The Speaker

The following is an excerpt from my YA manuscript that I've been working on since forever. I happen to like this passage, but I'm not sure why.

“You mustn’t try to prepare yourself for it,” her mother had said instead. “Know that this is not a test and there is no danger. Dispel your worries.”

            Akari was still rolling her eyes in memory of that answer as they followed the trail around a bend and down into a crevasse. A creek rippled at the bottom, feeding a large, drooping tree with bulbous knots. Its thick trunk was like a strongman holding up a world of branches, but as it had grown tired the leafless branches slipped from its grip and bent toward the ground.

            It looked sad, or so Akari thought. How could it not be when most of the trees around had long since dried up?

            “My daughter, this is the Speaker. We transplanted it here so that it might survive, but we do not think it is long for this world.” Arie took Akari’s hand and guided her to the base of the tree. “The Speaker speaks for Seele. When you’ve heard the Speaker, you’ve heard Seele, and that cements the bond.”

            Akari protested, “But I don’t have a bond to cement. I don’t know anything about this Seele. And I’m not full elf. Won’t that have an effect?”

            Eithne, the female elf who had loaned Akari the dress replied, “There is good reason why we did not answer your questions on the rite. You must partake as you are, and not as who you think you should be. Leave your concerns behind you and calm your thoughts.”

            Akari stared at the tree. Was it staring right back?

            Arie motioned for Akari to position herself on her knees, an arm’s length from the trunk. The elves surrounded the Speaker and muttered in the beautiful language Arie had spoken when she aided Mace. The words were in a lax cadence, with a rhythmic inflection strung throughout. Akari watched them and wished she understood what they were saying.

            “No,” her mother whispered. She took Akari’s hand and placed it on one of the knots. “Don’t mind them.” Arie drew some of the Speaker’s sap onto her thumb and smeared it across Akari’s forehead. “Do not mind anything.” Arie kissed her daughter on the head before joining the circle of elves around Akari and the Speaker.

            Akari swallowed. She had a dark feeling that they would be sitting there all night if they expected her to perform some sort of magic. They knew full well that she had not been raised an elf, that she still had no concept of Seele. It was not fair, and their reluctance to answer her questions only annoyed her.

            She grew impatient, tempted by the notion to just run for it, when the sap on her forehead began to warm, drawing her thoughts away from escape. The heat became almost uncomfortable when she smelled a fragrant earthiness. The smell filled her lungs, and when the air reached her brain, her body fell forward against the knot, her hand barely saving her face from the bark. She tried to push herself up, but couldn’t. She couldn’t move.

            After the paralysis came numbness, save for the burning on her forehead. She could not feel her lungs inhaling, and she panicked, but she could not even feel her heart race. A tiny bug crawling across the ancient bark of the Speaker was the last thing she saw before blindness set in.

            Akari cursed the elves in her mind. This was not the unconsciousness of sleep, but it was the helplessness that had plagued her her entire life. Her thoughts were frantic, wondering if all this were normal, or if she were an anomaly. The absence of her senses, of not being able to move—she knew no thing more terrifying. But soon, her thoughts were deafened by the absolute silence, and it beckoned her to be the same.

            Silent. Like she wasn’t there.

            Akari allowed herself to disappear. 

What's in a name

In French it’s agnelet—its Latin root is where you get the name Agnes from. It was one of the first livestock animals to be domesticated, and it has been integral to civilization ever since. The origins are thought to be the mouflon from Europe and Asia. Though its husbandry has been present the world over, today it is most closely associated with Australia, New Zealand, the British Isles, and South America. In Spanish they say “el cordero.” The ruminant not only provides meat, but fleece as well. The significance of fleece, of course, goes back to ancient times, as in “Jason and the Golden Fleece.” In Greek, the word is arni. Additionally, the arni, or probabato as the adult is called, has been used to forward science, most notably as a cloned specimen. The scientific name is Ovis Aries.

In the United States the raising of this livestock isn’t terribly common, and its existence is largely detached from secular society. In the church, the animal has special significance, since the son of God is given the title of Agnus Dei. This goes back to the Hebrew tradition of sacrificing the young animal to atone for sins. In Hebrew it’s called Rachel.

Most beautiful word

I think serenity is the most beautiful word in the English language. Maybe I’m cheating because it’s actually Latinate in origin, but really, if I chose a word that went so far back on the timeline that it’s definably Germanic, then I’d be stuck between cow and swine, and come on, those aren’t beautiful even you were in love with beef patties slapped between two slices of pig butt. But, you know, I may be partial because I know serenity means peace and just hearing it gives me peace of mind. I’d love to share this piece of my mind and spread the supreme song that is serenity to other solemn souls because to say it you practically have to sing. Yes, practically. It’s a practical word so not only is it beautiful but it serves a purpose. I like purpose.

Smiles

I'm sorry it's not a poem, lyrics or a short story. For some reason, I just wanted to talk about smiles, and as it would be a little awkward to call someone up for the sole purpose of this topic, I thought it best to put in a blog post.

Smiles. Why can one smile make you think about someone completely differently? Why do we pay so much attention to them that we can tell when someone is faking it? What makes a smile great or pretty? That is, is fore familiarity with the person a requirement?

What inspires this blog post is a music group I've discovered recently. The thing is, my first exposure to them was actually over a year ago, but I didn't start habitually youtubing them until recently when I came across a different video in which they smiled. All of a sudden, I'm in love with them! All of sudden, they seem beautiful in all of their videos, whereas upon my initial viewing (before I saw the grin) I thought they were just weird and experimental in their appearance, to say the least. And the music? At first not my thing, but it definitely grew on me, so much so I'm going to buy an album.

But maybe, I'm completely off. Maybe I made the whole thing up about seeing their smiles and that somehow made their music better. But maybe, it was still their smiles that made me feel drawn and open to what they were offering, their smiles that made me interested and convinced me there was a depth I wanted to delve into.

I'd hate to say something to the contrary of all smiles being beautiful, but I've certainly noticed that I don't experience everyone's smile the same. How normal is that? Among my friends it tells me how they're feeling, but among strangers it might actually send my head reeling from the...profoundness of it.

As for me, I saw a friend recently who I hadn't seen in a while, and I grinned the whole time we sat in Starbucks, in spite of myself. I was just so happy just to see her. That kind of thing, my friends, does not happen very often. For me to smile usually takes wit and humor, dialogue and comical action, not something so trivial as seeing someone's face.

My concluding thought on this matter is that I hope someone out there enjoys my smile as much as I enjoy the one in this picture.

Would you rather

Have you ever played that game, "Would you rather...?" What if you were posed with, would you rather witness the earth at its creation, or destruction?

    For me it's no contest. I'd rather witness the Earth's destruction in all of its fireworks and majesty. Can you picture it? Witnessing the first light and the entire Earth in smoldering majesty? And to see evolution fast-forwarded and see all life snuffed out like so many candles before a tempest. I'm guessing, of course, that somehow humans will end all life, and the earth just then spirals itself into a wasteland. But maybe I'd get to see volcanic activity forming and shaping the earth,  glowing in an unimaginable molten red. Wouldn't that be something? To watch the planet go from red  to blue and all green completely gone, replaced by black ashes and a dry, cracked surface. But what am I saying? It wouldn't be complete without an explosion to start it all.

End u ran

Slap slap go the Saltwaters on my eight year old feet against the pavement. The trees shed their leaves, their branches caught in autumn's breath. Two laps around the man made lake is two laps more than my dad thought I would run. My brother only cared because his run was interrupted in order to look for me.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.