"Brontide," by Deborah-Motunrayo Olaoye

Brontide

Deborah-Motunrayo Olaoye

Brontide A Collection of Short Stories

by Deborah-Motunrayo Olaoye

To myself, because why not ;)

Acknowledgments ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

I feel it is important to acknowledge those who helped me in this process. Thank you to Ms. Clater for listening to complain about how stressed I was about this project. Thank you to Ms. Binder for coming in late to the project but still helping out all that she could.

And thank you to Mr. Charps, my collaborator, editor, and therapist, who played a large part in this coming full circle.

Table of Contents:

Part 1: Nyctophilia……………………………………………………………………………………….. 1 Argle-Bargle…………………………………………………………………………………….. 5 Phosphenes……………………………………………………………………………………… 7 Habromania……………………………………………………………………………………... 11 Scintilla…………………………………………………………………………………………… 15 Súton………………………………………………………………………………………………. 19

Part 2: Laconic……………………………………………………………………………………………. 27 Viridity……………………………………………………………………………………………. 31 Lagom……………………………………………………………………………………………... 35 Paryoxysm……………………………………………………………………………………….. 37

Part 1: “Everything...affects everything.” ― Jay Asher

Brontide (n.): the low rumble of distant thunder

Nyctophillia (n.): being happy or comfortable in the dark ––– “Here lies Jeremy Brontide. A brother. A son. A friend.”

That's about the fifth time I’ve read the tombstone. The words haven’t changed, although I don’t know if I was expecting them to anyways.

The air surrounding me is quiet and cool, brushing my face ever so delicately but leaving goosebumps in its wake. The highway a few yards behind me, which I crossed to get here, is now empty.

“How did you know him?” a voice says next to me. I turn to look up at the hooded figure. Deep voice, so I assume he’s male. The voice is slightly raspy as if he hasn't tasted water in years. His hands bunched deep in his pockets, tattered jeans, and dark hair; I almost expect to see a scythe in his hand.

I clear my throat and feed his question back to him. “How did you know him?”

He turns to me, an eyebrow arched. He has nice eyebrows, a natural shape most girls would be jealous of, but I don’t voice my opinions; something I’ve learned to do after 17 years of living under the same roof as my father.

He grins at me. “I don’t.”

A tight smile grows on my face and then I shift to face the stranger’s tombstone again. It’s a dark gray marble and a small crack on one side has begun to climb its way to the top.

“I bet he was a cool person,” the stranger speaks again. I scrunch my nose but say nothing and continue facing forward. He continued, “I bet he had this big

~1~

group of friends who always loved being around him and when he walked into a room, you could tell he was the life of the party.”

“Actually,” I cut him off, “he didn’t have many friends.”

I sense the boy shift towards me, the air around us changing with him. “I thought you didn’t know him?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” I say, “I mean, I don’t.” I clear my throat. “But if I had to guess, then I would guess that he didn’t have too many friends.”

He snorts. “What are you some sort of fortune teller?”

I take a small step to the side, away from him. “No,” my voice has gotten quieter. “I’m just saying.”

Silence overtakes us again. Light rain has started to fall and I put my hood up over my hair and force my hands into its pockets, matching the stance of the boy.

“Jeremy definitely was a tap dancer,” he says.

My head swivels to the side. “What?”

“Yeah,” the boy says. “I mean, wouldn’t you think so? Jeremy Brontide: tap dancer.” As he says the last few words, he splays his palms out against the air in front of him twice.

“I don’t think he was a tap dancer.”

“And why not?”

“Because,” I say and slightly turn towards him, “Jeremy probably had two left legs and couldn’t dance for shit.”

That earns a chuckle from him and my shoulders relax. “Yeah,” I continue, “he was so bad at dancing that people actually paid him to not dance.”

“Okay then,” the boy speaks. “So what was he good at?”

I take a few moments to think, my eyes flicking around in the darkness.

“Knitting.” ~2~

I hear the boy face me and I want to shrink into my jacket.

“Knitting?” he deadpans.

He didn’t like that, did he?

“Never mind,” I mumble.

“No, no, no. It was good, it just…caught me off guard.”

“Oh.” “Yeah.”

I start kicking around a pebble from side to side with the tip of my shoe and watch as it rolls around in the dirt. It nearly rolls over a small bug, but I redirect the pebble before it can cause any harm.

“What’s your name?”

I freeze and look up, squinting as my eyes connect with his. “Why should I tell you?”

He shrugs. “Is it a secret?”

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

He rolls his eyes. “Derek. My name’s Derek. What’s your name?”

