My grandmother was born in the most terrifying isolated place on earth, in an active volcano on the island of Nauru. It is a place where terror runs rampant and the street run red with a river of crimson blood. It was a place where witchcraft and human sacrifice are commonplace, where the art of bringing things back to life is considered a sacred gift, as they cut off your tongue and left hand for speaking against Dav’vimir, the god of bloodlust, where the souls of your enemies are considered currency, as they topple one corrupt government to replace it with another corrupt government. It was a place where babies are sold for passage to the underworld, where trampolines are outlawed because no one is allowed to jump higher than Abinel, the goddess of height, where the only way to divorce your spouse is to bury them alive, where painting your nails is considered a sin and you will be locked away and forced to sing “Mary had a Little Lamb” for 30 years. It was a place where you must be holding hands with two other people at all times, like Thulamae’, Aljano, and Shoka did when they brought oatmeal to humanity. Where the sun never sets because people believe the moon is another sun, and where they paint grass brown and eat sand.
