we lay on the surface

hair swirling and twirling underneath

chlorine ripples washing over our faces

our eye lashes dotted with pearly droplets

our arms and legs stretched out

we float on water like stars.

petals falling like snow upon the white marble gazebo could only hold my attention for as long as you spoke of our future. a future falling apart as quickly as the flowers that had once been in full bloom, wrapped around collums, and capturing the delight of those who walked by. now amongst the drying vines and coldness that seemed to turn everything to muted greys and blues I couldn't help wonder if you saw the world the same as I once did...but perhaps too late to save what was now just petals under our feet.

You are the reason

I paint with words

Palette of delicacies,

divine

Pouring the life

into landscape’s verse

Staining pearl-white

with blackberry wine

Visions of rhythm

in eyes of myrrh

Tasting sugar, sweet,

rhymed with salt

Sating my soul,

sipping milk of mirth

Ferment’ language’s

syrup ’til malt

Pestilence grimaced as he stood in one of London’s less glamorous boroughs. The air smelled like horse shit and misery. Men, women, and children alike grasped at his immculately tailored trousers, their own rags all but falling off their withering figures. He smiled kindly down on a man of indeterminant age, his face ravaged by hardship and desperation.

“All I ask is for a single penny, sir.” The man pleaded, “Enough for bread, and a glimmer of hope for my family.”

“Not an unreasonable request,” Pestilence conceded, as he kicked the man into a puddle of rainwater, and what would be assumed by the optimist to be mud. He pressed his heel into the man’s temple, and with it, the man’s face dug a groove in the dirt, “But I am here to meet a friend, and I don’t think she’d appreciate my undoing her good work.” Pestilence slid his hands into his pockets, and began to walk away, before stopping abruptly and turning back. “So don’t tell anyone, ” he whispered as he stroked his beard, tossing a penny into the puddle with the groaning beggar.

Not three steps later, a melody of scorn and amusement escaped from the dark alleyway next to him, “Soft, as always,” it said.

“Enemies bring War, and I don’t intend on fraternizing with him today,” Pestilence responded.

“Diplomacy with the impoverished is a futile endeavour,” Famine smiled as she stepped from the shadows, and into the grey haze of daylight. “Like I said, soft.”

“How have you been?”

“Productive, and yourself?”

“Bored. I’ve been wandering around China aimlessly.”

“I take it this visit isn’t just social, then.” Famine’s eyes glimmered an odd, indistinguishable shade, “What are you planning, Pestilence?”

“You’ve done well devastating this disgusting city,” he mused, as a small rat scurried by him. He scooped it up by the tail, and held its seizing body in front of his face, “But I think it’s time I take the seed of suffering you planted, and nurture it into something the aristocracy can fear.” Pestilence planted a kiss upon the rat’s mangy fur, and tossed it aside, “would you like to invite me in for tea?”

Famine gestured for him to follow, and slid back into the crevice from which she had emerged. She led him through a series of winding back streets, and neglected buildings. He was careful not to let his shoulders brush the filthy walls as he admired one of the most beautiful cities he had witnessed. No effective sewage, babies born among the horse’s feed, sex and crime a more common currency than gold or silver.

Eventually, Famine settled in front of a rickety door wasting away with rot, the building leaning so far over the road, it appeared to be watching anyone that traversed it. “This is home,” she said as she undid the lock and chain wrapped around the door’s handle.

“A resourceful girl like you could certainly stay wherever she pleased,” Pestilence’s disgust dripped off his tongue.

“I take my work seriously,” she responded, her face blank.

“Still, it is a poor habit to bring work home. It’s about balance.” He stepped through the threshold into the barren house, “Do you take no comforts?”

“You’ve developed quite the tedious taste since that Justinian business in 540. Rubbing elbows with emperors has made you pretentious,” she chuckled, “what need do I have for comforts?”

“The burning of Rome was good work. I think we deserve some reward for our efforts.” He said, settling into a creaky chair.

