Nanowrimo 8

Callahan hated coffee, but he wanted to seem like he didn't. He got something he couldn’t pronounce. He also said “large” instead of “venti,” which elicited a glare from the barista. Callahan felt more self-conscious than he usually did.

            Froid had no self-conscience anymore. She ordered a venti quintuple Americano and left Callahan to pay for it so she could go next door to the CVS and probably buy some cigarettes. I frown. I can’t get rid of them until she’s around me again. I also can’t see her at all except through Callahan.

            She returned a few minutes later with a plastic bag. I can’t see what’s in it because Callahan can’t. I try to get him to ask, but he beat me to it.

            “What did you buy?”

            She shrugged her shoulders. “Just some stuff I need.”

            “Cigarettes?” Callahan blurted out at my insistence.

            Froid glared at him.

            I think about the poem that Callahan wrote about Froid and how it was really more about her smoking habits than actually about her. I remind him about it gently.

            “I… wrote a poem about you.”

            She looks up at him.

            “Well, actually, about your smoking,” he modifies. Froid drinks her Americano with urgency but says nothing.

            Callahan takes the first drink of what he ordered. To his surprise, it was delicious.

            “Wow, this coffee is amazing! I can barely taste the-”

            That’s because you got a Pekoe misto. There’s no coffee in it. Just tea.”

            She drinks more of her Americano. It’s very strong, and Callahan sees her wince a little as the bitterness flows into her mouth, but she overrides it.

            “Oh… well that explains a lot!” He chucked nervously and tried to slow his breathing but to no avail. His face was bright red and hot and not just from the heat.

            I nearly cackle as I hear him and pour myself a cup of the rooibos brewed.

            The silence was unbearable for Callahan. Froid didn’t mind it, but the lack of conversation exacerbated Callahan’s meddling low self-esteem. It didn’t help that Froid seemed to be going out of her way to keep the conversation minimal. She didn’t even make eye contact with Callahan or anything in the room. Her eyes had glazed over long ago, as soon as she had seen him. She had re-hibernated, artlessly retreating into the solitude that she found more appealing than Callahan. It was offensive, but Callahan was too nice to object to it. However, the sight of Froid was beginning to lose its luster as it reflected the emptiness of their relationship. Callahan meant nothing to Froid, never had, and it pained him.

            “How long have you been in Seattle?” Callahan asked after a few minutes, determined to get Froid to talk, even if it meant supplying her with easy answers.

            “Since I left campus,” replied Froid. Her downward intonation indicated that she was finished with her answers. The last syllable landed with a thud on Callahan’s heart.

            “Wow, so you really just didn’t go somewhere else at all. You went straight for here?”

            Froid nodded. Callahan couldn’t tell whether it was at him or the Americano. Probably the Americano.

            “Why? Why didn’t you go home at all? What’s so urgent out here?”

            Froid shrugged her shoulders. She was bypassing words to communicate with the most insultingly minimal gestures.

            Callahan had to think of better questions, and so he paused his endeavor to think some up. It took a while, because he realized he would have to ask very specific questions. He assembled them together and prepared to fire them rapidly at her.

            “When does school start here again?”

            “January.”

            “Where will you be living?”

            Shrug.

            “Will you go home for Christmas?”

            Shrug.

            “What will you be studying?”

            “Physics.”

            “Why are you living with Luke right now?”

            Shrug.

            “Why don’t you know why?”

            Shrug.

            “If you don’t know why, why are you still there? Do you want to be by someone like Samuel so much that you’ll go for his brother?”

            That got a reaction. Froid crushed the empty cup in one squeeze. She looked up at Callahan. It was the first time anyone had mentioned Samuel since she had got here.

            “What is it to you?” she asked.

            Shrug.

            They sat in silence again, Froid clearly uncomfortable now, and Callahan frustrated.

            “I heard Samuel came here, for a poetry reading. You went, didn’t you?”

            Froid’s lack of response was a response in of itself. She was trying to retain her composure. Callahan knew exactly what that meant.

            “I’m right, aren’t I? Of course you had to go, even if you didn’t want to. You needed to see him again.”

            Froid remained completely still. She even held her breath.

            Now they were having a conversation. Callahan was putting the pieces together, and the more Froid remained still, the more Callahan knew his words were getting through to her.

            “I heard he only recited one poem.”

            Froid exhaled as quietly as possible. She didn’t inhale immediately, though.

            “Higher Wisdom. His most popular poem. His best poem. The only poem he’s ever written that’s not about himself.”

            Froid still didn’t inhale.

            “In a split second I fear,” began Callahan. “Fear. That’s not a word Samuel ever uses. He’s a monolith. He has no cracks.”

            Froid slowly inhaled. Her shoulders didn’t lift, and her stomach didn’t expand. It wasn’t much of a breath.

            “You, in repetition, blue, yes like oceans. At the edge of my shore, a God like I.”

            It was Callahan’s favorite poem for almost one sole reason: it was about Froid.

            Froid breathed out, her teeth shivering. She was scared of someone. Callahan didn’t know of whom.

            And I don’t know whom either. If I still knew her I would, though. But ever since my brother has come to Seattle Froid is about as unreadable as he, and maybe even worse.

            Someone smiles in an art gallery. The person is looking at a copy of a Balke painting, titled “Lighthouse on the Norwegian Coast.” It’s a beautiful painting, with a solitary manmade structure withstanding the torrential sickly green waves beating against the barren shore. It’s one of my favorite paintings. It’s also one of Samuel’s.

            The person is nearly moved to tears. Their hands are folded in their lap. I know those hands.

            The person takes out a piece of homemade paper and some beleaguered charcoal.

            No. It can’t be.

            Samuel starts writing on the paper, but he’s not writing a poem.

            He’s writing a note. To Froid.

ambrosia-

I have to go back to murkvein tomorrow to attend my publisher’s funeral. I wish I could have stayed longer. I understand that you will not return to murkvein. it is perhaps for the best for you. burn this letter as soon as you receive it. I will not bother you anymore.

stc

His script is long and lean and severely slanted. It looks like a different, linear orthography. Very few people can actually read it without a transcription. One of them is Froid.

Samuel suddenly disappears from my mind, but I’ve seen enough. I sigh in relief. With Samuel gone, I can rebuild Froid without interference. For once in my life it seems like my brother is on my side.

Callahan and Froid slowly but surely finished their drinks at Starbucks, though the total of the words uttered between them was about the length of one of Samuel’s poems. As soon as Callahan finished his cup I text him, saying that they’re on their own for dinner because I got a call to go to the office.

Of course it’s not true. If I don’t want to do a surgery a certain day I’ll make it so I don’t have to. I’ll have the office delay paperwork or make the patient just not show up. And since Froid has been in Seattle, I’ve been minimizing the time I’ve spent at work merely by making myself unnecessary at the office. I’ve had the interns undergo intensive training camps, the surgeons below me capitalize on my absence, and patients simply wait on surgeries until after the holidays, when Froid would presumably begin classes and live in a dorm away from me. I still plan on seeing her constantly whether she’d like me to or not. I know I’ll win her over eventually. She’ll be mine again just as she was before.

