Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Lord Soul by S. M. Kois

In her second novel, S. M. Kois ups the ante in terms of philosophical discussion and spiritual questioning. This book, Lord Soul, introduces a young boy named Charlie who has an extremely high IQ. When his baby brother is diagnosed with an incredibly horrible disease and is given a life expectancy of only a few years, seven-year-old Charlie is determined to find a cure. He studies books well beyond his education level, and his ideas are soon funded by a research lab that takes over the project for him. However, Charlie begins to see a man called Lord Soul, whom his parents believe is a hallucination, and he is diagnosed with schizophrenia. What follows is a philosophical journey consisting of dialogue between Charlie and Lord Soul, as well as an emotional journey as Charlie deals with adult issues at his young age.

The philosophy is definitely the most important part of the book, to S. M. Kois, as more than half of the book is devoted to these compelling discussions, which provoke thought very effectively. Even though the plot often takes the passenger seat to the theme, the dialogue and descriptions drive the story forward at a fast pace. The content of the discussions paired with Charlie’s age and circumstance makes the story fascinating.

It does seem a bit unrealistic that Charlie is so young and yet so intelligent, but there are certainly a few children out there with IQs as high as his, and his questionable mental stability makes this more realistic. He is naive, like a seven-year-old, and his relationship with his brother is empathetic and emotive. That relationship and the scientific discoveries work well together to bolster the theme of the book.

This novel is perfect for people who prefer philosophical books and value theme over plot. The characters are well developed, so there is no shortage of literary merit there. With straight-forward prose and in-depth discussions of empathy, animal rights (though this second one often feels out of place and a step away from the plot and theme on the whole), and the nature of reality, this book is an interesting contribution to philosophy, while containing a decently compelling story, as well.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Proximity, Part 2 of 4 (A Summer of Flash Fiction #12)

The girl spun around, her eyes wide. Krane lurched backward, falling deeper into the small room. She pressed her back against the cool concrete wall and tried to make herself as flat as possible. Her throat burned as she pushed the rejected saliva up as silently as she could muster.

“Hello?” said a fragile, shaking voice. “Who’s there?”

Now, Krane had to make a choice. For a short moment, she allowed her heart to beat wildly, her eyes to dart around the room in search of a weapon for self defense, her chattering mind to desire flight instead of fight. But then she chose. She straightened her back and pulled back her shoulders, lifting her chin and pursing her lips, building up the false face her two years of military training had taught her. And then the girl appeared in the entrance of room twenty-one.

“Hello?” she repeated. She was tall, thin, blonde, and beautiful—she looked just as Krane had imagined a Susceptible would look. But her blue eyes were wide, moist with fearful tears, and her hands were clenched together near her chest, as if protecting her heart from a painful emotional blow.

“Hello,” Krane said hoarsely then cleared her throat, attempting to keep her expression rigid while clearing out the remnants of saliva and phlegm that had been her downfall. “Go about your business.”

Wringing her delicate, white hands, the girl stammered. “I was just looking for my brother’s teddy bear. I was going to get an escort, but he was crying, so I didn’t want to have to wait.”

The girl’s voice cracked as she spoke, the words flowing out one after the other in a stream of worry. Krane stood firmly, like a soldier, like the fortress guard she’d always wanted to be. Though as she stood, unable to speak any other words, as she couldn’t discern what she was possibly supposed to say, she watched as recognition slowly melted over the girl’s milky-white face. Her expression eased into a different kind of crumpled, the confused kind. Krane stiffened her posture further, but she felt her position of authority in front of the girl weaken.

Her hands halting their twisting motion, the girl tilted her head ever so slight. “Are you a warden? You’re not, are you?” Her brow furrowed. In all her life, in all her childhood and her military training, Krane had never been caught doing something wrong. She’d never done something wrong. So she was unprepared for this experience and didn’t know what to do with the hesitant moments between the girl’s question and her as-of-yet unknown response. Rationally, it would be best to lie, to claim to be one of the wardens of which this girl spoke, except that she was unsure how the Susceptible, upon entering an area they were apparently not permitted to be, were punished. She didn’t know her way around the chambers, let alone the inside of the fortress, but if she revealed herself to be Immune, to be someone from the outside, she would likely be immediately killed. As she held her breath, out of fear of the consequences of her actions—albeit considering their accidental nature—she recognized the irony of her adrenaline-filled lack of reflexes. If she opened her mouth again, who knew what the result would be. This girl could fall ill, and the plague could erupt again within moments. This was the very thing the government was trying to prevent. This was the reason for the walls.

