(Edit #3)

It’s like the sky knows

What I must do.

...The world’s tearing

Apart...

Ripped out

By the roots!...

When you see

A green light,

Maybe you’d throw

Down a sign?...

...I know it’s not your

Jurisdiction,

But I’m here on

Borrowed time.

I should have leveled

All them fields

Back then,

But now it’s you or me...

We’ll be dying

On the vine,

My friend,

If we don’t shake

The thickest heat

That we’ve procured

From blindy being

Completely off our game...

...Now that it’s

Flushing down,

So bad,

It’s bled

My boiling brain!...

It’s like the sky knows

What I must do.

...The world’s tearing

Apart...

Ripped out

By the roots!...

©

2018

Bunny Villaire

Between two trees exploded into boulder stumps, Elemmírë raised a fist. Behind him, ten figures, barely visible above the gloom and bloom, dropped to their knees and scanned the street. They relied solely on the ghostly green readouts from their face masks, as their actual sights would have been distracted by the feral tapestry of flowers, the result not only of civilization gone wild but the biodegradable ammunition being used in the War. Inside each bullet was a gene seed which, when struck by fire, would sprout by day’s end into a single flower. It'd been the only agreed-upon convention between the elf factions—a way of turning war zones into gardens, of reducing the carbon imprint from endless shelling.

For a heartbeat, Elemmírë's Sight picked up a cracked skull, lilac seeping out like purple brain. Then he was Focused on the lights of armored cars bouncing across perforated rock-wake. A set of hand signals and the Ten disappeared, their gaudy red-and-gold camouflage blending with laceleaf and marigold. What Elemmírë's scouts were about to do was an ugly thing; an undignified ambush of a supply convoy. But in another way, a way beyond the soulless tactical hell of battle, they'd be returning motorized death-cannons and plated mercs wearing the ears of enemies around their necks to the serenity of nature.

The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama. Mama could be too tired to cook, but let her find out that we left a chore undone, or an errand unattended. Her muscles would spring to life. Yes, for beating. She was always, it seemed, gunning for some sort of cane prize.

It wasn’t as though my younger brother, Akin, and I liked to be mischievous, sometimes we were simply unlucky—like the day I was bringing my parents’ meal from the kitchen and was about to set it down when Mama asked me to bring her an extra plate. Then some accursed, godforsaken witch of a housefly found no better moment to perch on my earlobe. Both hands occupied so I couldn’t swat it, I raised my shoulder to attend the itch—a motion, most sadly, Mama would misinterpret.

“Eh-ehn, am I the one you’re shrugging your shoulder at because I asked you to bring me a plate? Go and bring me that cane.” That was the format for guaranteed punishment: a rhetorical question, masquerading as an investigative inquiry, followed by an imperative statement. To attempt either answering the question or appealing the order only fetched a bonus pre-punishment slap, so what was the point? Discipline received (with swollen arms and a bruised knee as testament), and dinner forfeited (my favorite àmàlà and ewédú), I made sure I killed off all the insects I could find in the house that night. And the next day.

Mama’s motive for beating us, as she put it, was that the world was just too rotten and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her two boys be corrupted by indiscipline. Her mantras included the Proverbial “…a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,” and “Train up a child in the way he should go…” The day she would upgrade our caning ration, she invited us both to sit down and lamented how we—I, actually—had not been taking my studies seriously considering I had the Common Entrance exam in a few months. Then she tasted her tallest finger and leafed through her unclothed Bible before proclaiming, “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod…” Akin and I went flat on the floor at ‘rod’. As I begged her to be lenient, and Akin pretended to pass out, she continued reading, “…if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die.” There was no going back.

While it was the most popular, flogging was not the only method of instilling discipline. Mama could also ask us to ‘kneel down, raise up your hands and close your eyes’ as our school teachers did, with Mama’s version including, ‘and face the wall.’ I never quite understood the eye-closing and wall-facing part, but I understood that an unexpected lash would attend the buttocks if our raised hands showed any sign of drooping. Alternatively, it would be the dreaded ‘Lọ f’ìka ẹ d’ólè s’íbèyẹn!’ meaning “Go and plant your finger on that spot,’—a punishment that was akin to the posture in hopscotch when you are about to pick up the stone, but in this case, you would be forced to freeze. The actual torment was the clear instruction to never change legs or switch fingers. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for a union of sweat and tears to begin the solemn procession of tumbling off the tip of our noses.