            Callahan didn’t even bother asking where Froid wanted to eat. He knew he wouldn’t get any response. He got up and walked out of the Starbucks, assuming that he was on his own to eat.

            He walked a couple blocks until he get to the edge of Chinatown. His stomach growled. Peking duck sounded good, and he walked in to explore his options.

            My vantage point changes. Someone is coming up behind Callahan.

            “Callahan,” Froid says quietly.

            Callahan turns around. My vantage point changes again to see Callahan looking at Froid. It changes back and forth between them, and the motion makes me feel a little sick as I jump back and forth between looking at Froid and looking at Callahan.

            Froid says, “Let’s eat together.”

            “Really? Anything you have in mind?”

            “Peking duck.”

            Both Callahan and I are surprised. Did Froid read Callahan’s mind?

            “Well, alright! Let’s go.” Callahan walked next to Froid, and she disappears again from my mind. I’m actually somewhat relieved. Managing multiple vantage points at the same time in the same place was exhausting. I pour myself a glass of water.

            A waiter brought Callahan and Froid some water. Callahan immediately ordered Peking duck in lieu of Froid doing anything since they sat down.

            Their meeting was hampered with silence again, though this time Callahan didn’t even try to supply the conversation. The two sat silently, and Callahan texted Caracolle that he was with Froid at the moment.

            Caracolle immediately called, but Callahan sent her straight to voicemail.

            Caracolle texted him.

            “omg u dick y r u ignoring me?!?!”

            Callahan texted her back. “We’re at a restaurant… can’t really talk.”

            “show her this text: ambrosia ur the most selfish person i know. even if mom && dad don't seem to care i do. come back home soon 4 my sake if not 4 mom && dad.”

            Callahan put his screen in front of Froid’s face. She looked at it and her expression didn’t change.

            “Tell her I’m busy.”

            Callahan texted Caracolle back. Caracolle retaliated with another text.

            “OMG A Y R U BEING SUCH A BITCH??!!?!?”

            Callahan showed Froid the text. Froid told Callahan that she had no intention of going home any time soon.

            Callahan wrote back to Caracolle, who sent another text.

            “ughhhhhhh fine. if u don't want 2 act like an adult then i won’t even waste my time.”

            Callahan showed Froid the text. Froid said nothing and looked back down at her water.

            Callahan put his phone in his pocket, but Caracolle still insisted on sending messages to Froid through Callahan.

            Callahan finally texted her back: “Look, if you want to talk to her then just text her directly. I’m not your messenger boy.”

            “i don’t have her new # dumbass”

            Nor did Callahan. Froid didn’t even have her phone with her. It didn’t even work. It was still sitting on the kitchen floor. I look over at it as I sit on the sofa, unwilling to cave in and throw it away. Froid will eventually pick it up and take responsibility for it.

            Froid was of no particular interest, so Callahan began looking around to the other patrons. They were one of the few non-Asians there, and the two of them sitting around an enormous Lazy Susan looked awkward. Other tables were filled with people having boisterous conversation, enjoying each other’s company. The two of them sat together in the middle of the restaurant, not talking, not enjoying themselves, a foiling fixture for almost everyone else there.

            “Steamed bok choy,” said a waiter to a customer in the corner. Callahan took a sip of water.

            Alone. He nodded to the waiter. Samuel.

            Callahan spit his water out. Most of it sprayed onto Froid, whose expression reflected her surprise for the first time since Callahan saw her.

            To Callahan’s horror, everyone in the restaurant stared at them and giggled at the sopping Froid.

            Callahan jumped up, taking his napkin with him, and tried wiping Froid dry.

            Someone handed Callahan another napkin.

            “For the performance, Athlete.”

            Callahan turned around. Samuel stood eye to eye with him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look at Froid. He wasn’t even looking at Callahan. He was looking at me again.

            I incite enough anger in Callahan to almost get him to punch Samuel right there on the spot, but Samuel walked back to his table before Callahan could lift his fist.

            Callahan sighed as he continued helping Froid dry herself. She thanked him quietly, but he didn’t hear it because she didn’t say it in his direction.

            She watched as Samuel dragged his chair over to their table, with his bowl of bok choy under his arm.

            “No,” Callahan growled. “You can’t sit here. Go back to your own table.”

            Samuel acted as though no one else was at the table. It didn’t surprise either of them, but that didn’t stop Callahan from getting angrier. I don’t even need to help him at this point. Callahan loved Samuel’s poetry, and even worshipped Samuel as a person for a few years. But now all that was left with him was the adoration of the poem and abhorrence of the poet.

            Callahan stood and faced Samuel, pointing at the corner. “Leave. Now.” His stature was his best asset. Towering over anyone was intimidating.

            Except for Samuel. With terrifying apathy Samuel stood up, squared his shoulders to Callahan, and sat right back down.

            “Callahan, please sit,” whispered Froid. This didn’t calm Callahan down any. It only made him angrier.

            “Why are you defending him? After all he’s done to you, after all that’s happened, you’re telling me to sit down? You’re not going tell him to go away? You’re not going to do anything?”

            Froid looked at Callahan. “Do you think he cares?”

            Samuel slurped his bok choy like they were noodles. The waiter brought over the Peking duck, and Callahan took the thigh immediately. The thigh was huge, significantly larger than that of a chicken, and it was tasty enough to distract Callahan from Samuel’s presence. Froid nibbled on some breast meat in silence. Samuel finished his bok choy in minutes.

            Callahan assumed that as soon as Samuel was finished he would get up and leave, forcing them, and therefore Callahan, to pay for his meal. But he didn’t. He stayed there, eyeing his empty bowl like there were still bok choy in it.  He didn’t look at the Peking duck at all, to Callahan’s mild relief. He didn’t want to give him any.

            However, Samuel’s continued presence remained as a slow irritation on Samuel’s mind. The most annoying part was that Samuel was so inhuman that nothing that either he or Froid did would compel him to leave. He would only leave on his own accord.

            Samuel looked insufferably bored, but he didn’t write a poem or try to entertain himself.

            A waiter returned with both checks, and before he even set them down on the table Samuel pulled out a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket.

            “For both. No change.”

            The waiter stared at the bill, trying to do the mental math of exactly how much of a tip that was. It was well over a hundred percent. Samuel’s meal was not even five dollars. The Peking duck was not that expensive either.

            Callahan was even more surprised than the waiter.

            “Think of it as a parting gift, Athlete,” said Samuel as he stood up. Callahan felt buoyant. Not only was Samuel leaving, he also picked up the check.

            Callahan engrossed himself in his thigh, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Samuel tap Froid’s shoulder in a rhythmic pattern as he passed her. He had seen this before.

            So have I. Callahan wasn’t looking directly at Samuel, so I couldn’t tell which pattern it was. But it was definitely a message in their own little code.

            That was why Samuel sat down with him. He has something to tell Froid.

            Froid and Callahan return immediately to the apartment. I ask them how their dinner was, and Callahan responds that it was nice but uneventful. He doesn’t mention Samuel at all. Froid walks straight over to my room and closes the door. Probably going to sleep. I don’t blame her. Seeing Samuel twice in two days would be exhausting for her. I don’t plan on disturbing her at all. She needs her rest.