“The burning of Rome was reward enough,” she responded, setting a cup of cold tea in front of him, and sitting across the table.

He sipped it with trepidation, “I don’t suspect you have any sugar, then? Will you leave this place once my work is done?”

Famine rested her face in her hand contentedly, “With your dedication, I assume you’ll render staying unnecessary. Though, I may keep this house as a vacation home, visit once in awhile. It is a wonderful city, isn’t it?”

Pestilence knocked back his tea, eager to get to work. He rubbed his hands together, and grabbed his overcoat from its hook. “It was nice seeing you, Famine. We should do this more often.”

“Proper balance would seem not to share that view,” she whispered with kind warning. Pestilence simply nodded.

“Do you think your hospitality could extend to gracing me with directions to the nearest market?”

He sauntered down the street, curiously eyeing the stalls, and trying to settle the squirming rodents that filled his pockets. He pretended to be interested in buying fruits, slipping the rats into baskets, and under wagons as he bowed cordially, and purchased produce. He granted them both with a deadly secret, and his own famous zeal, and so they scurried on with their business, as he scurried along with his.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Four years later, Pestilence stood outside Famine’s door once again, adjusting his collar, and fixing his hair in a puddle’s reflection. The door swung open just as he prepared to knock. “It’s time to move on, ” he said.

“I bought sugar,” she responded, “come inside.”

Elsewhere, Death’s eyes fluttered open lazily. He sat up, and reclined against the old oak under which he had slept. He stretched, and lit his pipe, “So soon?” he yawned, scratching his head, “I wonder where those guys find all their motivation. Ten more minutes, then I’ll get to work.” With that, he was snoring once again, and the black plague raged on for another year.

Every day when Lola had to walk to work, there was the same old beggar on Minerva Street, sitting with her back against a garage door, rattling a battered tin with only a few coins on the bottom.

“A dollar, just a dollar please! May the gods bless you.”

People thought she was crazy. Whenever they came close to her, they’d walk to the opposite sidewalk, quickly striding down the block, head bowed down.

Sometimes she’d cackle, “Selfish mortals! Not even willing to give a poor old lady a dollar!”

Lola’s church had told the church goers, one Sunday, to be kind to the poor and needy. So on Monday, instead of crossing to the other side on Minerva Street, Lola decided to give not one, but two dollars to the beggar.

“A dollar, just a dollar please!” The old woman begged, rattling her can as Lola drew nearer. She was wrapped in a thin, old cotton blanket, her worn clothes stained with who-knows-what. Lola dropped her two crisp dollar bills into the can.

“Thank you, my dear. May the gods bless you.” The old woman, looked up, smiling. Amidst the tanned, wrinkled skin that was covered with sunspots, there were two startlingly grey eyes, sharp enough to pierce a heart.

“My dear, for your kindness, I must tell you something. Sit down, please.”

When Lola was about to say no, suddenly, she saw a clean, white blanket that she had definitely not seen before. There was something definitely strange, not strange as in crazy, but something peculiar, something different, about this woman.

Lola dropped to her knees, sitting legs crossed on the white mat.

The old beggar took a long breathe, and sighed. “For a long, long time, I have sat here, begging for just a dollar. And not once has anyone given me a dollar.”

“How have you survived, if you only have a couple of coins.” Lola asked, suspicious.

“My dear, I have not gotten close to finishing my story. Listen.” The old woman chuckled, her gray eyes sparkling.

“And every one of you have turned your nose up at me. I am just a crazy, old hag to you, not worth your time or your money. I will die alone, hungry, and penniless. I have no use to anyone.”

“That’s not true,” Lola protested.

“It is, my dear. Don’t lie. I’ve seen you before. I’ve seen all of you cross the street, away from me.”

“I have been alive for a long, long time. I have been around since mortals did not have technology. I have been around when the grass was greener and the skies bluer. I have been around when food could only be hunted or grown. I have been around when mortals would help a poor old lady they saw on the street.”