Did I mention that Mama had uncanny prediction accuracy? If she told us ‘Spoil that mousetrap and see what I’ll do to you,’ we could as well begin to weep in advance, because by either extreme caution, or a complete absence of the same, we would engineer the fulfillment of her prophecy. Was it when, while pouring her some drinking water, gravely mindful of her strict, not-too-low-but-not-to-the-brim policy, Akin’s trembling hands overfilled the china cup, wetting her wrapper? Or how, despite warnings against handling hot things without a cloth, I would attempt removing a clay pot of fresh gbègìrì soup from the fire with bare hands, ending up with a shapeless, canary-yellow sea dotted with black shards staring back at me from the sandy kitchen floor? After earning a fat knock on the head that he would nurse all week, and after I acquired her fingerprints across my cheek, Akin and I needed no telling: Mama never threatens. She assures.

Still, all too often, my brother and I seemed to discard prior warnings and revisit our old ways. One Saturday afternoon after chores, Akin and I left the house without permission. Not that we could have sought it, because neither parent was home. The whole thing was my idea; Akin hardly had the courage to break rules anymore. I, on the other hand, was bored out of my wits and needed some rowdy company. We just had to make sure we were home on time.

We visited our neighbour’s farm first and climbed and plucked and consumed all the cashews we could stomach, throwing up when we could go no further. We had spent over three hours there when Akin suggested we head home. I was about to succumb when I realized how bad an idea it was: our shirts were littered with cashew juice, one of the most stubborn stains I have encountered in this life. If Mama spotted or sniffed it, our alibi was blown. So I suggested we go play soccer with our friends. The dust would mask the cashew stains as long as we ensured that we slid and rolled abundantly on the pitch. It seemed like a brilliant plan but when we got to the pitch, and our team kept winning, it was almost impossible to leave. Akin pressured, but I kept reassuring him we would go home after the next win. It wasn’t until a teammate kicked the ball far into a thick bush, and no one volunteered to retrieve it, that everyone dispersed. Our curfew was “6pm sharp” so when my teammate glanced at his watch and casually declared that it was “past 7”, I took some relief in knowing I wouldn’t face our parents’ wrath alone. Chastisement is worse without a partner in crime. At least in this case Mama had no basis for her “Can’t you see your brother? Is this how he behaves?” statements. When I searched, sang and screamed to no end however, I realized how undone I was: Akin had gone home without me.

Stopping two doors away from home, panting like my heart would find its way out any moment, I bent down and locked two straws of spear grass together, then plucked a lash from my left eye and buried it in the hair atop my head—two of the sure-fire charms my school friends told me guaranteed their parents forgot to punish their wrongdoings. Remembering how little of an amnesiac my own mother was, doubled my pace. And my blood pressure.

I approached our front entrance, hesitant. The door was ajar. I peeped in between the door and its frame through the gap occasioned by the hinge. I squinted, widened, cupped the edges of my vision, but the lantern’s flickering light was inadequate to make out anything. Two taps on my back and I instinctively went flat on the ground, confessing, “Mama, the hosts of heaven are my witness, I went in search of Akin not knowing he came home by another route. He went out, plucking cashew all afternoon. In fact, his friends also told me that while they were playing ball…” I paused. Something was not right. Mama would have cut me off mid-sentence, even for the most valid of excuses. As I contemplated looking up at her face, and considered whether I could afford the extra penalty that would attract, I heard a sound. A cackle. Then sniggering.

It was Akin.

I sprang up, bent on vengeance—both for his ditching me and now for disrespecting me. Pleading filled the air, as we swapped positions. He gobbled my forgiveness before I was done cooking it up. Then he gave updates: As expected, our parents had been asking of me, but he covered for me, telling them I left my shoes back where we went to play ball. I thanked him, although I wondered how such explanation could fly. How would I trek over four kilometers and not realize I was barefoot? He said Mama was busy in their room and I only needed to make it to our own room unnoticed and start snoring. Tomorrow morning, we would outwit her in the time-of-arrival debate since she was not there when I came in; he was. My tense shoulders caved in as I smothered Akin in an embrace reserved for brothers.

