“Hello,” I answered, shutting the trunk of my car. “I think Nellie broke her arm. She fell from a structure on a playground, and she can’t stop crying. Where are you?” he asked, urgency spilling through the phone.
In the background, I heard my daughter screaming at full volume. It was the most devastating roar I’d ever heard from her—deep and loud, like a whale, but screechier. I felt a sudden rush of heat, as if someone had poured boiling water over my head.
Damn. She’s hurt, I thought, starting the engine. I gripped the wheel tight and took off.
“I’m in the car. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I forced the words out through my tightening throat. “We’re waiting for an ambulance,” he said, his tone mirroring mine. “Hurry,” he added, and hung up.
My heart was pounding. I accelerated, but soon got trapped behind an old lady driving fifteen miles per hour in a thirty-five zone. I followed her while Nellie’s cry echoed in my head, louder than the speakers in the doors. How badly is she injured? What if she fell on her head?
For a few blocks, my thoughts raced at the speed of light, while my car crawled like a turtle. I was tempted to honk, but this lady probably was too old to hear it anyway. My frustration boiled inside until Granny stopped at a red light, nearly rear-ending a white Mercedes. I swerved to the right lane, hoping to pass both cars when the light changed. A few long seconds later, I finally got the green. I hit the gas like I was auditioning for Fast & Furious—minus the fancy car.
I looked into the mirror to see if I had enough distance to change lanes, but then I saw… a hairy arm and a middle finger coming out of a white Mercedes! Like a reversed palm tree flipping me off from the jungle of traffic. I tried to ignore the gesture. My daughter’s screams still resonated in my head so, surely, I could not care less about an asshole in a Mercedes. Yet, I was pissed. Pissed and frantic.
I wanted to be with my daughter. Shit. I was pushing past fifty! A speeding ticket now would kill me. No way, I couldn’t afford to lose a second.
I stopped at a red light and saw the white Mercedes slide up to my right. No more palm trees waving. He must’ve thought he’d lost the race to a blonde chick in a dusty Subaru, now idling for a rematch. Then the window began to roll down, revealing Mr. Asshole with dark shades and an even darker attitude.
He shook his head, adjusting his flashy glasses (or just showing them off in the most ostentatious way), looked at me, and spoke: “You couldn’t wait, could you?” Wait for what? I thought. But I hadn’t said anything—not for another three seconds.
Then I took a long breath and said two precise sentences, both of which would’ve made my mother gasp and a pirate proud.
I watched his jaw drop, the black stubble blending into his black T-shirt.
I stared at him for a moment. Still. Then winked. “Nice talking to you. Drive carefully.” The light changed and I drove off, leaving behind a faint, fading ‘Oh, uh…’
When I finally got there, I saw an ambulance driving off. Red lights flashing, siren wailing. My stomach turned.
I followed them to the hospital. Doctors confirmed: My angel broke her wing.
Atop my heart, where its two hills bend inward, lies the valley.
You sit astride— a stubborn knight, neither advancing, nor dismounting.
Why do you remain?
I never invited you, fearing your sword, its blade honed on our silence. I left the wicket ajar— a slit to watch you— watching me.
But three kin torches at my gate— scorched your sight, ignited your fear. You fled like a coward, left my depths unclaimed. Your halberd scraped my hollow; its echo—a cathedral bell, tolling the coarse-silk wound.
Or is it me— my longing—a magnet latching your armor, stabbing me?
It’s me. I refused to let you go. I stranded your ghost in this valley. Its shroud blinds me.
Author’s Note: I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.
It was a mid-summer day. The sky was as gray as a billionaire’s suit, and the sun refused to show its smile.
A pounding echoed through Amy’s apartment. “One second,” Amy called, barely cracking open the door. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, she juggled the door knob and battled her rebel hair with her free hand.
“What are you doing here so early?” she squinted at the familiar face. “Early? It’s almost eleven,” Dan replied, nudging the door open and striding in as if he owned the place. Clearly, he was no stranger to Amy’s apartment or her couch.
“Yeah, but do you remember how late you dropped me off last night? I went to bed at ‘this morning o’clock’.” Amy yawned, trailing Dan to the living room.
She peeked outside, noticing the sky screaming an overcast mess. “This isn’t beach weather, is it?” Amy observed the trees bending in the wind like a morning yoga pose gone wrong. “Nope. Looks like we’re not the only ones hungover. But we can do something else,” Dan suggested, already commandeering the remote.
“Coffee first. I need to wake up,” Amy declared, holding her index finger and heading to the kitchen. “And maybe a bagel?” Dan called, settling into the couch like it was his living room.