I don’t speak.

“Fine, then.” He starts to walk in the other direction, away from me.

“Wait!” I say. “Where are you going?” I’m not sure why I’m suddenly curious; I hardly know him. His actions should have no effect on me. But there’s an aching in my stomach that yearns for company. If he leaves, then I’d have to leave.

I’d have to go home.

“Why should I tell you?” he shouts back “Well because,” I start, “Just come back here!” I keep my voice barely over normal volume; it felt wrong to be shouting in a graveyard. ~3~

But he just kept moving briskly through the rows of dirt. “I don’t have to listen to you. I don’t even know you.”

“Can you just –” I quicken my pace, having to take two strides to keep up with his one. “Can you just slow down?” When I’m finally able to grab hold of his jacket, I yank him back with a small tug.

He comes to a halt and I take the time to catch my breath.

“What do you want to know?” I say through huffs.

~4~

Argle-Bargle (adj.): copious, but meaningless talk or writing ––– Hey Derek!

I know it’s been a while since we last talked. That’s been majorly my fault. I don’t want you to feel neglected ‘cause that’s what you’ll end up thinking. Promise that is not my intention. So I’m writing this to make up for it. Did you know I’m in the school’s newspaper now? Yea, the picture they chose of me turned out Okay, but there are probably better options they could've chosen. I asked to change it, But the lady told me no since it was already printed out. Anyways, my flight has Just landed. I hadn’t planned on going on vacation for so long, but there’s lots to Do; things far too complicated to explain in a letter. Anyways, I heard that you are One of the finalists for that writing thing you entered. Congrats!Writing’s not my Thing.

Maybe teach me some writing skills like they do at that prep school of yours. For what it’s worth, I’ve thought you could do better. Lots think you’re better than Me, so why not just keep on? Drop out of school and do something. Win a prize. Go invest in a business, cure cancer, start a band, idk. I think there’s lots of things To do. But no pressure. I’ll support anything that you choose to do. I only want The best. And try to smile more? I remember you always walk around with that Grave look on your face. Do you remember as kids we played Spies in your mom’s Yard?

Think of times like those. Good luck with the rest of the year and I’ll see you when I can!

From, Colson

~5~

~6~

Phosphenes (n.): the colors or “stars” you see when you rub your eyes ––– There was this line my mom always said to me: “Some people survive chaos and that is how they grow. Some people thrive in chaos because chaos is all they know.” She said it was from this poem she loved, and suggested I look at it one day. But I’ve never bothered to read it; just haven’t found the time.

I think of that as pieces of ash flutter past me in the wind and I watch two fire trucks hastily pull into our otherwise empty driveway. About eight men in bunker gear scramble out of the trucks and grab the fifty-foot hose wrapped around the side. They open fire, beginning to douse the ignited home.

I can’t help the small smile that creeps along my face and when I look over at my sister Singe, I take note of her smiling as well.

“It was a long time coming,” she says.

–– I don’t know how long the noise went on before it registers in my head. It’s the sound of gentle waves washing up onto the shore, advancing and retreating every now and then. It’s the sound of my brother slowly flipping through the pages of his favorite poetry book, Leaves of Grass, every so often.

But that’s impossible.

I make my way down the hall and stop in front of my brother’s door, listening for the sound again, and sure enough, it comes. My breath hitches as I place my hand on the handle and open the door. ~7~

There stands my sister, her back turned towards me, slightly hunched over the bed, reading something.

“What are you doing?” I say.

She quickly shoves whatever’s in her hand deep into her pocket as she spins to face me. “None of your business.”

“Why are you in here?” I march over to the bed, lightly pushing her out of the way. There’s a box on top of it, its contents scattered all over the sheets: a CD player, headphones, a journal, two gold rings, and a zippo lighter.

I feel my face grow hot and blink away the beginning tears forming in my eyes. I face Singe. “Why are you going through his stuff? Why are you messing with his things?”

“Will you quit yelling at me?” she says and goes to pick up the headphones, but I snatch them from her hand and shove them into the box along with all the other artifacts.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and neither are you.”

“I’m only in here because I heard a noise coming from here.”

She chuckles and plops onto the bed, the box bouncing with the impact. I feel a chord twinge inside me. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. He was the only person that ever made me believe it was possible for someone to read loudly.”

Singe lays her back against the sheets and closes her eyes.

–– “Are you gonna call Mom?” Singe asks me. She’s still staring at the burning house, watching the water from the hose jet out and try to calm the roaring flames. ~8~

“No,” I say, “I left my phone in the house.” But the weight of my phone in my pocket feels a little heavier as the lie exits my mouth.