Krane cleared her throat again, with one beat, to be sure her voice would be assertive. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said as confidently as she could muster, though she could feel her clammy fists, tight at her sides, beginning to shake.

“I don’t think you are either.”

There was no tremble in the girl’s vocal cords. As the girl’s blonde brows furrowed, Krane observed her inch forward one of her feet, garbed in a white slip-on shoe. She took another step, but Krane remained stolid in her repose. Her lips were hard and clenched, like her mother’s when she commanded the child Krane to go to bed or to finish eating her vegetables. She could hardly imagine what her mother, so proud of having a guard-in-training for a daughter, would think of her now.

The girl stopped, standing with a ballet dancer’s grace, four feet in front of her. “Are you lost?” she asked. “Were you looking for the wardens’ barracks? If you’re new, I understand. Everyone gets lost if they’re not used to being in this area of the compound.”

“I know perfectly well where I am. Get back to your business. Find whatever it is you’re looking for. Your brother’s toy. Then get out. I’ll let you go this time, but only this time.”

“Thank you.” By the confused glint in the girl’s blue eyes, Krane discerned that she was not saying the right things. But now that she’d said it, there was no going back. Inconsistencies would be more likely to give her away. “But, can I ask? Are you a new warden?”

“That’s none of your business. Now go.” She rose the volume of her voice ever so slightly, ting to make it sound more firm, more authoritative. She stiffened her arms at her sides even more. She could feel her veins pulsating in her fingertips and her palms.

The girl took a few steps back, slowly. Her brows were furrowed, her cheeks glowing pink. “Thank you,” she repeated, sounding not quite convinced, but getting there. Walking backwards, the girl kept her gaze pointed at Krane, though her lips were slightly pursed and her forehead was wrinkled. When she rounded the corner and slipped back into room eighteen, Krane heaved a silent sigh and allowed her shoulders to relax. She listened to the sound of the girl moving objects around in the crates and boxes, plastic bouncing against plastic, metal, and wood. The search seemed to go on for several minutes, but as Krane counted her breaths, forcing their steady slowing, she knew it could have only been thirty seconds before the girl’s gentle footsteps began again. She appeared in the entrance of section twenty-one, where Krane still stood. Once again, Krane stiffened her military stance.

“Thanks again,” the girl said, a tattered teddy bear in her hand. It had one button eye, the place where the second eye should be a hollow divot. A blue ribbon was tied around its neck, much shinier and smoother than the rough brown fur of the bear. “Can I ask your name?”

Krane hesitated. If she said her name, the girl could report her for not doing her duties, if that was what was going on. But the nervous tick of the girl rubbing the ribbon around the bear’s neck between her thumb and forefinger alerted her that there was no need to fear anyone ever knowing she was there. The girl was obviously not supposed to be here in what Krane discerned was the storage areas, some sort of lost and found.

“My name is Amma,” said the girl. “I just want to thank you again for letting me look for the bear.” She lifted it awkwardly. “I found it.”

“Good. Now go.”The girl didn’t move. The long pause in their words made both of them shift their feet, though Krane’s posture remained frozen. The desire for Amma to leave, the fear of sparking a new plague into being, had her legs nearly shaking with the need to run.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Proximity, Part 1 of 4 (A Summer of Flash Fiction #11)

Krane Decleric was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. Her junior commander and trainer—the bug-eyed, golden-haired, always-on-the-edge-of-smirking Clark—had ditched her, maybe as some sort of trainee initiation prank, and left her in one of the chambers near the entrance to the locks. She had warily gone through a door, which led her into a hallway, which took her to another door. Forgetting she was supposed to be scared, she opened it, knowing she probably shouldn’t but feeling as though she had no other choice. She was lost and it had seemed like it could be a way out. Instead, it had been a way in.

Krane found herself in a concrete room with areas sectioned off by concrete walls. These doorless rooms, whose exposed entryways allowed her to see inside, contained boxes. Cardboard boxes, clear plastic boxes, crates—they filled these small rooms, each area labeled above its entrance with numbers growing chronologically up the left side of the room toward Krane—to number twenty—and back down the right side—ending with number forty—toward another door, huge and wooden, on the opposing wall.

