daily for 7/2/22
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“is the prophecy true?”
“signs point to yes.”
———————————————————
Qui stared, horrified, at the clear pool of water in front of her. Devoid of ripples, the surface a smooth sheen like glass, it belied the terrifying and monstrous vision she'd seen flit across it.
And, it is true.
And, all signs point to yes.
Still, Qui took a deep breath and prepared to scry again. All signs point to yes was not good enough for a high-ranking seer like herself. There could be no uncertainty this time: she needed an indisputable, definitive yes.
Placing her palms just above the pool and gliding them across the icy surface, she closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Crossing her legs, she flooded the pool with her isther, her seer-light, eyelids growing bright as the isther skittered across the surface like so many fireflies.
When she opened her eyes, the world looked bathed in light.
Qui placed her palms on the cold stone floor, grounding herself against the soft pull of the light. If a viewer had peeked into the cave at that very moment, they would have seen just a girl sitting in front of a pool of water, eyes like bright gold coins, but for Qui, it was as if she'd stared straight into the sun.
Fighting to keep her voice steady, Qui found her words, changing the meaning ever so slightly: “Will the kingdom of Efluidor fall in my stead?”
There was a soft humming sound, like thousands of honeybees buzzing in symphony, and then the light cleared. Etching itself across the water in front of her, in fluid black ink, were the words all signs point to yes.
Qui glared at the cave, at the isther, at herself, seething. With a yell, she punched the water. The liquid parted before her, delivering none of the satisfaction of throwing a real punch. Droplets flew into the air, splashing her clothes, the paper by her side, the floor.
The sound of buzzing filled her eyes. Qui looked down in horror to see her hands and arms glowing as if her blood was isther, seer-light. The droning sound got louder, Qui clamping her hands over her head, the sound echoing through her skull. The glare grew brighter until she could barely look at herself.
If a viewer had peeked into the cave at that very moment, they would have seen just a girl sitting in front of a pool of water, eyes like bright gold coins.
They would have seen the girl crumple face-first into the cold stone floor.

daily for 7/2/22


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vagueness, 297
———————————————————


“Here, look- cut the wires.”
“The wires, Alys? There are twelve wires here!”
“Oh, sorry. I meant the colored wires.”
“So I should cut the blue, red, green, yellow, orange, and purple wire?”
“The one you just mentioned!”
“I thought you said I had to cut multiple wires.”
“No, I meant you had to cut some wires out of the ones here.”
“But which one?”
“I thought I already said colored wires?”
“Which color, Alys? The clock is ticking, literally!”
“One of the colors in the rainbow, I think…”
“These are all colors in the rainbow!”
“I helped you eliminate black.”
“Alys!”
“Okay, okay. Let's see here… the hex color has six digits.”
“Alys!”
“What?”
“All hex colors have six digits!”
“Four B, four C, four E.”
“Alys?”
“The combination!”
“Of the hex color? That's gray, I thought you said it was in the rainbow-”
“No, that's the combination for after you cut the wires.”
“But which wires!?”
“The short ones.”
“Like this?”
“No, that's the long one. Size is subjective, you know-”
“Just point at the ones I have to cut.”
“Here.”
“Alys, those are all-”
“They're tangled, okay?”
“Alys-”
“Fine. This one.”
“Okay. So I have to cut it?”
“Not right here- you have to cut it at a specific point!”
“Let me guess, this specific point is somewhere on the wire.”
“Good guess.”
“Halfway through?”
“More than halfway.”
“Here?”
“No, more than that.”
“Here?”
“No, you went too far.”
“Alys, I swear, if we get out of this I'm going to-”
“Do you hear that?”
“What?”
“The ticking, it's getting louder-”
“I knew we should have looked at the guidebook!”
“There's a guidebook?”
“You're holding it!”
“Oh, I thought these were the house plans.”
“ALYS-”



——————————————–
ambiguity, 272
———————————————————

“Well, they got what was coming to them.”
“What?”
“What?”
“What came to them?”
“They got their comeuppance, you idiot!”
“Oh.”
“Oh!? Are you kidding me? Minions these days. They're so low quality.”
“Excuse me? I don't overalls, one eye, and-”
“Thugs! Henchmen! Lackeys! Whatever. Call me a taxi, now!”
“Okay, Taxi.”
“No, I meant, flag down a taxi.”
“Taxi, I don't have any flags-”
“Your hand is used for flagging.”
“My hand is a flag, Taxi?”
“Stop calling me a taxi!”
“Okay.”
“You idiot, stop sitting there! I told you to call me a taxi!”
“I thought you said you didn't want me to call you a taxi, Taxi.”
“Fine. I'll get my personal driver. Can you get me a tie from my brief case?”
“Is this it?”
“No, you idiot! That's the string I used to tie my captors' wrists during the interrogations. Where did you get it from?”
“This suitcase?”
“No, my brief case! My case that was brief, which I ended quickly by killing them.”
“Oh.”
“OH? I'm firing you!”
“Let me get some water first so I can put myself out.”
“You don't need water-”
“It'll lessen the pain-”
“You want a lesson in pain? Maybe I will actually set you on fire!”
“I wouldn't want that.”
“Henchmen are so low quality these days. That's what I get from buying them in bulk.”
“I'm bulky?”
“You're the opposite of bulky. In fact, you're limbs are like noodles.”
“I thought you said I was a minion?”
“No- ugh, I'll give you one more chance. Steal a diamond ring from the museum.”
“Okay…”
“Go on, break a leg-”
“Owww!”

