Don't Choose Your Own Adventure
Prose by Bryana Lorenzo
Your sister just died, so you collect lilies from the stream by the graveyard where she’ll be buried. Your family wants to cover her headstone in roses and chrysanthemums, even though she hated both. More than anything, she’d want dry summer grass to grow over her buried casket, want a bunny burrow nestled just above her tomb so she can hear their soft, furry footsteps while she lies lazily in her velvet-lined coffin.
She always said she’d go before you because she was too slow to live, going through life at the pace of her own morning groans from the sun so rudely waking her at dawn. She’d say to not overthink her death, to not find meaning or malice or branching paths in a universe where choices aren’t easily retreated from. Don’t choose your own adventure, even though you will because your sister just died and it’s a stage of grief.
But as you flip through each page, you’ll realize a few things.
On page 87, you could have conceded to her request for coffee and she would’ve run out the house in a mad dash for work high on caffeine. Her body isn’t meant to go so fast. Her body isn’t meant to even go normal. She wouldn’t see that passing car. She wouldn’t see the tow truck either.
Fine. Flip to page 83. Drive her to work yourself. When she exits the office, she’ll still find her way on the other edge of a knife. Even on 84, where you clock out with her, she’d merely push you out of the way with a cheeky smile. If on page 85 you call the police beforehand, you still must remember the ride home is dark. Recall that you’re not the best driver and neither is she. No matter who swings that steering wheel, you crash either way.
Go back all the way to 63 instead, then. You and her are in high school. You and her are sneaking out of your parents’ house after they grounded you both for talking to a boy that you weren’t even interested in. You and her are exploring up and down the creek full of lilies just across your wide backyard. You and her could have been more rebellious—gone clubbing or gone to see that new slasher flick everybody else has been talking about. Your sister has the urge, but not the energy, to do either. So instead you waltz up and down the creek where you spent your childhood. So instead you snort pixie sticks because weed is too harsh for your sister’s delicate composition, which you know because you caught her once trying it and loving it and also almost dying from it.
She always said she’d go before you because she was too slow to live, going through life at the pace of her own morning groans from the sun so rudely waking her at dawn. She’d say to not overthink her death, to not find meaning or malice or branching paths in a universe where choices aren’t easily retreated from. Don’t choose your own adventure, even though you will because your sister just died and it’s a stage of grief.
But as you flip through each page, you’ll realize a few things.
On page 87, you could have conceded to her request for coffee and she would’ve run out the house in a mad dash for work high on caffeine. Her body isn’t meant to go so fast. Her body isn’t meant to even go normal. She wouldn’t see that passing car. She wouldn’t see the tow truck either.
Fine. Flip to page 83. Drive her to work yourself. When she exits the office, she’ll still find her way on the other edge of a knife. Even on 84, where you clock out with her, she’d merely push you out of the way with a cheeky smile. If on page 85 you call the police beforehand, you still must remember the ride home is dark. Recall that you’re not the best driver and neither is she. No matter who swings that steering wheel, you crash either way.
Go back all the way to 63 instead, then. You and her are in high school. You and her are sneaking out of your parents’ house after they grounded you both for talking to a boy that you weren’t even interested in. You and her are exploring up and down the creek full of lilies just across your wide backyard. You and her could have been more rebellious—gone clubbing or gone to see that new slasher flick everybody else has been talking about. Your sister has the urge, but not the energy, to do either. So instead you waltz up and down the creek where you spent your childhood. So instead you snort pixie sticks because weed is too harsh for your sister’s delicate composition, which you know because you caught her once trying it and loving it and also almost dying from it.
Maybe you went back too far. Maybe you didn’t go back far enough. Maybe you could save her here. Or maybe go back all the way to page 52. Maybe go back further to page 41. Maybe go back to when you were young and you and your sister were equal halves of each other... |
Maybe you went back too far. Maybe you didn’t go back far enough. Maybe you could save her here. Or maybe go back all the way to page 52. Maybe go back further to page 41. Maybe go back to when you were young and you and your sister were equal halves of each other and neither you nor her could die because the other would soon follow. Turn to page zero and see a world locked away from you because your sister was weak and you were weaker because you only lived if she did and she could be blown away with the wind. Turn to page one and find a land where only the flower field outside was free to you until your sister hopped the fence and nearly drowned in a creek and came to love lilies because they were the first flowers she found outside the field.
Recall you couldn’t contain her, because though she was a slow-moving sapling in a forest of redwoods, her roots always eventually escaped enclosure. Recall pages 14, 15, and 16, where she was always dragging you on “adventures” that really just led to the creek again. Recall she liked lilies because they floated where they wished. Recall she liked cruising through life because it meant she could contemplate if each choice in front of her was really hers to make.
Turn to page 93, just after her death. Recall she was always going first and said it herself. Recall that at least you were with her, on the bank of the creek, the humidity frizzing her hair and yours. Recall she wanted lilies on her headstone, and she’d get them because they’d be a final flipped bird to the universe because she’d get to affect the world even after she left it. Her death wasn’t a choice to make—a bargain to break. It wasn’t a flip back or flip forward. It was just a sudden—
Stop.
Your sister just died, so you decided to collect lilies from the stream near where she’ll be buried. You could have let your family keep the roses and chrysanthemums, like you could have kept your sister from hopping that fence and discovering the world for the first time. But then you’d be out of choices left to make with her. The story would end when the last bit of dirt is packed over her grave. So you leave the lilies on the headstone because that’s at least one thing in both your and her control.
Recall you couldn’t contain her, because though she was a slow-moving sapling in a forest of redwoods, her roots always eventually escaped enclosure. Recall pages 14, 15, and 16, where she was always dragging you on “adventures” that really just led to the creek again. Recall she liked lilies because they floated where they wished. Recall she liked cruising through life because it meant she could contemplate if each choice in front of her was really hers to make.
Turn to page 93, just after her death. Recall she was always going first and said it herself. Recall that at least you were with her, on the bank of the creek, the humidity frizzing her hair and yours. Recall she wanted lilies on her headstone, and she’d get them because they’d be a final flipped bird to the universe because she’d get to affect the world even after she left it. Her death wasn’t a choice to make—a bargain to break. It wasn’t a flip back or flip forward. It was just a sudden—
Stop.
Your sister just died, so you decided to collect lilies from the stream near where she’ll be buried. You could have let your family keep the roses and chrysanthemums, like you could have kept your sister from hopping that fence and discovering the world for the first time. But then you’d be out of choices left to make with her. The story would end when the last bit of dirt is packed over her grave. So you leave the lilies on the headstone because that’s at least one thing in both your and her control.
About the Writer
Pushcart Prize nominee Bryana Lorenzo is a Junior at Boone High School in Orlando, Florida, a Junior Editor at Polyphony Lit, and a storyteller at An Insipid Board of Ideas—a storytelling blog and nonprofit dedicated to spreading awareness of social issues through short stories. Her fiction has been featured in Outlander Zine, The Graveyard Zine, Rhodora Magazine, and Le Château Magazine, and is forthcoming in Agapanthus Collective, Pile Press, and The Literary Canteen. She has an essay published with Youth Be Heard. You can find her on Instagram @bryanastarwrites or on Tumblr at bryanastar.tumblr.com.