So, tip I toed, hoping to make it safely to our room. In the low light of the lantern dimmed by its smoky shade, I saw two long, thick sticks—bigger than I’d ever witnessed—behind the kitchen door. To think, retribution had been chilling by the corner all this time, awaiting my arrival.

I was almost out of the passage when: “Olúwamúmiboríogun.”

Now, that was disturbing on two levels: One, my full name was only mentioned when I had committed a serious offence. Two, that was Papa’s voice. While Mama beat us as frequently and as soundly as she could, Papa hardly did. But whenever he had to, it was a guaranteed grand style thrashing. And knowing Papa, this was about more than flouting curfew.

“Y-ye-yes Papa.”

“Welcome,” he greeted, punctuated by the sound of the main door latching behind me. In slow motion. Paka…paka…paka. Triple-bolted. Fate sealed. No neighbours could intervene. “Come,” he said, grinning. He was just a couple feet away but reaching him seemed like a holy pilgrimage on foot.

“Father, I’m not worthy to be called thy son,” quoting the prodigal son from our Sunday School memory verse, as I prostrated right where I was. If disownment was the alternative to death via thrashing, my choice was clear.

“What nonsense! You’re indeed my son. And will always be.” Disinheritance bid unsuccessful. Then he motioned at something. Now, unlike Mama, Papa always went to the imperative statement; he had no time for rhetorical questions. He would only summarize the purpose of the thrashing after it was over, like, “Next time you won’t go and break somebody’s louvre blades with a ball.” So, I stood in front of him and awaited the imperative statement.

“Go and bring those canes.” He added for effect, and apparently to heighten my torment, “They are ALL yours.”

My eyes followed his outstretched hand from origin, across my head and to, my goodness, the back of the kitchen door. Yes, where stood the two skyscraper sticks that would draw the curtain on my sojourn in this world of sin and flagellation and death. This was the end; it couldn’t be any clearer. From far off in the galaxies, I could hear Papa’s favorite song from his phonograph playing in my head, my thumping heart replacing the bass drum as Jim Reeves sang, Take my hand…precious Lord, lead me home.

But Papa would interrupt the flow and abort my levitation, bringing me back to the parlour where I was now inching my way towards the kitchen, bum and boxers united by sweat. He smiled.

“Your headmaster said you passed your Common Entrance exam so I stopped to buy you some sugar cane. You like them, don’t you?”

He's never liked girls like her. Girls with long, sleek hair and whiter teeth than nebulous clouds, with skin the color of honey caramel covering a mouthwatering figure that results from years of soccer and tennis and squats. Girls who shout more than talk and have dirty mouths and dirtier minds, who don't even try and still manage to get straight A's, who just don't give a fuck and have the sweetest, most teeth-rotting personalities. Girls who are perfection incarnate and he hates them, but she still likes him.

Somehow.

Andrew stares uncomprehendingly at her for a long moment, wondering if he's hallucinating-but wait a minute, he doesn’t even do drugs. In the shitstorm that is high school, Andrew has miraculously arrived at senior year relatively unscathed, save for the loss of personality and a sense of being. Then again, hallucinations don’t depend only on drugs, right? Maybe it’s the lack of sleep wearing him down. He’s not addicted to crack, but he certainly takes more shots of espresso in one drink than is recommended for daily consumption. Andrew blinks.

Jesse Arias-Montano is still standing there.

“What the hell?” he barks, voice cracking in the middle, and Jesse’s smile widens.

“I. Like. You,” she enunciates clearly without a shred of embarrassment, and all the stares and laughs from the enormous group surrounding them do little to better the situation. Andrew’s friends have all abandoned him to get mercies of the Latina girl with a mean overhead smash. “Do I have to spell it out to get it through your thick brain? L-I-K-”

“Should you really be insulting the person you're confessing to?” Andrew snaps, momentarily thrown back into the ease of bantering back and forth with her. “I might just say no.”