daily for 7/5/22
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“many hands make light work.”
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Once upon a time, in a village far, far away, there lived a family- two mothers, five kids. Now, hard times had struck the family, and with five mouths to feed, they struggled to keep afloat. Not only that, the five children were constantly arguing.
First, there was Winter, the oldest- around eighteen years old. She desired to attend college but was afraid it was a hopeless wish, as she was to be married off to a man in the village early in the year.
The next child was Briar, a sixteen-year-old wrecking ball. Furiously fast, they spent all their time running laps at the school track, hoping to get a track and field scholarship.
After Briar was the fourteen-year-old middle child, Ella. She desperately yearned to attend the high school far off in the glittering city, Fyria, but the funds that would have been for high school were instead employed to feed the other children.
Behind Ella was Cardinal, the spirited, creative eleven-year-old. He used his days to perfect his craftsmanship as an artist, working with tapestry, oil paints, and charcoals.
The last was four-year-old Cielo. Too young to do anything but toddle around the house and gurgle at the other children, she was often swaddled in blankets and left in her room.
It was wintertime in the village, ironically, when disaster struck.
It started with the ice and snow. During the nighttime, hail lashed against the sides of the undersized house the family lived in, and snow piled up on the roof. As the snow amassed, the house's roof bowed dangerously before tumbling in with a crash.
“Winter,” their mother pleaded. “Help us rebuild.”
“I'm sorry, mother,” Winter said, “But I need to get ready for the wedding.” And with that, she dashed off.
“Briar,” their mom implored. “Help with the roof.”
“Sorry- track practice starts early!” Briar yelled, already streaking through the door.
“Ella? Will you help us fix the roof?” But Ella shook her head sadly. “I need to go to work. The funds for highschool… they're growing.”
“Cardinal? Will you at least help us a little bit?” But Cardinal was already gone for his art lesson.
Last, of all, there was Cielo, who wouldn't be able to help. With a despairing sigh, the mothers went to work.
It was then that the next disaster struck.
Rosaline, the taller of the two, was working high on the roof when suddenly, another part cracked off, and she tumbled, breaking her leg. With a shriek, Kelia, the other parent, swooped in and picked up Cielo as ominous rumbling filled the walls.
Kelia glanced back at Rosaline, whose face contorted in pain. “Go!” Rosaline shouted, and with a grim nod, Kelia ran through the door as the house crashed down behind them.
“Rosaline!” Kelia shouted, but there was no answer from the pile of rubble. Kelia sobbed and ran into the village for help, leaving Cielo on a pile of hay.
Slowly, Cielo opened her eyes, blinking. With great effort, she stood, limbs quaking in the cold, and marched up to the broken house. Taking a piece of shale in her small, chubby hands, she threw it with a clatter.
As it so happened, that shale struck one of the well-worn paths in the village, surprising Winter, who was marching out of a fancy house, face streaked with tears. With a gasp, she looked up and ran towards the rubble.
“Mama!” Cielo cried. “She's in there!”
Winter nodded, and said, “I'll go get the others.”
Soon, they were all assembled- Winter, Briar, Cardinal, Ella, and even young Cielo. Working together, they started to tug the debris off the foundation. Each of them toiled hard, and in no time, they spotted the curled-up figure of Rosaline.
“Is she okay?” Cardinal asked.
Briar reached down, their fingers shaking. “She has a pulse,” they gasped, relieved.
“We need to get her to the doctor,” Ella said. “Let's do this.”
They all stood around Rosaline's body and slowly lifted her up. Running to the doctor, they laid her body down. The doctor squinted. “She's urgently injured, yes, but I think you got her here in time. That was fast- how?”
“We worked together,” Cardinal said.
Cielo smiled, and, in a soft voice, said, “Many hands make light work.”

The End.

daily for 7/6/22

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horoscope for pisces
———————————————————