A dull, heavy noise resounded behind her, and a slurping, like the sealing of a vacuum, was the coda to the sound. Krane lurched and spun to face the door through which she had just entered, only to see the light, in the shape of a thin rectangle tracing the top border of the door, flip from amber to deep red. She gulped down the beating of her heart in her throat and flicked her eyes to her right, then to her left, but there was no guard or code panel in sight.

With all the effort the government had put into protecting the Susceptible, Krane found it awfully disconcerting that there was only one coded door—never mind the labyrinth of the chambers and the locks—separating them from the Immune. Of course, only the fortress guards were privy to the codes, which meant no one could get in or out without one letting them through the door. But a code and one guard, even with his sturdy body and stern expression, his bulletproof vest and hefty firearm, seemed less of a barrier to this sensitive world than all the propaganda claimed they needed. Yes, there was the gargantuan electrical fence surrounding the fortress on the outside, barricading civilians from entering, but it seemed that the military could come and go as they pleased, as long as they surpassed the guards and the code. Krane had always assumed that inside the chambers were men with stronger artillery, and on either side of the locks were ID scanners, disinfectant rooms, and cameras taping from every angle. Maybe the guard on the inside of the locks was off duty at the moment, or maybe he was taking a bathroom break and had no one else to step in—but, more likely, the Susceptible, craving their near royal treatment, were not subjected to staring at a beefy, rifle-bearing monster standing at their doorstep every moment of the day like the Immune were. Krane entertained the thought for moment, then froze in place. No guards meant possible surveillance. Cameras could be anywhere. Alarms could go off any minute. And Krane would more than likely be shot dead with no chance to explain herself.

Even in the chambers, where her only fear had been failure to impress Clark, who would report about her to his senior commander, she had not been much concerned with the possibility of surveillance. Hell, even on the streets of the city, where she knew there were cameras aimed at every storefront, every window, every corner, she’d known she didn’t have anything to be afraid of—as long as she followed orders. But now, the threat of arrest was real.

Arrest, while not uncommon in New York, was something reserved for people who disobeyed. Misbehaving men, women, and children, regardless of their age, were snatched away shrieking by police doing their rounds, often returning starving and bruised a few days later, or weeks, depending on their crime. Krane had witnessed from her own bedroom window rebellious teenagers dragged away shouting into the night several times over the course of her childhood. Their dirt-smeared trousers and wild eyes told her that these deviants needed to be kept in line. So Krane had always followed the rules: she’d never stayed out past the ten o’clock curfew; she’d attended every day of her eight years of classes, unless she was ill; she’d joined the military academy upon her graduation at sixteen; and she’d even had her first kiss from a boy, Bobby Durkheimer, when she was twelve, even though his lips were pink and sticky from the raspberries they’d been picking in the fields and she could smell the dull stench of old sweat emanating from his armpits, barely covered by his government-provided t-shirt.

She’d done what the law, her parents, and her peers had told her to do, and now she was stuck somewhere she wasn’t meant to be, unsure of how she’d managed to get there, and likely to be killed the moment she was found. As a trainee guard, she had only been allowed to look at the map of the chambers briefly before this first tour, and it had not shown the inside of the fortress. There were the chambers, like a cell wall, lining the miles-wide holding area, and there were the locks, four small hallway-like structures on the center of each of the square-shaped fortress’ sides. But beyond the areas she was permitted to enter, there was a big blank space. Not even senior commander’s had the privilege of seeing the maps of the inside of the fortress.

