbox about how Juliet was both a victim and the main character (and have… probably too many times), but Mercutio is the man! He looms so large that plays, movies, re-tellings have given him a huge spectrum of personality. He is the ladies man, able to use that twisting tongue of his to lure innocent maidens! No, he is the goof of the group, trying to lighten a mood! No no, he has he seen things the others haven’t (as he is a tad older and the prince’s relation, so would have been required to lead men into battle). None of that, he’s a spoiled kid doing spoiled kid things like spoiling a party!

Shakespeare gives us hints here and there, but for much it he leaves it to interpretation (which is distinctly unusual for him when he usually takes multiple paragraphs to slap the audience in the face with his point). I very much wonder how the Mercutio actor would have been directed in the first rounds at The Rose. I myself have always followed the theory that Mercutio is a very complicated person. That Shakespeare slips a full grown being into what could easily be dismissed as a sidekick. And so what does that make of his strange fairy poem?

I have no idea. You could find hundreds, if not thousands, of multiple different interpretations: She’s a metaphor for seduction, she’s a real belief in an unworldly world, she’s Mercutio mocking Romeo for his yearnings, she’s just Mercutio’s fourth glass of good wine.

Then comes all the dying. The Bard always likes to make a point that when there is love- there’s also either fools or death, and probably both.

But what I ponder on myself is- what happens to such a legend as the fairies’ famous midwife when there is no bard left to sing of her deeds? Do myths still mystery when no one is pondering them? What is a queen whose favorite fool has been killed? Thus, what led me to play in today’s story.

Also it’s poem weather. Happy reading!

Today I am Placid

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized
You might enjoy this story more if you read Hectic first!

The Story

He entertained himself quite a bit by randomly sowing seeds from his now mostly useless bug-out-bag whenever he spotted good dirt.

“Johnny-zombie-seed, they’ll call me,” he chuckled, patting the small mound of soil affectionately.

The vulture was not amused. It pecked at Todd’s legs until he stood and re-shouldered his pack.

“Alright, alright,” Todd dug his right forefinger and thumb into his left brachialis, “here ya go, bud.” He held the bit of muscle and skin aloft, felt the familiar clamp of a strong beak on his finger tips as the creature settled onto his shoulders. Thinking for a moment on the nature of fate, he found it funny that he had learned all these body parts, not for saving himself or anyone else like he prepared, but to know what he was serving his feathery friend.

“We’re gonna need to find another squirrel or something soon. I actually don’t know how functional I’ll be without some of these,” he tentatively flexed his left arm. It still moved up as told, but with a little hitch.

“And we still have a ways to go.”

He pulled a small notebook from the pack’s side pocket. On it he’d written all of the places he thought might be interesting to see on the continent: Redwoods, Everglades, Library of Congress, Mississippi River, Niagara Falls, Denali Point, Yellowstone Park… He planned to venture down to South America when he was done. And he really wanted to see Mount Everest, Victoria Falls, the Great Barrier Reef too. But he wasn’t exactly sure how an undead might traverse the ocean. He’d experimented accidentally in water before and yes, he still floated. But he imagined with a rigged set of weights and drowning no longer a concern, walking from one continent to another was technically an option. Except for the absence of a guidance system. And Todd did not think it a fun idea to get lost puttering around on the ocean floor until the sun exploded. So he planned to deal with those traveling plans later and enjoy what he could more easily reach in the meantime.

Turns out Ol’ Faithful was indeed pretty faithful, still putting on her display without anyone to watch. Long after some fire or another seemed to have swallowed most of her surrounding national park, she was still quite the beauty he thought. He’d loved the Redwoods as much as he had as a child camping with his father. But the Grand Canyon had bored him. He supposed its grandness may have been more captivating when one had the threat of falling to their death or even a notion towards the passage of time, neither of which really concerned Todd anymore.

His loyal companion had seemed to enjoy the ride as well. Often they’d walk as a single oddly hulking figure, vulture tucked into the top of Todd’s backpack. Sometimes it took off and flew for a while before returning, either with a snack or simply stretched wings. A few times, the fowl had disappeared for a whole day or so but it always caught back up, often with dried sludge on its beak.

Todd didn’t much have a route he was taking. It was more “head towards the next interesting thing” while avoiding packs of humans, whether dead or still alive. He’d learned the hard way that avoidance was best.

His first encounter with his fellow zombies had gone rather dreadfully. He assumed that since they were one and the same, they wouldn’t be bothering him much. He even lifted a decaying hand in polite wave.

However, they clearly did not feel that same brotherhood.

They, for they did move as a lumbering herd, steered themselves towards him and began to speed up. At first Todd hadn’t moved away because he thought maybe they were coming to introduce themselves, perhaps? Were these beings also unsure what to do with themselves now that the work of survival was done? The vulture hopped off him and flew towards the group, distracting a few by smelling alive as it plucked yummy pieces from their unflinching bodies.

Then the herd had started growling.

“Well, that seems unnecessary. Unless that’s your only form of communication, in which I apologize. But I-“

Close enough now to see the hunger in their dry eyes, he took off in an uncoordinated jog. When he got to a safe distance past several buildings and in the shade of a tall oak, he paused. Did his gut feeling that had kept him safe all his life not work when there were no guts?

He admonished himself for taking such a chance, even though he still wasn’t entirely sure of the horde’s intentions. What could they possibly have wanted from him that they couldn’t take from each other? He shook his head, and with the vulture back on his shoulder he took off once more.