“How’s George? He ended up driving Rita home, right?” Amy’s voice floated over the sound of brewing coffee. “Did he? Man, he was smashed.” Dan flicked through channels. “I hate when he drives like that,” Amy muttered. “The party was nuts, and George got totally wrecked.” “Good for him. First big night since his breakup,” Dan replied. “I know. After everything with his ex…” She paused, considering a thought.
“Do you think he hit it off with Rita?” “What?” Dan’s eyes were glued to the TV. “Maybe he’s still at Rita’s?” Amy teased, walking back with two steaming cups of coffee. “You think they… no way. They just met,” Dan scoffed, accepting his cup. “I don’t know, I got a vibe,” Amy smirked, pulling out her Motorola flip-phone. “Let’s see.”
She dialed, putting on her best ‘Rita’ voice. “Hi George, did I wake you? Just wanted to thank you for last night…” Dan’s eyebrow arched in surprise as he listened to Amy’s voice, a perfect imitation of Rita’s, turning more flirtatious with every word.
“Are you busy tonight?” There was a long pause. George talked while Amy was nodding. “We should totally go rollerblading later.” Amy winked at Dan, who was watching her with his jaw wide open. “Great. Pick me up at 5.” A short pause. “Okay, see you then.”
Dan nearly spit his coffee. “He can’t think you’re actually Rita, can he?” Amy hung up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He’s got a rollerblading date with ‘Rita’ at 5 tonight.” “No way. He fell for it?” Dan laughed loud and hard, disbelief coloring his tone. “This is gold!”
*
George parked his Altima outside a modest single-story house, the smallest on the block, with a well-tended lawn surrounding it. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror and headed for the door.
It was exactly 5 o’clock. He rang the bell and waited with anticipation. “Hi,” Rita greeted him, not stepping aside to let him in. “Hi, ready for rollerblading?” George asked, his body shifting nervously from one foot to another. “Rollerblading?” Rita looked puzzled. “No, I can’t. I’ve got other plans. You should have called earlier…”
George’s face fell as he stood awkwardly at her doorstep, mixed feelings swirling within him.
Both stared at each other in silence for a moment. Something was off. “But you called me about it this morning…” “I didn’t call you today at all,” Rita frowned. Flustered, George apologized and retreated to his car. What else could he do? His anticipation dissolved into a confusing blend of disappointment and embarrassment.
He was about to start his car when his phone rang. “Rollerblading, huh?” Amy teased.
George groaned. “It was you? I thought Emily set me up.” “Nope, all me. Sorry, George, I got carried away. I owe you a big apology—I’ve gone too far.” Amy’s voice softened, yet she struggled to stop laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for this!”
George shook his head, even though Amy couldn’t see him.
“Come over, I’m ordering pizza,” Amy added. George sighed. He couldn’t decide whether he should scream with anger or laugh. He put the key in the ignition and drove off.
Amy and Dan couldn’t stop cracking up as they awaited George’s arrival to clear the air and get a full story.
“You two watch out; just wait for my comeback,” George grumbled as he walked in. “I’m warning you. You have no idea what is coming at you,” he announced, unable to suppress a smile at the absurdity of it all. “I mean it.”
“Good to see you without your rollerblades,” quipped Amy, extending her arms to hug George. “Please, don’t be mad at me.”
“You ordered pizza; I brought beer,” said George with a smile, closing the door behind.
Author’s Note: Meet the real Amy and George—they are actual people. In fact, I’m Amy, and George is my friend Matt. This is the only picture I could find of us from many years ago. We are standing in water, awaiting alligators (at least that’s what the tour guide told us). What you don’t see is the boat on the other side, filled with a bunch of ‘chickens’ too scared to step out, including Dan, who took this picture. And finally, yes, I really did set up that rollerblading prank date. 🙂
I was meant to bloom— unfurl, sing, and shine, not be tended or trimmed, not molded for duty and possession.
I was meant to bloom, not decorate an entropic cave, not drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness with the sweetness of my effervescent petals— infusing their spoiled, sour strands.
Even in the drought, I drank rainbows through my veins. My tendrils breathed warmth into soil, while the sky hid behind clumped clouds. I stretched toward muffled sunlight.
I was meant to bloom.
And then it rained, not to nourish or cleanse. Poured. Unstoppable— the ground swelled, my petals sagged, roots dislodged, my garden drenched to swamp.
Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow. They nest in my shade, leech my youth, and — call it love.
Slowly, quietly, I sink.
Still—
Dreaming of butterflies, even a wilt can reach the sun. Single ray ignites its desire.
Butterflies will come And I will bloom… as I was always meant to.