Having studied the limited map for only a few minutes before being escorted by Clark through the North guard-and-code-locked entrance, Krane could not discern whether she had gone through the locks or not. Was she still in the chambers? Or had she passed into the fortress? There was nothing to indicate either possibility. The smooth concrete walls had an industrial presence, but the dozens of boxes in the unenclosed rooms appeared fairly domestic. In some of them, Krane could make out items peeking up over the tops: tennis rackets, tattered books, dishes, stuffed animals. She squinted as she surveyed them from her place in front of the door, contemplating, analyzing, rationalizing why they were there. Then she realized, even though her confusion and mild worry about the surveillance clouded her minded, there was a soft rushing noise serving as background music to the room. She followed her ears to search for the source of the sound. Still standing in place in front of the door, unsure yet if she should move, she saw a vent in the upper corner of the room to her right. Quietly humming, the vent seemed to be sucking in air, and when he turned to her left, she saw an identical vent giving off a similar sound. This was further evidence, she thought, that she was inside. These vents had to be cycling and purifying the air, making it safe for the Susceptible to breathe. She thought harder, pondering each step she had taken to get to this room, in case there was a chance she could manage to open the sealed door behind her and to get out. Obviously there had to be a way. Under no circumstances could she possibly be trapped inside the fortress. She couldn’t let that happen to herself. She couldn’t imagine the guards—or Clark—letting that happen to her.

Then, beyond the barely audible hum of the vents, Krane heard another sound, like footsteps, echoing toward the room from the other side of the huge wooden door fifty feet in front of her. They were quiet, so quiet that she could hardly discern that they were in fact footsteps. She could tell by their volume and the fact that they resonated marginally that the door was thin, that the dim light she could see around the edges of it was shining through from whatever was on the other side. It wasn’t Clark, that was for sure. His gait was crooked, even after his five years of military training. His boots were heavy, not gentle, like these steps. Whoever it was, though—despite their delicacy—would likely not be happy to see her.

As the wooden door shifted, scraping against the concrete floor, Krane slid into the room closest to her on her right, number twenty-one. The wall hid her from the view of the person entering the room—just one, thankfully. But that also meant that Krane could not see the person either, and therefore, she couldn’t know if they were armed. The footsteps edged closer, and Krane’s abdomen tensed. But then the person halted, probably too close for Krane to be able to make even one peep. There was shuffling, the sound of plastic items knocking against each other, as if the person was searching for something.

She moved her head slowly and peered around the edge of wall. What she saw, in the section labeled eighteen, not ten feet away across the hallway from her, was a long, white-blonde head of hair, hanging loosely and bouncily and nearly grazing a pair of narrow, feminine hips. This wasn’t a guard, that was for sure. This wasn’t even someone from the military. This was the final clue that Krane needed to tell her that she had indeed passed through the locks and into the fortress. She gulped. It was the kind of gulp she dreaded, the kind that happened after drinking an abnormally large swallow of water, the kind that made her choke on her own saliva like a child just learning how the throat works. She felt it go down her windpipe, felt her chest attempt to push it back up, and tried with all her might to force it to stay, to let her drown for only a minute, until the girl had found what she was looking for in room eighteen and left. But then she coughed. She coughed and knew there was no chance now she wouldn’t be caught.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

IWSG - To Write or to Nap, That Is the Question


Where there’s a will, there’s a way. But sometimes there’s not always a will. Sometimes I’d rather just take a nap. What do you do when you’re too braindead to write? Do you write your way through it? Do you take the nap and pick back up the next day?

I have been facing this dilemma in the past month or so, putting off starting back up again by convincing myself that next week my brain will be revived, but when next week rolls around, I’m still in the rut. Once I get the butt in the chair and start writing, though, I know it will pick back up again. It’s the first five minutes of dread that always seem to get me. Next week, though, I’ll be able to get past it, right? :)

Peace, Aimee

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Untangled (A Summer of Flash Fiction #10)

Abby’s boyfriend had just accepted a new job when Abby decided to grow dreads. She told herself that his new, fancy, telecommuting job had nothing to do with her decision, despite the fact that his old job was where they met and where Abby still worked. If he was leaving his job, she thought, who knew what else he would leave? She did not tell Brian that this did not influence her decision, because he did not ask. Instead, he’d simply told her that she was already a hippie, so it was nice she was making her external identity match her internal.

Though Brian lingered in the office, wrapping up the big projects he had begun himself and which necessitated his final approval, Abby remained at the front desk, warily answering phones and emails while their menopausal coworkers tornadoed from office to office in a flurry of papers and numbers and remembered night sweats. The company would surely fall apart without Brian, but no one seemed to know this as intimately as Abby, who, as the quiet, nervous receptionist, feared this little place, where she’d been able to put her foot in the door of the otherwise locked-up tight advertising industry, would soon be drowning in paperclips.

