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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

Apr 4, 2016
2 min read

Thurs, March 31st, 2016

Oslo,

I am dead now. I died in my sleep last night. It was painless, miserably so. Not even the Greenfields workers could pretend to care -- it was so normal, so natural. Must we all pass this way? Like too many fireflies who stop alighting and so cease to be noticed and fade into darkness.

Aren’t you upset you didn’t write me when you had the chance?

Fri, April 1st, 2016

Oslo,

April Fools! Not a very good one, but I don’t care. I don’t even know you, because you’ve never written me back! My hope is that it will finally wrench a response out of you. Hopefully I am still quite far from death. I don’t think I have it in me to kick the bucket yet. I don’t know what else I have to do with my aged life, but I feel there is something. Have I forgotten it?

Greenfields is just as dull as it sounds. The most eventful day was St. Paddy’s. I bribed the cook to sneak me in some extra whiskey and drank it with my coffee while watching the little troop of Irish dancers they brought in (altogether, it was a very Irish day). Most of them were pretty good -- the older ones with legs like muscled flamingos towards the end. But the little girls went first and they were hilarious to watch for their cluelessness. One preteen lost her wig -- why do they wear those giant curly monsters anyway? Another pranced too far to the right and fell right off the stage. I wouldn’t have laughed so loudly if I hadn’t already drunk four whiskey coffees, but the poor thing must have been so embarrassed.

I hope you are tolerably well. I am sorry to hear that you could not fulfill your dreams of becoming a beekeeper. That must have been disappointing. The article was terrifying, but enjoyable.

I don’t know why I keep writing to no response. Am I too like my daughter, continuing to try even on a cause she has lost? Or is she more like myself, since I arrived first? I hope you are not furious with her, like your son is. Poor Phillip. I cannot excuse her behavior. All I can say is that even the penitent -- especially the penitent -- deserve some response. But that is only my opinion -- and a religious prophet’s. But that is all we have in common (myself and the prophet, not myself and my daughter -- we have a great deal too much in common).

All right. Hope your April is so uneventful, it drives you into such a state of boredom that you are driven to write back.

Sincerely,

V.

 
 
 

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