The run-in with the alive humans had been much more unsettling. He’d come across them quite by accident when he was passing through the weedy fields of what he’d thought was an abandoned farm. He figured he’d just walk on by, maybe pet the pigs on the way, nab a piglet for the vulture.

It occurred to him too late why the pigs were still in a pen at all.

“GET ITS HEAD! SHOOT IT IN THE HEAD!”

“No I’m not going to eat you, I’m just lost-“

“THE HEAD, SARAH!”

“Please, I just…” he’d attempted to lumber away quickly. Several fast footsteps were drawing in behind him as his friend screeched wildly in the sky.

Then miraculously, Todd’s hastened retreat resulted in a clumsy trip, a missed hand grab on a tall bank, and falling into a river. This is when he learned he did indeed still float, but that he had not gained the ability to swim. Apparently one needed to learn such things while alive. So he wrestled himself onto his back, and allowed the current to pull him in whatever direction the river was choosing.

He briefly heard a “Did that one talk?” from high above and a “no, damn Sarah, we have to get you out of the sun” just before the noisy water drowned everything out.

He floated along, thankful again to Whoever Was Up There, because although he had not quite settled on the best way to leave this world, he didn’t think seeing angry, terrified farmers in his last moments is what he wanted.

When the river deposited him on a different bank several miles away, the vulture only took a little over an hour to catch up.

Since then, Todd had avoided anything remotely human-looking by skirting around towns and hiding when there was any chatter in the wind. It just was not worth the hassle.

Near the end of another day, the odd pair came upon what looked to be a red dessert.

“I think we’re in Wyoming, friend. Might be Utah but I do think we successfully headed northeast. The Devil’s Tower monument should be around here somewhere. Maybe in the morning we’ll find it and become rock climbers, huh?”

The bird squorked in disagreement. Why climb when one can fly? it seemed to huff.

“Yeah, yeah,” Todd settled them into shallow cavern in one of the shorter rock faces. Along the walls, lit barely by sunset’s last rays, were scrawls of humans long gone: Evan and Trudy 4ever, Kai was here!, Eleanor + Lu 1997. He ran his fingers across the markings. Once, while on a field trip to some sort of mine when he was in elementary school, his teacher had threatened that anyone who carved their name into a tree or a rock would be in detention until she retired.

It is a desecration of historical nature by delinquents! she’d hooted, cheeks puffy red, and her class would NOT be among them!

Now, Todd felt oddly thankful for these rebels who had escaped their teacher’s or parents’ eye. Sure, he thought, they scraped away stone that had stood for billions of years, and that was kind of uncool. But isn’t that what cave people had been praised for? Wasn’t he echoing that same archeological sentiment right now, feeling pangs of one-ness with people who were, statistically, gone?

He sat down against the cool stone. These dead days, philosophical questions seemed to stir in Todd more than they ever had in life. He simply hadn’t had the time before! He worked hard and had enjoyed his simple life of good coffee and mystery novels. He’d never asked for more, yearned for more, even thought about what more might mean.

And yet he had no regrets. There was no romantic partner he wished he’d held onto. No dramatic parting he wished he’d done differently. In each of his moments, he’d reasoned he’d done what he could. He was still mostly proud of the quiet life he lived.

Just perhaps now that his mind had all this time to wonder as he wandered, it was poking in all those untouched crevices of his synapses.

“Watch, now that there’s no one to tell,” he reached out and softly petted his friend’s leathery head, “I’m going to figure out the meaning of life.”

The vulture gave him an unconvinced stare, then rustled itself onto the pack for the evening. It finished with a gargled huff in his direction.

Yeah, right.

The Word

Placid (adjective): 1. Of a person or animal, not easily upset or excited. 2. Especially of a place or stretch of water, calm and peaceful, with little movement or activity.

I told y’all I love Todd and his vulture friend, and that he’d probably be back! And back he is. I wasn’t sure where Todd was headed next, so I thought this time we’d just follow him and see where he was going, just for the joy of writing. I’ve really enjoyed building his world out a little bit more, and I hope you’re enjoying the exploration as well.

Sometimes things don’t have to be complicated with a dozen meanings, they can just be whatever they turn out to be 🙂

Happy reading!

Today I am Mislaid

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Her cheek is cool to the touch, just as it was the last time I spoke to her. My fingers run across the smoothness of it. Where my index should hitch slightly on a dense scar left from an unlucky training day, it slides unhindered.

Disappointing.

She would have preferred they captured all her truths in the stone. It’s some sort of marble or quartz, I imagine, based on the regal flashes of white and sparkling gray shooting through her unseeing eyes. Though the unruly sea of her hazels are lost, they did manage to capture the feeling that she was always looking beyond the here. I silently commend the artists for this ability. Even now I’m tempted to turn to see what has caught her attention. To catch a glimpse of the world through her eyes.

I resist and quickly walk away before the urge to throw my weight against the object overtakes- before realizing the satisfying crash of precious artwork turned scattered rock across the pathway.

Her cheek should not be smooth.

It should be worn over by sun and wind. Cracked open again and again, scarred over with a larger map of her adventures. It should be wrinkled, crumpled into so many laugh lines as children and grandchildren illuminate her with pride. It should be warm and smiling, paling as her explosive youth fades into relaxed retirement. Not smooth. Not cold. Not gone.

They never mention this part in the prophesies. I suppose it would give too many would-be heroes pause. My first captain had warned us long ago: “The old write, and the young die for the words written.”

And now, the old mourn.