One week after Abby had stopped brushing her hair found her examining the miniscule tangles already forming in her naturally ratty mop while secretly worrying that her boss would deny her, in the absence of organized Brian’s words of wisdom, the right to display herself as she pleased. Even as the boss’s dog, who roamed the office, galumphing from door to door in search of dropped snacks, emitted an airy fart from his patient perch next to Abby’s desk, Abby still maintained that inkling of a notion that the boss could in fact successfully accommodate a new, unfamiliar Brian and would ridicule Abby into brushing her hair after Abby’s Brian left.

The accompanying waft of the dog’s sharp stench brought the boss to Abby’s office, dog treat in hand. “Come here, Ricky. Let’s go outside,” the boss proclaimed, snapping her fingers and flashing Abby an apologetic smile. Brian, too, appeared then in Abby’s doorway, clenching his nostrils and holding out a newly printed paper for her.

The boss chuckled, pointing to Brian’s feet. “Nice socks,” she chided, more mocking than an actual compliment, then led lazy Ricky away. Abby peered over the desk, the hot pink glare of Brian’s new socks gleaming up at her. With a roll of her eyes, she tsked him and returned to her work. But the boss, who’d always appeared so strict in Abby’s eyes, had not told Brian to change. She’d enjoyed the quirkiness of his unconventional footwear and exhibited no recognition of the week-old dreads. Abby was in the clear—so far.

* * * * *

Abby’s boyfriend had tied up all the loose ends at the advertising company when Abby decided to take her college search seriously. These events were likely flip-flopped in time, Brian seeking out a telecommuting job in preparation for Abby leaving the city, but this only crossed Abby’s mind once or twice. His new job allowed him to work at home rather than holed up in an office all day, and Abby found herself attempting to massage out the curious knot in her gut that begged her to ask if this truly meant he’d move with her if she enrolled somewhere far away.

A degree in graphic design or a degree in art theory awaited her on the other side of the college admissions barrier, but even in all her tormenting and self-interrogation, Abby could still not decide. Practicality and application or creativity and passion—these felt to her like the two factors yanking her back and forth, a fraying tug-of-war rope.

The dreads, too, now celebrating their one month birthday, were more a tangled sea of knots than the slim ropes for which she’d hoped. Crispy leaves falling from the undressing trees would grip velcro hairs and not let go. The incoming chill charmed Abby’s favorite wool scarf out of her cluttered closet, only to prove more a challenge than a comfort as the bird’s nest that was her hair attempted to weave the loosening fibers into its gathers. Every time a would-be dread got stuck on something—or something got stuck on it—Abby considered the possibility of going to a hairdresser and getting them done professionally. But no: that would be cheating; that would be succumbing to the system of materialism, of caring what you look like, of skipping to the end result without enduring and enjoying the process; that would be unnatural.

In the process of researching colleges online, Abby found herself in a similar dilemma: Some programs boasted a high post-grad hire rate, some a proclivity of their grads to win classy, artistic awards. Some required tons of business and marketing courses, ideas which interested her, and others an abundance of painting classes for which Abby yearned. All appealed to her, but none were unobjectionable. Maybe she should just not bother with school at all and attempt to find her artistic niche on her own. Or maybe she should let someone else decide for her.

Just as her fingers were about to go gangrenous and detach, her cellphone buzzed with the cajole of her spunky cousin. Picturing the image of young Ivy’s layers of tattoos and piercings, Abby lurched toward her phone with excitement.

“Ivy, just the person I wanted to talk to,” she lied, hoping only for reassurance rather than conversation. “How’s it going?”

“It’s alright. Just making sure you’re still coming over for Thanksgiving. Don’t want you chickening out because of the storm.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still coming. I can handle a little snow,” Abby replied, though she wasn’t so sure. “But, what do you think everyone would think if I showed up with dreadlocks? I kind of stopped brushing my hair, so I’ll be looking scraggly in front of grandma.”