“Interesting,” Singe says, “I figured someone like you would do all they could to the stuff from his room from burning.”

I cock my head to the side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she continues, “it’s just that back in the house, you freaked out on me for looking through the box.”

“I did not ‘freak out on you’.”

At this point, the fire roars, and the flames emerging from the house grow immensely in size. The firemen shield their eyes from the bright glare but continue charging into the house to target the source.

–– “You and Mom always lose your shit if I ever bring up his name in so much as a prayer at the dinner table!” Singe exclaims.

“That’s not true!” I tell my sister, “And would you please get off his bed?” I reach for her arm, but she stands up abruptly before I get the chance.

“That! That right there is what I’m talking about.” She runs her hands through her hair and exclaims in frustration. “It’s a bed, not his bed anymore. Our brother. Is. Dead, Sage!”

I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone put what’s happened into words. I was at his funeral, I watched the empty casket as it was lowered into the ground, and he now sits in an urn behind me on his bedside table. But his death never felt as real as it does right now.

“Hello?” Singe says, snapping her fingers in my face. “Are you even listening to me?”

“You need to put his things –” ~9~

Singe groans and grabs at the box on the bed, and pulls out his things one by one, waving them in my face as she does so.

“This,” she holds the CD player, “is a CD player. It belongs to no one.”

“Put that down, Singe.”

She puts it down but immediately goes to pick up the rings. “These are two unclaimed rings. In fact–, “ she slides them onto fingers of her own.

“Stop it.”

“– they’re my rings now. And this too,” she takes out the lighter.

“Stop touching his things!”

She switches it on and waves it in front of me, the flame dancing back and forth, laughing at me. “It affects no one if I do this. You know why? Because it belongs to no one since Jeremy is dead! Move! On!” I lunge at her, trying to grab the lighter out of her hand, but she takes a step back and the sudden motion causes her to drop it.

Right onto the bed.

–– The flames look beautiful against the sky. The orange so vibrant and the yellows weave in and out of it so freely.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Singe makes me realize how the heat from the house wasn’t the only heat I could feel. My sister has her own energy radiating off of her as well.

I, on the other hand, am at peace. The ashes slowly flitter to the ground, burying anything they could. The firefighters continue drowning what is left of the house, and it is not long until there is barely anything that remains.

“Yeah, it was a long time coming,” I say.

~ 10 ~

Habromania (n.): delusions of happiness ––– One of the first rules they tell us in psychiatry training is to never take anything from the patient, that it makes the relationship too personal. I personally never liked that rule. Wasn’t part of your goal to get your patient to trust you?

My most recent patient, a young male, had been having some family troubles. He complained that his house was always loud and that he could never get any work done, what with his sisters always insisting on being louder than the radio.

I passed him a journal, dark blue with the word “journal” engraved in gold across the front. I had an old stack of the classic black and white ones, but I decided to buy one that I felt suited him best; my patients deserve the best. That’s why they have me.

As I handed him the journal, he reached out an enclosed fist and told me to hold my other hand out, which I did. I felt something small and cold drop into my palm.

It was a simple gold band, a ring.

––– I finish the end of my braid and wrap a small elastic hair tie around it. When I let go, the braid slides off my shoulder and rests in the middle of my back, straight down my spine. I have my mother to thank for my healthy hair; she’d spent every other day of my childhood oiling it and putting on all kinds of other healthy

~ 11 ~

concoctions she dreamed up. I used to dread the process, but now that I’m older, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I feel my husband come up behind me, his chest pressing against my back.

He places his hands on my shoulders and runs them down my arms, causing goosebumps to appear. He leaves a small kiss on my shoulder blade, on the right first, and then one on the left.

“You know,” he starts, and I feel him pick up the end of my braid, “I’ve always loved your hair.” I nod, keeping my eyes on our reflection in the mirror before us. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’ve told me before, my love.”

He places another kiss on my skin, towards my neck, but his lips linger for a moment longer than the first time. A small hum escapes me.

“You should be more careful, though, sweetheart. We wouldn’t want such a beautiful thing to disappear so quickly.” He picks up a couple of strands of my hair that had fallen out from my brushing it and places them into the waste bin beside me. He has told me before that it doesn’t please him when I do that, to which I’ve told him that I cannot control where my hair falls. I turn myself around and take one of his hands into my own.