“Why did it have to be you?” I whisper to the garden and then again to the stars. I ask not for the first time, not for the last.

My cheek is wrinkled. Damp now with a few tears I’ll claim are just these old eyes if someone spots me. My name is in history books. History it’s called, already. Though one would not find me in the archives nearly as often as her. For many of the reports and legends, I am just “and her companions.“ No drinking songs tell of those beside her, exult us like the popular “Fair her, our champion, gaze upon her waves! We fight for her, we love for her, she who bears no knaves!” Which no one would believe, but it was I that wrote most of those verses; on a night of deep sorrow and even deeper drinks, and I had just wanted to make her laugh with a rhyme. Like I had when we were children.

There is a painting in one of Levliants’ Great Halls, of our entire company where I am beside her. A carving somewhere in the Alden Library as well, I have been told, with she and I at the front.

Thankfully, most people do not recognize me anymore. For just like her, that version of me has remained unchanged. The song still shouts of a crew strong and sure. The etchings boost of a people with bright eyes and steady souls. Yet I have had the great privilege and punishment to survive beyond such things.

I knew she was The Chosen One from the moment she opened her eyes. She was crying, our mother was crying, hell the nurse was crying from how many hours we had been stuck in that hot room together trying to wrestle my sister into this world.

I swaddled her as the nurse tended my mother, counted her fingers and toes and odd freckles. That baby felt heavy in a strange way. Not in that she was a large one, though she was and my mother never let her forget it. But that I felt I was holding both my baby sister and the weight of the whole world. I feared if I set her down, she would have to carry it all herself. In the months to come, my mother accused me of not letting her learn to walk for saddling her on my hip! So from the moment I set her down, I barely left her side. If the fate of the world was her burden to carry, then she would be mine.

Our people were made from the very first dust. Our stories some of the first spoken. In all of the many tales, there was always a Chosen One, a Special Champion, a Someone that came and saved us all from evil doing. I never imagined I would know one, let alone love one. Never dreamed I would lose one.

The great battles came. The war cries were called. The charges charged. And all happened as it was meant to, according to the lines covered in dust. Even though I stepped in front of her. Even though I watched every move, tried to guard every angle. Still, she stood before everything, and bled.

There will come one, born into a great wailing. Marked with the second moon and evening stars. Only to impart peace upon the grounds with the rain of their very life.

Saving our world, and plunging mine into darkness.

When she last closed her eyes and they took her from my arms to the pyre, it was the lightest she’d ever been.

I follow now the path of the garden to a stand of trees, ducking beneath cobwebs and owls’ nests. Through the darkness, my feet know the way. To the solid stone, cool and dead as she. I pull the vines from its crevasses, my fingers lingering across the rough granite. This is where her memorial should be- where she truly last stood, and from her very self closed the door against the evil that tried to overtake us all.

I press against it, as if it might give way. I swear on the moon I can hear their voices. The voices of the rest of our company, calling and mourning her as they did that first night.

But I am alone. And have to remain.

The Word

Mislaid (noun, past tense): Unintentionally put (an object) where it cannot readily be found and so lose it temporarily.

After a YouTube spiral into cleaning grave markers, I kept coming back to the statues of those lost, and the effect that must have had on those who survived them. What part of a person’s likeness do you honor? The best moment, their most recent, their bravest? And once we’ve chosen- how do we know we are honoring the dead instead of placating the living?

.

.

.

So… who remembers The Called?

***spoiler warning!***

While it remains my constant effort to make each story stand on its own, I do also try to make them part of a whole; I want them to fit together less like puzzle pieces, and more like the rounding hedges of a maze. And if you’ve been here a while, you know the members of The Called pop up in many, MANY of my stories, sometimes obviously, sometimes not so much. I’ve decided to go back and give their solo tales the much needed attention that such dedicated warriors deserve, bringing their stories up to par and ensuring their effects on the series as a whole. But for so long, I have wanted to tell their start. Where did the Door come from? Who locked it, and why? Now we get a glimpse from the other side of the mysterious Door, and a little hint for why it was sealed.

I promise to mark any updated story with some sort of signal, and leave an original somewhere on this blog (for we must honor our mistakes originals).

Happy reading!

P.S. Liked this story? There’s now a Companion Story!

Today I am Passage

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Strength

The Story

“Finish your drink, it’s time to go.”

He stares at the overly fancy ice block in his glass. It cost him an extra two dollars with its imposed presence, and now it may last longer than he.

“I just ordered this, and I’ll get indigestion if I chug it. Hate to greet the end with a rude belch. How about I buy you one so you’re not just sitting there waiting on me?”

“You’re not the first to try this tactic.”

“Not a tactic, just a pretty good vodka and soda.” He lifted the glass so Death could admire the flower-cut lime sitting on the rim.

Death turned its head slowly, then pulled itself silkily onto the stool beside him. A shadow of a wave to the bartender, who saw only a tall patron she couldn’t quite place.

Two fingers of whiskey were set before the harbinger.

“I always figured you’d be a red wine guy.”

“Stereotypes.” Chuckled Death.

“How’d you land on whiskey, then?”

Death paused for a moment, and the man began to think it’d somehow been a rude question.

“I was in Ireland for too long, long ago. Many of them greeted me kindly, despite the suffering of their last. I suppose I caught the habit there.”

The man nodded solemnly, “My mother was Irish actually, came here to act but fell in love with my dad.”

“I know.”

“Do you know everything?”

“Yes, but not all the time.”