“Okay then.” Lola was getting impatient. Her boss would be sure to fire her if she didn’t arrive at work any time soon.

“Oh dear. You are already getting bored.” The old woman said, sadly, coughing a little.

“Oh, no. Please continue.”

“From the start, you mortals have been impatient. Greedy. Prometheus wanted to steal fire for the mortals. Pandora could not resist opening the box. Orpheus looked back at his wife when told not to. And look where that got them? Prometheus was forever bound to rocks with thick chafing ropes, forced to endure an eagle eating his liver every day. Pandora caused every mortal to suffer all the negative emotions that could have been avoided. Orpheus could have lived happily ever after with his beloved wife, but no, he lived the rest of his life strumming his lyre and making everything in his way cry, before slowly fading away into nothing himself.”

“None of those stories are true. They are just all myths.” Lola said.

“To you, the Greeks’ myths are just stories. But have you ever thought about why they came up with stories? To me, Greek myths are the stories of humanity’s strengths and flaws.

Such a pity. You mortals have been telling and writing the stories about your flaws for so long, yet compared to the Greeks who lived thousands of years earlier, you are no better than them.” The old woman sighed, her thin frame sagging.

“Why do you refer to us as mortals? I mean, you’re a person, too. You’re not any different from us.” Lola pointed out. Maybe the woman was crazy.

The old woman chuckled. “My dear, that was the first in a long, long time that someone has seen me as a person. But to everyone else, I am not them. I am no person, no mortal. I am not human.”

“But why are you telling me all of this?” Lola asked.

Lola turned to look at the old woman. The shriveled face was the same, but she could see another face flickering within. One of a young, handsome woman’s, with smooth olive skin, yet with the same piercing eyes.

“I am telling you to remind you of what you could be. Now my time is up. You must go.”

Lola got up, confused as ever. After taking a few steps, she turned around.

“Wait. Who are you?”

The old woman smiled, grey eyes sparkling.

“My dear, I am Athena.”

----

i wrote this last night at like 11, so it needs a lot of work:)

There were three Fates. The Greeks called them the Moirae. Clotho, the Spinner. Lachesis, the Alloter. Atropos, the Unturning.

Clotho spun the thread of life, grasping a weathered spindle carved from the wood of the whispering tree of Dodona, the same wood that Jason used to build Argo. She stands firmly, back slightly hunched, wrapped in a colorful shawl with the stories of all the great heroes woven in. Her calloused fingers nimbly run along the fleecy yarn, spinning and spinning into the thread of life.

Lachesis, clothed in silky angelic white robes, measures the thin, delicate thread with her silver measuring rod, deciding the destiny of every living being. Atropos, enveloped in midnight black robes rimmed with intricate flowery gold embroidery, stands there patiently, until it is time to end a life, using her shears made of adanmatine and snipping the thread.

Every day, every hour, every minute, every second, the three sisters stand there, spinning, measuring, and snipping. Every life to them is merely a thread. The thread of each life is so short that it seems like in the short moment they blink, the thread they had just woven has to be cut.

When a mortal approached the three sisters, begging them to extend his life after an oracle prophesized his early death, they laughed.

“Mortals. How foolish! They think everything revolves around them. You think your lives are the most important thing on Earth. But to us, mortals’ lives are merely a piece of thread. Threads that are spun, measured, and cut, eventually tossed away to be unraveled back into yarn for new lives. Do you not understand that fate is fate?”

Finnian had hardly rolled out of bed before hearing the knocking on his door. He grumbled, knowing it was probably the church representatives again, coming to guilt him into attending each week. He ran a hand over his face, trying to put some life into his sleep-worn expression; his fingers tangling in his curls in an attempt to look decent. He plodded over to the door and threw it open, fully expecting to tell the people outside where they could shove their religion.

