The house looked like it had wandered up the ridge in a storm and then stopped for good. From the balcony you could lean on the rail and watch hawks circle below, each shrug of their wings proof of a physics you could not borrow. Beyond them the valley unfolded like a map someone had folded too many times. Far off, three points of light winked through the trees. If you wanted visitors, they looked like ships. If you didn’t, they looked like tin roofs.
Inside, the fridge hummed a steady note, softening the air. Lisa was barefoot in the kitchen, pouring cold brew over ice. She asked if I wanted some. I said yes though I hated the taste, like bark and pennies. We had slept in separate rooms because late arrivals make people polite, and because the house belonged to her mother, whose rules lingered like perfume.
“Those lights,” I said, pointing to the ridge.
“Farm roofs,” she said. “They catch at this hour. Then they go away.”
“Ships would be nice.”
“If they came with signal,” she said. “I still can’t get a bar in the living room.”
We took our glasses to the balcony. The boards had been sanded once but remembered to splinter anyway. Hawks drew circles where they had drawn them yesterday. Lisa slid on sunglasses that cooled the valley. I wanted her to move closer without deciding to.
“This place feels like a roof,” I said.
“It is,” she said. “The whole mountain is a roof.”
We laughed. It was easy to laugh with her. Harder to relax.
She asked what I’d do if the lights were ships.
“Maybe lunch,” I said. “They could drop me back in the afternoon.”
Her smile thinned, like I’d brushed against something hidden. A swallow cut the air and left its diagram. The hawks tilted lower, considering us.
Later we swam in a lake cold enough to wake the spine. On the drive back we passed a peach stand. She didn’t slow. I didn’t speak. When we were nearly home she asked my age. I told her. I asked hers. She tapped the wheel twice.
“I don’t like that question,” she said.
“I was just asking about birthdays.”
“I know,” she said.
We went a mile in silence. I tried to make it good silence, then small silence. It stayed the same size. Back at the house she tucked her knees into the chair with the most room. Afternoon heat pressed the glass like someone checking locks.
“I’m old fashioned about age,” she said. “I like to keep some things where they belong.”
“I hear you,” I said.
Later she asked me to text her number. Her phone chirped on the counter. “Good. Use that one,” she said. A second phone sat face down on the shelf.
“One for work,” she explained. “One for life.”
“Which am I?” I asked, trying for a joke.
“You’re someone who asks good questions at bad times,” she said, gentle as a blanket.
We walked the ridge path. It broke off and returned, the way paths do. I kept imagining the balcony behind us, chairs waiting with an empty third.
That evening she cooked onions into thin moons, sharp knife flashing more threat than need. We ate like defenders of the meal.
“Tell me something you’re proud of,” she said.
“I wrote a song once,” I said. “It wasn’t good. I sang it alone and cried.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Crying in a room is underrated.”
Her eyes went to the balcony. The three lights were back. Brighter. The radio muttered air quality and budget votes. The world felt like a board game missing half its pieces.
“Do you ever want to be scooped up by something bigger?” I asked. “Something that tells you what to do.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Then I remember instructions are written by whoever’s holding the pen.”
After dishes we brushed shoulders. Too light to count. She said good night and used my name. The sound of it stayed in my mouth. I lay in bed and the house thumped once or twice. Maybe the wind. Maybe the world shifting.
Morning brought the hawks again, the lights fading to roofs. We spoke of pastries in town, then stayed. She opened a book, closed it after a paragraph. I paced the balcony, thinking of calibration, how a crooked compass still lets you walk with purpose, only to the wrong place. I didn’t know if what I felt for her was compass error or weather.
“Do you ever want to be closer than you are,” I asked finally.
She set the book down. “I’m trying to fit everything inside the time we have. I don’t know what the right amount is.”
“What feels right now?”
She looked at my shoulder, not my eyes. “The hawks never look bothered. That feels right.”
“I keep hoping your body will reach before your mouth decides,” I said.
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I learn something.”
She came to the rail. Close enough for me to smell her hair, to count freckles. Our fingers touched on the rail for a second and then she pulled them back. A kindness. An absolute line.
“Sometimes I feel like a museum,” she said. “Everyone wants to touch. The signs say don’t. I watch people pretend they didn’t see.”
“I don’t want to be a visitor,” I said.
“Then be the guard,” she said, smiling to soften it.
Her face turned away. A chainsaw roared in the valley, cut out. The silver lights dimmed. The air smelled of rain and smoke at once. Something larger than us had crossed a border and wasn’t reporting back.
“Lisa,” I said. “Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me?”
She closed her eyes. “I want peace. Sometimes I want you. Then I remember the part of me that hides. It isn’t about you. It’s the hiding.”
“Do you want me to wait?”
“I can’t ask you that. It’s a debt I couldn’t pay.”
The hawks kept circling. One tilted its tail, adjusted. The kitchen radio announced a test of the alert system. If this were an actual emergency…
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.”
She took my hand and held it like passing water. Warm. Tense. Then she let go. My palm remembered her until it didn’t.