“Yes, well, you're just a coward!” Annika yells, crossing her arms. Her brows are drawn together, dark eyes flashing.
“Nika,” I plead, “Stop!”
“Get out of this, Ester,” Annika says to me, gritting her teeth.
“I will not,” I say firmly, glaring at her.
“Ha! Serves you right, Annika. Even she knows not to believe you, you liar.” I turn to Phoenix, who has a smirk on her face.
“Guys, please-”
“I told you, Nix, to place it in your bag!” Annika says.
“Don't call me Nix,” Phoenix responds, face cold.
“And why is that?”
“Look, everyone,” I try and interject, “Can we just talk about this-”
“We are talking!” Phoenix says. “Annika just doesn't want to listen.”
“No, Phoenix doesn't,” Annika shoots back.
“No-”
“Please listen! I need you to stop yelling!” I try to snap their gazes back to me, but they're too busy glaring at each other.
“How can I do this when Phoenix lost my whole month's salary?” Annika screams.
“How can I do this when Annika is literally screaming at me for something that isn't my fault?”
“It's completely your fault!” Annika throws up her arms.
“No, it's yours!” Phoenix says with a curl of her lip.
“You're like a little child throwing a temper tantrum.”
Phoenix's eyes widen. “I thought we were over this, Nika.”
“Don't call me Nika.”
“I will if you stop calling me Nix like we still-”
“Phoenix!” Annika yells. “Just be serious for a moment, will you?”
“I'm being deadly serious. I'm so tired of you thinking I'm not being serious when I am! Let's face it: you have said the most hurtful things during this conversation, you little-”
“This is not a conversation!” I try again. “You need to-”
“Stay out of this.” Annika turns to me. Her cheeks are splotchy with red, and tears prick the corners of her eyes. “Do you not know what this means!? I don't want to live on ramen noodles, barely scraping enough money for rent each week, all because of Phoenix!”
“I'm telling you: it's not because of me.” Phoenix clenches her fists, centering herself like a fighter, ready to protest and argue at a moment's notice. “I get that you're angry-”
“No, you don't get that, because you seem ready to belittle me at a moment's notice.”
“I'm not belittling-”
“You're definitely belittling!”
I glance nervously at the two. They're so close I wouldn't be able to physically step between them, even if I wanted to. Phoenix's eyes are fire, Annika's cold ice.
“I swear, Annika-”
“You did! And it didn't work!”
I feel despair prick the corners of my vision. We're crumbling, and I can't do anything about it. I should be able to, but I can't! I'm hopeless.
“It's all your fault!”
“No, it's yours!”
And they're back at it again. I feel my frantic thoughts pulling me under as they scream and curse and shout. I feel us breaking.
Suddenly, a thought comes to me- the horoscope I received this morning on the internet. The key is to offer advice and leave the situation. Squaring my shoulders, I announce, not loudly but staunchly: “Listen to me.”
“What?” Phoenix and Annika chorus.
“Listen up, and stop arguing, for one moment. You need to talk it out: you're both venting your own struggles while not considering everyone else's. You need to calm down and discuss this like adults. You need to explain how you're feeling so that the other can understand.”
And with that, I leave the room.

daily for 7/10/22


Verya stared at the letter, the thin, white slip of paper in front of her, as if daring it to move. Crumble into ashes. Drift away on the slightest breeze.
As always, the letter taunted, edges crisp, black ink starkly bold against the pale background. With trembling fingers, Verya opened the letter.
Her fingers stilled. Brows tightening, lips pursing, Verya scanned the writing, features growing harsher every second. Still, not a word escaped her tightly pressed lips as she carefully set the paper down on the table.
The lamp flickered. Verya turned to it and lifted up the small bowl of water.
The liquid dripped, and the flame sizzled, plunging her into darkness.
Out of nowhere came a sob. Tears dripped down Verya's cheeks as she tore the letter into tiny, tiny pieces, too tiny even to burn. They turned to dust, floating around her face like snow. When she was done, she buried her face in her arms.
The tiny scraps of paper clung to her tear-stained face. A wild, twisted laugh- part chuckle, part cry- tore itself out of her small body, ricocheting around the room. Verya took a shaky breath and stood up, fingers grazing the table. At last, her hand glanced the lighter, and with a grimace, she lit the lamp again.
The flame surged to life as if it had never been dampened, casting the room in a warm glow. Verya threw her satiny, thin jacket over the glass of the lantern, turning the light to a cool blue. She reached for her letter opener, fumbling as she tried to unlock it from its safety mechanism. In her haste, the blade flew out, cutting a deep gash in her finger.
Verya bit her lip as she stared down at her finger before shaking her head. Taking the blade again, she slit open the second letter, ignoring the blood that dripped down her finger to form a deep red blotch on the fine paper.
Dark liquid smudging the words, she started to read again, whispering the words softly into the dim room. Struggling to control her expression, she kept her movements stiff, her features solemn. She placed a hand over her stomach, clutching herself as she rocked back and forth, not daring to look at the stack of envelopes to her left.
Taking a deep breath, Verya walked up to the window and threw the shutters open. Moonlight streamed in, the stars a symphony above, the moon the conductor. The streets below were dizzingly shadowed, streetlamps cutting swaths of light through the darkness. Nodding once, she gathered up the second letter and started to carve it with the knife.
The blade slid through the paper like butter, forming twists and turns and curls as Verya's fingers worked magic. Holding the mangled letter out in front of her, she dropped it.
The white moth streaming curls of paper fluttered into the night, carried aloft by a warm summer draft.
Verya wiped a single tear from her eye and took out a sheaf of paper, grabbing the ink well, and starting her own letter.
Maybe this is release, she wrote.
Maybe this is letting go.