            I offer Callahan some herbal tea and thank him for spending the day with Froid in the wake of me being so busy.

            “You know, with all the things going on the office and trying to get stuff done before the holidays, it was really nice to have a whole day to just catch up on everything.”

            “No problem,” Callahan replies.

            “Did she seem any better?”

            Callahan grimaces. “I think she said about twenty words to me total. It was really frustrating.”

            I nod sympathetically. “I know what you mean. She took a few days to relax and open up. Just give her time. I think the more you’re around her, the faster she heals. Not sure why. Maybe she just needs exposure to support.”

            Callahan likes the sound of that, but I know deep down he is feeling discouraged at how stingy Froid was with him.

            “Tell you what, let’s get out of here, you and me. I know a great gelato place down the way!”

            Callahan is still full from the Peking duck. He doesn’t want to eat anymore, but I override his stomach, and he agrees politely.

            Before we head out the door I break my promise to myself and look in to check on Froid. She’s sleeping already, motionlessly almost at the edge of the bed. I smile and turn off the light as I close the door.

Nanowrimo 7

So many words!

Chapter 2

The Suzzallo Reading Room at the University of Washington was shaped like a church nave. Samuel Tyler Coldridge looked at it with disinterest. He paid more attention to it than he did the speaker though, whose bombastic tone resonated through the literary chapel with a hollow clamor. Samuel was, to this speaker, the equivalent of God, and while Samuel showed no inclination to accept this position, the speaker went on, convinced that this verbal groveling was a way to become Samuel’s hallowed disciple.

However, Samuel had no interest in the responsibility of having disciples. The only ones that mattered to him were those he could create.

“Samuel Tyler Coldridge, a visionary of syntax and grammar in poetry…”

The speech continued. Samuel noted the frequent use of adverbs derived from adjectives in each sentence. “Single-handedly.” “Bravely.” “Wonderfully.” “Creatively.”

Samuel hated adverbs that ended in –ly. They were the weakest words, derivations of derivations that did nothing to enhance speech. They were weak and useless. They were like people. He called many people “adverbs.”

“… Let us not forget the reasons in which Mr. Coldridge has made himself known in the spectacularly…”

Another adverb. Samuel’s sole enemy was superfluity. If it served no function, it should not exist. He sat at the front of the auditorium, and everything else with him was superfluous. The one that wasn’t was the poem in his mind. Everyone else asserted themselves on reality. They coughed, whispered to each other, tapped their feet. They all tried to exert their existence in some menial ways. But they had it all wrong. With poetry, Samuel did not need to prove himself to reality. Reality had to prove itself to him.

Cogito, ergo sum. I verse, therefore I am. And where I am, I am God.

Samuel memorized all of his poetry. He was supposed to recite three today. He wasn’t sure yet which three, but once he stood at the front he knew he would pick the perfect three.

“…His presence here today is a privilege that we all must remember! This is the first time he has ever given a public performance of his poetry…”

Samuel had never made a public appearance. He created poetry for himself and never strove it to share it with anyone. For Samuel poetry was not an important means. It was just a means to create.  Reality held no interest to him. The world he could create was perfect to him. Why conform to one that was not?

And why had he decided to come and do this poetry recital this time? He had just felt like it. And why had he felt like it? Because in a stroke of childishness he wanted to take some food from Luke.

The speaker had finished, and Samuel wondered why he had felt a need to irritate Luke. It was impulsive, and now he was here, doing something he had hoped he would never do.

Never again.

Samuel made his way up to the pulpit and looked at the audience. Seniors, professors, enthusiasts, everyone was ready to receive the sermon. Samuel was reluctant to give it. So much so that he contemplated walking out of the room and walking straight back to Murkvein. It would not be hard. It would take no convincing. Samuel did not care about any opinions. He only cared about his poetry. He began to gravitate away from the pulpit. But then something familiar caught his eyes.

Green eyes.

            Ambrosia Froid did not look at him. He felt her watching his poem floating in preparation in his mind. She waited because she knew she was the only person in the world entitled to hear this poem. And she was right. He knew she was right. She needed to hear this poem, if no one else. The poem needed to return to its nexus. That was God’s mandate. He would read this poem and decline the other two.

            Often Samuel closed his eyes when he recited his poetry, but instead he looked straight into hers.

            “Higher wisdom,” he began. His voice suggested no origin: perfect, standard English, no slang, a sociolinguist’s nightmare. Just words.

He looked at the opening lines in his mind. The word “fear” had never been used in his poetry before. He did fear her. He feared her because, unlike colons and nouns and orthography and any other part of human language, he could not control her.

            For the first time in his life, he hesitated.

            “In a split second I fear

            Blue, yes, like oceans…”

            A year ago he and Froid went to the beach to write poetry on the stagnant algae on the water. It was his idea, of course. All of them were. The sand was too coarse and cliché; the algae could make their poetry three-dimensional in the water, and they meandered through the lilies like quiet ducks, letting their fingers graze the flowers when it seemed right to do so. Froid had come across a dead painted turtle bobbing in the water like a hollow rock, its shell split with the precision of a stanza. She wrote a poem about it right away, holding it in her fingers and holding Samuel’s waist in her others. Samuel could not think of anything to say about a dead turtle floating among the weeds. He could only look at its glazed blue eyes like they knew who he was. He had told her that he did not feel like writing a poem then and there. He could write endless poetry about himself. But this was not himself. This was a dead turtle.

            “Fragrance the shore,

Break everything…”

Samuel closed his eyes and imagined Froid skipping through the water again, how the water fanned out behind her like she were a duck, the buoyancy in the lilies in her hand and how she weighed them, palms up, like an offering to him. He could smell the lilies and the dead turtle and the algae. None of them feared her. She saw the beauty in flowers, in death, in lowly vegetation.

“…I do not will you two,

Your cycle in repetition…”

Blue, yes, like oceans. They had found a dead frog on the path after leaving the water. Froid didn’t pick it up but instead stared at its flattened torso and commented on the “Tapestry… Soft gravel for a nest. Blue reflections, like water-death. The whole world is on this squished frog’s back!”

She turned back to Samuel expecting a scowl, a condescension that would force her to impress him further. His eyes were glossy in the sunlight.

Froid and her poetry. The two things that defied his predictions.

“At the edge of my shore,

A god like I.”

 Was she also God? In the context of exerting her world onto his, then yes. And to him, that was all that mattered.

            “Samuel,” she had asked a few minutes later, twirling her index fingers on his palm as they walked on a bike path, “Could you ever write a poem about me?”

            Samuel looked at her. She had not seen him on the verge of tears.

            “No,” he whispered.

            Froid looked him, denial furling her eyebrows. “Come on, you can write a poem about anything! I mean, ‘wet.rock’ was about that one time your brother caught you—”

            “Poetry is what I control. It is my world that I create.”

            “But, look at me! Clearly I am part of your world now, aren’t I? Don’t I deserve even the tiniest vignette?”
            Samuel couldn’t bear to look at her. Clearly. An adverb ending in –ly. Weak. Useless. He let go of her hand.