Instead, he was met by the weary, bruised face of Abbott McClellan hovering just outside the door. Their eyes met, and Finnian instantly recognized the pain hidden inside of Abbott’s. With a look of relief, Abbott muttered a single unintelligible word and began to pitch forward dangerously.

Realizing what was happening, Finnian threw the door open quickly and grabbed onto Abbott’s limp body as he fell, catching him against his chest. What the hell?

He looked around to see if any of his neighbors were watching. Surely if they were, they thought he was crazy. He sighed. This kid was ruining the reputation he worked hard to build. Seeing no visible people, he hefted the other boy over his shoulder without a hesitation and carried him inside.

Finnian looked around the room, trying to find the most comfortable piece of furniture in his house. He didn’t want to put the boy in his bed, because all he wanted to do was climb back into that himself. He decided on the sofa that sat in the middle of the front room, and set Abbott down on it gingerly, wincing as the dirt caking Abbott’s clothes smeared on the light gray upholstery. He shook his head, clearing those thoughts: Abbott clearly needed his help, and he wasn’t going to turn him away. Especially after what that horrible shop-owner had done to him.

Finnian wasn’t quite sure what happened there, but he could tell there was more to the story than Abbott had revealed, especially after his eyes had gone green with that weird glow and that voice that wasn’t quite his had spoken to Finnian. He had wondered after seeing the small room that Abbott had lived in if the older man was holding him against his will, but if he was here, in Finnian’s house, that couldn’t be what was happening, right?

Abbott chose that convenient moment to groan from the couch, his glassy eyes flickering open. “What…?”

Finnian helped the other boy sit up, shaking. He fetched him a blanket off his bed and wrapped it around him, then sat down on the coffee table, right at Abbott’s eye level.

“Look,” he started. “I’m not sure why you’re making it a habit to faint whenever you see me. Like, I get I’m good looking, but that’s laying it on a bit thick.”

He waited a few seconds to watch the heat creep up Abbott’s pale face, then grinned. “Just joking with ya. Seriously, though, are you okay?”

Abbott went to nod his head, but then seemed to think the better of it. He opened his mouth instead and squeaked out, “F-fine.”

Finnian leaned in, eyeing Abbott out of the top of his vision. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. “Look, this is how it’s gonna go. I’m going to say ‘are you okay?’ and you are going to answer with the right answer, which is, ‘no, I’m not. Please, O Mighty Finnian, help me.’ Got it?”

The corner of Abbott’s mouth twitched, and Finnian felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He was getting through to the boy. He watched as Abbott regained his shaky composure.

“Okay. Let’s try this again. Are you okay?”

Abbott took a deep breath, trying to keep the pain off his face, but Finnian could see it. “No, I’m not,” he muttered.

Finnian smiled cheekily. “You forgot a part.”

Abbott raised an eyebrow indignantly. “I’m not saying that.”

Finnian pretended to be hurt. He gasped deeply, clutching one hand to his heart as if shot with an arrow, killing him instantly. “Do you mean to say you think I’m not worthy of that title?”

Abbott spluttered, clearly unsure how to respond. “No-no,” he stammered. “No, I’m sorry, no, please don’t be upset with me, I just-”

Finnian cut him off. “Stop, stop! I was just kidding again. I do that a lot. There’s no need to apologize.” Someone had obviously hurt this kid when he was younger if he felt the need to apologize so severely, and Finnian was sure he knew who had done it. He also had no sense of sarcasm at all, Finnian realized. He made a mental note to tone down the joking until Abbott was more comfortable. He looked Abbott up and down, taking note of how he was shivering- shaking?- even underneath the blanket. He could see the outline of his body, and the thought crossed his mind that Abbott was far too skinny- when was the last time this kid ate? He was sure that if he looked, he would find ribs jutting out of the boy’s chest.

“Okay,” he started. “How can I help? Are you hungry?” Abbott quickly shook his head. Finnian sighed, knowing that this boy was going to be the death of him. “I know you haven’t eaten. Do you feel like eating something, or would that just make it worse?”