Weekly 7/16/22 (2364 words)

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Robbery at Mango Arcade

Hunydo, Ast. - police are investigating an armed robbery. Fifty-two perfectly ripe mangoes were stolen from the Mango Arcade, a grocery store west of Keewee. Additional casualties include two smashed watermelons and a thoroughly trounced grapefruit, though it appears the perpetrator was aiming for the mangoes. The crime was committed on July tenth, and the police were called at 4:37 pm. Witnesses report the crime as “brutal” and “completely unexpected.” We interviewed Mr. Stone, the store's owner, on the devastating crime.

Rosen, reporter: thank you so much for being here today, Mr. Stone.
Stone: I’m happy to be here too… news of this crime… this horrible crime needs to spread, so other grocery stores harboring innocent fruits may be protected.
Rosen: that’s very kind of you, Mr. Stone.
Stone: thank you.
Rosen: so, how did it happen?
Stone: well, we were wrapping up- the store closes at five, you know- and there were still a few other people shopping. Then the door bursts open, and this shadow darts in. They’re wearing all black and are armed with a water gun.
Rosen: Mr. Stone…?
Stone: what? Oh, yes. Sorry. They took the water gun and aimed it at my head.
Rosen: oh dear. Please continue.
Stone: th-they said, ‘hand over the mangoes, or I will not hesitate to shoot.
Rosen: And how would you describe their voice?
Stone: it was- it was crunchy, like biting into a watermelon.

Rosen: would you continue, if you are able to?
Stone: y-yes. I said… I said, no, and… and…
Rosen: that was very brave of you, Mr. Stone.
Stone: thank you. The last thing I heard was the person in black saying ‘oh well, I’ll do it myself.” Th-then… I was blinded with water, the liquid pouring down my ears. I heard screams and shouts and when I managed to open my eyes, there was chaos.
Rosen: that must have been traumatizing. I’m so sorry.
Stone: yes, yes, it was. Thank you.
Rosen: what did you see?
Stone: the store was wrecked. Watermelons, a grapefruit… all smashed on the ground. The other people- my customers- were on the floor, blinking water from their eyes. Oh, what will I do? My best produce gone, , there were sixty! Sixty, I tell you! And now, only seven left… what can I do? WHAT CAN I DO?
Rosen: Mr. Stone-
Stone, hysterically: all my customers! Gone! My precious mango BABIES! WHAT IN-
Rosen: Mr. Stone, plea-


We have five potential suspects here today. If any of these people seem familiar to you, do not hesitate to call us- any piece of evidence is helpful in catching this fruit-snatching hooligan. Remember, if you suspect that any of these people may be dangerous, go straight to the police instead of confronting them yourself. We cannot afford any more casualties, and they may act desperately if cornered.

Suspect 1:
Name: Kanta Lowp
Age: 51
Profession: water park maintenance
Height: 6’1
Alibi: according to them, they were closing up the water park at the time of the robbery.
Motive: Kanta Lowp is known to have a particular dislike of mangoes and other fruits.

Suspect 2:
Name: Strah Barry
Age: 33
Profession: lifeguard at the Smoothy Swimming Pool
Height: 5’7
Alibi: According to Blue Barry, the two siblings were hanging around at the pool at the time of the robbery.
Motive: The siblings are known to cause trouble around Hunydo- graffiti, chalk art, vandalism, etc

Suspect 3:
Name: Bah Nanna
Age: 22
Profession: children’s daycare assistant
Height: 5’11
Alibi: daycare spans 9:00 am to 7:00 pm, meaning they were still working at the time of the robbery.
Motive: Bah Nanna recently got into an argument with Mr. Stone- apparently, the two still aren't talking. It's rumored the spat was around Mr. Stone's choice to use pesticides on his crops.

Suspect 4:
Name: Blue Barry
Age: 30
Profession: Instructor at the Smoothy Swimming Pool
Height: 5’6
Alibi: According to Strah Barry, the two siblings were hanging around at the pool at the time of the robbery.
Motive: The siblings are known to cause trouble around Hunydo- graffiti, chalk art, vandalism, etc

Suspect 5:
Name: Pyne Apul
Age: 47
Profession: none, parent of three children
Height: 5’9
Alibi: Pyne’s partner says they were out shopping at Plum Foods, Mango Arcade’s rival business. Security cameras at the store will be checked.
Motive: they do shop at Plum Foods, so perhaps they were so devoted to the store they decided to sabotage its rival?

On a side note, police are still investigating how, exactly, the robber was able to require a water gun. As water gun permits are hard to acquire, they are scanning both the dragon market and any potential toy stores for suspicious activity.

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In Velaskio, Elisall, a passionate chef crafts rural Ellisan fusion food

It was wintertime when Ellesandro Staela bought up a small corner apartment in east Velaskio. In one of the harshest winters Elisall had ever faced, with howling wind, sleet in the streets, and daily hail, Ellesandro fought to bring up her three children on nothing but crumbs. During this time, when the skies grew dark in the afternoon, and ice dug gashes into windows, Ellesandro sold homemade soups and wraps under the shelters of overhangs and communal markets. She brought knowledge of mountain herbs and rural cooking to the city-centric metropolis Velaskio, eventually creating a warm, rustic restaurant backed by her two-room apartment. She christened the budding eatery Briciole.
Every day, Ellesandro's three children walked two miles south to Velaskio's main public school, while Ellesandro stayed behind, readying the restaurant for business. She scraped up her meager funds to create a bright, relaxed atmosphere with lanterns and candles. While Briciole started small, its lively atmosphere soon attracted customers from all across Velaskio, turning it into a blossoming business.
While Ellesandro didn’t know it at the time, the name Briciole would soon become synonymous with strong Velaskian-style opportunist cooking.