“Clearly. You know how much I love that word, Adverb? Do you know how much I wish to grammaticide all of those words from our language?”

Froid froze at the word “adverb.” Samuel had never used it with her.

“You’re beautiful, Ambrosia, but your beauty is redundant with my verse. I cannot make you beautiful. You just are. You are not my poetry.”

Any other person in the world would have seen that as a compliment. Froid knew better.

Samuel walked away from her, closing his eyes.

Samuel opened his eyes and he was in the Suzzallo Reading Room.

As soon as he finished the poem he sat back down. The speaker’s eyes were alight in terror, motioning that Samuel go right back up to the front and continue with the other two poems. Samuel shook his head. He wanted to see Froid.

            With the unplanned truncation of the program, there was extra time for the reception. Students threw themselves in Samuel’s path, hoping their martyrdom would enable them to ask some trite question about Samuel’s choice of orthography or why he always ended his poems with the letter “I,” but Samuel was in no mood for pilgrims. He wanted to see the one person he now could never convert.

            He wove around questions with as much precision as he could give himself. He made eye contact with every eye in the room but did not see the ones he was looking for.

            Green eyes. He felt them. He turned around and saw Froid facing him but walking out the door. He followed her outside. The two stood face to face at the entry.

            The color of Samuel’s eyes was shallow when he saw Froid’s. The lifelessness in her irises. The deep-set shadows. The gray lips from smoking. The pallid flaky skin. The nightmares, all of them, in her shaking hands, her stiff neck, her grinding teeth, her ripped fingernails, her ears numb from the times she heard herself screaming.

            She may not have been part of his world, but he was part of hers. And if he was in her world, was she also in his?

            Froid turned and started to run away. Samuel grabbed her wrist and turned her back to him. It was the reverse motion of the last time they had touched. Samuel could even smell algae nearby in a manmade pond.

            Froid’s eyes now were Samuel’s then, full of disgust and disappointment. Samuel could say nothing to her. He could only think.

            Higher Wisdom. The poem about you, Ambrosia. The poem I never wanted to create. The poem I could never create again.

            Samuel’s eyes moistened. For the first time in his life he held on to something that was not a poem. It was a human who was a poem.

            Samuel crumbled to the ground like a marble tower, kneeling at Froid’s feet. Samuel’s tears wetted the earth for the first time.

Chapter 3

            I drive frantically towards the University of Washington. Suzzallo Reading Room. It’s in the library somewhere. My driving halts when I arrive on campus and have to pause for students crossing the street in all the wrong places, the throngs of lectures releasing themselves outside in a heap of urgency. In exasperation I pull over on the side and park my car. I slam the door as I get out of my car and run towards the library.

            I stop and close my eyes, but I get nothing but silence from Froid’s mind. I sigh, not expecting anything different, and begin to run again.

            But then, I see her. Her eyes are angry, bright with rage, fighting the grasp of someone holding on to her. She’s holding on to me? No. I’m looking at her through the eyes of someone else.

            My vantage point falls to the ground in tears.

            Higher Wisdom. The poem about you, Ambrosia. The poem I never wanted to create. The poem I could never create again.

            This could be only one person.

            I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that Froid went to him. I can’t believe that I’m watching my brother cry for the first time in his life. But what I can’t believe the most is that I can get into Samuel’s mind at all. When he acts like a human being his mind is like everyone else’s.

            I turn my car around and go home. I can practice acting enraged for Froid. I’m not enraged right now at all. I’m euphoric almost.

            I enter my apartment and wait for Froid to return. I know she will come back.

            And sure enough, within the hour, she’s back. I don’t even need to force myself to act furious. Froid’s improved appearance has me gaunt with rage.

            “Was it fun? Was it fun going back to the likes of him? Do you like it? Do you like getting hurt?”

            Froid says nothing as she crosses the living room. Her calm makes me even angrier.

            “Oh, so now you’re just gonna be like him? You’re going to become like him because you can’t beat him? That’s a great strategy there, Froid. If you can’t beat the abuse, become it!”

            Froid opens the fridge, sees that I still haven’t bought guava juice, and closes it again.

            “You… ungrateful…”

            “How did you know where I was?” she asks me.

            “I assumed. I can’t trust you. After all I’ve done for you and I still can’t trust you. Why? Do you not trust me?” I grab her shoulders. She slips out of my grasp like she had anticipated it.

            “You don’t trust me?” she asks me.

            I stammer. I don’t know whether I mean it or not. I don’t know whether I said it just to scare her or if it’s actually true. I don’t know anything. When did this happen?

            She closes the door to my bedroom. I march up behind her and swing it back open. She tries closing it again. I wedge my foot in between and grab her wrist. I force her to look at me.

            But somehow, she doesn’t. “Let me go, Mr. Coldridge. I don’t feel comfortable staying here anymore.”

            I drop my hand in disgust.

            “Where are you going to go then? Where is safer than me? Where? Are you just going to go back to Samuel and sleep on that filthy mattress again?”

            Froid releases herself from my grasp. “I don’t need your help, Mr. Coldridge. I can get by on my own.” She kicks my foot out of the doorway and closes the door and locks it. I hear her packing her stuff. I see nothing of what she’s planning, where she’s going.

            Before I can wallow in my despair I get a notification that Callahan’s plane has landed in the airport. I text him a greeting as I head out the door. If I can’t get to Froid directly, maybe Callahan can.

            Callahan Grossherz has lost weight, somehow. I think he hasn’t been eating all that much out of stress and frustration. Maybe my jabs at his physique also did something. Callahan is as tall as Samuel, and taller than me, but literally twice Samuel’s weight, much of it on his face. He’s wearing jeans and the most interesting t-shirt he owns. It’s a screen print of some movers changing out the scenery in the background, paintbrushes dripping out of the pants and onto the ground. It’s an interesting shirt. I spill some coffee on it as he walks towards the exit, causing him to put a jacket on as he does a pain dance from the liquid scalding his skin.

            I honk as I pull over to the curb and Callahan peers into the car. I smile at him as friendly as I can, and I force him to smile back. Callahan doesn’t fight my command, and I don’t even have to force him to get into the car. As soon as he sits down I take off so quickly that the force pushes him back into his seat.

            “Callahan Grossherz. It’s so nice to meet you.”

            Callahan nodded as he looked at me. “Your name was….”

            “Luke. Luke Coldridge.”

            “And you’re related to…”

            “Samuel. I am Samuel’s older brother by twelve years.”

            Callahan hesitates. I lock the doors to the car to make sure he doesn’t make a run for it.

            “Don’t worry. I can’t stand my brother. I’m not working with him. However, I am concerned about a friend of yours.”

            “Ambrosia?”

            “Yes. She’s been catatonic ever since Samuel came to Seattle a couple days ago. It’s been very hard for me. I care so much about her, and we made so much progress. I was almost able to get her over Samuel, get her readjusted to her new life here in Seattle before the holidays. You wouldn’t believe it was her. She was so… happy.”

            Callahan looked at me incredulously. I wasn’t lying. Nothing that I had said was a lie, but my attempt to convey it appeared to have backfired.

