Acanthus

Surf was up. Literally. As the waters and earth formed and approached the party, Acanthus was surprisingly quick to dispel her concerns of death. Being locked out of her inventory and seeing monsters in a safe zone made her think this was all some kind of elaborate event. Zandra’s knowing smile cemented that idea in her mind. Nevertheless, she wanted to stay cautious. So as four of the partygoers held off the monsters, Acanthus wanted to confirm her thoughts. She laid her left hand softly on the table, and smashed it with the hammer. What happened next was difficult to describe. The

THREAD SUMMARY Experience: [Word Count: 3744/10 = 374.4] * [True Tier: 7] * [Group Factor: 1] = 2621 EXP Col: 393 (Laurel Wreath) + 400 (bonus) = 793 col

“So that’s why I chose my name.” The girl struggled to wrap up her story with some neat moral or statement. What was left to say? That plant was a vital—yet ineffective—anchor to her own purpose. It was a sinking raft in an endless ocean, or an expired bottle of life-saving medication. To her, the plant was priceless in both senses of the word. Acanthus finished talking. Her system clock showed she had been here for sixteen hours. Despite the length of her stay, the hard marble floor underneath was just as cold as when she sat down. It was the little details like that which made her

Fall began, and I returned the acanthus plant inside. It had grown taller and stronger in the heat and sunlight, but the first chill would be upon us soon. So I dragged it back inside, back to the first window it had rested by when I brought it home. The acanthus no longer had a purpose. It had failed to accomplish its intended task; there was no one left in the house to cure. Koji seemed almost entirely unaffected by the situation, content to stay locked in his room and on his computer. Father returned to a version of himself that was somehow even more stoic than before. The study also r

Writing cards consumed me for months. All of my free time was dedicated to working through the stack: free periods in school, the time I had between cleaning up dinner and bedtime. When I could not sleep, I wrote in the dead of night. Even still, the stack never seemed to get smaller. How had Mom done all of this on her own? I was also wracked with guilt over the inadequacy of my cards. Mom had managed to pen masterpieces in her beautiful script and personalized messages to every single person. My penmanship was still rough and shaky. Struggling to add some beauty to the cards, I tried to

In spring, Mom passed away. I was ten. I struggled to be the picture-perfect grieving daughter. I stood at the door to greet friends and family. Some would share stories with me, but I had too few to share with them. I thanked people for arriving, but my carefully rehearsed smile couldn’t reach my eyes the way Mom’s had. I wasn’t actually sure how sad I was supposed to be. Mom was gone because of some illness I didn’t understand. Had she been living on borrowed time all along? It sounded like it, judging by Dad’s terse eulogy. There were a few sniffs and sobs, but the room seemed covered

I asked him what was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that. His eyes welled up for tears, and for a moment, I thought I might see Dad cry for the first time ever. Instead, he fought down the outburst and stormed off to the study. In a flash, he opened the door and swiftly locked it behind him, and in that brief flash, I could see that the study had been ransacked. There were books and papers all over the floor, and the office chair was turned over on its side in the middle of the room, far from its usual corner. Timidly, I followed Dad, testing the lock. When it did not open, I rested my

Then, one day, I came home from school and her Mom wasn’t there. I checked the bedrooms and outside. I tried to peek inside the study, but the door was locked. I thought nothing of it. Mom had started visiting her sister-in-law again. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for her to be late. I made Koji a snack and started on the evening chores. I moved laundry downstairs, washed a few of the dishes from last night, and set out the ingredients for dinner. It would be simple: a curry and some greens. Even Koji would eat curry, but I had to make sure his was not spicy like the rest of the fam

Winter shunned the initial predictions, proving bitter and hazy despite the lack of snow. The acanthus plant fought to stay alive even in the comfort of indoors. I spent my allowance on a small heater just for the plant. Dad grumbled about the electricity bill, but I caught him checking to make sure it was on more than once. Mom, on the other hand, seemed to be full of life again. It came without warning; she had simply woken up one day and decided that things needed to be done. Her demeanor was still reserved, and her conversations were still brief, but at least she was up and moving. Bu

Cold winds carried away what was left of fall. The seeds Dad and I bought had sprouted and died as expected. It was nothing close to what a mother’s love and care could produce, but it was more than an empty garden. Winter came, and my garden died for the first time. Through my efforts, the acanthus persisted. I doggedly watered, moved, and cared for it like a child of my own. When it grew large enough, I talked Dad into buying a bigger container. Every evening, I carefully selected the leaves that would become Mom’s bedtime tea. I had tried some myself; it had a strong, green taste

Late in the fall, I recall precariously tipping a boiling kettle over a tiny mug. At the bottom rested four miniscule leaves. The acanthus plant was barely grown, but I was worried about Mom. She had stopped making trips to her sister or even her mother’s grave. I quietly approached her mom with the watery tea, lifting it to the table like an offering. Mom sat at her usual chair at the kitchen table, looking outside with a hollow stare. When I set the tea down a little too hard, Mom jumped a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. You’re so quiet sometimes, my little flower.” I told h

Upon the old farmer’s advice, I did not plant the herb outside. Everyone knew that winter would be mild, but the plant would thrive in the warm indoors and with plenty of sunlight. I attended the plant with a zeal that surprised even myself. Every day, I checked on the sprout for even the smallest spots of yellow on the leaves. I rotated my prized possession carefully, swapping windows two or three times a day to ensure it got exactly what it needed to grow. I bought three books about caring for plants and what different blemishes meant and how to fix them. Some of the words were too hard