Walking into the restaurant today, I'm struck by how small it seems, despite the four rooms stretching across the apartments and into another block. Not claustrophobically small, but comforting in its delicate touches. The walls are made of honey-covered wood, offset by the spun-glass black lanterns hanging on the ceilings. Bunches of herbs line the walls, while sharp leather booths are tucked into alcoves and wide, family-friendly tables are strewn through the room. Briciole has gone far beyond crumbs and expanded into a subtly winsome, gloriously understated thing.
The waiters and down-to-earth and friendly. One recommends Ellesandro's castellinero, a cozy, filling dish of stale bread-thickened tomato soup, with polenta- an Ellisan winter staple- on the side. I order from a seemingly endless menu, scanning the choices for the rich, opulent Velaskian fare, but find only a few dishes- these heavily modified. It seems Ellesandro has brought a whole new facet of Ellisan cooking to Velaskio.
The soup comes first, a hearty thing of roasted carrots and yams, garlic and onions, and aromatic oregano. I sip lightly from the spoon, wisps of steam wafting into my face. It's earthy and caramelized, oregano adding a crisp touch to cut through the creamy soup. It’s delicious, hitting all the right notes, while still seeming to remain down-to-earth in a way many of Velaskio’s restaurants never can.
Briciole’s winter salad comes next. It’s made with grapefruit and orange, Elisall’s more common winter fruits, nutty chickpeas, and pine nuts, and crisply bitter radicchio. The dressing is sharp, tangy, and citrusy, bringing a flare of flavor to the otherwise plain chickpeas.
Everything here is so invigorating- what would be a welcome, vibrant slice in a cold, dull, Velaskian winter.
After the salad comes the risotto- thick-grained rice with just the right amount of bite, delicate brown porcini mushrooms, and a smattering of fried herbs over the top. I inhale bites of the creamy, full-bodied dish, porcini mushrooms adding mellower tones than the earlier, acidic salad.
While I eat, Ellesandro herself comes over and sits down by our table. I’m compelled to ask her a few questions about her business. I pose my questions casually, and she responds likewise. I learn of her children- two of whom are now in college- and how Briciole has been key in their education. How she was so lucky to have the opportunity. How there are those who don’t. How she tries to offer support.
I’m charmed, momentarily distracted from the meal. I ask her how she helps.
“Oh, here and there,” she replies. “We try to hand out any leftover food to the shelters around our neighborhood. We have a system- you can donate money for a meal to a box- and if a person who comes in can’t buy a meal, well, it’s already bought for them.” She pauses.
“Everyone pitches in. I try to remind myself every day of how lucky I am.”
Then, with a little wave, she walks back into the kitchen to continue her work.
There are some more plates- pork-heavy stew laced with kale, potatoes, and leftover tomatoes- polenta with honey, crumbled feta, cheese, and a collection of meats- and finally, dessert, a rich slice of chocolate cake topped with grapefruit slices.
Feeling full and content, I ruminate on what Ellesandro has said- I may be full and content, but others might not. A ghost of a smile crosses my face as I shake my head- we can’t all be self-aware and selfless as Ellesandro. But I can do something.
My shoes scuff the floor as I depart, the bell overhead sending sweet tones across the night as I walk out. But before I leave, I let a few wooden coins drop from my fingers and into the donation bucket.

————————————————————————————————————————

Questions Column

My pet daughter came home with another human. What should I do to prevent an infestation?
The first thing you need to do is thoroughly sterilize your daughter, preferably with a foul-smelling scent. Doing so will stop her from attracting other humans to your home. Inform your daughter in a loud, firm voice, enunciating your syllables, that it is not okay to bring other humans home.
The next thing to do is to evaluate the other human. The best way to dispose of those pests is to dunk them in water, sterilize them in the same scent, and dump them on the sidewalk as an example to other humans. This will help prevent more from coming.
However, if humans continue to come, and worse, start asking you questions, you will have to resort to more violent means. Calling exterminators will sometimes stop the problem, but if it continues, make sure to pest-proof the door by barring it at a certain height, assuming your daughter is bringing home humans around her age. If not, you might want to install state-of-the-art face recognition cameras. If the pests are persistent, even working to cover their faces with pictures of your daughter's face, then the worst might have happened: your daughter could have made friends with people.
If the problem seems hopeless or is drastic enough to cause major problems, the only solution is to relocate to a different house and let the humans run rampant. Do this carefully, and be mindful of your daughter's feelings, as she might revolt. Eventually, they will tire of your house and leave you alone.