            “Callahan, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. I’d never do anything to harm Ambrosia. I feel like I’m atoning for my brother’s sins against her, and taking the blame for all he’s done has been hard.”

            A few of those statements were lies, but they resonated more with Callahan. His suspicion dissipated as he nodded in concord.

            “I’m so glad you came out here to support her, Callahan. You’re such a good friend to her. Even if she doesn’t appreciate you as much as she should. Just know someday your loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

            Callahan smiles. I’ve said everything he’d ever want to hear in one concise utterance. We drive in silence for a while.

            “So, what do you do, Luke?”

            “Me? I’m a neurosurgeon at a hospital. My hours were crazy but they’ve winded down a bit before the holidays. No one wants to be recovering over Christmas. It’s nice. I’ve been able to spend a lot of time with Ambrosia. And you, Callahan? Are you studying creative writing as well? I’ve heard that that’s where you met Ambrosia and Samuel for the first time.”

            Callahan nods and tries to smile, even as I help him. But he can’t. He can only think about how he had met Froid and my brother. It isn’t a pleasant memory. He grips his fingers tightly he interlocks them. I slip his hands apart with sweat, but he puts them right back into position. We don’t talk for the rest of the drive.

            When we arrive at the apartment my bedroom door is closed.

            “Has Ambrosia been staying with you?” Callahan asks as he looks around.

            I nod. “It maximizes my time around her. It’s been nice to try to help her constantly. Give her some normalcy.”

            Callahan looks at my bedroom door in envy.

            I excuse myself to wash my face in my bathroom, but the door to the room is still locked. To my annoyance Callahan watches me as I try to break into my own room, and I have to play it off like it’s jammed.

            I unlock the door when he looks at the tile.            
            “Ah! There we go. The hinge must be a little dry.” I walk into my room.

            Froid is still there. She’s asleep on my bed as if our previous conversation never happened. Her things are still in closets and drawers. She isn’t dreaming because she’s not moving, and I can’t see anything.

            I try waking her up.

            Ambrosia, there’s someone here. Someone here to help you. Someone who cares very much about you. I’m not sure whom I’m referring to, but I definitely know whom I’m not referring to.

            Ambrosia doesn’t respond to my thought at all. It’s as if she hadn’t heard it. She lies there motionlessly, and I have to nudge her like a regular human. It bothers me.

            “Ambrosia, wake up! There’s someone here to see you.”

            Froid opens her eyes slowly, her irises slowly revealing themselves to me. I smile and put my hand on her cheek, but she doesn’t respond to my touch at all. It’s as if she hadn’t felt it.

            “Who’s here?” she asks with minimal effort. She doesn’t really care.

            But Callahan does.

            He bursts into my room with vigor and nearly throws himself onto Froid.

            “Ambrosia!” he exclaims, hugging her so hard I’m afraid she’ll crack. She doesn’t respond to his touch either, and that makes me feel a little better. At least she’s being consistent about it.

            “Hello, Callahan.”

            “How have you been? I haven’t seen you seen you since last May!”

            “I came to campus.”

            “Yeah, but that was for like a day, and we didn’t even get to spend that much time together, and you just left! I even went looking for you.”

            Froid doesn’t believe him. She looks at me and I nod as if to affirm what he’s said. It is true, though neither of them understand how exactly I know this.

            “Seriously! I went to your house even! Met your sister, your parents… We were all worried sick!” Literally, Callahan adds in his mind as he thinks of kelp and yeast and seaweed.

            Froid knows the last statement is not true.

            “My parents don’t care where I am, as long as I’m creating art.”

            Callahan’s enthusiasm dissipates. He should have known better.

            “I’ll make some tea,” I pipe up and leave them alone to talk.

            Callahan has some reservations of accepting food from strangers, but the very sight of Froid makes him happy enough to not mind. He and Froid walk out of the room after me and sit at the kitchen table. I make some rooibos. Callahan smells it and cringes. He is instantly transported back to the Froid house and dislikes the coincidence that both they and I would serve rooibos to him. I’m only doing it because they did. His newfound trauma from the Froid’s food choices was even funnier to witness firsthand.

            We all sit down at the table when I decide that I want to gain back Froid’s trust.  Neither of them are looking at me nor at each other but rather the wood grain on the table. I close my eyes. Dark.

            I open them. Still dark. The entire apartment is pitch black. I’ve turned off power in the entire building. Callahan is surprised but Froid doesn’t care, which doesn’t surprise him or me.

            “Ah, what a shame!” I exclaim from behind a few mugs. To make my shock more realistic I drop one of them on the ground.

            “Why don’t you two go out and catch up while I figure out what’s going on?” I encourage them. “There’s a Starbucks like a block away. It’ll be nice for you two to be out of the apartment and have each other’s company.”

            Now Froid is surprised. Callahan is as well but much more excited about it. Froid is even suspicious. I can feel her eyes in the darkness looking for my ulterior motive. She won’t find it. I know exactly what she’s doing.

            “That’s a great idea!” Callahan replies and stands up in the dark, nearly hitting his head on the overhead light. I swing it a little so that he actually does. He grunts as it smacks his forehead.

            Froid stands up as well, slowly because she’s still trying to figure out why I’m doing this.

            I draw the drapes and some feeble, cloud-diffused sunlight drips into the apartment. It’s not much, but it’s enough for them to find the door and enough for me to not have to procure a flashlight. I don’t have one. I don’t need one. If I don’t want to run into things I won’t. This is my story, after all.

            Froid walks out in front of Callahan. Callahan follows her until I stop him.

            “Look out for her, please. She’s angry at me at the moment, never mind why, but I’d really like it if you took my place in her life. Hang out with her, try to make her smile. Treat her like she’s the only good thing on earth.”

            Callahan beams at my request. He would have taken on this task even if I had not explicitly asked him, and not just because I willed it.

            Once the two are out of the building and out of sight of my window, I turn the power back on in the apartment. I grin as I picture Callahan’s face. Thank you, Callahan. Thank you for being everything that I could ever want for Froid.

Nanowrimo 6

Forgot to update... derp. That's what turkey does, I suppose. I'll just make a little longer.

Quentin woke with a start as soon as I do. He was lying on the otherwise unoccupied bench, an enormous indentation where his right cheek had slipped through the wooden planks. He checked his watch. Ten o’clock. He bolted upright and sprinted to the apartment. Around this time Samuel would be finishing up a few poems for publication. Samuel had clearly not minded Quentin’s presence. He certainly would not mind the lack thereof.

Quentin got to the apartment to find it as empty as it had always been, though Samuel was not there either. He opened the fridge. There was enough eggs and milk and bok choy to feed Samuel for weeks. There was a huge pile of freshly made paper. But there was no charcoal. There were no poems. And on Samuel’s floor was a ballpoint pen. Quentin picked it up. He didn’t even know Samuel used ballpoint pens. He had seen him bring them to his house by the handful each day, stealing them from random department offices, but he never used them.

Quentin dragged the nub across his thumb. He had used this one. He hurried back to the office.  If he could find charcoal he could find Samuel.

