text: [Themes: Fantasy, multiple protagonists]
  
  > describe your surroundings
  Though the City Council had forced the Museum to close some years ago, Sophie remembered that it had once held an exhibit that contained a number of artifacts recovered from this site -- an exhibit Sophie was explicitly forbidden to see.
  
  Franz stood silently by.
  
  She could also see an ancient word machine and some parchment there.
  
  > 2
  To Peter Pears, because I flaked out on his project like the coward I am. And to Kenji Miyazawa, because I want to be him.
  
  > 3
  Identification number: //6F43D86A-ECCE-11DE-9EE0-001D094ED464// Standard interpreter 1.0 (2N) / Library serial number 080126
  Standard Rules version 2/090402 by Graham Nelson
  Custom Library Messages version 4/110422 by Ron Newcomb (with special thanks to David Fisher)
  Undo Output Control version 1/090626 by Erik Temple
  Questions version 4 by Michael Callaghan
  
  Inspired by the life and work of Kenji Miyazawa.
  
  Tested by Poster, Katzy, Tiddy Ogg, & Matt Weiner. Only one measly round of testing was conducted, so don't blame anything on the testers.
  
  The cover image for "Pale Blue Light" uses material from the Governmental Nuclear Regulatory Commission.
  
  > 4
  "Pale Blue Light" was inspired by the life and work of Kenji Miyazawa. Kenji (1896 - 1933) was a Japanese Nichiren Buddhist, naturalist, agronomist, Esperantist, ultranationalist, and schoolteacher who lived in relative obscurity in rural and destitute Hanamaki of Iwate province but gained great fame and admiration in Japan for his poetry and children's stories during the 1990s. A number of his works have been translated into English. Perhaps the best English-language volume on Kenji is Hiroaki Sato's Miyazawa Kenji: Selections, which contains a number of Kenji's poems and a thorough biographical introduction. It is published by the University of California Press.
  
  > go outside
  There was a steep hill at the easternmost point of the island, covered in images of the Sun. She could go west, northwest, or southwest from there, or enter the concrete shelter set into the hill.
  
  Franz arrived from the inside.
  
  > Go northwest
  This, at least, was familiar; there were shrines like this all over the mainland, dedicated to the Protector worshiped in ancient theology. This one was set apart by its distinctive watchtower rising upward into the cold sky. She could also go south, southeast, southwest, or up into the tower.
  
  Franz arrived from the southeast.
  
  > Up
  High in the air, she could see it all: the island, the river with its bank, the path leading up to the gates, and the city beyond. It was beautiful.
  
  Sophie remembered the heavy creases of her father's forehead, the religious fixation of his eyes as he saluted the family crest three years before. She remembered the engraved tower surrounded by the ancient motto she could not read. Franz had been there on one of his visits, and had examined the old letters closely, slowly tracing them with his finger before speaking aloud those strange words she could not understand:
  
  "Neniame forlasu la gardon."
  
  Her father's face had become wildly hostile, and he had shouted condemnations of the utterance of Elderese. That had been the last time Sophie had seen her father.
  
  The only way out was back down to the shrine.
  
  Painted lanterns undulated just barely within view.
  
  > take the knife
  Sophie's father maintained his grip on the knife and coldly pushed her aside.
  
  > Kiss Father
  Sophie's father gave a short gasp of surprise, his eyes momentarily widened, and he dropped his knife.
  
  > take the knife
  Sophie took hold of the knife.
  
  "Sophie," her father said, "we have to end this. He speaks the ancient language. He even uses the ancient light!"
  
  > drop the knife in well
  She put the knife into the ancient stone well.
  
  The knife was was carried swiftly downstream.
  
  "Sophie!" her father shouted. "What have you done?" He turned toward her and began to squeeze her throat. With a cry of despair, Franz came to her side, and the two were enveloped in blue light that met the coming blow of her father and deflected him backward into the gathering night.
  
  Again the train slowed, and Johann saw a vast field of corn approaching ahead, the golden tuft of hair on every ear rippling in a slow breeze. He turned to the fisherman at his side, and was about to ask, "Can you see that? Isn't it splendid?"
  
  But as suddenly as he had appeared, the fisherman had departed. Although he had seen too many things out of the ordinary to wonder where the man had gone, Johann wished very much that he had said more to his fellow passenger while he had the chance.
  
  "People come and go so quickly on this train," he remarked to his sister. "At least I know you won't disappear on me."
  
  She nodded silently, shifting in her seat.
  
  > press space
  You,
  Great Explorer,
  
  > Great
  You,
  Great Explorer,
  stumbling in your father's shoes,
  
  > Father
  You,
  Great Explorer,
  stumbling in your father's shoes,
  
  [That word is either insignificant or not part of the poem.]
  