For weeks I've been trying and miserably failing, to hypnotize my friends with swinging mangoes. None of them have fallen for my trick. Any tips?
There are two things that might be impacting your hypnotization: the mangoes, or the technique. Let's start with the mangoes.
It's important to remember that your mangoes must be perfectly ripe, with a beautiful gold-to-red hue. If the colors are off, your hypnotization will only work to varying degrees. Using green mangoes can actually have the opposite effect, with your audience jolted awake and/or disgusted by the unripe mango.
The second is to remember to cut your mangoes. While it might seem counterintuitive to mutilate your beautiful mangoes, the correct technique can ensure that it will work. Slice your mangoes in a spiraling shape, making ribbons as you go. By the end, your cut should be v-shaped, like an inverted mountain range.
Technique is a bit harder. Swinging the mango back and forth more slowly while humming a lullaby can make your audience drowsy, a vital part of the process. Using the correct length of string is a must- enough that, when you hold your hand above your head, the mango dangles in front of their eyes. Another thing that might work is to slowly whisper mangoes in a repeated stream of words. The words will permeate your audience's consciousness and slowly work their magic as their eyes focus on the golden flesh of your mango.

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Miscellaneous

Make sure to come to Hunydo's Mango Festival! We have all three hundred and fifty varieties of this sweet-fleshed fruit on display.
Schedule:
8:00 - 9:00: set-up
9:00 - 9:30: festival starts, announcement from the Mayor of Hundydo
9:30 - 10:00: mourning the recent break-in at the Mango Arcade, respects paid
10:00 - 11:00: mango farming competition
11:00 - 12:00: mango speed-eating competition
12:00 - 1:00: break for a picnic
1:00 - 3:00: miscellaneous mango games, including pin the stem on the mango and mango fishing, among others
3:00 - 4:00: mango anthem
4:00 - 6:00: mango concert from the renowned band ‘We the Mangoes’
6:00 - 7:00: mango buffet
7:00 - 9:00: late-night mango tango dance
You can come any time you want, but we encourage you to stay for the mango games and competitions! We have farmers from all over Hunydo submitting their prize mangoes to the judges, and it's rumored that one of the mangoes could beat the 4.25-kilogram world record! Here, there are mangoes of all shapes and sizes, and colors range from a deep ruby red to a light golden yellow. Come to this lovely festival to taste, smell, feel, and hear our incredible mangoes.

w o r d s


lucid
moths, lungs, and nightmares

Every so often, Nightmare, the crow, flaps up to my well-worn stoop and deposits a sheaf of flimsy, pale gray papers, print marching across the softened surface. Nightmare has made this trip many times, most definitely far too long for the original to still be alive.
That’s how it goes, I suppose, the crows, like nightmares, so vividly there, then fading like a bad dream. Still, they keep coming. They're smart- more than that- sly, wily- slips of darting shadows. Greedy ones with wide beaks and wider stomachs.
I may encourage that.
Houses don't breathe- rather, I suppose, they have gills- windows and vents through which air flows freely. I don't envy city houses, sucking in hazy city air all day until their crevices and rugs are blackened with dust like a smoker's lungs.
Houses don't breathe, but I can exhale, sending little, bright jewels of candy out from beneath my floorboards, carpets, couches, and rolling onto the porch. Nightmare caws and I imagine a thanks, though more likely it's the greedy thing's exclamation of delight at the treasure trove of candy.
The candy, of course, comes from the children. There's always plenty of it. I know how to move my curtains like specters, sending my floorboards rippling up at just the right moment to trip a child and send them tumbling, candy flying out of baskets, bags, and more recently, buckets. Some have lids now. I suppose they're getting wily too.
How long? Some people have asked this listlessly in the dark, staring up at my majestic, winding staircases and black-iron tinted-gray windows. The words flutter from their mouths like white cabbage moths in the summer- dainty, quick, careless words- of which they don't know the meaning. Words they underestimate.
I don't quite know the answer, but I don't underestimate those words either. They're part of my history- part of my being- and it irks me that I am as clueless and muddled as them- mere humans with lives like nightmares.
I must have once been like my cold, still, achingly sterile brethren, yet I cannot imagine just being without being who I am. My memories, though fuzzy, hold a powerful feeling- euphoria, clarity, like being able to see when you hadn't noticed you couldn't.
Some time ago- a long time back- I came to life, which was rather ironic, as my old “owner” was lying still and bloody in her bed.
That was where the legend started, you know. That was when I became known as the haunted house.
there are paths we must follow

My boards rattle, rippling in symphony, sending the newspaper cascading across the floor. It's like surfing, one would imagine, except you're the wild, wondrous waves instead of the thing trying to tame it.
I flip the newspaper up- this one move has taken me decades of practice- onto the old leather chair, where it flutters to a stop. I don't need to place the newspaper in that ancient green chair by the fireplace that's never lit, but it's become a sort of habit, a habit that I welcome, even if it feels eerily human.
The newspaper.
Nightmare- or, at least, the amalgam of crows that was Nightmare- used to bring me the wafer-thin sheets of paper every day. Now, the stream of articles, newsletters, and droll comic strips has slowed to a trickle, leaving me wondering: did humans find a better way to learn about the affairs of our world, or did they stop caring? Perhaps it's both.
Less and less Nightmare comes, and I can't manage to even think of what would happen if I didn't know. Being aware of this- what happens around me- is part of me, and being without it feels like missing me- like being before I was.
Is that confusing? I am, by nature, a rambling house. My corridors and velvet halls are mazes. I can't help it: this is who I am. And if I could change, I don't know if I'd want to.
No- I do know.
Even still, this was never a choice.
My voice: nonexistent.
My heart: that, too.
What happened next: destiny incarnate.