Author’s Note: Not everyone who stands tall is thriving. Not every flower is there for you to pick. For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken… This one is personal. 🌸
The fire was dying—just a few driftwood sticks crackling low on the sand, surrounded by scattered rocks and shells. Embers exhaled their pulsing glow as the sun sank beyond the horizon, spilling its fading citrus warmth across the beach. Kalia sat before it. Her legs crossed at the ankles, knees pulled tight in, and chin resting atop them. The small urn cradled in her hands felt heavier than it should have. It held grief and years of unanswered questions. Too many. She asked, but her father always found a way to evade her, slipping into silence like a wisp of smoke. And now he was gone. The truth was cremated with him inside this urn. Tears burnt her eyes, blurring the darkening clouds reflected in distant waters. The dusky sky quietly mirrored the inevitable present.
It was time.
She stood. A quiet breeze swept from behind, pushing her forward. Kalia stepped into the silver arc of wave. Her trembling hands opened the urn and tipped it. For a moment, the ashes swirled on the wind, but then a sudden gust lifted them again. In an instant, like a mini-tornado, the ashes twisted into a spiraling column of light, churning with a brilliant glow.
Kalia’s lungs locked. This contradicted her belief about scattering ashes. Perhaps the wind was playing tricks on her—in its own way, saying goodbye. But the ashes began to gather. A face formed in the air, then a body. Her father. He stood before her, just as she remembered—whole.
Kalia froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said at last, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. The voice was his, but—it wasn’t. “What took you so long? I told you to release my ashes during the full moon, but I didn’t mean next year!” He chuckled, but there was something urgent in his tone. “I—” She couldn’t finish. “Did you think I’d died?” His grin widened, flashing familiar teeth. “Didn’t you?” she finally whispered, her eyes wide. “Well, not exactly. But I can’t explain everything right now.” His expression turned serious. “I am a Sepharine, Kalia. I couldn’t tell you during my time as a human, but now—I must leave you the key.” He gestured around them. “Take care of our kingdom.”
The tide stilled. The air didn’t move. Even the wind seemed to hold. “Let the low tide guide you, and the full moon illuminate your way.” “What?” she finally mumbled, even though she wasn’t sure if this was real. “What key?” His face flickered and began to fade, scattering to ashes once more. “Wait—what kingdom? Dad—” “Don’t waste your time,” his voice echoed as the ocean roared back to life. A wave crashed against the rocks, its spray catching the remnants of ashes and pulling them into the sea.
Kalia stood motionless. Had she really seen her father? Heard his voice? Or was it just another dream—like the ones that haunted her since the funeral? She lifted her gaze. A full moon stared back—rising. This was real. She closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air, searching for clarity.
A low, intermittent clicking interrupted her concentration. A gentle but distinct tik-tik-tik intruded into the sound of waves. Kalia scanned the beach and spotted an emerald frog with iridescent wings. It leaped energetically along the shore, leaving soft prints on wet sand.
Kalia watched the hops with surging anticipation. The frog stopped in front of her, locking its amber eyes with hers. For a moment, none of them moved. The frog’s throat pulsed gently and its delicate wings shimmered softly in orange. Suddenly, the amphibian’s slick tongue shot forward—not to snatch prey, but to deliver something. Kalia flinched, noticing the silvery gleaming at her feet. The frog swiftly pulled its tongue back in. Then it blinked once and hopped toward the sea.
Kalia knelt and reached for the object. It was an oversized key. This must be the key her father mentioned, she thought. It felt much heavier than she expected. And it was unusually warm—almost hot. She stepped into water, trailing the frog’s leaps.
Let the full moon illuminate the gate, she recalled. Without thinking twice, Kalia dipped her foot in the moonlight’s reflection in water—a stretched silvery triangle shimmering like a floating lunar shawl. She immersed the other foot and touched something. A stair. Then another.
Suddenly, the water began to part. The waves split in halves, rising up into walls on both sides. Breathless, Kalia descended until she saw a massive anemone swaying gently. The purple tentacles, as long as Kalia’s arms, pulsed—waving to her, inviting her closer. The anemone’s mouth opened, revealing a crystal-blue hallway. Kalia stood rooted, yet she couldn’t resist leaning closer. She peeked inside the grand foyer, where the sapphire walls and ceiling bathed in luminous tranquility.
A gigantic jellyfish emerged, uncurling gracefully into a woman from the waist up. “Welcome home, Kalia.” She spoke melodically with a smile, showing pearl-bright teeth. Her jelly-skirt pulsed with divine elegance, mirroring her brown hair, floating with delicate grace. Kalia was captivated. This place felt like a familiar fairy tale. “We’ve been waiting for you,” the jelly girl added, stretching her arms.
Kalia remembered her father telling her stories about a magical underwater world with mystical creatures and luminescent corals. This was what he had described. In her childhood mind, it was only a bedtime story. But now it was real. She slipped in.
The air was moist, radiating with crystal blues—the living heart of the sea itself. Towering coral spires extended upward like guarded cathedrals, emitting gentle light. A school of electric blue fish passed by, leaving behind trails of silver stardust. Starfish and anemones pulsed with color.