“I bet a lot of us ask you what it was all for, then.”

“A fair amount, but fewer than you would think…”

They each took a sip of their drinks.

“…are you going to be one who asks?”

“Well if there’s an answer, I suppose it’s best to know.”

The figure shifted, in what might have been an agreeable shrug. 

“It is for what is next.”

“Wait-“ the man set his glass down as gently as possible, as if making a sound would be too painful in this moment. “All of this,” he whispered as he peered to each corner of the bar, “is just prep work? For what?”

“What is next. All things are for what comes after them. All that proceeds is exactly that- proceeding to the following.”

The man held perfectly still, “So all of life… is for death?”

“That is not what I said.”

The man thought for a hard moment, then released his tense shoulders, nodding again. He took a gentle sip from his drink, the ice still mostly intact.

They sat in silence for several moments.

“Are you afraid?”

“Are many?”

“It’s hard to tell with some. Bravery does not erase fear, nor does acceptance, but I would hate to count those among them as simply afraid.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

Death “hmm’d” a maybe.

“I suppose I am a bit. I did alright. Just not sure I did alright enough, ya know? If there’s a… next.”

The figure tipped his glass, the whiskey within swirling wistfully before he took a swallow.

“Often, alright is enough. At least to me. In these days, alright is quite good.”

“Good for…?”

“Indeed.”

“Then friend, what is it for us?”

The bartender plucked the two glasses from before the empty stools, pouring a nearly melted ice cube out into the sink.

They’d left her quite a nice tip, those gentlemen, for being such easy customers. She would be extra kind the next time they came in. She could not remember their faces right this moment, but hoped she would when they returned.

The Word

Passage: 1. (noun) The act or process of moving through, under, over, or past something on the way from one place to another. 2. (noun) A narrow way, typically having walls on either side, allowing access between buildings or to different rooms within a building; a passageway.

Passages and journey vs. destination have been on my mind a lot lately, as I am betting they have been for many of us in different ways. Especially as we make it through the first month of 2025. January always feels so much more like the stalling between one year and the next, rather than a beginning. And sometimes that’s good- to stall, to rest. And sometimes that sucks- to be stuck, to endure. It’s that middle place with an odd feeling as if things are happening to you rather than with you. I hope you have gotten rest, and endured, friendly readers.

…also was it obvious that each corner of the bar is meant to be each corner of the world, but just this guy’s current world in the moment? I’m trying to coach myself into not being so AND HERE WAS THE METAPHOR but I’m wondering if I’m pulling back tooooo much. Let a gal know!

Happy reading!

Today I am Furor

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“Storm.”

“Absolutely not,” she strode across the room to stand just a few feet from me, her long navy jacket flowing behind her like a cape, “you need to take this seriously.”

“I am taking this seriously.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you’d know we have already had a hundred Storms, and a hundred more variations on Storm: Storm Bringer, Storm Shaker, Storm Leader, Hailstorm, Hailstrum, Tempest, Cyclone, even Icy The Storm- and yes in every language. Squall, Thunder, Thunderstorm, Lightening, Cloudburst-“

“Cloudburst?”

“Yes, it’s when clouds… burst… into a storm.” She was rubbing her temples now. It made the silver streaks she often pushed behind her ears fall forward.

“How about Stratus? Strat-miss?”

“Al’s family tree is clouds, as you well know.”

“Oh, right. How about Gale?”

“Just… no.”

This is not how I imagined this moment going. I thought there would be a little fanfare, some well-mannered celebrating. At least a glass of champagne.

Instead I was in my aunt’s basement, with her friend Tidal, spending more time on my code name than acknowledging that I had passed every single test to get into the Guild of Underground Atmospheric Guardians for Earth, or GUAGE.

I started training when I was eleven years old, after accidentally calling a lightening strike to the neighborhood pool. It was a perfectly sunny summer day, the sky as blue as a berry and clear as glass. A teenage boy wouldn’t stop dunking my little brother and I in the deep end, holding one of us in the water until the other was able to tackle his arm, and then he’d switch victims. My fury and distress manifested as I saw the bubbles rising above my brother again, and the next moment the teen is screaming, lifeguards are whistling like an off key orchestra, and my mother is pulling me from the water, already on the phone with her sister.

“She’s done it,” my mother whispered into the mouthpiece, wrapping towels around my brother and me, “Yes! Lightening. No no, no one’s hurt. Yes, we’re on the way the home- meet us there.” She smiled down at me while the other parents’ faces were creased with worry and shouting for their children.

And then it started. Weekends out in the mountains to practice, tudors for every science class, a full ride to Cornell in Meteorology. While my roommates gallivanted off in search of the next house party, I stayed behind to monitor the tiny cyclone I’d stirred up in my tea mug.

With graduation, came the tests. I had withstood hurricanes, conjured hail, recoiled tornadoes, was even given the Rainbow Ribbon for passing all the trials with literally flying colors. But no, I was disappointing Aunt Lynda because I couldn’t come up with a unique code name.

“Do I have to decide this now?”

“You will be a part of GUAGE for the rest of your life, my dear. You will hopefully have a legacy. And most importantly, everyone in the guild knows you’re my niece. So I cannot have the family name ruined with a bad… family name.”

Her green eyes glinted behind her thick glasses. I think I did sense some pride in there, almost doused by the seriousness she was trying to express to me with her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

“Well, if you’re Disdo-Ma’ameter, maybe I should be an instrument too.”