Abbott knew he should eat something, as his stomach was utterly empty, but he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in so long, he couldn’t even handle the thought of eating. “I don’t think I can eat right now,” he admitted, shame coloring the edges of his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What did I tell you about apologizing?” Finnian asked, sounding dangerously close to something O’Leary would say. The difference, however, is while Alastair required apologies in the form of pain and totrutre, Finnian required no apologies at all. “It’s not necessary. All I want you to do is get better and not feel bad about it. Asking for help isn’t a bad thing. I assume that’s why you came here, after all? To get help?” he questioned after a second thought. If not, why was Abbott here?

Abbott mused over this thought, finally settling on a simple nod. Apparently this was the wrong answer, and Finnian sighed again, standing up from the table and sitting next to Abbott on the couch. “Scoot over.”

Abbott did, and Finnian turned sideways so that he was facing Abbott, who did the same. “Okay. I get that you’ve been through some shit, and I don’t wanna discount anything that happened to you in your past. But I can’t help you if you refuse to talk- if you won’t let me help you.”

Abbott looked up, into those bright blue eyes, so full of life yet laced with worry and concern, and the cage that he had locked his heart in long ago opened with a small click. He began talking, started with how he had gotten to the Empyrium in the first place, and soon his entire life story was pouring out of his mouth like an uncontrollable waterfall. Not even the dam he had built could hold the intense floodwaters that yearned to be released, that had never seen the light of day in all his years of life. He spoke of the seemingly unmentionable torture he had endured in the Empyrium, the terrible things that O’Leary had done to him, things that he had showved so deep in the back of his mind he thought he would never think of them again, let alone share them with another person. But there was just something so comforting about Finnian, something so inviting that once he started, he couldn’t stop. And Finnian didn’t seem to discount anything, he sat at attention and watched Abbott’s emotions seep out. Abbott was worried that Finnian would think him a terrible, damaged person after all he had gone through, but if anything, Finnian seemed to respect him more.

He finished with the story of how he had found Finnian, sheepishly skipping over the part where he thought the cat was going to kill him. He knew that Finnian would find something to tease him about there. When he was done, he looked up, his fingers laced together in worry, dreading the look he was going to find on the other boy’s face. Instead of the disgust he thought would be there, however, he saw a spark of concern intermixed with sympathy.

Finnian scooted closer to Abbott on the couch. They were practically touching, and Abbott felt a small spark of something flood through his body. It was over before it started, though, and he pushed it aside to look back at Finnian’s face. Finnian ran one hand through his hair, sweeping the curls to the side as he smiled sadly. “Damn. I’m so sorry.” He blinked hard, unsure of how to continue. He normally had a lot to say; he wasn’t used to being at a loss for words. “Well, I know I barely know ya, but I’m really honored that you chose to come here to me and told me all of this. I- I can’t change anything that happened in the past, I just… we can make sure this doesn’t happen again, okay?”

Abbott ignored the tear that was welling in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t cry; couldn’t show weakness. “Okay.”

December 20th 2017

A college student with a heavy backpack and a heavier heart wandered into the bar of my inn. In silence, he sat down at the very end of the bar and pulled out a newspaper. In lieu of reading it like a normal person, he began to fold it into an origami swan. I shrugged it off.

About three hours later, an army of paper swans had invaded my counter space and the guy was still going strong. Fold. Flip. Crease. Flatten. Repeat. Fold. Flip. Crease. Flatten. Repeat.

“Hey, kid, what’s the deal? Did you take every newspaper in Soweto?” I joked.

He didn’t reply. Instead, his face reddened and his eyes narrowed with concentration as he pushed to ignore it. I moved a little closer to him and noticed that his fingers were trembling with every movement. Then, I started to really see him

His clothes were in tatters. Hair an oily mess. He didn’t order anything since he walked in. Yet, he kept folding.

I slid him a glass of amarula.