I can’t stop thinking about Froid. I check the bathroom, the kitchen, and within ten seconds it’s clear that she’s not in the apartment. Her phone is still in the bedroom, fully charged and on. I check the screen. No messages. No threats. The phone is as placid as I wish I were. I sit on the bed and rub my temples. I close my eyes. Hopefully I can see where Froid is.

Running. She’s running through a forest. Where? There aren’t any forests around here. The trees are bare and there is heavy snow on ground. She must be on a mountain. But how? How did she get up there so quickly?

Her running dissolves into trudging as the snow grows thicker. It is then that I notice what she’s wearing: a ball gown, a bright coral, full-length hoop skirt and a stiff corset. She breathes heavily. Her hair is done up in a loose bun. She marches dutifully up the side of the mountain, the trees thinning out as the sun shines brighter.

At the top of the hill is the outline of a man dressed in a tuxedo. His hair is brown, but his build is not of a Coldridge. Callahan. He is slouching, his hands over his face. Agony.

Froid runs faster until she comes up to him. He removes his hands from his face and watches her approach.

“Callahan,” she whispers as she reaches for his shoulder.

He jerks it back. His eyes show too much anguish to warrant comfort, especially hers. He hisses at her.

Froid is determined though. She reaches for him again and touches his face. For a moment there is silence. He looks at her in shock, the shock diluting his anger towards her. She looks at his face softening.

But then he begins to scream. Steam escapes through her fingers. She tries to pull her hand away, but it has welded itself to Callahan’s skin.

Callahan screams more, his face turning red, then his neck, then his entire body. Froid finally releases her hand but he bursts into flames. There. In the middle of the forest.

Froid staggers backwards. Callahan writhes against the wind, the little left of him fluttering out from behind his clothing. Froid cannot look away. Her eyes do not stray as Callahan disintegrates into ash.

A dream. Is Froid sleeping somewhere? Or is she projecting a dream so I can’t see where she is? Clever girl. I get dressed and fed and head over to the office. She can’t stay away from me for long. Without me she has nothing. I reassure myself as I drive to the office.

The rest of the day passes slowly. I try switching between Quentin and Froid. Quentin is sitting in Samuel’s empty office, wondering if Samuel went elsewhere, or if he just missed him and he was back at the apartment. Quentin slowly got up and crawled to the door, hesitating briefly before turning the knob and jogging out.

Froid on the other hand is unreadable. All day I get dreams, every dream I’ve seen, playing out as they had before I invaded them. Samuel is everywhere and Froid is destroyed in so many ways that I can’t bear to watch.

By this time Quentin returned to the apartment. Still empty, the ballpoint pen exactly where he left it. Strange. Samuel was nowhere to be found. Quentin ran back to the office as if Samuel were hiding there like a lost watch.

Suddenly in Froid’s mind I see a familiar scene: my apartment. I smile. She did find her way back, no matter where she went. I leave my office and begin my commute home, looking into Froid every now and then. She’s seated on the ottoman and rubbing her feet. Blisters dot her sole. She winces as she pulls her socks off and picks at the loose skin.

That is when the doorknob turned. But it’s not me. I’m still ten blocks from home. I can’t see who it is. Froid’s sight vanishes from my mind.

I check in again on Quentin, who is driving his Prius in neurotic circles between the office and Samuel’s apartment, praying to catch a glimpse of Samuel. But he won’t. It all adds up in my mind like lightning. I step on the gas and run through every red light. I know exactly where Samuel is.

I swing the door wide open and storm into the apartment. Froid is still sitting on the Ottoman, but her blisters are all picked off and she’s bleeding profusely. She’s shaking back and forth, constantly wriggling out of my grasp as I try to sedate her. She hyperventilates until her face goes gray and she slumps over. I set her unconscious body down on the sofa.

The fridge door is open, and I can see someone behind it.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I yell.

He closes the door, a gallon of milk in his hand. My brother.

Quentin the publisher is sitting in the middle of the parking lot in his Prius, gripping the steering wheel and twitching. He’s lost Samuel. He had one task to do and he brazenly failed. He unbuckles his seat belt and unlocks his door. But it won’t budge. He leans on it harder, putting all of his scrawny weight into it. He’s no match for this door. He relocks and unlocks it again and toggles the handle. Nothing. Quentin the publisher blubbers into hysteria. He will have a lifelong phobia of doors now.

That is, if he were to have much more of a life.

The Prius spontaneously combusts in the parking lot. The body of the car flings into every corner of the parking lot as the flames leap passionately into the sky.

This is how Quentin the publisher dies.

Samuel sees the preoccupation in my eyes and catches them drifting towards the door. Once Quentin the publisher is incinerated beyond recognition I turn to look at Froid.

“Am I down a publisher?” he asks me, not a glimmer of intonation in his voice. This is my brother. No accent. Complete monotone. His diction sounds like reading text in one’s head.

I growl at him. “How dare you come here!”

Samuel shrugs his shoulders and sets the gallon down on the table and opens my fridge up again.

“For God’s sake, you just came into my apartment to take my food?”

Samuel says nothing as he takes out a carton of eggs.

I grab his hand and twist it backwards, taking his shoulder with it. He collapses onto the floor but his face betrays no pain. This is my brother. I could stab him in the gut and he wouldn’t react because I’m not stabbing his poetry. I’m just stabbing his body.

“I cannot decline free food,” he finally replies.

“Who says it was free? Get out of here before Froid wakes up.”

He stands up and looks at Froid, a bright white against the ottoman, her arms folded up around her neck. His expression doesn’t change as he turns back to me. As if he didn’t hear me at all he turns back to the fridge to grab some spinach.

I take the carton of eggs and slam it on his head.

“GET OUT! NOW!”

The eggshells float on his black hair as albumen and yolk trickle down his cheeks, his chin, his collarbone. My brother has never done a sport in his life. I rowed crew as an undergrad. Physically I could break every bone in his body, but since I’m not his poetry and nor are his bones, what can I do?

Samuel stands up and faces me. He looks bored. I grab his shoulders and calibrate his gaze so that he looks right into my eyes. He knows what I’m doing and looks over to Froid.

“What is she doing here?”

“None of your business.”

Samuel doesn’t even care that I’m withholding information. He looks back at the milk.

“No. Don’t you dare take it.” I grit my teeth. “Get out. For the last time. Just, leave.”

Samuel stands in front of me until I release my grip on his shoulders. He turns around and grabs the spinach and walks out of my apartment. I’m on the verge of chasing after him and taking back my spinach but I hear Froid let out of a cough.

She wakes up moments later, clutching her throat and scratching the sides of her neck. She won’t slow her breathing, even when I wrap a blanket around her and surround her with my arms.

I try to hush her, telling her that Samuel can’t hurt her, that as long as I’m around he won’t ever bother her. He may be around for whatever reason, but he’ll be gone again as soon as he came—I promise her that I’ll get rid of him—and she has no reason to be afraid of him.

She doesn’t quiet though. She doesn’t speak. She bites her tongue accidentally, and blood colors her front teeth. There’s no blood in her head though. She looks like a corpse. I fear that if she sleeps again she won’t wake up.

I bring her over a glass of water but she won’t drink, and when I force it into her mouth she aspirates it, coughing all over the ottoman and me. She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are wide open but she sees nothing. I try to look at her through her point of view but I see nothing. It’s like earlier when Samuel first came.