“So you were going to say yes?” Her eyes sparkle, and Andrew splutters.

“You walked right into that one, man,” a boy calls from the front of the crowd. Andrew doesn’t know him, but Jesse does, because she turns and shoots him a weird look: her eyebrows pull low over her eyes and her upper lip curls, revealing a row of straight white teeth.

It’s a petty sort of satisfaction that wells up in Andrew when he notes that her incisors are slightly crooked.

“No one asked for your opinion, Amun,” she replies, shooting Andrew a wink that looks slightly demented when combined with her quivering lip and wiggling eyebrows. It’s such a Jesse thing to do. “Even if it’s true.”

“Well no one asked for your opinion,” Amun replies in a childishly mocking tone, even going so far as to cross his arms and stick his bottom lip out in a pout. The two stare unblinkingly at each other before cracking up, and, not for the first time, Andrew wonders whether America High School’s student population is an accurate representation of the IQ level of its namesake.

(He can get away with making that joke-he’s Japanese.)

“Even if I wanted to go out with you-which I’m not saying I am,” Andrew hastens to add, glaring at Jesse’s suddenly bright and hopeful expression, “-it’s senior year. What are you expecting out of this?”

Jesse raises an eyebrow, crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve been waiting since sophomore year for you to ask me out, and now that it’s the beginning of my last year at this high school, I am not about to let you get away. To hell with chivalry, I say. This is me asking you out, Andrew Yamatoto.” Andrew immediately winces as she utterly botches his last name, stretching out the a’s and pronouncing them with the a in “ham” and swapping a t with an m. All in all, it’s a good thing that Jesse isn’t taking Japanese as her language course. “Reject me if you like, but that’s not about to stop me from hounding your ass, mister.”

Andrew gapes at her, and he hears more than a few camera shutters go off. “Excuse me?” Is she for real? This girl can’t even pronounce his last name correctly, and now she’s threatening to stalk him?

Jesse beams, and Andrew is momentarily taken aback by the genuine warmth in the expression even as she exclaims, “I’ll make you like me!”

Then he remembers that she’s a crazy psycho. “No.”

“But-”

“No.”

“Andrew-”

“No.”

“You’re not even going to-”

“No.”

“-listen to what I’m trying-”

“No.”

“Fucking Andrew!”

“No.”

Jesse throws her hands up into the air, ponytail bobbing up and down with the movement. “How the hell do I even have a crush on you?”

“I ask myself that too.”

She glowers at Andrew, a muscle feathering along the line of her (sharp) jaw. “Just go on a date with me.”

Andrew sighs, already regretting going to school today. He usually does, but he regrets that decision even more so now. Maybe if he rushes at her, he’ll take her by surprise and will be able to dash through that tiny path through the crowd right behind her. The he’ll run out the front doors and hop into his car and drive far, far away-

But then he remembers that he has a physics test next period.

Not to mention that Jesse’s a varsity soccer player for a reason.

(And the only reason Andrew’s stomach doesn’t fall out of his shirt is because he inherited his mother’s fast metabolism.)

“I’d really rather not.”

“Why not?” Jesse’s eyes glint challengingly at Andrew, her entire body tensed and poised, as if daring him to say that he already has a crush on another person (which may or may not be true).

Andrew’s more of a wimp than he’d like to admit. “You’re a sweet person-” Not. “-really, but we’ve been friends for a long time, and I don’t really think that I’ve ever thought of you in that way-”

“No.” Jesse points a finger at him, shaking her head hard enough for her ponytail to whack her chin every time she turns her head from side to side. “No, no, no, you are not friendzoning me. I refuse to be friendzoned.”

This time, Andrew’s the one who throws his arms up in frustration. “Well, what do you want from me? Lie to your face and tell you that I’ve always loved you since the moment I first saw you just to save your precious feelings from reality? News flash-I don’t feel that way, and I don’t like you enough to even try.”

He immediately regrets the words when Jesse flinches, narrowed eyes widening then returning to their normal rounded state. She drops her hand, balling it into a fist by her side. “Oh.”