“No, we wouldn’t. And by the way, darling, our son tells me that you sometimes don’t feed him dinner the days I come back home from work late.” I take this opportunity to slide my hand to the back of his neck. I stroke that area a few times before I sink my fingernails into it. “Is that true?” He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and closes his eyes. I let it rest for a moment and then harshly pull my hand away, walking out of the bathroom. I hear his footsteps follow me out as well as a small chuckle. I take the stairs that lead to the first floor of our home, directing myself to the kitchen, and I barely reach the counter before I

~ 12 ~

am yanked backward by my hair and again, into my husband’s chest, his hand wrapped tightly around my braid.

“You can choose to believe the brat,” he whispers into my ear, “or me, your better half.” He moves his other arm around my waist, pulling me closer. He wraps me up in his scent and I take a deep inhale and bask in the smell before I dig my heel into his toes and drive my elbow into his gut.

“I’d believe my son over you any day of the week,” I say, and then I grab his face and kiss him with all the love for him I’ve got. But then, I feel a sudden pain in my lip and the taste of metal in my mouth. I pull back and touch a finger to my lip; it comes back red. “You bit me.” He walks around me and grabs a peach from the bowl of fruit on the counter, ignoring me. “Why would you bite your wife?”

“Would my wife like to join me outside to watch the sunset?” he simply asks, opening the sliding door at the back of our house. “While we’re out there, you can tell me the story of your new ring.” Our house sits at the edge of a small river, surrounded by a grove of trees.

I follow him out the door and continue to walk as he leads us to our favorite place to sit together: a rounded boulder. He takes his spot, on the right, and I take mine, on the left. “You left the door open, again,” he says, his eyes forward.

I lean over and snatch the fruit from his grasp. “I hate you and I hope you know that for the rest of your miserable life.”

We sit on top of the rock. I dig my thumbs into the center of the peach and tear it in two, offering half in his direction, making sure my ring catches the fading light of the sun. He smiles and reaches a hand up to my mouth, lightly wiping his thumb across it, and when he pulls back, there’s a small spot of blood. He takes his thumb into his mouth, sucking it, and then takes half of the peach from my hand as we both stare out at the open river.

~ 13 ~

~ 14 ~

Scintilla (n.): A tiny, brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; a barely-visible trace ––– Interview: Colson comes into the camera frame and sits on the chair.

Colson I got off the plane about 2 hours ago. It was a long flight but it’s in the past. So, I get off the plane and I’m trying to find a mailbox…

––––––

Derek I’m not sure why he sent me that letter. I haven’t heard from the guy in forever and all he kept talking about was himself; he didn’t even really ask about me.

––––––

Colson And I’m just thinking to myself that I’m in one of the biggest airports in the country, but can’t find a single mailing site. Isn’t that weird? *He chuckles* But thankfully, I finally do and I slipped the letter in and carried on with my day.

––––––-

~ 15 ~

Derek’s Mom Okay, so I know I wasn’t supposed to open the letter. But he’s my son! I should have every right to. And since I work for the post office, it’s my job, technically...

––––––

Singe So yeah, I was hanging with my boyfriend Derek this one night in the middle of this field and he hands me this letter from one of his friends, Colson. Derek kept telling me how he missed said friend but didn’t really care for what he had to say in the note.

–––––

Derek He kept blabbing about how long his flight was and his picture in the school newspaper. I didn’t care for it.

––––––

Singe So I’m reading this letter and then out of nowhere, a cop car shows up and starts flashing its headlights at us. Did I forget to mention that the field was private property? Minor detail. So anyway, I get psyched out and shoved the letter into the pocket of my jacket.

–––––

Derek ~ 16 ~

And then, he mentioned this game we played when we were little kids, Spies. We would make up these codes for certain things we couldn’t just say out loud.

––––––

Singe A few days later, I'm getting dressed to go out with my sister, Sage, to run a few errands. I pick up the jacket I had worn that day with Derek. But when I put my hands in the pockets, I realize the letter was missing.

–––––

Derek I don’t have the letter with me anymore. I think I forgot to grab it from my girlfriend this one day. But I do remember this strange thing from it: certain words were emphasized differently. Like…the last word in each line? The first letter was capit – Wait.

Could we actually cut for a second?

––––––

Colson I hope that letter reaches where it needs to be. It’s extremely important to me that it arrives safely and is untampered with. I need my message to be received.

––––––

~ 17 ~

Singe But yeah, that’s all I remember. Am I free to go now?

