Entry #9
From The Archive: A Fictional Account of Memory and Myth
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is an entry from my on-going serial fiction experiment “The Archive.”
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Day 55 – Morning
I still can't believe I followed a stranger to a farm. But here we are.
My body still aches from the city. Every shadow makes me flinch, expecting those men to emerge with their hungry eyes and sharp grins. But out here, the shadows are different. Softer. The darkness feels clean somehow, not like the city's oily black that clings to your skin.
The greenhouse is the heart of it, overflowing with life in a way that feels almost indecent. Everything else is old and broken—weathered wood, rusted tools, fences that barely keep out the wild. But the greenhouse? It’s like stepping into another world.
The air inside is thick and alive, heavy with the scent of soil and green things. Rows of plants stretch toward the glass ceiling—some I recognize, others alien and strange. Demi has labels written in careful script: Digitalis (foxglove) - TOXIC. DO NOT TOUCH. Artemisia absinthium (wormwood) - For study only. Datura stramonium - HANDLE WITH CARE.
The warning labels make me nervous. But then again, everything makes me nervous these days.
Demi's in her element here. The pharmacy witch transformed into something else entirely when she showed me around. She talked about her plants like they were her kids, her fingers trailing over leaves and stems with a kind of reverence.
“This is what keeps me alive,” she said.
I wanted to tell her that surviving on plants seemed a hell of a lot better than fighting off psychos in the city. But I kept that to myself. After what happened with those men, any kind of survival that doesn't involve bleeding feels like a win.
Atlas and Freya seem to sense the difference too. They're more relaxed here, though they still patrol the perimeter like clockwork. Old habits die hard. Bastet has claimed the farmhouse windowsills as her kingdom, lounging in patches of sunlight like she's forgotten what danger feels like.
Sometimes I envy her that ability to adapt, to claim space without fear. My hands still shake when I hear unexpected noises. My shoulder throbs where that man's knife found me. The city left its mark in more ways than one.
Demi’s teaching me about the plants—what to look for, how to use them. I'm writing everything down.
There's something meditative about learning again, about focusing on something other than survival. But I can't help noticing how Demi skips over certain plants, changes the subject when I ask about the darker leaves in the corner, the ones without labels. Knowledge is power in this new world, but it can also be dangerous. I should know—I've seen what people will do for less.
Day 55 – Later
I did another reading for Demi tonight. After pulling The Star yesterday, she's gotten bolder with her questions. Tonight she wanted to know about her work—if all these plants, all this knowledge, would mean anything in the end.
She pulled The Magician.
Reversed.
That one’s... complicated. When it’s upright, it’s all about creation, transformation, turning potential into reality. But reversed? It can mean trickery. Deception. Or worse—untapped potential wasted.
I told her what it meant, but sugar-coating isn't my style anymore. “Sometimes the cards tell us what we need to hear, not what we want to hear.” She knows more than she's letting on. About the plants, about what she's doing with them. She nodded, but there was something in her eyes, something dark and unreadable.
The reversed Magician stares up at me, and I remember all the times this card appeared before something went wrong. Before Finn. Before the library collapsed. Before those men in the city. The cards have a way of knowing, of warning. But what are they trying to tell me about Demi?
I watch her handle her plants with such care, measuring leaves and roots with precise movements. There's power in knowing which plants heal and which ones hurt. I wonder if that's what the Magician is trying to tell me—that power can cut both ways.
Day 55 – Even Later
We got drunk. And high.
When your host is a weed farmer with a hidden stash of whiskey, you don't say no. Demi brought out a bottle she'd been saving for “special occasions,” from her dad's old collection and apparently, surviving another day qualifies as special. We passed it back and forth, sitting on the floor of her greenhouse while the plants swayed gently in the warm, earthy air.
She rolled a joint the same way she did in the pharmacy—quick, practiced movements that reminded me she'd done this long before the world went to shit.
“What?” She said, lighting it with a spark of pride. “You think this is the first time I’ve partied in a greenhouse?”
I don’t know if it was the whiskey, the weed, or the fact that it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to joy, but the two of us ended up giggling like idiots.
Demi told me about the farm before everything went wrong—how they'd host these “wellness retreats” that were really just excuses to get high and talk about plants. “People would pay thousands,” she said, laughing. “Just to smoke my weed and learn about herbs. The barn would be packed with rich hippies trying to find themselves.”
I told her about the time Finn tried to make margaritas for a backyard barbecue and forgot to add ice, so we all just drank warm lime sludge and pretended it wasn’t disgusting.
“Finn sounds like a disaster,” she said, grinning.
“He was,” I admitted. “But he was my disaster.”
And then, because I was tipsy and apparently incapable of keeping things to myself, I blurted out, “Speaking of disasters, I found a vibrator in the pharmacy.”
Demi nearly dropped the joint, coughing through her laughter. “You what?”
“You heard me.” I was laughing so hard I almost couldn’t breathe. “A pocket vibrator. Just sitting there in all its post-apocalyptic glory. So I took it.”
She stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t decide if that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard or the most badass.”
“It’s practical!” I argued, still laughing. “We’re living in hell—why not take care of myself?”
“You’ve got a point,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But please tell me you're not planning to use it while staying here. These walls are thin.”
“Don't worry,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “I’m a considerate houseguest.”
That sent us into another fit of laughter, and for a while, the weight of the world didn’t feel quite so heavy.
The whiskey burns going down, but it's a clean burn, nothing like the fear that's been burning in my chest since the city. Demi's laugh is infectious, and for a moment, I forget to be afraid. The greenhouse at night is magical—moonlight streaming through the glass, casting strange shadows through the leaves. The plants seem to dance in the dim light, and I swear I can hear them breathing.
“You know what I miss most?” Demi asks, passing the joint back. “Music. Real music, not just memories of it.”
I think about all the things I miss—hot showers, coffee shops, the internet. But mostly I miss feeling safe enough to miss things.
By the time we stumbled back to the farmhouse, the moon was high and we were both loose-limbed and giddy. It felt dangerous, this easiness between us. Like maybe I shouldn't trust it. But after the week I've had—the library collapsing, those men attacking us, running until my legs gave out—maybe I deserved a moment of not being afraid.
The dogs gave us matching what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you looks, and Bastet has never looked so disappointed in her life.
It felt good, though. To laugh. To let go. To forget, even if it was just for a little while.
Later, lying in Demi’s spare room, I listen to the night sounds through the open window. Crickets. Wind in the trees. The occasional hoot of an owl. So different from the city's dead silence. Atlas and Freya are curled up on either side of me, their breathing steady and sure. Bastet's claimed the windowsill, her silhouette sharp against the stars.
I should feel safer here, and I do, but I also feel like I'm holding my breath, waiting for something to break this fragile peace. The cards are trying to tell me something about Demi, about this place. I just hope I figure it out before it's too late.
Updated Ration Log:
1 pocket vibrator (a hero’s companion).
1 water bottle (constantly refilled)
1 granola bar (saving it, just in case)
I love this entry so much! The writing is so lyrical without taking away from the tension in the narrative. I feel like Ari - enjoying the breath of peace but not trusting it to last.