But something was off. Random dark patches dimmed the glow. The kingdom was fading.
The jelly girl danced and spun happily, despite dark spots spilled like black ink on her skirt. “I’m Tessa, your sister. Father told me so much about you.” Kalia’s lips parted in disbelief. She had always wanted a sibling—but a half-jellyfish wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined. “Sister?” she whispered. Tessa laughed softly. “Believe me, I wasn’t thrilled you have legs.” She rolled her skirt and flipped above Kalia’s head. “That’s what makes up a family. It’s never what you expect, but somehow what you need.” “Dad never told me…” Kalia shook her head, unconvinced. “He couldn’t tell you everything. But he shared a lot. And there is so much to talk about.” Tessa positioned herself in front of Kalia—face to face. “I am truly glad you’re here, Kalia. I’ve waited so long. You’re exactly as I hoped.”
There was honesty and sincerity in Tessa’s eyes. She lowered her head in silence for a while. “Sepharis breathes life into the ocean. Through our glow, youth and balance flow into Earth.” Tessa’s voice filled with painful intensity. “But our world is dying. We rely on rainwater from the Sapphire Oak, a rare tree. It contains the substance that gives us our glow and vitality. Even a few drops could restore Sepharis.” She paused, looking Kalia in the eyes. “None of us here can survive in your world for long. It’s been too long since our father’s last delivery.”
Kalia remembered a childhood story about a magical tree growing at the foot of the mountains. But until now, she thought the unique quality of its moisture following rain was just fantasy. Meanwhile, her father had educated her through fascinating tales. “You need me to get the rainwater from that tree?” Kalia questioned hesitantly. “Our father’s soul is tormented and will not rest until Sepharis is healed,” Tessa continued. “Only Sepharians can extract the moisture from the tree, and only the one with the key can enter our kingdom… Father chose you.” “Why? What am I?” Kalia’s breath shortened. She thought she was about to faint. “You are a Sepharine, just like your father. You can survive underwater longer than others. But you are also partly human.”
Kalia staggered back. She recalled a childhood boat accident. Her mother drowned, yet Kalia survived. Doctors called it a miracle. It all made sense—she could hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.
A sudden, sharp vibration rushed through the air, sending a shiver through the glowing kingdom. Tessa began to shrink, curling her human body back into the top bump of a jellyfish. Her glow flickered in neons—a warning sign. “The tide turns. Kalia, you must leave.” “No, I have questions—” Kalia didn’t move. “The gate will seal. We won’t survive another moon cycle. Go now!” Tessa urged.
The kingdom trembled. The anemone’s door began to shut. Tessa folded like an umbrella and unfurled with massive power, forcing Kalia outside the gate. A final whisper: “Please, help us.” A wave ripped Kalia backward. All lights vanished. The ocean roared around her. Then fell silent.
Kalia woke on the beach. Sand clung to her clothes and skin. The rising sun peeked through billowing clouds, sending its warm rays across the peaceful water. Her father’s urn rested in the sand beside her. Memories of last night rushed back in. It was the most bizarre dream, she thought.
Kalia rose to her knees, feeling the discomfort of the cold. But something was in her hand. The silver key—bigger and shinier than any other.
The kingdom was real.
She looked at the mountains and thought of her father disappearing during storms. He was a Sepharine with a purpose—whatever it might have been. And now it was hers. She had to save Sepharis and let her father’s soul rest.
She looked up. Gray clouds gathered in the distant sky. “The rain is coming,” she whispered. “I must find that tree.” She turned sharply and strode off.
Behind the trees, three men with binoculars watched her. “It’s her,” one whispered. “She has it in her hand.” “The glowing jelly trace on her leg confirms it. Classification: Lumenflora—AeQ-3,” said the second with distinct precision. “We can’t lose her,” the third ordered, sliding his binoculars into his uniform pocket.
I don’t want to think what’s right— what’s right anymore?
I’ve been doing all the right things: behaved right, got the right degree, married the right guy…
Still, I ended up in the wrong place— or the wrong end of the right place, at most.
A precise blueprint, yet wayward— disarrayed, veering off the ideal design.
I’m incomplete. Misaligned.
Isn’t that right? For me—it’s wrong.
Why is it wrong? I did all the right things?
Why then, amidst all these rights, do I feel misplaced— a lucky penny lost in a dry desert, gleaming in the sun, yet inconspicuous in the sand— Blindly chasing paths marked right or wrong.
Incongruous.
Why is it wrong, doing what feels right?
I’m tempted to do what’s wrong— forbidden, There’s a thrill in rebellion, a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.
But what if it’s not wrong? And perhaps even right— right for me.
So, if I do wrong things, maybe at least I’ll finally feel right.
Wolverine Lily 