Song of the Ivory Tree_The Arsonists_You’d Think He Was a Logger_These Wandering Dreams
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Song of the Ivory Tree
The silhouette of the sun dipped below the horizon, hidden behind enormous dark clouds. Lightning struck in the distance, signaling the torrential rain to begin. The canter of the horses pulling the carriage slowed to a crawling pace, but the steeds held true. Curses of the driver forced to brave the elements were drowned by the chaotic pelting of rain. “Just our damn luck,” Jakeb said, taking a long draw of his rolled cigarette. The foul smell of tobacco and smoke filled the cabin, the open windows only a slight reprieve.“This rain won’t be the worst of it,” Renan said, peering out of the ...
The Arsonists
Diana couldn't recall when she first learned she was not alone. It had been some time during her eighth year of life, probably in the spring or summer, because her memory of joining the Guild was crisp as a page of a seldom-opened scrapbook, and she knew it had been in the fall. It was fall right now. This was her seventh year in the Arsonists' Guild, and she was fifteen this year, old enough to move from childish campfire-lighting to real fires. If only she could convince the Guild leaders of that! After so many years, it was no surprise that she didn't remember the first time she met another...
You’d Think He Was a Logger
Father of forest the green protectorMossy beard face cradles baby saplingPrayer chain to stop the chainsaw monsterCrying and weeping, big sweet maple tears I take a deep breath, ready to perform the next stanza of the poem I’m reciting for my Dad. But, before I cawww.onedoor.ccn spit out any more poetic words, Dad coughs and opens his mouth, “Wait-- so let me get this straight-- you’re telling me you plan on standing up and performing that in front of your class?”I blink my fake lashes a few times, letting them dance like dandelion fluff across my cheeks. The LED lights pinned up behind my twin bed are twi...
These Wandering Dreams
Content warnings: implied xenophobia, implied Islamophobia, descriptions of blood/minor injury. Ayla found the egg buried in her sock-drawer.It was a small and rounded thing, with a smooth shell of emerald-green. Likely made of some sort of marble, if she had to guess, but the egg itself wasn’t heavy. It felt light as fog and fit easily in the palm of her hand. Glistening, milky pearls dotted the surface of the egg, arranged in neatly spaced-out circles that wound around it. “Ayla?” her mom, Jessica, poked her head into the room. Ayla looked up to meet her eyes, dark irises meeting electric-...