Excerpt: The Crown of Summer

Stephanos' Story...

My first thought upon seeing The Brother is, “I should get the hell out of here.”

I want nothing to do with him or his sister.

What has it been now, ten years? Eleven? The daily pint in my hand washes away memories of my past with a delicious, sudsy head of malt ale. The last thing I want to do is remember bygone days, my old glory days.

Black as the blackest crow. Rich as the most delectable, luscious dessert. Corbin Stout was my cherished concubine among the malted whores I kept as constant drinking companions. Very few ales came close to the robust complexity of kiln-baked grains. I could drown myself in the decadent chocolate, roasted hazelnut, and hints of caramelized espresso bean flavors and die a happy man. The mouthfeel of Her was like going down on the forbidden fruit of a precocious little Lolita. The day I admitted that out loud was the day I got sent back to an eight-by-eight-by-twelve cell.

It tasted like sex in a glass.

If it were a woman, I would have screwed her seventy ways till Sunday. Fortunately, beer is a willing little slut and being that she predates the sixth millennium previous to the big C, himself, I can have my way with her however I want without consequences.

~

Ash's Story...

I would still have a job working for social services if I hadn't spent so much time stumbling emotionally over the cruelty and repeated blatant disregard for humanity I encountered. My internship at the domestic abuse center lasted approximately two months before I became too emotionally involved with the people and families I was trying to help. I became too invested in trying to ensure their happiness and good health. When things failed to work out, I tended to go off the deep end on myself. It was easier to blame myself than the people who already had so much on their plates – or in some cases, too little – they couldn't pull themselves up to their own feet. I would run myself through my appointments over and over again.

“I should have said this...”; “I could have suggested that...”; “Why didn't I offer them the option to...”.

The stress and depression finally did me in one day. My manager sent me home with a big hug and a really great-sounding referral that made me cry later, because I realized she must have realized I was going to break down. My end came when I had broken down into tears trying to refer a woman and her two children to a shelter downtown. She was the one who went and fetched my boss for me when I was inconsolable, and frankly, too screwed up to function, never mind help anyone else that day.

I guess it hurt so much, because I had been in their shoes: terrified, starving, abused, broken, and not knowing where else I could turn. I wanted to help people get back up onto their feet, but I just couldn't do it. My roommate, Ti, says there's nothing I could do, because unless someone really wants to achieve a goal for themselves, they'll never succeed.

He has this saying, “You can lead a thirsty horse to water, but you can't make him drink.”

“Especially if the horse is facing the wrong way”, is my addition.

I wanted to save everyone, but I couldn't, because they didn't want to be helped. In a way, I wished I'd had more chances in college to intern for social work before I had actually graduated with a bachelor's degree in it. I had the knowledge, drive, and motivation, but I lacked the capability to cope with it emotionally.

~

Edie and Oliver's story...

“What are you doing in the tree?” he asked next, speaking so quickly, it was vaguely disconcerting to me. His fingers plucked at the bark again, but not to harm, merely to examine the texture. “How do you get inside? Why can't I get inside? How come you don't remember your name? Did you get hit on the head?”

I was still adjusting to the expediency of speech, but sap began to thin into syrup the longer I concentrated upon my task. We were nothing, if not adaptive; the lowliest blade of grass to the tallest tree knows to acclimate or be torn from the earth.

“This is my Oak tree, my dwelling and home,” with a slender hand, I motioned toward his abode, “Just as that is your home. I have a key to get inside my home, but others who are not like me may not come in. I may remember my name in time, but it has been a long while since someone has spoken with me.”

Oliver seated himself on an upraised root of my oak and stared at me thoughtfully for several minutes as if he were considering what I had said. As if a sudden thought occurred to him, he stood up again and looked over me with what I translated to be great concern.

“Are you cold? You're going to get sick without clothing. My mommy says I'm going to get sick if I don't wear my socks and my shoes and my jacket. Do you want a dress and a jacket and shoes for your feet? I can get mommy's clothes. She has lots, she won't miss them. Dad even said so.”

“No, thank you, Oliver,” I could not help but laugh at the time as I peered down at the cause for his alarm. By Mortal standards I must have appeared quite naked. How long had it been since I had last experienced modesty, I pondered with amusement. “I am not cold, it is growing warm again; soon it will be hot. I think your mother might be mad if her belongings disappeared, but thank you for thinking of me. I am a part of this tree, trees do not suffer mild weather. I cannot get sick the same way you do. I will be all right.”

With a small huff of exasperation, his face scrunched up just a little and told me, “You can't be naked. I'm going to get you a dress.”