Grounding the Storm ✓

Chapter 1

When my father moves to sit at the head of our dining table stuffed in the corner near the bathing room, the bowls rattle. His knee bangs against the post and he glowers. After so many years, he has stopped complaining about the tight conditions. We've always said one day we'll build a home big enough for our small family to accommodate us and visitors but that's hard to do when we're building for everyone else. It's on the list.

My mother tries to smile as she wipes a dollop of beef stew spilled from her bowl onto the table. The window behind the table, directly to my back, opens to the dirt street and a family walking by, praising Celestine's ability to create beauty at the tip of her fingers.

Will anyone talk about me that way? Or will they remember me as the destructive, unpredictable sister? The daughter of the selfless but also the threat. That's the working phrase, at least.

My mother's auburn hair hangs low in a braid, all the way to her lower back. Unbound, her hair reaches her thighs in gentle waves, like the calmest days on the ocean waters.

I inherited that gentle wave in my scarlet red locks but my hair, stubborn as it is, will never grow that long. I can barely stand to let it hang past my collarbones—the length I have it at the moment.

While I didn't want my mother's long hair, we share eyes—a bright shade of amber. Wide, dazzling, beautiful. They're the highlight of our thin faces. Except every other feature on my mother's face renders her to stand out in a crowd. Her sharp cheekbones, her freckled, honey-gold skin, and her rosy cheeks. Celestine is a mirror image of her.

The steaming beef stew is thick, crowded with vegetables and a dark broth strived from the meat chunks floating within. Besides the small piece of buttered bread, this is our dinner. It's not nearly enough for my father to fill his stomach but he eats what leftovers we have and then some—my mother never finishes her meals so he can eat more. They've gotten past behaving awkwardly about it, especially since my father's stomach rumbles so loud through the night Celestine and I can hear it through a thick stone wall.

At the table, my mother and Celestine sit at my father's sides while I sit next to my sister, our elbows near touching in the cramped space. We've always been an equal family and having an empty chair across from me is useful when a conversation becomes lengthy and they haven't excused me yet. At least I can slouch in my chair and prop up my feet until my mother notices. Normally, the recognition takes a while, and she slaps at my boots, scolding me all the while.

My father, the witch of all hearing, takes a drink from his rust-rimmed chalice. He's a large man at a small table, in a small home, filled with even smaller women. Graham Lewis Aimrey, the foundation of us all, of this family and village, smiles over at me—a silent hint of gratitude for my decent work today with the incoming refugees. We speak little; gestures work the same.

Although my father's mass is mainly tested in weight, I can not say the same for his height. He's the same height as my mother and nearly as Celestine. I bring up the rear—shorter by only a couple inches. The only thing we inherited from him is his rosy cheeks. Otherwise, he's a plain man with shaggy pecan colored hair—always unkempt. Neither of us inherited his brown eyes but the combination of him and my mother created Celestine's very stunning hazel.

"Shall we eat?" He looks to each of us with such love in his eyes.

I've seen nothing else, our lives are his to protect if that time comes. Our mother would do the same. They've done nothing but ensure we are a solid and stable family.

No one bothers to speak, and instead of waiting for a further cue, we dig into the bowls of stew waiting for such destruction. The quickest eater of us all—and the cleanest—gets to her bowl the quickest. Stray auburn strands stick to my mother's forehead, covered in sweat from leaning over the hot stove for so long.