A 100% chance of overwhelm

Hello from the beautiful, cold, resilient north.

I was going to talk about books today, because I think books are important. In fact, I just this month donated to a group bringing books to children afraid to leave their homes.

I shouldn't have to say anything else to express how things have felt up here in Minnesota, or how much that last sentence hurts and angers me.

No matter where you call home, you should try to take care of your people. And for a fuller life, I strongly encourage expanding that definition beyond just those with whom you share a roof or blood. I think life's better that way.

I know people one state over in Iowa who didn't even realize anything was happening, and I understand that for most, things happening even an hour away might as well be happening on the other side of the world. But it's real, and the people here are really experiencing it. Someone always is.

I could try to summarize everything that's happened, both reported facts and personal anecdotes, but I think we need to be more careful about accepting summaries on their own.

If we never take the time to synthesize the information ourselves, as many of us did this month watching videos that I desperately didn't want to see, our worldviews will be entirely up to those who synthesize that information for us. And some of those people are lying. The machines, too.

I've read from local and national newspaper apps every morning for a long time now, and that's served me pretty well. Followed by some Peanuts comics, of course.

With that in mind, the best I can come up with right now is that what's being called simple enforcement feels an awful lot like something else.

It's everywhere, even in my own parking lot. We didn't choose to participate; they came to us.

But then, learning to look away was never good for us, either.

I said I was originally going to talk about books; I wanted to talk about why I set a reading goal of only twelve books each year, knowing I could easily read much more than that.

The point was going to be that if you ask for 100% from yourself, you have nowhere to go but down: you'll either fail, or you'll give everything you have to reach it, likely burning out in the process.

Some things in life require endurance. If you feel like you're not doing enough, just make sure you're doing something and keep going.

You have something to offer, and the world will need you tomorrow.

Now, I realize that this has been a bit heavier than usual, and I'm sorry it had to be. Fortunately, this next part should be a bit lighter.

The winner of last month's flash-fiction poll was The witch of the wool, and after that, I'll have two more opening lines and titles to choose from for next month, because as it turns out, democracy is important. We'll hear from our crow friends again, but not quite yet. It's not been the right type of month to digest reality, write about witches, turn thirty-five, and hear from crows, so I hope you'll forgive me.

The witch of the wool

Do mushrooms usually grow through snow?

You look suspiciously at the ground to the left of the path, but it offers no answer, other than, perhaps, "They do at this moment, in this place."

You attempt to shake the question free from your mind before continuing down the path. If you were a fan of solving problems in the snow, you wouldn't be out here in the first place, solving a problem in the snow.

After glancing ahead to ensure a smooth path for the near future, you carefully dislodge the button of the pocket nearest your heart to let in some air. Not too much, though.

You squint into the darkness for just long enough to count: one, two, three. All there, and no one seems to be too upset at the situation. The one on the left is rolled into a ball.

You pull the button back through and look up again, but the snow is too much. By the time you can see anything at all, the endless pines have given way to a small hut in the woods, steam billowing out from a chimney in the center of the roof. It smells of Ceylon cinnamon and . . . eggplant? Not sure I'll need that recipe, you think, but you've never been much of a foodie, except for baking.

"Did you bring them?"

You breathe in a jolt of frigid air as your limbs force you to flee a few inches backward, but you regain your composure soon after.

"Yes, all three."

You look just to your right to see a woman in a moss-green cloak, a classic witch's hat covered in not-so-classic patches.

"Three miles out, forming a triangle with angles no smaller than forty-eight degrees?"

You continue to walk forward in the snow together, only your own footsteps disturbing the stillness of the woods, and you begin to study. Quick glances between breaths, quick breaths between words. There are no footprints in the snow ahead.

"Yes, yes, all according to specifications. Don't worry; I'm an engineer. By the way, we're a bit far from the place I found this—" You pull a flyer from your pocket, carefully folded three times and no more.

She looks down and then back up again, directly at you for the first time. She has the outline of a youthful face and a shine from the back of her eyes, but the rest is hidden in impossible shadow. The brim of her hat is wide, but certainly not enough for the rules of light to be broken. Maybe not so certainly.