Sheer disappointment and poorly concealed hurt drips from her voice and slumped shoulders. Andrew has the sudden urge to punch himself in the face for being an insensitive asshole. Sure, Jesse was being unreasonable, but his way of response was completely unnecessary and needlessly rude. He can feel several sets of glares burning into his back and face as he swallows and forces himself to spit out the words, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Jesse shrugs, drawing her shoulders up and straightening her back. A wide smile forces its way onto her face as she tries to make herself as cheery and unaffected as possible. Watching her attempting to act as normal as possible hurts more than if she had burst into tears right then and there. “No, no, it’s fine. Really, I realize now that I was being...extremely rude.” Her accent has gotten a little thicker in the face of her sadness. “I shouldn’t have been so pushy. It’s my fault.”

Andrew sighs, staring at her twitching face. He can practically hear the thoughts parading around in both his and her friends’ heads. FIX THIS. Before he can think about it, he blurts out, “If you really like me that much, prove it.”

“What?” Her head lifts, eyebrows pulled low over her dark brown eyes. The skin in between her brows wrinkles, and more petty satisfaction wells up inside of him. God, he’s such an asshole.

Andrew sighs again, awkwardly reaching up and running his fingers through his hair. “Well, what I mean is that…” For a wild moment, Andrew panics because he has nothing to offer-he hadn’t even been planning to give Jesse a chance anyways. “Give me thirty-seven reasons.”

“...What?”

Andrew wishes he could bash his head against the lockers and put himself into a self-induced coma that’ll last until the end of senior year. Or until Jesse’s dead, that works fine too. But there’s no way of rescinding his words without seeming like even more of an asshole, so he bravely (stupidly) soldiers onward. “If you give me thirty-seven reasons as to why I should li-love you, then I’ll reconsider.”

Andrew curses his mouth, brain, and everything else under the sun. Whatever ungodly demon that possessed his tongue just long enough to spit out the dreaded “l-word” must be laughing its ugly ass off because now the hallways are filling with cheers and catcalls. Jesse’s lips thin, and Andrew really hates people like her. People whose every thought and emotion are painted across the faces, and no one even cares. “Why?”

He fishes around for an arbitrary reason as to why he decided to give her chance other than the true I felt sorry for you. “...because you’re nice.”

That self-induced coma option is starting to sound super appealing.

Somehow, Jesse thinks that his panicked brain fart is funny, because she laughs, albeit less brightly than before. “You’re pretty nice too, Andrew. So...it’s a deal then.” Her eyes light up, and she no longer looks as sad and lonely and disappointed as earlier. Andrew’s starting to really regret this. “I’m going to show you why I’ll be the best girlfriend ever! In thirty-seven reasons!”

Before Andrew can even blink, her arms are around him and a pair of soft lips is pressed against his cheek. She pulls back a second later, grinning brightly up at him before whirling around and running squealing to a group of her girl friends.

The crowd seems to dissipate within seconds, just as quickly as it had originally formed.

It's a confession in the most unromantic of places, and Andrew has just made a deal with the devil. 

what is this what

is happening, the girl screamed 

at me as I carried her to my car.

I had found her in the women's bathroom

at Burger King, knocking on the 

door after I heard crying inside,

and then went to find her 

on the floor, naked from the

waist down, blood down her legs,

sobbing. Are you ok, what is wrong?

She shook her head and I knelt

beside her in her blood. Can you walk?

No.

Her pants were balled up in the corner,

I grabbed them and said, put your arms

around my neck, and I lifted her into

a bridal carry.

What's your name? Riley.

How old are you? Fifteen.

A year younger than I was; I carried

her through the Burger King, yelling

out for someone to call 911, trying

to cover her lower body with a

balled up pair of bloody jeans.

I lay her down in the backseat of my car, 

crying just as much as she was

and drove seven city block

to County General, asking

do you want me to call your mom?

Please no no don't call her, through sobs.

Is there anyone I can call?

Please just get me to the hospital.

They take her on a stretcher at the wide doors

and wheel her away; an older nurse

asks if I am the father. No. I don't even know her.

Eventually, the police come and talk to me.

My clothes are stuck to my skin, caked in her blood.

I waited all night in the hospital until ten a.m.

when my brother came to take me home. I 

never saw her again, the girl who miscarried

a son who I will always, somehow, think of

as my son.