Her forefinger stopped digging into her right temple so she could place her hand on my shoulder instead, “It’s got to feel right. I appreciate the sentiment, but we don’t need a Baro-Ma’meter and so on. Because then they all start to sound stupid.”

I sat back down in the brown, practically wilting, lazyboy. I watched Tidal watch me for a minute. Then I turned my gaze to the arm of the chair, and began picking at a loose thread.

I’d wanted to be part of GUAGE since the very beginning. When Aunt Lynda burst into our foyer, hair wet with rain and eyes on fire, she scooped me up and held me tightly. “It’s a downpour out there! Well done! We’ve got one, Lacy!” she called to my mother as she twirled me. Then she set me down, pulled a wrinkled and torn journal from her bag, and told me about GUAGE. She held my hand from that moment to when I took my vows, just an hour ago.

“We are the weathermen, the weatherwomen, the weather people of the world. We are the wind in the hurricane, the ice in the blizzard. We are the gauge of the world, for the world. I take these vows to monitor, interpret, and engage with the atmosphere of our world for the betterment of all peoples, everywhere.”

I’d known the lines for a decade. Hell I could say them in Latin.

Next I would get my assignment: Once assimilated into GUAGE, I would be either put onto a search team, or made into a small TV personality to guard my assigned region. I secretly was hoping for the search team. How amazing would it be to scope out the very ends of the earth and even outside of it- to see the real forces we were interacting, and occasionally fighting, with.

But alas, I’d inherited by mother’s cherry curls and my father’s wide mouth, so I was destined to entice the elderly and the morning people with my winning personality on Channel 4. And you know, occasionally keep them alive by taking on the arrant tsunami while making it look like I’d just misread a rain watch. The usual.

“Surge…” I watched her eyebrow rise with suspicion, “…ess? Surgess?”

The eyebrow froze, then softened. Then she turned completely towards Tidal.

He nodded, grumbling, “The last Surgess passed away over 30 years ago, it’s up for grabs and doesn’t have much of its own legacy yet.”

“Then it’s perfect.” Aunt Lynda, the Disdo-Ma’ameter beamed at me finally, “Tidal, let everyone know, Surgess will take her place in Fort Myers by dawn.”

She hugged me tightly, then held me at arms length to stare right at me.

“Fort Myers? Storm central.” I whispered in awe.

“You’ve earned it. So now the real work begins.”

The Word

Furor (noun): An outbreak of public anger or excitement; a wave of enthusiastic admiration, a crazy.

This was directly inspired by the snow predicted for my city being over 4 hours late. And then I got the silly idea that weathermen/women/people predict things wrong on purpose sometimes, for of course superhero reasons- like they’re battling a large ice monster, they need to get an old lady safely back in her house before a hurricane, or they want to get their milk and bread from the store before everyone else.

Sometimes, stories don’t have to have a deeper meaning or magical inspiration. Sometimes, stories and prompts can just be fun. Like a snowday 😉

Today I am Fervor

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“She’s come under some kind of fever!”

Yarrow

“I don’t know what happened! We were talking and I came into the kitchen and she was bent over, soaked in sweat.”

Queen Anne’s Lace

“Is the baby going to be okay?”

Ginseng

“No she was feeling well all day! I think. She didn’t say anything about feeling bad.”

Black, no, blue Cohosh

“Is she going to-“

“Shut up and get. Out.”

The man sputtered to a stop, his mouth open still trying to form his next word. He almost tripped into the sink in an attempt to halt his pacing.

“But, but she needs me…” he tried, his eyebrows furrowing into an astonished trench of wrinkles.

“No,” the woman spat, “she needs me, that’s why you brought her here. And I cannot do a thing with you mucking up the energy of my house. Amber?! See this man gets some fresh air!”

A smaller woman with sparkling blond hair reappeared in the doorway, her eyes commanding but her hand outstretched gently, and ushered the man into the dusk-covered garden.

Meanwhile the slightly older woman finally took a deep breath, stretching her back and straightening her long blue dress with calloused hands. She pulled a peppermint from one of its many pockets and popped it in her mouth. Then she sighed once more.

“Alright, love,” She grabbed a well worked rag from a tall shelf, each row filled to the brim with odds and ends and jars and bowls and dried something or another. This rag’s faded dyes whispered of a long forgotten university homecoming, but its life now was a cooling cloth as she dipped it into a glass bowl of water with lavender buds swimming through it.

She dabbed the rag on the young woman’s brow, and a breath of relief escaped from her parched mouth.

Lavera was rather relieved as well. This was the first sign the woman may actually live since sweet Amber had led the husband in here and he had rather unceremoniously dropped the woman in the kitchen cot before dropping himself to his knees and begging Lavera to save his wife.

“There you go, now have a bit too there,” she dipped the rag again and held it to the woman’s lips, “hydrate or diedrate, you know.”

The young woman’s closed eyes creased a bit, and Lavera took this as her weary attempt to smile.

“Worry not, love, we’ll get you sorted. But you did get yourself into something nasty, didn’t you?”

Lavera took a few more rags from the shelf, dipped them into the water, and placed them on each of the gal’s wrists and ankles, as well as across the chest and forehead. She dabbed gently at a short but deep scratch right at the woman’s hairline. She then returned to the mortar and pestle, where she had been attempting to gather her wits and herbs while that man had been nearly driving her mad.

From the glass bowl she poured a bit of the lavender water and began a paste.

“Trying to rid ourselves of him before the baby came, were we?”

