letter from my brother as a quiz
Circle the correct word to complete the sentence. Choose the option that best fits the scenario. There may be multiple correct answers.
Dear sister,
I have been (missing/underwater) for the past five days. They say the (sickness/noise) is coming from my brain. It may be contagious. Don’t worry. I’ll cover my mouth when I (cough/talk). How are you? I am writing you because I don’t have much else to do.
The food here sucks. They give us (silence/crackers) for lunch. Orange juice to swallow our pills. I asked Mom to bring me (comic books/home). She asked me why I jumped. Her eyes were squinted and wet. They looked like yours. How was (school/Christmas)?
I can speak to wolves. Do you (believe/miss) me? It would make sense, right? How I (spit /howled) that night. Those angry games I made you play. I was the killer, and you were the (doctor/sister). The wolves said to use the window. When I found them, we wrestled.
If you come to visit, they’ll make you stay in the (waiting room/closet). That’s where they keep the kids. Except me. They say I’m an adult because my (thoughts/shoulders) are built like one. Just sit on the carpet and (play/pray). Maybe they’ll have that toy that looks like an abacus. The one we once pretended was the solar system. We had so many (earths/knives) and no sun like we had an ocean at the bottom of the stairs. Remember how we’d slide down them on a fitted sheet, pretending we were (dying/flying)? You were even smaller then, so I held you in my lap. We’d reach the bottom, and you’d yell out, we’re drowning, we’re drowning!
I have a real question. Maybe you can answer it when you’re older. Why do you (cry/hide) so much? What’s happening inside of you? Do you also feel like you’re stuck in the (ceiling/carpet)? Can you tell the day will be bad just by the dust on the door? In the forest, the wolves let me feel their teeth. Their jaws were gentle. I measured the length of their (paws/tongues) with my forearm, and the hurt inside me was quiet. Then came the cuffs, the backseat cage.
I have something else to tell you. A good secret. I once heard you howl in your sleep. It was so soft it sounded like (murmuring/crying). I think if you tried, you could speak to wolves, too.
Raised in Atlanta and Columbus, Georgia, Kianna Greene is a poet and writer living in Orlando, Florida, where she teaches creative writing at the University of Central Florida. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Salt Hill Journal, The Penn Review, Maudlin House, 3Elements Review, Coachella Review, and other journals. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and was named a finalist for Frontier Poetry’s 2025 Misfit Poem Prize. Currently, Kianna serves as an Associate Poetry Editor for The Florida Review and Director of The Cypress Dome, the University of Central Florida’s undergraduate literary journal. More about her can be found at kiannagreene.com.
