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Ezzie Brown

Esmeralda Rosalind Brown hates her full name for its pretense of regality, but this is her official bio and I am her brother, so that’s what she gets! She was born on October 1st sixteen years ago and I’ve known her ever since. She’s not too fond of school -- I mean, who isn’t? -- so my parents tried to put her in boarding school for the first two years of high school, but it was too much, being hippie and foodie and no closer to Hogwarts. We love her but it’s not her priority for happiness at this moment -- I’m not sure what is and neither is she, so she’s pretty down. And by pretty down, I mean far too clinically down. But maybe public school is treating her better? I should check in more often. She likes writing poetry and runs cross country because it’s the least competitive sport. She’s full of sass and cracks as many jokes as she does depressing sentiments. I know she’ll figure things out soon, but until then -- she’s still Ezzie.

 

With absolute affection,

Nathaniel

 

Letter from V to O

  • By VALERIE KASPAREK
  • Feb 22, 2016
  • 1 min read

Oslo,

Sorry to hear you’re having such a rough week. I go to the doctor for arthritis, heart palpitations, and insomnia. What do you go for?

When I was younger, I was an educator, like my daughter is now. I taught French at colleges in Wisconsin, California, and Ohio. I liked California best, because I -- like everyone else -- appreciates natural beauty. When I was 22, I fled to Grenoble to aupair some children in the mountains. They were wretched animals, but the view was gorgeous so I bore it for a few months. That was the most interesting experience of my life, besides giving birth and divorcing.

Now I’m living in Greenfield Homes in the suburbs. I have my own apartment with an amber countertop that looks like everyone else's, a minute balcony, a beige carpet, and everything I could want. It’s a tasteful community of subdued couples so used to each other, they no longer see each other; solitary gentlemen taking up carpentry or dating websites; and grandmothers wrapping home knit presents. It all sounds terribly pleasant and I hate it. But I can see how one can get used to it. That’s what I’m afraid of.

What do you fear? Why are you so messed up? Just because I’m 86, doesn’t mean I can’t read past your surly excuses. I can see that you’re confused, but I will keep writing until you get it because why not? Are we not meant to do anything for our relatives, no matter how obscure?

Stay alive.

In J.H.Christ,

V.


 
 
 

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