She didn’t have to turn to hear the small but affirmative “mmm” from the cot.

“And what did we do, forget our task and lick the spoon? Not open a window while we were mincing the belladonna?”

There was another “mmm” from behind her. It didn’t answer the question, but it did confirm that she was in the correct realm of guesses.

Lavera nodded her head, too knowingly.

She continued to press the herbs together, distracting a part of herself as she turned and asked a little quieter, “Cheater? …or is he too stupid, ran y’all down?”

No noise from the woman.

Lavera stopped her pestle, “Is he… mean, rough?”

“Mmm.”

“Mmhmm,” Lavera nodded again, turning back to the counter, “It’s always the nice ones, ain’t it? They make it hard for people to believe you.”

She passed her fingers over the smaller jars, searching for the powdered turmeric. She found it by feel, the dent on the left edge of the top, while she eyed the rosemary bush outside.

“Be right back,” she cooed softly.

She walked barefoot and silently through the back garden. Amber’s comforting words to the husband carried on the soft breeze with the gentle scent of tomato leaves and fresh dirt. Lavera whispered encouragement to the plants as she walked, touching them gently as she went. Sweet nothings to the echinacea, tickling tales to the thyme, compliments to the calendula, catching a few leaves here and a couple petals there as she did. When she reached the rosemary, she offered her thanks as she snipped three short sprigs from the bush, and hurried back inside.

She shed the rosemary into the mortar and let it settle for a bit while she set the kettle on the stove. Tea would be a good idea for the whole ordeal.

When the healing paste was finally ready, she turned to her patient, who was still sweating. This was actually a good sign, but she was still too pale for Lavera’s liking.

“To business then,” she said as much to herself as to the woman on her cot.

Lavera gently peeled off each damp rag and replaced it with a healthy swipe of the thick paste. As she did, the room filled with the heady scent of sharp herb, honeyed flower, the very earth itself. The air shimmered with ancient knowledge as Lavera whispered again, this time not encouragement but appeasement and instruction.

She then took the rest of the paste and scooped it into a clay mug just as the kettle trilled the water was ready. She filled the mug, and while it cooled, she filled three more mugs and placed a selection of herbs in each one, as well as a few of the collected petals from her pocket.

When there was the sound of stirring behind her, she turned to see the young woman attempting to get out of the cot.

“Whoa whoa, there girl!” Lavera said with a small chuckle, “you’ve got some fight you in you, love, but let’s not use it all up, now.” She rearranged the pillows so the young woman was now partially sitting up.

“That a bit better…?”

“Marie,” the woman let out in a rasp.

“That a bit better, Marie?”

Marie nodded.

“Alright good, let’s get some of this tea in you then. You’ll still be quite weak for a few days, but you and the little one you’re cooking will be all right, you just gave your system a fright.”

She blew on the clay mug and stuck a finger in it to make sure it had cooled a bit, then held it out to Marie.

Both Lavera and Marie were very pleased to see Marie’s hands could hold the mug just fine. Strength was returning quickly.

“Thank you,” Marie whispered in between deep gulps.

“Of course, love,” Lavera poured water into the other three mugs, “we do what we can for each other, don’t we?”

She took the other mugs out to the front garden, gave the husband and Amber the good news.

“By the time we finish our tea, your wife will be well enough to walk back home. But she’ll still need to rest for several days. Do you have someone who can come look in on her while you’re working?”

The husband nodded over his steaming cup, “Yes, her sister is close and can come sit with her.”

“That’s perfect!” Chimed Amber.

“And did you figure out what happened?” the husband peered back to Lavera.

“Oh yes,” Lavera stared back into his dark eyes, “it was indeed a heavy fever, can come on at any time of year. I’ve seen it a few times, and thankfully we caught this one in time. Make sure when you get home, leave the kitchen be. Might have been something in there with the germ on it. Ask her sister to clean it when she comes, just in case. Can’t have mother and father sick this close to baby.”

The husband nodded appreciatively.

And in an hour or so when they left by moonlight, they seemed happy enough.

And they would be. For a few days.

Long enough for Marie’s sister to arrive. Long enough for witnesses to see Marie’s husband get back to work. Long enough for the petals Lavera had dropped in his tea to work all the way through his system. But not quite long enough for him to realize that the scratch at the back of his throat was no ordinary seasonal tingle, but the cold claws of someone else’s conscious coming for his very breath.

And Lavera would be in her garden, watching several fat bees bumble past her to land on the marigolds as she spread the tea leaves and herb paste remnants through the mulch. This was one of her favorite parts of her work. The great exchange. Nature will always give if you will return in kind.

“Amber?” She called, knowing the young woman was most likely already right behind her.

“Yes?” came the chirping reply.

“What say we plot out that back corner for more room? Carrots, chamomile, and…”

“Foxglove? Pink ones?”

“That sounds lovely. Yes. It’s going to be a busy season, my dear. Let’s get going.”

The Word

Fervor (noun): Intense and passionate feeling

I can’t IMAGINE what made me decide to pull out this plot and draft it up this week… must be the weather.

The story of one of my favorite historic anti-heroines, Giulia Tofana is making the internet rounds again (again, this week? can’t imagine why, so random). And like many historic celebrities women people, the chances of the real Giulia Tofana being one person is actually very slim. I’ve heard numerous podcasts attribute her fame to different people, sometimes an Italian oligarch, sometimes that Italian oligarch’s maid, sometimes a mother-daughter pair, ALWAYS someone says a witch.