She sighs again as she watches the trees flash past. The world is so desolate...she pulls out her ipod and inserts the earbuds into her ears, to block out her pain. Music is the one thing that never changes, the one thing that's always there to comfort her.

     And she is thankful for it.

Suspicion,

like a hangnail,

drags, opening a seam.

The whetstone of

lonely nights,

lonely thoughts,

peels the sharp blade

from the dull.

Overflowing

the jagged banks

the corpuscles and cells

that are half-mine

and half-hers

rush up against the levees

built and then untended.

The lower wards

feel something coming:

a voice beside and apart

hums How Great Thou Art

as a warm hand presses

firmly on your arm,

dreading to do more harm,

harming to do more dread.

spinning words, flow rapidly from my mouth

with literature references dripping as if

they were some preconceived rhetoric

for your pleasure

pleasure from words but I am not that smart, 

as I sit and stare at the decaying, shambles 

of what we have and tears are flowing from 

eyeless sockets listless from your image

images of pastoral rendezvouses cloud

my thoughts from sunshine smiles

that you can't help to wear

as you try not to laugh

I love how you try to suppress that laugh

and I can tell how turned on you are

from these foolish words that flow 

from my nothingness

Olivia and I sat in our school library at recess, a syringe in my hand, a lunchbox in hers. While this may have been a funny sight to most outsiders, this was our reality. Within six months of each other, Olivia and I were both diagnosed with Juvenile Type I Diabetes (T1D). At age nine, I self-administered insulin shots six times a day, while seven-year-old Olivia relied on her mother to carry out such duties. However, that particular day, Olivia’s mom was stuck in traffic, delaying her lunchtime routine. So as her fellow diabetic, Olivia trusted me to administer her shot.

Over time, the insulin pump tubes and finger-sticking needles that accompany this disease have become mundane, and I think very little about my illness and how it sets me apart. However, in reflection, I see my disability as a foundation for super-abilities. By age ten, I knew the number of carbohydrates in any food. By age twelve, I understood a simple version of the endocrine system. Additionally, I have spent years explaining that my illness is not due to poor diet, but instead is an autoimmune disorder with no known cause. Consequently, I have learned exceptional patience and tolerance. Once at a birthday party, instead of cake, a parent served me strawberries and her weight-loss story, despite the fact that, at the time, I was five feet tall and weighed one hundred pounds.

It will forever amuse me that, even after eight years as a diabetic, many non-diabetics believe they know more about my disease than I do. Even though I am not banned from certain foods, as some believe, managing T1D does require a lot of maintenance; I spend a large amount of my time navigating needles, site insets, fluctuating blood glucose levels, and tri-monthly check-ups at the hospital. While most people live with a working pancreas, I have become the master of my own organ. I choose to take care of my body every day because if simply cannot take care of itself.

Living with T1D is exhausting; however, had a cure existed, I would not have acquired certain attributes that have shaped me as a person, such as my enduring self-discipline. While time-consuming, the constant task of micro-managing has made me a highly productive and goal-oriented person. My freshman year, I dragged myself out of bed at four in the morning and caught a public bus that took me to a ferry. There, I slept until I reached the sleepless city of Seattle and walked to another bus with my other commuting friends. As I hopped off the public transit and walked to school, the nurses, construction workers, and business men wished me a good day. I commuted six hours every day because I wanted to go to a school that would challenge me. I have always pushed myself to my full potential, even when it meant taking on adult responsibilities. By maintaining good health and tackling tasks at hand, I have built habits that allow me to do other work well, whether that is in school, in film, at home, or in service. Without this disease, I would not know my own personal strength, resilience, and perseverance, which impact my perspective on and approach to life.

I appreciate the person I have become through my T1D. Working directly with my health has forced me to take on adult challenges and foster constant grit as I grow as an individual. Living with this disease is time-consuming, draining, expensive, and often dangerous. However, with these disadvantages comes great reward. I am resilient, tenacious, patient, tolerant, and aware; I know when to ask for help and when to act independently, and most importantly, I’ve learned that obstacles are opportunities to become a better student, friend, citizen, and storyteller for tomorrow.