~ 18 ~

Súton (n.): the period of time right before the end of the day, dusk ––– October 24th, 2022 I laughed at the doctors when they told my mother that I was “going through a phase.” That it was because I’m a teenager that I’m now experiencing these “certain feelings.” When I asked them to clarify what they meant by that, one doctor said it was nothing I had to worry about, but then pulled my mother aside to speak with her privately. They thought I couldn’t hear their whispers or how they talked about me like I wasn’t even there.

But I could hear them; I could hear them loud and clear. Especially when the doctor incorrectly diagnosed me with depression. Why, if one of them had just stopped and asked me, I would've told them that depressed wasn’t the word they were looking for.

It was suicidal.

J; ––– November 12th, 2022 Today I was thinking about my appointments with Dr. Fraiser. I voluntarily set up my own meetings; I’ve been seeing her every Tuesday and Friday for nearly a year now. No one in my family knows about it. When I leave the house, they mainly assume I’m going to the community pool, the times that they do notice I leave the house. I don’t swim competitively, but I could if I wanted to. I practice swimming whenever I feel stressed or whenever I feel at all.

~ 19 ~

Dr. Fraiser’s office sits on the fourth floor of a relatively old building. The city claims the property was just built or at the very least refurbished. But I take note of the dry ceiling paint flakes that fall into my hair every time I close a door and the light that constantly flashes in the empty hallway on the sixth floor is a giveaway on its own.

I knock four times before I hear a faint “come in,” and I twist open the door.

Like clockwork, as Dr. Fraiser’s eyes meet my own, she not-so-discreetly slips off her wedding ring from her finger and slides it into her pocket. She does this every meeting, sometimes forgetting to do so until our sessions are almost over, and sometimes it's off before I even enter the room. Although I doubt she knows I know.

“Hello Jeremy!” she greets me and motions to the familiar sea green cushioned sofa positioned next to her. However, I head towards the white recliner across from her and slide it in her direction. When I sit down, it wouldn’t take more than a slight shift for our knees to be touching.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Fraiser.”

And then we begin. For the next 60 minutes, Dr. Fraiser and I discuss what’s new in my life, the good parts and the bad. She asks about my two sisters and mother at home, to which I respond with “Next topic.” At one point, I shift the conversation to her home life, solely out of curiosity, and she spits my previous response back at me: “Next topic.” But as she says this, she shifts the collar of her sweater up to conceal a small portion of her neck.

Interesting.

The clock on the wall behind her indicates that there are less than five minutes left in the meeting. Dr. Fraiser jots down her last few notes in her notepad and then flips it to a close. I rub my hands over the pockets of my jeans and freeze

~ 20 ~

when I hear the rustle of paper. The letter. At the same time, my phone buzzes from my pocket and lights up with a text from my sister:

Singe: I know you took the letter. Give it back.

“Jeremy.”

I snap my eyes toward Dr. Fraiser and realize she’s holding out a dark blue journal. She shakes it out in front of me, signaling for me to take it from her.

I smile at her and take it, running a finger over the gold lettering on the front. It’s then that I remember the two rings sitting on my fingers. They’re just plain gold bands, but they’re the only two I’ve got.

I slide one off my ring finger and toy with it in the palm of my hand. I’m not sure what overcomes me, but I hold it out between Fraiser and I. She looks confused at first and hesitates to take it. But after she registers the fact that I won’t put my hand down until she takes it, she plucks the small object from me and smiles.

J; ––– December 15th, 2022 To-do list: - Google: - How fast is the Pearl River current?

- How high is the Wade Dell Bridge?

–––

~ 21 ~

January 8th, 2023 3:30 in the afternoon. An affluent suburb. 64 degrees and cloudy. Those were the words that flashed various times across my computer screen as I watched the music video. A mellow guitar riff floods through my earphones and is soon followed up by a steady guitar riff and the croaky voice of Eddie Vedder. And then the bass kicked in and I found myself entranced with the music.

J; ––– January 16th, 2023 I went to see her again today at the pool and she looked beautiful, as always.

I learned her name is Míra.

J; —– January 29th, 2023 To-do list: - Google: - Do bodies sink or float?

—– February 1st, 2023 I stopped going to see Dr. Fraiser. At first, she was emailing me about it nonstop, about four emails a day. I’ve never responded, but as time went on, the emails got less frequent. And now, I no longer hear the “ping” of my inbox.

J; –––

~ 22 ~

February 10th, 2023 To-do list: - “Walk” the Dell Bridge J.

~ 23 ~

~ 24 ~

Part 2: “All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”

—Toni Morrison

~ 25 ~

~ 26 ~

Laconic (adj.): saying much in few words ––– I’m never the last person at the swimming pool.

