Ocean and Snow

My moma always tole me to speak my mind thoughtfully. That saying only what is nice to say lets the patriarchy win. My moma tole me to speak my mind. And then, one day, it flipped. The stories stopped coming from pages written by other finders, the stories came from a tormenting voice in my gut. The story started like gas, uncomfortable pressure that expanded like pizza in my belly I should never have let pass my teeth. The stories would not let me rest in the river of denial or lazy Sunday morning. The stories were relentless waves, crashing poetry to sand under a rickety declining boardwalk moaning under a foot of snow.


Two girls from the mission. A character map arranged like a newfangled tree of life. A wide infinite universe, timelessness and the eradication of corruption. Walk with me. Put on these shoes. Let these waves make sand of your fears. Let this snow mulch your future spring shoots, insulate them from this terrible cold. Walk with me down the beach out into space. Stand under the dawns as light pours over your skin. Fix the great beasts, and travel in and out of the pockets on their spiny backs. Visit the myths, learn the great songs with the daughters of stars and the sons of asteroids. Walk with me in the shadows, the terror of other people's screams yanking your dreams out of your unrealized places to beam on the movie wall of your worst nightmares. Walk with me out of that land, to quests accomplished and one solution birthing new problems.