"That one . . ."—she closes her eyes and inhales for just a moment—". . . is from here, yes?" She points to a patch on her hat that says "Hawkheart Books" and steps lightly backward for a moment as snow falls from the branch just in front of her.

You pause to let her catch up again. "That's the one. Do you get there often?"

"Asking a witch if she frequents the bookstore is like asking a pumpkin if it frequents the patch; once we're cut off, we begin to wither." She seems to find an amusement in the concern your eyes have decided to share with her. "Yes, I have a cousin who stopped her reading—she can hardly summon a spider these days. Eyes have gone dull. I've just been, in fact." She pulls a book out from her shelf.

"Wait, wait—when did we get inside?"

Her eyes glimmer and betray a smile. "I'm afraid I'm a bit of a show-off when the sun is out. Have you read this one?" She holds out a book with an illustration of a large owl. "I've never been to Russia."

"No, I haven't seen that one before."

"Borrow it, then, if you'd like. Now, if you could hand over our little friends, please, we can get you your potion."

You remove your gloves, unbutton your pocket once more, and realize you hadn't quite thought this one through. "Actually, could you help? My hands might be too big to get them back out."

"Oh yes, of course. Here." She places a hand up against the opening of the pocket and whistles, which convinces each of the black and brown caterpillars to immediately come to greet her. She takes a moment to study them, then cups them in her hands and walks over to set them under a small tree by a window, seemingly unaware of the weather outside. "Hmm. Not quite right." She spins a small lever and cracks the window for a moment, and the tree begins to understand. A scattering of leaves changes and falls, and the three woolly bears happily crawl underneath them to hibernate.

"You're not going to . . . throw them in the potion or something?"

"Oh, heavens, no. I just needed to see their stripes to know how strong the potion needs to be. Too weak, and it won't work; too strong, and you'd have . . . other problems. Besides, that'd be a different potion entirely."

Before you have the chance to work out what other problems she might be describing, she hands you a vial with a greenish-blue liquid. "I happen to have the strength you need on hand."

"But what about the cauldron, there?"

"That's just dinner."

"So it was eggplant."

"You're a cook?"

"No, not really. I bake, though."

"Well naturally—that's just another type of engineering. But anyway, unless you'd like to stay for soup, it's beginning to get dark out, and the woods will soon be less traversable. Here, come with me, and take my hand once we're outside."

"What about payment?"

"You've given me three new friends to take care of. Here, let's get going, then."

She closes the wooden door behind her, leaving you alone in the quiet. "Use the vial all at once, in the exact center of the paths you'd like to travel, including the ones leading to your doorstep. They should remain free of snow until spring, after which you'll have to deal with any secret, second winters on your own."

You place the vial carefully in the pocket whose contents you traded for it, and she grabs your left hand. "Is this really nece—"

"Yes, yes. Just until we make it back to your car. I wouldn't want to waste any magic at night. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone but the caterpillars if you start to blush." She glances to both sides of the path before leading you ahead.

The snow begins to melt ahead of you, and you feel a sudden warmth. ". . . Are you doing this?"

"Only almost. Seems the soup is done."

You look back over your shoulder to see a figure of burning coals now ambling behind you, the door to the witch's hut now ajar. "Okay, then. Well, if we're walking all the way back, I should probably ask. What should I call you?"

You hear the sound of stones shifting in the distance, and her grip tightens for just a second.

"You can call me Clara, engineer."

And now, before we close out a long January, a choice.

From a story tentatively titled, An intruder of class:

The upstairs window was obscured with steam, the front door was unlocked, and he could just make out the sounds of one of his Charlie Parker vinyls—someone was in his home.

Or, from a story tentatively titled, Waiting for the sun:

All they could hear were geese; all they could smell was wisteria.

Which trail should I follow for February?

Votes will be tallied on the 11th, and if you happen to subscribe between now and then, you'll find the poll in your welcome email, so you can vote, too.

Eyes open,

Martin

P.S.

Owls of the Eastern Ice is a great book, in fact, and it just so happens to be by a Minnesota author.

Also, bonus points to the friend likely reading this who told me about woolly bear folklore; you’re absolutely the reason I had the idea for this month’s story.

If you know someone who might find value in any of these words, feel free to send them this link. They won’t need to be subscribed to read it.