The guess that I throw my dollar bet on is that it was a group of women, and one of them had the best recipe, and her name was something LIKE Giulia- much like my family’s pound cake is Zenneth’s poundcake because it says “Zenneth” at the top of the recipe card, even though half of us were unsure Zenneth was a real person because for decades only Nanna had actually witnessed her in real life. So between our family tree and the people we shared it with, Zenneth’s poundcake may have traveled much farther than Zenneth herself.

My point being- I think the inner ring of women have been around for a long time, and kept secrets for a long time, and I have been thinking about that a lot this week, and how in the coming times, we’ll have to chose between fervor and fever, because the body is going to get this out one way or another.

Keep reading. Not just here. Read everything. Read all the things. Read the things they don’t want you to, especially.

Happy reading.

Herbs and flower meanings:

  • Yarrow: Flower means healing and love; reduces inflammation and stops bleeding
  • Queen Anne’s Lace: Flower means safety and refuge; used for skin ailments, blood disorders, natural birth control
  • Ginseng: Flower means stability; Boosts immune system and used as antioxidant
  • Blue Cohosh: Flower means protection, peace, serenity, and tranquility; used for sedative and gynecologic aid
  • Black Cohosh: Flower means resilience and understatement; treats hot flashes and sweats
  • Foxglove: Flower means resilience; treats heart failure and high blood pressure

Today I am Fatigue

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Many of the shops along the main thoroughfare have changed throughout the years. They had changed signs, changed sales, changed paint colors. And when those didn’t work, they changed hands, changed trade, changed customers. The past decade had been particularly difficult on the half cobblestone half paved street, and several of the shops were now shuttered. Only lonely “Available for Rent or Purchase” signs gathering dust in their once vibrant windows gave any hint that there had once been life within.

The Grudgery had no such issues.

The Grudgery stood healthy and strong in the same building for nearly eight centuries. There had been a few improvements over the years, like the addition of a modern roof in the early 1800s (this had upset a few of the older regulars and many of the town rodents, but did pick up business during rainy season). There was also a rumor about a big fire that had attempted to take the whole street, let alone the whole town, a few years prior and that’s why one of the walls bellowed a bit inward. Though the size of the fire, when it was, and how many buildings it successfully scorched depended on who you asked and what time of day they answered.

The building had stood through so many historical battles, occasionally serving its citizens as hospital or hideout, and city reconstructions, always having just enough documentation to grandfather itself past new regulations, that some believed it may be the oldest building on the coast. Others would grunt and hum and frivolously claim that it must actually be a new building, just styled artistically to look so aged and worn to fool misguided tourists. But the only real change since its first founding were a few flakes of a putrid pink paint along the counter where an overly enthusiastic waitress had tried to “spruce up the place.” But both she and the color had been banned come the following morning.

For the most part though, The Grudery remained the very same since the moment Mrs. O’Harliot stopped her Gruders’ cart in front of the block on the blossoming boulevard, poured her bag of coins into the proprietor’s hands, and stated she would cart no further. Patrons would now come to her.

The large wooden door with its large iron handle led into a cooling stone floor- mismatched slabs pulled from the surrounding land and smoothed over by many feet and much time. Upon the stones rested several small tables, none of which matched either. Two were beautiful oak, carved with lacy leaves and intricate vines by a thankful carpenter. One was a wispy iron rescued when a tea shop went out of business. Three were just great lengths of the trunk of a proud oak that had once stood at the end of the street. When it was cut for town expansion, Mrs. O’Harliot told the workers they’d all be cursed to have felled such a beast, and then had her sons roll the trunk into her building before it could be turned into lumber. No one knew where the chairs came from, but there were always enough.

The counter was made from the same pine forests as the walls and door. Indents marked where many a man had leaned up to it, pretending to read the scrawly labeled bottles on the tall shelves behind it as they made up their minds. The burls were little tide pools of history, telling of customers’ circling fingers as they unburdened their wares.

And between the well worn wooden counter and the glass filled shelves was a young woman. Not young in the sense of today’s world and not young in the sense of yesterday’s world, for in both she should have probably been married off or shut up in her father’s attic by now. But young in the sense that she only had one singular strand of grey hair intertwined with her blond and had not yet seen the world.

She did however know her job and it was to carry on as Mrs. O’Harliot had wanted, and run The Grudgery. And she was old enough to know not to disappoint one’s ancestors, nor one’s customers.

The Grudgery had both its regulars and its new comers. The regulars were usually ushered in by a knowing family member or friend when the time was right, and brought into the tradition of having a refreshing draft at “the ol’ Grudge” before going about any important business. If they were regular enough, the resident O’Harliot would make a drink specifically for that family line to suit their tastes.

New comers sometimes fell onto the place, having trudged through the streets with a black cloud above their heads, or a worry about their shoulders, and their feet had decided that a stop at The Grudgery was needed. The unsuspecting patron would lean tiredly into the heavy door, and be pleasantly surprised by the peaceful air welcoming them into the large room. Even on the rare occasion when there was little company, there seemed to amiable murmurings of conversation floating about the space.

They’d cross the floor, each step feeling a bit lighter, and finally lean against the large counter, admiring the wall of swirling contents.

“Evening,” the young woman would chirp, no matter the time of day, “what can I do for you?”

And the customer would partake in a tradition of bars and bartenders that has been ongoing since the first wheat was fermented and poured from cup bearer to cup holder. Yet here it was done before a cork or tab or tap was even touched.

“I cannot stand my boss- always on egging me on like that!”