I’m there every day under the water, stroke after stroke feeling the water glide across my skin. I go multiple laps at once, getting carried away with my technique and my head’s under the water for what feels like hours on end. My lungs only get tighter as time goes on, but that doesn’t stop me from swimming.

But then finally, when my head comes up, I expect no one to be there, save for the four security cameras at each corner of the room.

Yet, every single time, he’s there.

Either sitting in one of the folding chairs flipping through this book or sitting in one of the folding chairs writing in this book. But every time I look up and find him staring at me, he quickly averts his eyes and pretends as if the tile flooring is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

I hop out of the pool, letting the water drip off my bathing suit and onto the ground. My feet slap across the tile as I make my way over to Peeping Tom. “Hey, you,” I say when I reach him.

“Hello,” he replies.

“What's your problem?”

“What do you mean?”

I huff and cross my arms in front of me. “You keep lurking.”

“Lurking?”

“Yeah, lurking.”

“How am I lurking?”

~ 27 ~

I shift my weight to one foot. “Because you are.”

He closes his book and stands up. He’s taller than I expected, my shoulders just barely reaching his neckline. “Your legs aren’t kicking hard enough on your butterfly stroke.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just an observation,” he shrugs and begins to walk off.

I scoff at this “observant” stranger. “And just what would you know about swimming techniques?”

“Enough,” he says.

“Enough?”

“Mhm.” I roll my eyes. Who was this stranger to intrude and critique my swimming?

“Look, I appreciate you being concerned about my skills, but I don’t need you coming up in here and–” All of a sudden, he begins undressing.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m gonna show you.”

“Show me?”

“Yes, show you.”

“Show me what?” I say. He takes off his shirt and tosses it onto the chair next to us. He reaches to his waistline and hooks his thumbs over his pants.

I quickly slap my hands over my eyes. “Wait! I don’t want to see that.”

“See what?”

I wave my other hand frantically over his crotch area. “That!” He chuckles and I hear more rustling before I hear a big splash and feel a wave of water fall over me.

~ 28 ~

I slowly peek through my fingers and remove my hand from my eyes when I see he’s jumped into the pool. The boy has his arms straight out in front of him at first but then moves them to go under the water, around, and then back to the front again. His hips bob in and out of the water as he swims and it’s not until he reaches the other end that I realize what he’s doing: The Butterfly stroke.

About thirty more seconds pass before he comes back to my side of the pool and he holds on to the edge to stabilize himself.

He wipes the water from his face and looks up at me with the most innocent smile on his face.

“So,” I say, one hand on my hip. “You swim.”

He shrugs. “I dabble.”

I crouch down so that I can talk to him easier. “I assume you were showing me the correct way—” I put air quotes around the last two words. “—to butterfly?”

“I was.”

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Thanks, but I felt nothing wrong with the way I was doing it so I’ll stick to my method.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I notice him staring deep into my eyes and shift slightly away from him.

“What?”

“You have really pretty eyes,” he tells me.

I feel my face get hot and I quickly stand up straight. I drag my hands over my face and suddenly become hyper-aware of the fact that we are the only two people in this building, aside from Officer Collins at the front desk who let me in.

“Um, it’s getting late. I should probably start getting ready to go home,” I say and begin walking over to the bench I left my stuff on. ~ 29 ~

“You like being home?” he asks.

I stop walking and turn to face him. He’s now climbed out of the water, letting the remnants drip off his body.

“Yeah, of course, I do. Don’t you?”

I see the expression in his eyes change for a split second, but then revert back to normal. I don’t think he meant for me to notice it, but I did.

He picks up his shirt from the bench, sliding it over his head. He doesn’t say anything as he continues getting dressed. When he’s done, he walks over to pick up his book and then makes his way toward the exit.

With his back still turned to me, he says, “See you next time, Míra.”

~ 30 ~

Viridity (n.): naive innocence ––– I think it’s complete bs when kids ask their parents if they have a favorite, and their response is something along the lines of, “I love all my kids the same.”

Bullshit.

As a teacher, you have those kids who purposely make it their life’s mission to sabotage your lesson with every unnecessary distraction, and you’re telling me, “You love all your kids the same.”

Yeah, okay.

I hit pause on the remote that controls the TV to the side of me and signal to another student to turn the lights back on. “Alright class, that’s the end of this period.”

The room fills with excited noises and movement as the kids impatiently pack up their belongings.

“Well, don’t all look so eager to leave,” I mumble.