We went into town. She pointed at a dog, said that was the right size for a dog. I wanted to believe it meant more. At the bakery she chose cherry, I chose plain. On the road back a hawk rode a column of air, trembling without moving. The radio voice returned: If this were an actual emergency, you would be told where to go.
“Where would you go?” I asked.
“Down,” she said. “Always down.”
“Down to what?”
“To something that doesn’t move when you push on it.”
Back at the house the balcony looked newly built, waiting to be used differently. The lights were gone. We passed the afternoon with small repairs, small lists. That night she knocked and asked to sit. We brought blankets outside. The valley kept its light like a grudge. A nighthawk stitched the dusk. Sirens moaned far off.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For not being something I wish I were.”
“You don’t owe me that,” I said. “I asked. You answered. That’s all.”
“Do you still think those are ships?” she asked.
“Roofs pretending,” I said. “They liked it. Then remembered what they were made for.”
“I hope you find someone whose body runs to you without thinking,” she said.
“Me too,” I said. “I hope you find peace.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. Pressure enough to say thank you.
That night I slept well. The hawks took something with them.
In the morning the valley wore smoke like wisdom. Lisa handed me tea that smelled green. She surprised herself by leaning her head on my shoulder for five seconds. An honest gift.
We packed, cleaned, left the house as we found it. At the station she hugged me, sturdy, more design than love. She waved twice, the second wave small.
On the train I watched the valley stitch itself together from different angles. A roof caught light, flashed, disappeared. My phone buzzed with a test alert. If this were an emergency, it said, you would be told where to go.
I didn’t believe it. I thought of the places a person could stand when the air tries to change you. A balcony higher than hawks. A car seat with the window down. A kitchen where coffee tastes like bark. A body that reaches without being asked.
I took a pen and wrote in the margin of a free magazine. Wrote that I would learn the difference between signals and wishes. That I would wait for the hand that moved without hesitation. That I would not mistake hawks’ height for my own.
The pen tore the paper. The train rolled on. Outside, the sky lowered itself onto the land. A quiet opened in my chest, the beginning of a song, and I let it stay quiet.
🚮 W.A.S.T.E.: Words Assisting Sustainable Transformation & Ecology
| Term | Definition |
|---|---|
| Air Quality (0.00) | As we explore ways to improve our urban areas, air quality is a critical issue. It's often overlooked, but it's a vital resource that's being threatened by vehicle emissions and industrial pollution in many cities worldwide. Fortunately, there are new and innovative solutions emerging to address this problem and promote sustainability in urban communities. ReLeaf's vertical gardens in Austin, Texas, are a prime example of one such solution. In this section, we'll explore the transformative power of these gardens, which not only beautify our cities but also improve air quality. You'll be inspired by the tangible difference that ReLeaf's vertical gardens are making in the fight against urban air pollution. |
| Arrival Hour (0.00) | A moment outside of chronology when a crowd gathers not to witness but to be witnessed, waiting for something that may never fall. |
| Balcony Syntax (0.00) | Practice of local repair, reuse, mutual care, and shared access. People use scrap, skills, and trust to keep each other safe and resourced when official systems fail. |
| Bryce (0.00) | A wandering steward of stories and seedlings, moving between libraries and creeks with pockets full of cuttings and unfinished sentences, leaving behind fragments that root themselves into community. |
| Choose Your Own Adventure (0.00) | Practice of local repair, reuse, mutual care, and shared access. People use scrap, skills, and trust to keep each other safe and resourced when official systems fail. |
| Consciousness (0.00) | The shifting field of awareness where perception, memory, and meaning converge into the experience of being. |
| Eva Marquette (0.00) | A brilliant strategist and field operative driven by conviction more than faith. Once a scientist within ReLeaf, Eva turned rebel after uncovering The Gardener’s manipulation of bioengineered ecosystems. Focused, sharp, and quietly defiant, she balances intellect with intuition, often serving as Langley’s moral compass and tactical equal in the fight to reclaim Future Austin’s freedom. |
| Fort Branch (0.00) | Nestled in East Austin, Fort Branch is a lesser-known but equally important waterway that contributes to the city’s ecological and community landscape. Unlike its more renowned neighbors such as Waller Creek and Shoal Creek, Fort Branch often flies under the radar. However, this should not diminish its significance. The area has been the subject of various improvement projects, aimed at enhancing both its natural ecosystem and its accessibility to the public. Serving as a sanctuary for local wildlife and a peaceful retreat for residents, Fort Branch is an underappreciated treasure that warrants greater recognition and appreciation. |
| MoPac Mantra (0.00) | The low rumble of the MoPac train remembered as a grounding chant that threads time through the body. |