I’ve lost her. Everything I’ve worked so hard for, everything I’ve done to make her attached, gone. I’m a stranger to her.

“Ambrosia.” I try saying her name again. It feels even more hollow than last time. “It’s okay. I’m here. You don’t need to be afraid. Everything is going to be alright.”

“Luke,” she finally says, her voice harsh and hoarse. “Who exactly is it you think I’m afraid of?”

After Froid goes to bed I survey the damage. In a fit of pique I’ve killed Quentin the publisher. Samuel is in Seattle for whatever reason, and I have no idea when or how he will appear next. I can’t see into Froid’s mind at all anymore. Even when I see her moving her lips as she dreams, gripping her pillow as she sweats, I don’t know which nightmare. I smooth her hair but she doesn’t improve.

I stand at my fridge and take out the guava juice. It’s nearly empty. I assume Froid has been drinking it. I’ll pick some up tomorrow on my way home from work.             After a few hours Froid stops moving. She’s stopped dreaming I suppose. She is so still I think she’s dead until I hear her breath ruffling up the pillowcase. I touch her cheek. Cold. The coldest they’ve ever felt. Colder than my windowpane that has been assaulted with freezing rain for the past couple of hours.

I work a bit in my chair, looking up sparingly to check on Froid. She hasn’t even changed her hand position. Her lips are in the same position as they were the last time I checked on her.

Before long I fall asleep in my chair, an article in my lap. The two of us stay perfectly still for the night. I don’t dream, and as far as I know nor does Froid.

Callahan had marginally finished his finals, so he immediately got into his car and drove up to Maine again. He had heard nothing of Froid; in fact, he had hardly thought about her in between calculus and Camus and trying to write a poem about frogs. None of these endeavors were successful, but he had no time to care about his shortcomings. Right now the only thing that drove him to leave his dorm, eat regularly, and sleep decently was looking at Froid again, the satisfaction in retrieving her from whatever darkness she had immersed herself into.

I wouldn’t classify myself as darkness, though I must admit I am in a sour mood thanks to Samuel’s unwelcome appearance and the subsequent stealing of my groceries. Froid is also void of energy, spending the day alternating between sitting on a bar stool, my chair, and the bed. She doesn’t look up at me. She stares at an invisible wound on her arms. I put my arms around her but she doesn’t see my arms. She only sees her own.

I’m not going to help Callahan on his way up to Maine. If he runs out of gas and remains stranded in a township with a name from the eighteenth century, then so be it. I don’t need another player to lose to Samuel.

Or do I?

With Callahan close to me, I could even the playing field very easily. Callahan would naturally maximize his time with Froid and unwittingly bring her back to me. I don’t care about Callahan going to Samuel. Whoever has Froid wins it all. And at this point Callahan is the best means.

I pick up Froid’s phone. Her contact list is minimal: only me and her home phone. I frown. I wanted to be subtle about this, but I guess it can’t be helped.

Callahan glanced at his phone. He had a text from a number he didn’t recognize.

“This is Froid. I’m in Seattle.”

He nearly crashed his car when he dropped his phone on the mats under his seat. He tried to steer and accelerate on the windy highway and grope for his phone by his feet.

I lead a deer to the road.

Callahan slammed his breaks, thrusting himself into the steering wheel and accidentally honking. The deer scampered away as Callahan looked down and finally grabbed his phone.

“This is Froid. I’m in Seattle.” The message was still there. He pulled over and forwarded the message to Caracolle. She didn’t see the message right away, but Callahan was very aware when she had.

“U better be on ur way!”

“omg get here plz”

“wtf is she doing there?”

“Y R U DRIVING SOOOOO SLOW? :(g“

Callahan tried to reply and drive at the same time. It was not successful to the point of being almost fatal. I lead opossums, more deer, and for the finale a bull moose to the road. Callahan felt like he was decimating the wildlife of New Hampshire as he evaded almost each animal. He did hit an opossum. His wheels reeked of opossum entrails for weeks.

That was the first thing Caracolle complained about when Callahan finally rolled into the Starbucks. She then complained at length about her sister and how she was getting fat from all of the mochas she had been drinking on her shifts.

With a hyper-caffeinated Caracolle in the car, Callahan sped to the Froid house. Caracolle was talking and texting simultaneously, and her monologue melded into an indeterminable combination of the two. Callahan drowned her out as he hurried along.

Mallory Froid hadn’t anticipated Callahan’s arrival, but she was more than happy to heat up some seaweed puree to celebrate the assumingly happy occasion. Callahan tried declining, much more out of comfort than politeness, but Mallory insisted. She told him that if he liked the yeast cakes he’d love this.

“They’re not quite as bad as the cakes,” Caracolle whispered to Callahan when her mother skipped off to the kitchen. “Just pretend you’re eating spinach.”

Callahan hated spinach. And he hated the yeast cakes. Mallory returned with a gravy boat full of puree that she poured over some flatbread. She smiled at Callahan expectantly, and Callahan just smiled at Caracolle. Caracolle was texting five people at the same time.

Callahan’s phone buzzed as he put a flatbread-ful of puree in his mouth. He looked at the screen.

“just said it wasn’t AS bad… still tastes like @$$. sry lol”

Callahan agreed. He almost gagged but played it off as a cough. Mallory stood up to get him a glass of water. Callahan spit the rest of the puree out and wrapped it in a napkin. With no wastebasket in the room he had no choice but to put it into his jacket pocket.

            “So you have heard from Ambrosia after all?” Mallory asked as she clamped her palms together. “Ah, good, good! We miss her so very much, don’t we, Hamline?”

            “Of course we do!” Hamline called from the kitchen. Callahan hadn’t even heard him. He came out with a tray of kale ginseng juice.

            “How do you do, Mr. Froid?” Callahan said politely as he stood up to greet him.

            “Please, it’s Hamline. Don’t fuss with titles. We’re all humans here.”

With no warning, Hamline grabbed Callahan and hugged him tightly. Hamline felt the napkin squish into his skin and the puree crawl through his jacket and later his t-shirt.

“I’m glad she’s in Seattle. If she were anywhere else, we’d be worried sick!” Piped up Mallory.

Hamline nodded in accord. “Imagine if she had gone to some barbarian city in the south. Like Nashville or Atlanta or Salt Lake City…” Hamline shuddered. “She’d probably forget that women have the right to vote!”

“Oh, Hamline, don’t say such wretched things. Be grateful for Seattle. Such a center of civilization and culture! Ambrosia sure has good tastes in freedoms. I’m sure she’s thriving in utopia, making her life for herself, calling the shots in her life, becoming a beacon of linguistic evolution like Samuel!”

I assume Froid is exactly as I left her: sitting idly on my bed. I had left for work and told her to stay in the apartment. As a precaution I locked the doors so that Samuel couldn’t walk in again. She acted as though the doors were locked from the inside as well.

Callahan couldn’t imagine Froid having any joy, regardless of where she went. All he could picture was her lying on a bench and practicing making smoke rings. For all he knew, her parents probably knew and just didn’t care about her lifestyle. They just wanted their child to be the greatest artist in the world so they had something to talk about with their other yuppie friends.

