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Cluck. Jo looked down, one foot raised. Underneath sat an orange and white chicken. It tilted its head at Jo’s foot, blinked beady black eyes, and clucked again.
“Is that-”
“Roast!” A deep voice called. Surprisingly, the chicken answered. It flapped its wings as it went running down the path. The chicken named Roast squeezed between two fence posts to dutifully return to its owner.
“Sorry, we’re just passing through,” Jo called to him.
He put his hands to his pointed phyrra ears and yelled, “What?”
Jo walked closer. “We’re just passing!”
“Oh, well welcome. I’m Kho, this is Roast.” Taller than most phyrra, Kho was only a couple inches shorter than herself. He had sandy chin length hair, honey colored skin, and dark freckles dotting his face. A wispy beard decorated his chin and jaw. His clothes were dirty and patched over, and his hands were closed around a pitchfork that he set to the side to scoop up Roast. Kho lifted the chicken’s wing gently, waving it up and down.
“Hm,” Maven grunted over Jo’s shoulder. “Never seen that before.”
“Her brother Toast should be around here somewhere.” Kho looked around the yard, shading his eyes against the sun.
“Toast,” Lola echoed over Jo’s shoulder.
Cluck.
A brown and black chicken looked up at Lola from behind her. Toast drew back his head and pecked at Lola’s ankles with all his might. When she shrieked, Jo had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing. Not everyone else on the team had the same courtesy. Kho looked between them. “Where are you all… from?”
“We’re… well…” Jo trailed off, unsure how much to share with this random farmer.
“We’re headed from Lekonis,” said Lola carefully, “towards Ipbo. We hear they’re debuting airboats for the holiday.”
Kho looked between Glade sweeping their tail behind them to ward off attacks from Toast, and Iila, who was trying on her most winning, and most terrifying, grin. “Alright then.”
The sun beat hot on the farm. Animals were sheltering under woven awnings and lapping at water gratefully. Jo thought about her own empty canister. “Would you by chance have water for some friendly passersby?”
Kho looked apprehensively at the weapons at their belts and slung across their backs. He shrugged and waved them forward. “Thought you wouldn’t ask.” He didn’t sound happy; in fact, Kho’s voice was trembling.
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In the backyard sat a camper van, spacious enough to fit a family of eight, a trampoline, and a large above-ground pool. Their house was one of those rich, suburban houses, with a white mother and father and their three children- two boys and a girl. Seven bedrooms, three bathrooms, a decked-out kitchen perfect for hosting holidays, and a special living room for hosting Bible Study on Wednesday nights. Toys piled up and the latest video games were always around. It was a house my family dreamed of living in, and we did live in it. Downstairs sat an uninhabited basement, fully finished with a small kitchen and living space, and three of the house’s bedrooms. This was where my family of seven moved. The best part about the house wasn’t the pool and it certainly wasn’t the trampoline; it was that we were not homeless for the five months that family allowed our stay.
On a hot summer afternoon, after a day of playing in the sun but before retiring to play video games, my mother would always shower. She loved spending time with us on those rare free days when all five of her girls were home, and she wasn’t working one of many jobs she held down simultaneously to provide. Our job was to set the living room up, since she didn’t understand and wasn’t willing to learn how to work the equipment. She would emerge in a puff of steam and a waft of perfume. Unwilling to wear shorts outside, those days she was even willing to don a light summer nightdress. We each peeled off at different times in the night, smart enough and independent enough to dictate our own bedtimes. With a yawn, I’d announce my departure. My mother was never short on hugs, pulling me in and holding me, understanding of the importance of that contact. Rich vanilla and rose and a creamy, heavy shea butter: the last things I’d smell for the night.
When riffling through the cabinet before moving out, I discovered the exact lotion she would use. Her ‘yes’ when I asked to take it was distracted, unaware of the significance. Although, I don’t use it much.
Attributed to diagnosis
Brought often in late spring
Clearly
Directly
Estimated to be
Factors of illness
Greatly cause internal
Health decline
Immune to physical evolution
Join discussion for fewer storms,
Lies we authored,
Mismanaged medicines; mortality rates
Never revealed
Other
Physical symptoms
Questioning
Realities spread
Surrounding mental illness
Timelines weakened by disease
Unknown and invisible,
View seriously only too late
Winds
Expected
Yearning to blow
0 likelihood of simple and total recovery
There were several things about mini-me that were embarrassing. First of all, I was held back in kindergarten for being “too small.” My teachers were worried that me, a tiny brown girl with curly hair bigger than her head, would get bullied if I wasn’t the same size as the other kids. I waited the extra year in hopes of catching up, but I got bullied anyways. Secondly, I was a nerd. Not a cute quiet nerd, mind you, but an obnoxious, always-carrying-a-book-and-reading-aloud-to-herself type of nerd. Finally, and probably most insufferably, I was known as the teacher’s pet. If all of that wasn’t enough, I was that kid. I was the kid in school who peed her pants.
After the first few accidents, Mom found that I was simply unable to ‘hold it’. She chuckled as she wrote the note to my teachers that made it official: I had to go when I said. Because my hand was annoyingly stuck in the air anyways, it made notifying teachers easy. Once I hit middle school, my reputation preceded me. When I wiggled around in my seat like I had ants in my pants, and waved more fervently that normal, the teachers would sigh and point to the door. My wiggly dance down the hall was a sight to see.
Tiny me thought this worked pretty well. I was getting out of class as much as I could want, no questions asked. Since I was a ‘good kid’, I never took this for granted (Of course I did, how could you believe a child?!). Mom and the doctor had other plans for me. Something about getting a diagnosis for what made my bladder weak, but I think the word they were looking for was ‘Loser’. I peed in a cup seven times before starting treatment. Most people never have had to pee in a cup once. I’m jealous.
Homework was not foreign to me. In fact, homework was my favorite pastime (I told you I was insufferable), until the doctor gave me bladder homework. Did you know you could educate your bladder? After weeks of this at-home ball-squeezing and hip-flexing homework, I went back in for testing. My new routine was: get to the pee doctor’s, drink as much water as I could hold, get the cup from my mom, and send my pee away for Science. That day held other plans, for which my mom promised me McDonald’s. Before I even processed how these new plans would help me exactly, five extremely sticky nodes were attached to my butt.
If you’re wondering how terrible it is to be hooked up to the Butt-o-Matic, I couldn’t tell you because I promptly zoned out for the rest of the visit. All I knew was that I was being rewarded for this discomfort with salty fries and a thick shake. I pictured bringing my meal in when I was dropped back off at school, flexing on my classmates with the greasy bag. For once, I would lord over my class.
After a half an hour of doing the exercises with nodes hanging off my butt, I was finished. On my way out, I was offered a Princess Jasmine sticker. Letting my face show my sadness and, blinking at the doctor, I asked if I could also have the Princess Ariel one. The doctor’s face shifted into one of pity. She gave me both stickers.
Mom fulfilled her promise, swinging by the Drive Thru while pulling her Aldi’s employee sweater on. The water I’d had from the water fountain was starting to make its appearance and, since I hadn’t peed in the cup, I had critically miscalculated. As she pulled to the first window to pay, I leapt out of the car, slamming the door shut on my mom’s surprise. I barely made it in time. She was laughing when she swung the car around the front of the building and I came out. “Welcome back, Sticky Buns,” is all she said before driving me the rest of the way to school.
I sauntered into the building with the aromatic McDonald’s bag swinging from my grasp, my tattered Percy Jackson book in the other, and my buns still slightly sticky.
Forever Writing,