flowers bloom in the rain
The shifting isle rolls under me with its usual restless sway, but I plant my feet, narrow my eyes, and fix on the palm ahead. Its trunk wavers with the movement of the land, making the challenge sharper, more tempting. I flick the first knife, then the second—both strike with a clean thunk, bark splintering around the blades. My lips twitch in a quick, pleased smile before I send the third spinning. It lands too, a solid hit, the metal quivering in the wood.
But when I step closer, the satisfaction fades. All three knives sit firm in the trunk, but not where I wanted them. One leans high, another drifts too far to the left, the third sits low, breaking the line I’d been aiming for. Uneven. Crooked. Mom, dad, most in my family could manage that precision. I'll be damned if I don't figure it out too.
I yank the first knife free, then the second, each tug sharp and frustrated. The third takes more force, the bark stubborn, and when it finally comes loose, I glare at the tree as though it’s the one at fault for not holding them in a neat, perfect row.
But when I step closer, the satisfaction fades. All three knives sit firm in the trunk, but not where I wanted them. One leans high, another drifts too far to the left, the third sits low, breaking the line I’d been aiming for. Uneven. Crooked. Mom, dad, most in my family could manage that precision. I'll be damned if I don't figure it out too.
I yank the first knife free, then the second, each tug sharp and frustrated. The third takes more force, the bark stubborn, and when it finally comes loose, I glare at the tree as though it’s the one at fault for not holding them in a neat, perfect row.
Theea
growing up is a pain
