Somewhere Beyond the Sea (Cerulean Chronicles, #2)

by T.J. Klune

“I accidentally reversed gravity when I was trying to measure butter.” “Oh,” Chauncey said. “That makes sense. I bet that happens to a lot of people because cooking is hard.”

And Theodore, maw wide open, rows of sharp wyvern teeth on display. He stood on the floor, wings spread, head cocked back, smoke rising from his slitted nostrils. When he saw Arthur, his jaws snapped closed, and he swallowed down whatever had been about to come out. A moment later, he burped out a black cloud of smoke, frantically using his wings to try to make it dissipate in a poor attempt to hide the evidence.

“But I believe the greatest weapon we have at our disposal is our voices. And I am going to use my voice for you, and for me. Hate is loud. We are louder.”

You want my color. You want my joy. You want a monochrome world with monochrome beliefs. You see me, and you want to take it all away. But you can’t. You want me lost, but I am found in the breaths I take, in the spaces between heartbeats. I am found because I refuse to be in black and white, or any shade of gray. I am color. I am fire. I am the sun, and I will burn away the shadows until only light remains. And then you will have no choice but to see me.

David was obviously building himself up to something, but knowing children as well as he did, Arthur figured the yeti’s mind was a mess of discordant thoughts that swirled as if caught in a storm. He needed to get there on his own, or he might not listen to what they had to say.

The first stars had started to shine, and the moon looked like a translucent ghost haunting the western skies.

“Before the interruption, we were discussing the negative effects of a totalitarian government, and the dangers language poses, especially when weaponized as propaganda.”

He held out his hand, the ring flashing in the light. He caught himself staring at it every now and then, marveling over how heavy it was for such a small thing, a constant reminder that he was loved.

“Which is why I think we could all do with a fresh start,” she said, smile widening. She was clever. He’d remember that. “After all, I don’t see the point of letting the past dictate the future.” The phoenix lifted its head, eyes narrowed. Arthur felt the heat of it, and put it into his voice. “The past of each of the children you come into contact with cannot and should not be ignored. To suggest otherwise is not only dangerous, but cruel. You cannot take it from them. It is part of them, warts and all.”

“She didn’t want to listen to me talk about sticky buns and Hell. I’m so sad for her.”

“Last one to eat all their syrup gets sent to the edge of the universe!” Lucy bellowed, and what followed shan’t be described here. Suffice to say it ended with Theodore hanging from the ceiling, Chauncey trying to lick other people’s syrup, Talia pouring syrup directly into her mouth from the bottle, Phee wielding four sausages as weapons, Sal getting a pancake to the face, David standing on his chair and announcing that this was the best breakfast ever, Lucy accusing Linus of cheating (which Linus firmly denied, even though his napkin was suspiciously coated with syrup), and Arthur watching, watching with a light in his soul (and droplets of orange juice in his eyebrows, courtesy of a garden gnome) that burned brighter than any star.

Arthur dressed in black slacks and a dress shirt buttoned up to the top. His socks were canary yellow, adorned with little trees. After all, when one prepares for battle, one must look the part.

As they left Miss Marblemaw spluttering behind them, Zoe whispered, “I’d forgotten how much of a bitch you can be when you put your mind to it.” Arthur kissed her hair. “What a lovely thing to say.”

“Actually,” Talia said, “dirt is teeming with life, so. You can trust me on that because I’m an expert.” “She’s right,” Phee said. “Everything has life in it.” She sneezed. Strangely, it sounded like except DICOMY inspectors.

The suffocating weight of her presence receded like the waves listening to the moon.

“Disperse!” she said loudly. “This is official government business. It does not concern you. Go about your day!” “We are,” J-Bone called out. “This is the time of day when we all come outside and bask in the glory that is the village of Marsyas.”

“I can teleport?” His arms went up and over his head as he jumped up and down. “Yes. Yes! This is the best day ever! I can’t wait for puberty. I bet I’ll be able to create universes and a delicious happy birt breakfast without making a mess of either!”

This was hope; the children, love letters to a future that had yet to be decided. Yes, Arthur thought as Sal grinned shyly, hope was the thing with feathers, but it was also in the hearts and minds of those who believed all was not lost, no matter the odds.

To make it unequivocal: J.K. Rowling’s beliefs on trans people are abhorrent and have no place in a modern society. People like her—people who believe trans people are somehow lesser—deserve to be shunned until they disappear into the ether. As Arthur says in the novel, “Hate is loud.” He’s right. People tend to love quietly and hate loudly. But here’s the thing: I don’t do anything quietly. I’m a loud motherfucker, and I will continue to be, especially when my community is under attack.