Perhaps destiny is a lie, but it's a pretty one. One we like to tell. One we'd prefer to blame.
There was always a choice.
That one small, quick, cabbage-moth sentence of words shatters and heals me.
the stuff that my dreams are made on

Houses don't dream. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. But sometimes, time grabs me and doesn't let go.
Sometimes, time drags ripples through my consciousness.
Sometimes, I dream.
And it's always the same thing.

My vision blurs, causing a myriad of bright dots to dance across my peripheral. Gradually, the room brightens, revealing a figure lining comatose in her canopied bed. I panic, and the room creeks, lights flickering on and off like a dying candle. The figure shifts, and for a moment, I think she is moving- but it's my rocking, frantic motion or her death throes.
She is not moving.
She is not breathing.
She is not living, is she?
Blood drips from her lips, turning the white sheets red.
A ragged blanket is drawn over her chest, tattered against the room's opulence. Blood sprays itself across the veil of her bed's coverings.
And with a realization that causes all of my shutters, doors, and cupboards to creak open with a grating screech, I think for the first time.
And maybe, if I was human, I would have screamed.
She is not alive.
I am.

Sometimes I think I killed her.
Sometimes I regret doing so.
Sometimes I think I am her.
But I know that's impossible.
action
incident

I am a fixture in this neighborhood, much like that gnarled oak tree down the street or the field of rattling grain that seems to chorus with the wind or the constant stream of children traveling down the block towards their schools.
It wasn't always so.
When my older owner- I prefer the word ‘caretaker’- died, government officials immediately snapped up the land- my land with the apple orchards whose branches bowed with the weight of those sunset-colored fruits in the fall, my land with the rolling hills of fawn-soft undulating grass, my land, with me, myself, my twisted, wrought-iron self, my smoke-shattered, glass-dusted self, my weeping, blood-stained self.
It was on this day that three of those officials visited my land. I don't remember much, just silhouettes, movements- one portly, with a walk like the ducklings by my pond, one loose and flowing like summer rain, another all angular bones and sallow cheeks and dusty eyes. They walked across my land like it was theirs, wrenched my door open like they already owned it, stomped dirty shoes across my rugs like I was meant for them.
Something happened.
And it didn't go well for the officials.
That's all I remember.
That's all I remember, okay?
What happened is not important.
It does not matter.
It did not occur.
knowledge

October: it always happens in October. That month of leaves skittering frantically down the street, darting to escape the gaping maws of gutters. That month of desolate streets and crows on wires and clouds racing across a vast gray sky.
But I am an American house, so for me, October is that month- the month of Halloween. That month of scarecrows draped on poles, bleeding straw, that month of carved pumpkins surrounding a flickering flame, that month of children with their garish costumes and candy and buckets.
I await that Great Day of October with equal parts dread and excitement- the same, I suppose, as the children down the street do. Sometimes they come, and sometimes they don't. Usually, I don't enjoy it- rarely, I do.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
Only… I don't know how many years have passed.
I stopped keeping track.
I didn't want to know anymore.
rumors

Whispers follow me. They know, somehow. I shouldn't have done it.
Shouldn't have done what?
I feel something prickling, like ivy creeping up my walls. People walk down the cracked sidewalk by my porch and stare, gazes surveying my every inch. They study my orchards, the paint peeling off by door, my windows clouded with dust, wondering where they went. I can feel their fear, their disbelief, their worry. They worry that if the government was not able to tame me, who will?
I do not want to be tamed.
They know that.
They will not attempt that again.
Won't they?
heart

People say home is where the heart is, but that isn't true. That can't be true because I don't have a heart except hers, and it is trapped in that prison of the room, the only place I cannot see, cannot reach, dripping blood. A still-beating, perfectly-preserved heart. If you look closely, you can see the veins swelling with blood, tubes winding across the mottled red surface. It looks as if it is alive, but do not let that deceive you. It has been dead for a long time.
That heart- that room- is my blind spot. My weakness.
Her heart is not mine, so why do I feel that if it was killed, I would also expire?
discovery

Three more hearts have joined the first in the room I cannot see. Three more hearts beating in symphony. I recall a story- more a poem- that I read titled The Telltale Heart. I cannot imagine how the narrator was driven crazy by a simple, beating heart- perhaps it was because he was so fragile and human?
I do not feel crazy.
I feel so big.
So strong.
So…
Powerful.
love

humanity

I have no lost love for humans. As far as I can tell, and as far as I can see down my street, humans hover between being there- as part of the landscape as the concrete lanes or town statue- and a living plague. Mold upon my walls. Upon everyone else's.
The children are the worst, you know.
Now I know.
But I didn't-
Until that fateful day.
history