“We’ve been fighting like feral cats again, but I know she loves me.”

“I have to see my father-in-law and he owes me still, but I can’t upset my grandma by bringing it up.”

“They’re my child, and I want them happy, but if I hear ‘it’s my dream!’ after the last fourteen dreams? I may throw myself out the window.”

The young woman would nod, knowingly, just as her mother had nodded before her, and her’s before that, and her’s before that, all the way back to the great nodding of Mrs. O’Harilot with her traveling cart.

“I see, that sounds like a lot to carry,” or some variation of a comfort, “why don’t you take a seat and one of our waitresses will bring you something in just a moment?”

Then the youngest Miss O’Harliot would turn to the shelf and pull a few bottles, think for a moment, put a bottle back and pull a box of herbs or a jar of dried produce. She carefully measured each of her chosen ingredients into either a shaker or a teapot or a mug, and then blend or steep or froth as necessary. She would call for a waitress from the backrooms to deliver the drink to the customer’s table so that she could help the next. Because there was frequently a steady steam at her counter.

The waitress would set the drink down with a smile, perhaps a “careful dear, it’s hot” or an “enjoy, love!” The patron, still not entirely sure how they found this tranquil place, would take a hesitant taste and find themselves indulging in a combination of complex flavors, none of which they could ever later recall. Had it been quite earthy, like a matcha? They thought perhaps. But also a bit sweet, with a drop of fruity cordial maybe. On second thought, it had been delightfully warm and spicy. Or, was it bright and tangy? No matter. It had charmed the spirits, and the next time they felt so down, they would go to that nice little hole in the wall again.

Because they weren’t so irritated with their boss anymore, were they? They understood her perspective and would be more fair next time they spoke.

Or wasn’t there always two sides to an argument with a partner? Better to make up or break up rather than this round-and-round mess.

And can’t be upsetting Grandma, we’ll just forgive father-in-law the favor, but not forget if it’s asked again.

And so what if a child dreams more than a thousand times? This time we’ll support, just with a little more caution.

The weight fell away with each satisfying swallow, allowing the deeper emotions beneath to surface and take their rightful place. As each unburned traveler savored their last sip and took their leave, the waitress would appear again, clearing the empty cup as well as the coins or bills or gems or keepsakes which were left in payment.

“You have a good evening, sweetie! Come back and see us anytime!” And they often did.

It was rare, but there was the occasional unsatisfied customer. They would storm back in days or weeks later, angry and flustered. Stating they had lost their ability to indulge, to converse, and wasn’t this the last place they were before it happened!

Miss O’Harilot’s mother had turned these types away, trying to save them from themselves. The younger was more like her ancestor and did not bother herself with such things. She simply poured the flustered individual a glass of tap water from the old copper spigot, threw in a kernel that looked suspiciously liked an acorn, and slid it across the bar. As the un-customer downed it, she had a waitress bring them their refund, and pointed firmly at the door.

The other unique kind of customer was the type Miss O’Harilot refused to take payment from. She had been taught to see the difference in the weight of their shoulders, of the dark circles under their eyes. These she would take to a quiet corner table herself, with a large teapot of plain chamomile tea, and say “Dear, you must hold on to this one for a while, for your own good. You’ll come back again, when it’s time to let it go.” She would have a waitress sit with them until they were ready to leave, and make sure they knew the way back. She was always very pleased to see these customers a second time.

For The Grudgery was a place for all kinds, and all kinds for a place. It was why it had lasted so long, and had served both king and commoner, tops of family trees as well as the very roots of them.

You are welcome at The Grudgery, as well. Perhaps you wondered down this street looking for that bookshop a local spoke about, or a spot for lunch before your next meeting. Instead you’re enticed by the swinging sign with an old cart and donkey carved deep into its grain. The wooden walls of the place have groaned through countless storms and yet the door does not creak to announce your entrance. The weather outside has been as cloudy as your mind and you flinch at the idea of making a mess, but the mud caking your boots does not seem to mar the stone floors as you make your way in. Several seated patrons smile up at you, some lifting their mugs in greeting. A larger group points to unoccupied chair at their table without stilling their conversation, offering that you join their party if you’d like. You nod in thanks but settle into one of the wooden barstools.

“Evening,” chirps the young woman at the bar. Her eyes are as shining as the hundreds of colorful bottles behind her, “what can I do for you?”

The Word

Fatigue: (noun) 1. Extreme tiredness resulting from mental or physical exertion or illness. 2. Weakness in materials, especially metal, caused by repeated variations of stress. (verb) 1. Cause someone to feel tired or exhausted. 2. Weaken a material, especially metal, by repeated variations of stress.

I was thinking how nice it would be to just, set a grudge down for a bit, because it’s very tiring to carry around. I know I’m supposed to be a mature adult and like, let gooooo of a grudge or deal with it. But you know, in the meantime before I’m ready to do that work, it’d be nice to set it down for a bit. I feel like my Grudgery drink would probably be pina’ colada flavored. That seems grudge-deleting to me.

Anyway. I also really liked the idea of a building being the main character rather than a person, and I wanted to play with that idea. The O’Harilot line certainly comes in and is a secondary-main but I feel The Grudgery is alive enough on its own, or at least that’s my goal here. But I found it kinda hard to finish. Buildings can’t exactly ride into the sunset, you know? So this ending may change or I might give it another go, we’ll see.

Thanks for being here, reader! Happy reading!

P.S. Liked this story? There’s now a Companion Story!