“I didn’t order anything…” He began, sounding a bit tired.

“I know. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks.” he fiddled with the drink before taking a sip and folding more swans.

“Kid, what are you doing here?”

“Don’t call me kid, I’m twenty-two.”

“Congrats, I’m twenty-eight. You’re basically an infant compared to me.”

He snorted at my joke.

“Finally! He laughs!” I exclaimed.

The kid opened his mouth, like he was about to say something, then closed it and bowed his head. He kept his head bent and continued his swan making process. I glanced at the newspaper’s headline. Mysterious Fire at South West College. I checked the date. A week ago. I wonder…

“Were you a South West student?” I inquired.

The guy nodded.

“I’m guessing your dorm got destroyed in the fire.”

He took a large gulp of the amarula, draining it halfway.

“So, you’ve been out on the streets by yourself since then?”

I saw hesitation in his folding.

“Didn’t the college give you some kind of place to stay?”

“They did.” He mumbled. “A hotel room. I asked to split one with my girlfriend. Then, she broke up with me.”

I slid him a second glass of amarula.

“Thanks.”

“What’s your name, stranger?

“Imari.”

“Nala.”

Imari glanced around the inn. “I never noticed how strange this place was last time.” He commented.

“Oh?” I asked. “How so?”

“It’s a fucking tree. We’re inside a tree. And it’s still alive.”

I chuckled. “Trees can survive while hollow. And this is called a baobab tree. There are a few other folks crazy enough to make bars inside of them, so it’s not just me.”

“But an inn?” He raised an eyebrow. “With three rooms and a bar?”

“Okay, so maybe it is just me.”

Inside the bar, the noise began to die down as patrons got up to leave. Imari glanced around nervously. He began to fold more swans.

“Well, Imari, since you don’t have a place to stay tonight and I happen to have an extra room tonight, I’ll give you it for the price of… three swans.”

He smirked and gave me four. “Keep the change.”

December 21st 2017

Drowsy and rubbing his eyes, Imari stumbled down the stairs and into the bar. “Morning Sleeping Beauty.” I sang. “Did you get a full night’s rest?”

“Hardly.”

“Oh?’

“I think you know why.”

“Those love birds keep you up all night with their love making?”

“Why would you rent out a room to a pair of newlyweds in heat?”

“Because I need the money since someone is staying here for free.”

“Got anything to eat for breakfast?”

“Yes.” I slammed a liquor bottle on the counter. “Amarula.”

Imari raised a sly eyebrow at me.

“And mandazi. They’re cooking in the kitchen.” Under my breath, I added. “Amarula mandazi.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, just the desperate calls of mandazi to be pulled from the fryer.” I trudged into the kitchen and smiled to myself. I’m not sure why, but I liked having Imari around.

Before I could reach the mandazi, I felt a sudden burning in my lungs and grabbed a washcloth by the sink and coughed into it. Removing the cloth from my lips, it had been stained red. It’s getting worse.

I patted my pockets for my meds. I stared at its grim contents. A pill a day. That’s what the doctor said. I swallowed one. I hate my life being bound by chemicals.

“Who wants mandazi?” I cheered heading back out.

“ME!” A squeaky voice called from the counter.

I opened to the kitchen door to find Marigold and an incredibly frightened Imari. “Nala, I have no idea where this kid came from.”

“Oh, that’s easy, she comes up from the woodwork. Like a termite.” I explained. “And her name is Marigold.”

Marigold raised her eyebrows a few times at Imari. “But you can call me any time, handsome.”

I slapped the plate of mandazi in between them. “He’s too old for you, Marigold. Have a candy cane.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for her to have mandazi for breakfast instead?”

I glanced at the half empty bottle of amarula. “No.”

“Hey, this mandazi taste a little weird, is there anything--”

“No.” I answered a little too quickly.

Halfway through breakfast, the honeymoon couple found their way downstairs. “I slept great last night! Like a baby!” The woman commented.