When we got home, Dad surprised me by rolling up his sleeves, turning the soil and preparing the garden with Haru. “Your mother normally does not let me in her garden,” he grunted as he worked. “I am prone to… making things worse. But I suppose a poorly planted garden is better than one not planted at all.” I nodded without understanding. I was simply happy to be out in the garden with him. It wasn’t the halcyon days with Koji and Mom, but half a halcyon memory was better than none. Dad seemed to think so as well; though stoic, he gave occasional sighs that almost resembled contentment. M

“This,” one wrinkled farmer said, “is a very special herb. It’s not used to living here—it’s at home in the warmer climates of mainland Asia. But it grows tall and hearty with the right care.” “Does it… do anything?” I delicately brushed a budding leaf. I still remember how smooth, how young it felt under my shaking finger. A world of possibility in a handful of dirt. “Pluck the leaves off and they make a tea that cures any illness.” “Anything?” The farmer smiled. “Anything.” I left with Dad and about three garden’s worth of seeds. Dad tried to pay for as much as possi

One of the last farmers was a wrinkled old man who looked old enough to be Dad’s grandfather. He was one of the few vendors who had remained patiently while I looked over the stalls, never rushing me. The farmer had a fantastic collection of native and foreign plants. None of them seemed like things that mom had grown, but they were new and exciting, and I listened with rapt attention as the old farmer explained each of the things he sold. He seemed more a storyteller than a shopkeeper. Each of his wares was accompanied by a story so strange or embellished that even I knew they weren’t re

The first cold front of fall signaled the change of the seasons. The garden had been stripped and harvested of its produce, ready to be replanted with hardy, cold-weather crops. Just last year I had to beg Mom to let me help plant the seeds. Now, Mom was telling me that we would get around to it later. But she had never waited this long before. I was distraught, so I went to Dad. I remember calling him in tears in the late afternoon, when he had barely started his shift. Through quiet, hiccuping sobs, I asked dad if he would help plant the garden. Within the hour, we were driving out to M

Summer began to wind down, and Mom was no better than she had been. She had yet to return to any semblance of routine, including tending to her precious domain. Instead, I labored in the garden with the desperate vigor of a man resuscitating his child. Twice a day I ventured into that hallowed green space to water. And I hated pulling up anything green, because everything deserved to grow, but I knew that the weeds had to die to make room for the vegetables and flowers. So I would lay the weeds gently in the compost, offering a solemn apology to each thing I uprooted. It felt like years s

The summer heat passed by in a daze. I became good enough at doing the laundry and was teaching myself how to cook. Dad did the dishes and any other chores he could complete while no one was looking. Koji was young enough that nobody thought to burden him with the household chores. And Mom still kept to herself. She would either spend the days in bed, or visiting her sister-in-law, or her mom’s grave. We each tried cheering her up in our own ways. Koji was a chatterbox, and often sat on her lap, rambling away about anything his mind thought of. Mom would sit and listen politely, ruffling

When those duties had dried up, Mom wilted in the privacy of her home. That summer, the Masuda house ground to a halt as the rest of the family learned how much we had relied on her diligence and care. Dishes stacked up, and laundry was no longer magically whisked away for cleaning. Mom even let the garden, her pride and joy, wither in the heat. Watching the garden waste away changed something in Dad. Begrudgingly—but without complaint—he stepped in to split the housework with me and Koji. “Your mother is sad, but she won’t always be sad. She’ll get better in time.” But I wasn’t sure

In spring, my grandmother passed away. I was nine. Mom was the picture-perfect grieving daughter at the funeral. She greeted guests warmly, took time to hear their stories, added stories of her own, and thanked them for coming with a smile that reached her eyes. Mom was appropriately sad yet ultimately functional as she spoke a beautiful eulogy over her mother’s ashes. I couldn’t understand a lot of it, but the sobs from around the room told me that the message was on point. In the weeks afterwards, Mom toiled to send out personalized responses to every card and kind wish she had rec

In the moments between her ever growing worry, Acanthus thought about what Morrígan said. Was Kumaki a friend? Her familiar occupied a less familiar space in her heart. Something closer than an acquaintance. As difficult as the bear cub could be, there was a sweetness to her that Acanthus deeply appreciated. Even in her silliest, most frustrating moments, Kumaki was nothing but genuine. And here I’ve been, spending my time doubting her. Her fears melted away, replaced for a moment by anger at herself. She could do better, because her familiar deserved better. She wasn’t sure what that loo

Soundtrack (I suggest opening them all and queuing them in order. These should be timed to last the time it takes to read the thread) Winter's Silent Voices Lief Tear Cloud Everything's Alright -------------------- Winter came, and Mom’s garden died for the last time. Her last crop had teemed with life. Vegetables and flowers sprawled across the landscape, fighting with all their might to escape the bounds set for them, despite careful sculpting and pruning to keep them confined. The effect was something like a painting: washes of color that made little sense when the viewe

Maybe the real PKers were the friends we made along the way (sign me up)

Baldur told the history of Aincrad with a sense of personality that the written logs couldn’t capture. Acanthus had already pored over Aincrad’s past through the incidental information gleaned from the game: change logs, epilogues from completed quests, and even the Monument of Life. But that was a fragmented story told through the black and white of numbers. Hearing the stories behind the boss fights flooded those visualizations with color. “Overpreparing shouldn’t be an issue. I was in a time crunch for the last boss, but the frontlines move at a slow pace. This time, I’ll prepare for e

Acanthus paused for a moment to think. As much as she wanted to hurry, she knew that slowing down would keep the situation under control. Where would she go off to hide? “Kumaki isn’t one for holes in the ground, outside of falling into them by accident. Despite her clumsiness, she is a good swimmer. But she prefers to be around water rather than in it. I think the best place to start would be moving out towards the creek east of us. That’s where we were initially foraging for supplies before she decided to run into you and Phantom.” Phantom circled around the two in a smooth, contro