Abby heard Ivy’s snort derisively over the line. “Who cares what they think. People who care about what they look like are stupid. Good for you, I say,” Ivy growled. Her treatment of frivolity surpassed in sternness Abby’s dislike of all things inorganic. Plants poisoned for commercial gain, animals tortured to make sure shampoos were safe for humans, enormous vehicles chugging gas like an alcoholic chugs whisky: Abby and her cousin shared a distaste for things such as these, but Ivy’s hatred was extended to shaving, deodorant, shoes, religion, and even fluorescent lights. Ivy hated unnatural things. Ivy didn’t care if other people disliked her. Ivy didn’t want to go to college and didn’t have an office job, where things like dreadlocks mattered. Even going into an artistic career, and even being related to someone like Ivy, who had been accepted in the family though she bore a dozen tattoos, Abby felt that maybe she was different, that maybe she was less. That maybe dreads just weren’t for her.

* * * * *

Abby’s boyfriend had invited her to a see movie with some friends when Abby decided once and for all that she’d stick with the dreads. It’s what she’d said the last time, too, “once and for all,” but this time she knew she’d feel confident enough to answer with distinct affirmation when someone like her boss said, “I see you’ve started to let yourself go.”

Three months had passed since she’d brushed her hair, and a few yarn-like locks were becoming quite evident. Abby found herself putting her hair up more often than not, as she guessed the mess was just as unappealing to the public as it was to herself. In a few more weeks, she’d be reaching the point of no return—weeks filled with watching clumps of hair slowly morph into ropes, anxious heart-fluttering, dodging glances and pretending strangers weren’t judging her. The scraggles would even out—if she stuck to the plan and remained patient.

She couldn’t keep up with the patience side of things, though, in the horrid movie Brian had taken her to see. As a bland scenery unfolded and poor camera angles marred the story, Abby found her graphic design-oriented brain squirming with disgust. Even she could do better than that, and she hadn’t even studied film.

But as she was about to turn to Brian and express her hushed disdain in his ear, a gorgeous actress with whom Abby could never compete burst across the screen, her sweeping, angelic hair flowing out behind her and imbuing Abby with envy. The stream of light filtered through her mane was obviously meant to illustrate the love at first sight the main character felt upon her entrance, but to Abby, it was only a reminder of the people littered throughout her past who’d told her that her hair was beautiful and that they were jealous.

Sitting in that the scratchy cinema seat, the twinkling of a blissful piano tune filling the dark theater, Abby found herself missing her frizzy mop. Running and swimming would be floppy instead of flowy with dreads, and flying insects and stray bits of fuzz would always get trapped in her web. She’d carried a wasp into her apartment on her hair a few weeks before, and though it seemed hilarious at the time, now, admiring the actress’s lavishing blond hair, Abby was conscious of her disheveled, filthy, pathetic attempt at nonconformity.

When at last the credits began to ascend the movie screen, Abby was renewed with a cognizant understanding of her self. She, Brian, and their friends filed out of their row, inching between the too-small seats in the dim theater. As they burst through the doors, basking in the light of their post-film wonder, a light touch at the back of her head, as if someone were warily petting her like a new kitten, drew her attention.

“It sort of looks like you have dreads,” her friend Bree, who moved beside her, said.

“I sort of do, but I’m brushing them out this weekend. I thought it was a good idea, but I just can’t fully embrace them. They’re not really me.”

Bree’s accepting nod, Brian’s taking of her hand, and their swift goodbyes were affirming yet anticlimactic, leaving Abby perplexed at the affable accord. Shoving open the hefty theater doors and into the bitter February evening, she and Brian turned in the direction of Brian’s car with hardly half a twinkle of new insight between the two of them.

In a flash of gentle curiosity, Abby paused at the edge of the sidewalk, squeezing Brian’s hand. “You keep saying you don’t care,” she pried. “What do you really think of the dreads?”

“No matter how you wear your hair, I still think you’re beautiful,” Brain said.

Abby smiled unintentionally but avoided holding her gaze for too long, thinking him an undeserved gift. A tentative moment passed before she replied, “Thanks. I really needed to hear that,” though he certainly hadn’t helped in her decision-making process regarding her hair.

But as they shuffled together across the snow-dusted parking lot, Abby contemplated the consequences of her options. Dreads matched her political disposition, for sure, but admitting that she couldn’t fully embrace them left the residue of the notion that a malleable style was more suited to her personality. Couldn’t she be a hippie without dreadlocks? She’d untangle them that evening, Abby told herself, in spite of the sharp yanks of the hairbrush and the globs of old hair that would aggregate in the bathroom trash can, but the beauty of extinguishing three months of hard work was that she had the option of starting over again—when she was ready to commit to such a journey.