“That’s great, baby!” The man kissed her on the cheek. Marigold gagged.

“Are you two going to have any breakfast?” I asked.

“Do you have any biscuits?”

“I have amarula mandazi?” I offered her a plate.

“I knew there was something in this!” Imari exclaimed as he picked up his bag to leave.

“Woah hey!” I exclaimed. “If they’re that bad, I can make you a batch with mampor instead! It’ll be a little fruitier, but I think I can make it work.”

“What? Oh, I’m not going because of that.”

“Then why?”

“I only gave you enough swans for one night, remember? Besides, I’ve been gone for too long. I gotta do talk to Zuri.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. Though I think I might need something a little stronger.”

I held up a bottle of amarula and offered a half-smile.

“Maybe later.”

I hope you come back soon.

Something my heart said, but my lips never did.

December 21st 2017 (again)

It was later that night that Imari did come back. Paper swans flooded his backpack. A trail of spilled ones littered the floor. “Nice to see you back around, sailor. You missed my mandazi, didn’t you?”

“Hardly.”

“How’d it go with your girlfriend?”

“You mean ex-girlfriend.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Is that so? Well, you’re always welcome to stay in the empty room. Business has been down lately. People like drinks more that tree rooms, but I’m doing fine.”

“Really?” Imari asked.

“Yeah, no problem.”

I felt a cough bubble up. I pounded my chest with a fist and chased down the blood with glass of heavy liquor. As I began to pour a second glass, my hands trembled and it dropped, shattering on the floor. “Tomba!” I cursed as I crouched to pick it up.

“Hey be careful!” Imari called out as he rushed around to help me.

As I reached for the jagged bottom of half of the glass, so did he. Our fingers over lapped for a brief second and I realized… that I was extremely touched starved.

Instantly, Imari backed up and blushed. “Um, sorry.” He muttered.

I felt warm blood rush to my cheeks. “It’s fine.” I spit out. “Totally fine.”

“Oh, you guys are blushing!” Marigold squealed. “Imari and Nala, cleaning inside a tree! B-L-U-S-H-I-N-G!”

“That’s not how it goes.” I calmly said as I dumped the glass in the trash. From the corner of my eye, I snuck a glance at Imari, only to see him looking at me again.

The blush came back.

Part of me was embarrassed. Part of me was high on the butterflies in my stomach. All of me didn’t care.

I stretched out my hand. Imari took it in his. My cheeks went crimson.

December 22nd 2017

A combination of guilt and newfound love twisted in my stomach. I popped another pill. I had to tell him.

I checked his room. Empty. Must be downstairs already.

As I sauntered down the stairs, I almost didn’t notice it in my gloom.

The entirety of my bar was decorated in paper swans. Some hung gracefully from the ceilings. Others were stung like popcorn on a wire and placed on the Christmas tree. A few were placed as table centerpieces.

“Wow, this is… amazing.” I breathed.

Imari popped out from behind the Christmas tree. “Yeah, well, I figure this many swans should be able to let me stay for a little bit longer.”

“How long are you planning on staying?” I asked.

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

“I’ll always shelter you.”

Imari smiled. Before I could say anything more, I started to cough again. A hard breath wrecked my throat and blood spewed out. Running to my side, Imari asked. “What’s wrong?”

I reached for my meds with shaking hands. Maybe if I take more it’ll help.

“I have lung cancer.”

December 31st 2018

The day before I died, I handed Imari my will. I didn’t have any children or family to leave the inn to. For so long, I considered just leaving it in Marigold’s seven year old hands. Since Imari had stayed and helped me take of the inn for the past year, I decided to leave it to him. This has been my last holiday season.

As part of my last wishes, I asked to be cremated and to have my ashes used as fertilizer for the baobab tree. I’ll become the very thing that gave me shelter since I first opened the inn eight years. I’ll always look over Imari and Marigold from my branches. I’ll finish my final promise.

“I’ll always shelter you.”