They exit hurriedly out the door, and soon, the classroom is empty.

Well, almost empty.

Seated towards the back of the room is the one person I expect.

He reaches down into his backpack and pulls out a Tupperware container and a bottle of water. He sets the two items on his desk and opens up the container, pulling a sandwich out. And as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he takes a bite out of it.

“Jeremy,” I say.

“Yes, Mr. Howard?”

~ 31 ~

“What are you doing?”

“Eating lunch.”

“You know,” I start, taking my glasses from the top of my head and placing them on my nose, “the first two or three times you did this, I didn’t mind.”

Jeremy takes another bite out of his sandwich, keeping his head down.

“But?” “But, this has turned into an everyday thing, now.”

Jeremy takes a long sip from his water bottle before answering. “What’s the problem with that?”

I sigh and place my cheeks in my hands. “Well, I’m just wondering why you don’t ever eat in the cafeteria with the other kids?”

Jeremy pauses, the sandwich a few inches from his mouth. He locks eyes with me before setting the meal down and pressing his lips into a tight line. “The other kids don’t want to eat with me,” he says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“It seems like it does.”

He takes another bite of his sandwich, his eyes flicking around the room as if it’s his first time being here.

“That video you showed to us in class today,” he says finally. “On the climate crisis.” I notice that he ignores my previous comment, but I don’t say anything aloud.

“Did you enjoy it?” I ask, hopefully.

“I have a question.”

“I may have an answer.”

“The video explained how global climate change can cause sea level rise.

Does that stand true for smaller bodies of water too?” ~ 32 ~

I crook an eyebrow. “What, you mean like a pond or a swamp?”

“I mean like a river.”

At that moment, another student walks into the classroom.

I hold a finger up to Jeremy. “One moment,” and then turn to the other student. “You’re late.”

The other student shrugs and shoves a stack of papers in my face. They’re crumpled up and have at least two stains per corner.

“What is this?” I ask him.

“It’s the extra credit assignment,” he says, avoiding eye contact.

“The one that was due a week ago?”

He says nothing, still holding out the papers.

“So,” I hear Jeremy say, but I keep my eyes locked on the second kid.

“About the river…?”

“Look, are you gonna take it from me or not?” the other one fusses, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll take it from you,” I start, “when you begin handing in the assignments on time and when they don’t look like they’ve been to hell and back.”

At this, Jeremy snickers.

“Mind your business.” the other kid snaps, before forcing the papers back into his open backpack and storming out of the classroom.

I scoff and turn back to Jeremy. “Can you believe the nerve of some kids?”

“Yeah, um, so anyways. The river–” “I mean, some parents really need to teach their kids about manners–” “So the riv–” “And respect and maybe even a little bit of–” “Mr. Howard!” Jeremy exclaims, slamming his hands on the desk. “Can you please just tell me about the rivers? What is the effect of the climate on the rivers?” ~ 33 ~

The clock on the wall ticked loudly.

“Uhh, well. It depends on where you are.”

“What about the Pearl River?”

“Oh well, that one’s right near my house. It’s most likely that if climate change continues the way it is, freshwater sources like the Pearl River will decline.”

Jeremy pauses. “What do you mean decline?”

“You know, decline,” I say. “The water would start to evaporate because of the higher temperatures and it would lead to eventual drought and evaporation.”

Jeremy slowly leans his back against his chair and a pensive look overtakes his face.

I gaze at him skeptically. “Why are you so interested in the patterns of the river?”

He picks up his sandwich again. “I don’t know, I just keep thinking about the video from class. It really stuck with me.”

I crack a smile. It makes me happy to know that the lessons I provide aren’t falling on deaf ears.

“So,” he starts again, setting his lunch back down, “If one wanted to, let’s say, swim in the river, it’d be best to do it sooner rather than later?”

I chuckle. “Yes, I suppose so. If by ‘later’ you mean after it dries up.”

He picks up the sandwich again and finishes it off. “Interesting.”

“I’m glad you’ve taken a liking to my teaching, Jeremy. It makes me really happy to answer your questions.”

“What? Oh, yeah,” he says, “Really great stuff.”

I lean back in my own chair and interlock my fingers behind my head with a smile.

Jeremy was my favorite student. ~ 34 ~

Lagom (n.): not too little, not too much. Just right.

––– “He’s been doing that for the past ten minutes,” I tell Dorothy.

The two of us stand behind the help desk of the retirement home, watching Jeremy scribble on a paper.

“What do you think he’s drawing?” she asks me, bracing her elbows on the surface.

