Drowning roots: a novella

Abstract

First few paragraphs of the novella: Morning glistened wet on Kāʻeo's forehead, sweat resting in the edges of his eyes. He stepped out of his grandfather's car and looked around at the houses. They were bigger than the homes in Kahaluʻu, even larger than those he had seen in ʻĀhuimanu Hills. All of them fenced off by the thickest iron or bushes sculpted alive, growing out of manicured lawns, the grass just long enough to conceal the stumps. The sun occasionally caught the lens of a security camera, a winking glint, before it oscillated in the other direction. "Wea we stay?" he asked his grandfather. Tūtūpapa closed the door of his station wagon. "You gon see," he said, pointing down the road. They walked past house after house, each one more extravagant than the next. Stone effigies of koi streamed water into rippling pools overflowing with lilies. Angled glass connected roof to wall, large tinted panes, some etched with intricate patterns of plumeria and bird of paradise. Kāʻeo was surprised when he noticed an overgrown parcel of land for sale, the price printed boldly on the sign. "You kiddin me, right?" Tūtūpapa looked at the seven digits and laughed. "Crazy, ah? You can imagine I wen know folks wen live hea?" he squinted and straightened his faded cap. "Good surf back den," he said.