A Bundle Of Sticks

My younger brother and I shared one body, but we had two different souls. Ever since we were little, my family used a lottery draw each month to decide who would stay awake and who would fall asleep. The long straw was mine. The short straw was his. Whenever my brother was awake, our parents and older sister took him on vacations, road trips, and around the world to see places I had never seen. Whenever I was awake, they locked me inside the house and forced me to study day and night. I was the one who took the SAT. I was the one who faced every challenge life threw at us. But every time I succeeded, they would make sure my brother woke up next, so he could enjoy all the praise and rewards I had earned without lifting a finger. Everything changed the day my brother beat a local bully's son so badly that the boy ended up in the hospital. Carla made her decision without hesitation. "Tomorrow is the first day of the month anyway. Since we decide who gets picked, let's wake Harry and have him take the blame for Simon." My parents agreed without a second thought. Trapped deep inside our shared soul, I could only smile bitterly. Watching them protect my brother while turning me into his scapegoat filled me with despair. What they didn't know was that I had one chance to choose eternal sleep. With a broken heart, I made my decision. I would never again be my brother's stepping stone and scapegoat.

Before my crazy grandmother died, she gave me three walnuts. According to her last wish, I cracked open the first walnut on my twenty-fifth birthday. Inside the walnut was a slip of paper. 'Go to the skybridge and grovel at the first beggar you meet' was the instruction written on it. When I looked at the note, I could feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Still, I did as told. To my surprise, the beggar turned out to be an undercover cop. Only later did I learn that I had long been targeted by human traffickers, and the bow had saved my life. As for the second walnut, my grandmother told me to crack it open before I got married. When I put on my wedding dress, ready to marry the policeman who saved me, I happily opened it. This time, there was a crumpled old photograph inside. In the photo, my fiancé was smiling as he strangled another bride.

A bloody resistance against colonial invasion that tears Seme's indigenous leadership apart marks the entry of a strange culture into the clan. Osayo, the priest, seeks to protect the clan's religious system from erosion by the Blue-eyed (colonists). He, however, has to face off with a few loose canons, including his own son who escapes to a mission center far from home and ends up falling in love with a convert. In the meantime, a terrible plague breaks out in the clan, killing animals and people and leaving the land barren. Coupled by a misunderstanding of concepts in the new faith propagated by the Blue-eyed, a longstanding rift and blame game emerge between the converts and the conservatives, and spuns into a cutural marriage. Soon afterward, Osayo dies and his son, Okayo, realizes he has a greater role to play. The supernormal powers of the clan's aboriginal religious tree are stolen by a witch in line with a prophetic myth. And in a painful and tumultous mission to reunite the two conflicting religions of Seme Clan and limit the Blue-eyed's influence, Okayo puts his front foot forward in combating witchcraft so as to have the tree's powers in safe custody, and protect good from being superseded by evil.

My hand wraps around his wrist, and I try to break free of his hold. It’s no use, so I just dig my fingers into the tendons there and glare at him. “What the hell’s your problem?” His forearm presses against my sternum as he crowds me more, ice-blue mismatched eyes full of unchecked rage. “You’re my fucking problem. Hockey’s little golden boy, coming out here with your good game tonight, acting like you own the sport.” He’s trying to get under my skin, but it won’t work. Unlike him, I don’t let my temper control me, and I definitely don’t toss hands at the drop of a hat whenever I can’t rein in my feelings. Which is why he doesn’t get the reaction he was hoping for, and I snort out a laugh. “Seriously? It was a compliment. One I meant, so just take it and move the fuck on.” “Move the fuck on?”

It happened on Thanksgiving Day. I was on my way to my girlfriend's house when a car slammed straight into mine. The road was deserted, not a single person was around. The doors were jammed shut from the impact, and flames were licking toward the engine. I fumbled for the safety hammer, only to find that someone had replaced it with a toy hammer shaped like a cartoon bear. Panicking, I called my girlfriend. But before she could even pick up, her ringtone started playing from the car that had just hit me. Luna Hill stepped out, hand in hand with her childhood sweetheart, Julian Ford. Julian put on a show of alarm. "Oh no, I'm such an idiot! My first time driving, and I already hit a car." When Luna saw that it was me in the crushed car, she quickly tried to calm him down. "It's fine. He probably did it on purpose." I pounded on the window, shouting for her. "Luna, the safety hammer's been switched out! Please, help me get out!" Julian burst into a grin. "Sebastian, that was me! The little bear hammer's adorable, isn't it?" Luna's face twisted in disgust. "You're fine. Stop being dramatic. Figure it out yourself." Thick smoke was billowing inside the car, and it was about to explode. I begged her to get me out. Julian chuckled. "Sebastian, are you cooking in there or what? That smoke's killing me!" He patted his stomach and said with a laugh, "Man, I'm starving. Luna, let's go home and eat." Luna hooked her arm through his and tossed a parting line over her shoulder. "Enough already. My parents are waiting for us to start dinner." Just as I was about to pass out from the smoke, I slammed my hand on the car's emergency button.

I was the only female carpenter in town, and I made caskets at cost price for anyone in the area who needed one. Everyone said I was generous, kind-hearted, the whole routine. Then one afternoon, Doug Hadley showed up at my shop with his wife Trish Grady and a handful of neighbors to order a cremation urn. Trish stared at the price tag. "An urn for only 50 dollars? What is this, scrap wood?" Doug shot her a look. "Don't run your mouth about things you don't understand. It's solid ebony. Bridget makes them herself, so it's cheaper." Trish snickered behind her hand. "Solid ebony? That might fool someone who doesn't know any better. My cousin runs a funeral supply shop, so trust me, I know what I'm looking at. This isn't ebony. It's plywood. It's five dollars' worth of material, tops. "I can take you all to my cousin's place. I'll make sure he gives us a deal." The neighbors were already nodding. "The urn's supposed to last a hundred years. Obviously, I want the best for my mom." "Selling plywood and calling it ebony... You ought to be ashamed." "Come on, let's all go to Trish's cousin. I'm not giving her the chance to make dirty money off any of us." Dirty money? As far as I knew, mine was the only shop in town that actually stocked real ebony. Everyone else used MDF. If they were not afraid of the thing falling apart, they were welcome to go for it.