Pacific Northwest



Seattle was a beautiful home for the new family – an aspiring metropolis still surrounded by trees, which themselves were bracketed by bodies of water, and even those were framed by snow-capped mountains. The Bumgile siblings worked hard at parenting. They lived modestly and were reasonably happy. They were genuinely caring custodians, providing the best that they could for their inherited brood.

On a day like any other the kids were playing in their neighborhood park – running, jumping, climbing, and being that kind of hyper violent that was still innocent and acceptable for kids their age. The oldest, Geryman, was perhaps at the outer limits of that acceptability. He was already a year into puberty and boyhood was fading further into the distance. Geryman was not only the oldest, but seeing as he was 6 years old when he and his siblings came to America, he was the only one of the three that had concrete memories of their parents. They haunted him. Although, to be fair, there was a lot that haunted Geryman at night.

His brother and sister weren’t hounded by the same demons as he. They each seemed to exude a sense of purpose. But only the oldest exuded greatness. Was he just built differently? He wasn’t sure the reason, but Geryman knew that he didn’t quite fit in most places. Those inner demons were often unleashed in fits of rage. There was one person who wanted to foster his inner struggle, however.

This feeling, more pure than love
More constant than a God above
Not variable like the shifting ground
This heaviness won’t ever let me down

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