But of course, he just felt like making sure. “Has Ambrosia always been… on the sullen side?”

Mallory laughed. “Oh, she was such a serious little child! I remember when she was very little and she had a picture book of artists throughout the ages. All of them geniuses: Poe, Picasso, Van Gogh, Da Vinci… All of them just totally off their rocker. But that’s what gave them inspiration. And if that’s what it means to be an artist, then so be it! It’s done wonders for our little Ambrosia. She won poetry awards all throughout grade school and middle school and high school! We’ve framed all of her poems. Would you like to see?”

Callahan got up with them and examined shadowboxes on the walls that led up the stairs. Each contained a poem of Froid’s from basically toddlerhood to her last months at Murkvein. Each of them was signed by her parents with the age of when Froid created them. They even had her first poem that she had done when she was so young she hardly knew how to write. It looked more like an abstract painting or a finger painting project. There were even craft feathers stuck bluntly on the corners. It was nearly illegible.

“After she made this,” Mallory began, “We told her she had to become a poet. We were just blown away by the genius. The simplicity, organic text that resembles a pictograph. It’s a poem almost without words! It's the bridge between the visual and literary arts. That’s when we got her the picture book about artists.”

They all sat down in the living room again. Mallory and Hamline were beaming with excitement. Callahan didn’t know how to react, but he turned to Caracolle for guidance. She had stayed sitting on the couch and texted relentlessly until she looked up at Callahan. Her expression was so conflicted that Callahan stopped analyzing it after picking out her envy, despair, and smug complacency. Caracolle was much smarter than anyone gave her credit for.

“So, I was planning on going out to Seattle just to visit Ambrosia and make sure everything’s alright. I mean, you do agree with me that her decision was impulsive, and that you were worried when she didn’t come home, right?”

Hamline guffawed, and Callahan was disgusted with how ugly it sounded. “Of course we were worried when we didn’t know where she was, and that was mostly that we didn’t want her to fall prey to those horrible Republicans in the south that think that God wants them to have five wives and that gay people have the same rights as chimpanzees!”

Callahan held his tongue. He was a Republican, as a matter of fact. He was becoming slowly more liberal in college, but these two had effectively killed his desire to become any more so.

Mallory continued, “We’ve gotta hand it to her. She’s being very proactive in seeking a Bohemian lifestyle! But if that’s what it takes for her to become an artist, then so be it. For her to create is of the utmost importance to us.”

“No matter the cost?” Callahan asked pointedly.

They nodded simultaneously. “There is no nobler a deed than to make art. It advances civilization. Every piece of art created moves humanity forward. Our daughter is on the frontier, and so is our dear Samuel!”

“You know that the two broke up, don’t you?”

They nodded again, though they look offended. “Of course we do!” Mallory retorted. “What do you take us for, neglectful parents? She was so torn up about it. She didn’t write for months, but once she started writing again in secret we knew she was okay. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? What an experience for her to write about. It will only make her a better artist!”

That was when Callahan stood up, took his coat, and walked out the door without saying a word. Caracolle watched him eagerly before running out to meet him at his car.

“See what I have to deal with?!” she nearly shrieked, tossing her hands in the air multiple times. “No one believes me. Everyone thinks my parents are so cool and hip and understanding, but they’ve got their head stuck up their own asses so much that they don’t know shit!”

“Get in,” Callahan said.

“Why?”

“Aren’t you coming with me? I’m going to the airport.”

Caracolle shook her head. “Unlike you, I’ve got to go to school and stuff. Besides, I’m only 16. Wouldn’t that be illegal?”

Callahan sighed. “Whatever. Do you not care about her either?”

Caracolle’s face for the first time since he met her showed grief. “I told you before. I hate her guts, and I hate how much my parents love her more than me. I hate poetry because it doesn’t make sense, I hate Samuel because he thinks he’s not human even though he totally is, and I hate that I’m just thought of as the ditzy version of my sister.”

She was tearing up and had to stop. Callahan didn’t know whether or not to comfort her and tried putting an arm around her. She pushed it away.

“But still… You know how you should totally hate someone but you just can’t? It goes against everything you think, and you have so many reasons to want them to just disappear but at the end of it all you just can’t bring yourself to?”

Callahan nodded. He felt the exact same way about Samuel. Pity I don’t.

Callahan put his arm again around Caracolle. She pushed it away again.

“I’m fine, really. Just go find her. You want to make me feel better? Make sure she’s still the same super artsy weird friendless girl that she’s always been.”

Callahan smiled and got in his car as Caracolle went back inside. He turned the key in the ignition. I kill his engine.

Callahan panicked. He kept twisting the key to no avail, so engrossed in his failure that he failed to see the taxi parked behind him.

The cabby got out of his car and walked over to Callahan’s. He tapped on the window so briskly that Callahan nearly jumped out of his seatbelt. Callahan got out of his car.

“Taxi cab for Callahan Grossherz?” He asked.

“I… didn’t order a taxi.”

“Well, somebody did, to Bangor International Airport. And paid for it too already.”

As Callahan stepped into the taxi I order his plane ticket as well. He got an email on his phone that gives him a confirmation for his flight from Bangor International Airport to Seattle. His reaction was priceless. He dropped his phone on the floor of the taxi and spent a good five minutes trying to look for it.

Within an hour, Callahan went from the Froid’s driveway to sitting on a plane in Economy Plus on the way to Seattle. He was suspicious, obviously, but he had no idea who would do this for him.

In a little stroke of pride I text him directly.

“Hello, Callahan Grossherz. My name is Luke Coldridge. I’m looking forward to meeting you."

All of Murkvein was in mourning because of Quentin the publisher’s untimely death. Callahan kept getting emails from his phone thanks to campus-wide announcements of support groups for those traumatized, and the entire English department promising to cancel the grades people got on the final exam and round everyone’s grade up almost a letter. For Callahan, this meant he was going to get at least an A- in two of his classes. He didn’t care about his grade at all.

I see an article on Google talking about the sudden death of Samuel’s publisher. Apparently his name was Quentin Hoakes. The article also mentions that Samuel is here in Seattle at the University of Washington to do a poetry recital this afternoon. That’s odd. This is the first time he’s ever recited his poetry in person.

I drive on my way home, and public radio has a small article raving about how excited people are to attend this sudden and rare appearance of the poet, and the entire ten minute recital will be broadcast live once it begins.

A few minutes away from my apartment the broadcast starts.

I open the door to my apartment.

“Ambrosia, I’m hungry! Let’s go out to eat, your choice!”

No response. Though I wasn’t expecting anything different. I open the door to my room.

Froid is sleeping in my bed, completely engulfed by covers. I walk over to her and put my hand in the middle of the lump.

Warm. And soft.

I rip off the covers. There’s nothing else there.

Froid is gone, again. I close my eyes, but I can’t see her anywhere.

Could she? No, she couldn’t have. I walk over to her phone, shattered on the tile of the kitchen, the battery leaking and seeping into the porous cement.

Froid. We had a promise, didn’t we? Didn’t I make you promise? I guess I never told you.