“Mm, I say lines from a new book he’s picked up.”

“I think it might just be random doodles.”

Jeremy pauses his pencil and looks up at the two of us. “I can hear you guys.”

Dorothy and I look at each other and then back at the kid.

“What are you drawing there, boy?” I inquire, stepping around the desk and approaching his table.

“It’s nothing,” he says and shuts the book before I can get a proper look at it and stands up. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“No, I believe you’ve done everything already,” I say. “Why don’t you just come and sit with me?”

I can practically hear Dorothy roll her eyes before I hear her speak. “No teenage boy wants to sit down and talk to an old lady who is clearly pushing sixty.”

I whip my head towards her. “Says the one with wrinkles the size of the Hoover Dam.” That gets her to shut up and I turn back to face Jeremy, but am disappointed when I see that he is nowhere to be found. “Now look at you, you’ve scared him off.”

~ 35 ~

“I ain’t do nothin’, Bertha.”

I turn again and notice a journal on the table. Jeremy must have left it before he wandered off. I pick it up and a pencil falls out and rolls onto the table. I grab it to reinsert it back into its place, but that’s when I notice what’s on the paper.

“Dorothy, come here.”

“Oh, what now?” she grumbles but makes her way over. I feel her presence behind me and hold the notebook so she can see. “Oh.” “I guess we were both wrong.”

Suddenly, the book gets snatched out of my grasp and both Dorothy and I let out a startled scream.

“Sorry, but that’s really private,” Jeremy says, closing it shut. He clears his throat. “I’m going to go help Mr. Walter with his bath now. Excuse me.”

And he leaves again.

Dorothy is the first to speak. “It was just a bunch of semicolons.”

“Why is he drawing semicolons?” I say, half to myself, half to no one.

~ 36 ~

Paroxysm (n.): an outburst or emotion or action ––– It is a late Sunday night; dark save for the moon. Jeremy has taken a walk alone and has found himself at the community amphitheater near the waterfront of the river. There are a few pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs strewn across the ground, but other than that, the area and the seats are entirely empty.

He is a long way from home, the walk to get here taking him a total of one hour and thirteen minutes. The night is quiet and the moon shines bright.

Jeremy steps onto the stage of the amphitheater and looks out over the seats.

He clears his throat and begins: “To be or not to be? That is the question –Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune? Or to take arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them?”

He pauses and shakes his head. That one didn’t sound right. He wants to try again. Something more…original.

He shakes the nerves out of his hands and takes a deep breath. Jeremy re-centers himself on the stage and begins: “It is said that in the days leading up to the moment before one commits suicide, they begin to give some of their belongings away.”

“To Dr. Fraiser, I gave my ring.”

“To Míra, I gave my love.”

“To my sisters Singe and Sage, I gave my space.”

“To the elderly home, I gave my time.”

“To Mr. Howard, I gave my interest.”

~ 37 ~

“And to myself, what did I give? What did I give to myself? Perhaps, that is where it all went wrong.”

“Not enough joy.”

“Not enough friends.”

“Not enough love.”

He holds silent for a few beats before continuing. But then Jeremy goes on, his voice echoing into the seats. It flows through the branches of the trees and flows up into the sky. It touches the stars and eventually, the heavens.

~ 38 ~

~ 39 ~

~ 40 ~

Author’s Note This project is something I have talked about doing since my sophomore year. I remember the first moment that I knew I wanted to do this project quite vividly: Ms. Binder rushing through the dining hall with a fresh copy of a fellow student’s novel. My eyes followed her thinking that that could be my book in her hand one day. And now here we are.

A few parts of this collection are inspired by Pearl Jam’s song “Jeremy” which was based on the true story of Jeremy Wade Dell. Dell was a 15-year-old student from Richardson, Texas, who committed suicide in front of his classmates at school after being bullied countless times and suffering from domestic issues at home.

However, some bits, such as my choice of the name Jeremy and the story Habromania, were chosen prior to my knowledge of the late Wade Dell.

Additionally, I feel it is important to discuss the use of the semicolon in this collection. I’d recently learned the meaning behind one getting a semicolon tattoo.

Just as a semicolon is used to signify that the author could have ended the sentence there, but didn’t, the tattoo symbolizes the fact that someone could’ve chosen to end their life but didn’t. In the story, Súton, Jeremy signs his entries with a semicolon, but then a period, signifying his struggle with suicide.

It is an honor to share this story with you and I hope you might take this as a glimpse into what goes on in my mind when I zone out in class ;)

~ 41 ~

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