| Organic Media and Fiction (0.00) | The rapid pace of urbanization and its environmental impact has inspired various speculative genres in literature and media. Organic Media and Fiction, a recent addition, offers a refreshing counter-narrative to dystopian futures, focusing on optimistic, sustainable societies powered by renewable energies. ReLeaf, an Organic Media and Fiction-inspired platform, epitomizes this genre by blending reality with narratives that envision a world where humans coexist harmoniously with nature and technology. ReLeaf's ethos is rooted in the belief that a hopeful future of sustainable living is not just an ideal but a reality. It combines engaging storytelling, visual arts, and direct action to showcase the possibilities of an Organic Media and Fiction future. By merging immersive narratives with tangible solutions, ReLeaf serves as both a creative outlet and a catalyst for change. The narratives in ReLeaf are set in cities that integrate renewable energy and green technology into their architecture, infrastructure, and daily life. From urban gardens atop skyscrapers to solar-powered public transport, these stories offer a glimpse of future urban landscapes grounded in existing technologies and practices. They provide an encouraging perspective on how our cities could evolve by amplifying sustainable practices we are already exploring. ReLeaf's stories feature diverse, inclusive, and community-oriented societies, emphasizing social justice, community empowerment, and equitable resource distribution. These narratives reflect societal structures that could foster a balanced coexistence, highlighting the importance of these values in creating a sustainable future. Beyond storytelling, ReLeaf engages in direct action, promoting real-world initiatives that echo Organic Media and Fiction principles. By supporting community-led renewable energy projects and sustainable urban farming, ReLeaf bridges the gap between the Organic Media and Fiction vision and our present reality, making the dream of a sustainable future feel achievable. ReLeaf broadens the understanding of the Organic Media and Fiction genre by presenting a balanced blend of reality and narrative. It underscores that Organic Media and Fiction is not just a literary genre or aesthetic movement, but a lens through which we can view and shape our future. The Organic Media and Fiction vision put forth by ReLeaf invites us to imagine, innovate, and create a future where sustainability is the norm. By intertwining fiction with reality, it presents Organic Media and Fiction as a plausible future, offering a hopeful counterpoint to narratives of environmental doom. ReLeaf helps us believe in—and strive for—a future where humans live in harmony with nature and technology. |
| Photosynthetic Choir (0.00) | A collective of altered beings whose breath and leaves merge into a single voice of vegetal cognition. |
| Planterns (0.00) | Planterns are whimsical upcycled creations—paper lanterns transformed into one-of-a-kind planters. No two are ever the same: each Plantern carries its own identity, tied to a unique ID that connects it to specific digital media such as Organic Fiction narratives, recorded music, and other creative works. The soft glow and airy shape of its former life remain, now reimagined as a home for trailing vines, succulents, and blooms. Made from reclaimed materials, Planterns celebrate renewal—giving discarded objects a second chance and your plants a distinctive stage to grow. Part art piece, part living sculpture, a Plantern is both physical and digital—a tangible vessel for life linked to a story, a song, or a world you can step into. |
| Sara Stevenson (0.00) | I'm a middle school librarian, and I first saw a free little library up in Seattle this summer. l've seen them popping up around town and told my husband I would love him to make me one. Never did I imagine he would produce such a fine piece of woodwork and construction, a mini replica of our house. Now I can be a 24-hour librarian. |
| Shoal Creek (0.00) | Shoal Creek is changing. At the Seaholm Intake, the water and stone hold a new role for the city. Engineers and naturalists are close to confirming a time-bending effect in the current. Short pulses move both downstream and upstream. Standing near the intake leaves people rested and clear, as if a long afternoon just ended. This site becomes a public time commons. The cooled chambers host sensors and quiet rooms. The walkway links to Central across the water. The mycelium network listens, then routes what the creek gives: steadier attention, better recall, and a calm pace for work and care. What to expect: Check-in stones that log a short visit and return a focus interval Benches that sync with the flow and guide five-minute rest cycles A simple light on the rail that signals when the current flips A small desk for field notes and shared observations Open data on pulse times so neighbors can plan repairs, study, and gatherings Invitation Come without hurry. Sit by the intake. Let the water set your pace. Then carry that steadiness back into the city. |
| Silver ponysfoot (0.00) |
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| Sky-taste (0.00) | A mineral sweetness in the air under the Air Canopy after it condenses and releases purified moisture. Many say it tastes of memory. |
| Trash Transmutation Tower (0.00) | In the heart of downtown Austin, the ReLeaf's Trash Transmutation Towers have become an innovative addition to the city's skyline. Located at the intersection of Congress Avenue and Cesar Chavez Street, these vertical gardens are part of an ambitious sustainable urban network by ReLeaf. An engraved compass rose at the pedestrian walkway is a hyper-connected point on ReLeaf’s W.A.S.T.E. (Words Assisting Sustainable Transformation & Ecology) network. It unites other ReLeaf sites throughout the city, converting waste to wealth. Within this network is the magic of the HyperSeed, a digital-organic fusion designed to grow into a new Trash Transmutation Tower, turning waste into green construction materials. ReLeaf's W.A.S.T.E. platform represents a blend of digital technology and ecological wisdom, illustrating a sustainable future for urban living. |
| Waller Creek (0.00) | Waller Creek is a stream and an urban watershed in Austin, Texas, United States. Named after Edwin Waller, the first mayor of Austin, it has its headwaters near Highland Malland runs in a southerly direction, through the University of Texas at Austin and the eastern part of downtown Austin to its end at Lady Bird Lake. |