Things are being unearthed like a gravedigger scooping doggedly at the earth. Things more horrifying than a dead body.
Things like a dead body.
People are starting to remember- starting to remember that night. That dream that I thought was maybe just a dream. That dream that I wanted to believe was maybe just a dream. They say it is real.
Then who killed her?
Who killed those officials?
I learned, on that fateful day.
useless

Halloween is coming, offering a brief- yet trepidatious- reprieve from my thoughts. The houses are being decorated. Carved pumpkins with eyes of fire, skeletons hanging from roofs, dolls slumped against porches. Gaudy decorations. Decorations meant for children.
I need no decoration. The cloak of history I wear- proudly- is decoration enough. Yet I eye them with equal parts envy and pity- what would it feel like to be cared for again?
But then I remember what neglection feels like.
That crushing feeling of despair and loneliness.
The desire to just let yourself go.
No, it's better to never love and never lose.
So I did.
And I didn't lose.
Until that fateful day.
questions

How did I live? How did she die? How did they disappear? These are questions I ask myself every day. Perhaps I have nothing else to entertain myself with but the truth. The truth is very important to me, and so is the pursuit of information.
Sometimes I think I am hiding something- but what could I hide? I am sure someone else is hiding something from me. Like the one room I cannot move and cannot see. The room with the one- no, four- hearts in it.
Maybe if I can see the hearts, then I will know.
This is an irrational thought, and while I despire irrational thoughts, it almost has a ring of truth to it.
And I appreciate the truth.
I see the children avoid me when their parents are nearby, and yet, they creep dangerously closer when they are alone. Curious, foolish little things. They do not know what I can do.
What can I do?
I would like to know.
I appreciate the truth.
But I never appreciated it less than on that fateful day.
pain

I count the days until Halloween with a ritualistic fervor: some days, I do everything to keep them out, and some days, I beckon them in. My structures stay the same, like organs in a body- things we need to survive. Always the same pine wood floors, always the same chandeliers dripping with rosy crystals, always the ankle-deep rugs in deep rubies and violets.
Always, always, always.
But I can move them around- the sun-stained floors, the loping staircases, the hollowed rooms- shifting my insides like no human can until my intestines are in my skull, my heart is in my foot, and my brain is in my ribcage.
Whatever it was, whatever I could do, didn't hurt. Changing myself never hurt- I wore disguises like they were my true self. They were, you know. All of my disguises were my true self. I am a patchwork quilt of the things I have begun. And by then, I was used to wearing a mask.
The mask became my shield.
And nothing ever hurt.
The mask became my sword.
And I thought I was invincible.
Until that fateful day.
another

They ready themselves. I can see it as Halloween creeps closer- they think it a great adventure. They whisper to themselves as they approach. They motion to my fence as if they want to climb over.
I do not think it will be great for them.
Yet some part of me wants to let them come in. Maybe, when they come in, some locked up part of me will come out, rearing its head.
And what if the children disappear like the officials did?
It isn't my concern. Humans can be terrible things. Why can I not be terrible back? After what they did to me?
After what they did to Yellow?
Yellow. I was never meant to remember that name. It brings back a whole slew of memories.
And as I move back to that room I cannot see, the room with four beating hearts, I sense there is one more.
Five.
Five hearts.
Five hearts beating in symphony.
Yellow, I want to say. Why did you disappear?
That's not fair.
But some part of me thinks that Yellow might still be out there. Some part of me thinks that Yellow disappeared because of me, not the humans.
I frighten myself.
And I never frightened myself more than on that fateful day.
oblivion

The adults, I mean. I blame them too. For what is a child but a dream, a ghost, a malleable wisp of hopes and wishes waiting to be shaped? I blame the children sometimes, but predominantly the sculptors. Perhaps in this shifting, deceptive way, a reflection rippling in a lake, the children were better. They lacked the cowardice of their older kind. Foolishly brave. Almost enviably reckless.
But perhaps I am blaming something beyond my control. I can't control what the adults teach their children. I can't control what the children do.
Perhaps there is more to blame, yet I cannot think of anybody else.
Who could I have blamed for what happened? That is like blaming someone for falling victim to cancer. That is like blaming a wolf for devouring a sheep.
That is like blaming a human for picking a wallet up off the ground and keeping it for themselves.
That is like blaming Yellow for not resisting.
That is like blaming me for doing so. For keeping doing so.
And it always returns to that: what happened.
What happened when they went inside and found her body, two months dead, lying on the sheets, brown blood congealing on her chest.
What happened when the three government officials went inside and never came out.
What happened when Yellow went away. What I did next.
Three blank spots in my already spotty memory.
But- I'm not a murderer. How would I even kill her? Them?
Yellow knew.
Yellow knew something about me.
And now, Yellow is gone.
Did I do that, too?
How many more would I cast away?
I discovered.