  > Stumbling
  You,
  Great Explorer,
  stumbling in your father's shoes,
  tripping over your own eagerness,
  wear your damn raincoat!
  
  I am Avery Jones, and I am weak.
  
  21 September 1933.
  Am coughing up more blood than usual. Chills have set in harder. Some delirium this morning. All in all, is much like Lucy's last day. Had an unexpected visitor; Mr. Harker got word I'd returned to my parents' house and came to describe the condition of his crop, looking for advice. Convinced him to stay for some time, though Father seemed eager to shoo him away. Was discreet about my difficulties, and I don't think Mr. Harker caught on, but since he left things have deteriorated further. This is likely the end. Will attempt a traditional sort of rhyme, but this had better not end up on my tombstone, as I'm no Longfellow.
  
  > Ten
  
  > They
  [That word is either insignificant or not part of the poem.]
  
  > Count
  and number, as they haul in fish,
  innumerable years.
  
  I am Avery Jones, and I am in despair.
  
  27 November 1922.
  Went out for a walk today. Couldn't do anything else. I had walked all the way down to the creek before I even realized how far I'd gone.
  
  Back when it all started, when she coughed up blood for the first time, I'd gone there looking for a maple branch. "I want one full of sap," she'd said, "and with icicles hanging down." I'd thought it selfish and frivolous of her to ask, when it seemed so necessary that I remain. It occurred to me only today that it was the most selfless thing she could have done -- to give me leave when I most needed it.
  
  This evening I thought, for a moment, that I had seen a bird. I thought, for a moment, that I was saved. But it was not a flurry of wings. It was only the dead falling of snow from the limb of an oak. It took some time to disinter my face from the wet folds of my handkerchief.
  
  When I had finished a prayer for the repose of Lucy's soul, I observed the noise of the water's currents below. The wind ran its fingers through my hair. It was calling me home. The water was pulling me in. It was calling me to jump.
  
  > proclaim
  
  > It
  [That word is either insignificant or not part of the poem.]
  
  > Hardly
  for all the vanity
  
  > Vanity
  for all the vanity
  it pours into the mirror bowl
  is a pale blue light
  cast by the flickering lamp
  fed on an alternating current.
  
  I didn't jump. Instead I found a low-hanging branch nearby, craned my neck heavenward, and sung the most bitter chorus of "How Great Thou Art" the world has ever heard.
  
  Johann strained his eyes, staring deep into the round void outside. "I don't see a thing," he said.
  
  His sister pointed excitedly out the window "There's a small, pale blue light out there, right there in the middle!" He stared as hard as he could, and still he saw nothing, but then a small dim something appeared, just where she had been pointing.
  
  "I see it!" he shouted, but his sister was no longer there, and turning back to that dim form in dread he saw that it was his sister, half a mile from the train or more, waving goodbye as she receded into the dark.
  
  III. Jamaica Center Bound
  
  You are Dr. Howard Mann, and you are on the E train.
  "This is a Jamaica Center bound E local train. The next stop is Jamaica -- Van Wyck."
  
  "Stand clear of the closing doors, please."
  
  The dates and names of the diary run over and over in your mind, though you have tired of reading.
  
  A man sleeps opposite you, twitching fitfully.
  
  The clock reads 5:13 pm.
  
  > wake man
  You're not sure you want to do that.
  
  A shake and a rumble.
  
  > look at the clock
  It reads 5:14 pm.
  
  "This is Jamaica -- Van Wyck. Transfer is available to the F train"
  
  The doors open.
  
  > Wait
  Time passes.
  
  "This is a Jamaica Center bound E local train. The next stop is Sutphin Boulevard -- Archer Avenue -- JFK."
  
  "Stand clear of the closing doors, please."
  
  You've got about fifteen minutes until the next Montauk-bound train leaves.
  
  "This is Sutphin Boulevard -- Archer Avenue -- JFK. Transfer is available to the J train. Connection is available to the Long Island Railroad and AirTran to JFK Airport."
  
  The doors open wide for you.
  
  > Go outside
  Before you can even really think about it, you're Montauk-bound, a pilgrim, and you clutch Avery's diary -- your Holy Book -- closer to your chest. You have no idea where you'll spend the night.
  
  That night, sleeping on the Long Island Railroad, you dream you run into one of the characters in Avery Jones's children's novel One More Painted Lantern, a girl named Sophie. Her friend Franz trails along behind, blue sparks playing about his hair. All you can say to them is:
  
  > Fiddlesticks
  And then Avery Jones himself appears out of the gloom, greets Sophie and Franz with a tip of his hat, and then turns, smiling, to you. You feel there is something dreadfully important you want to tell him, but all you can manage is:
  
  > Xyzzy
  Although Johann's Ticket remained unfinished at the time of Avery Jones's untimely death from tuberculosis in 1933, it has long been one of his most popular works, and has been translated into at least five languages since its first publication in 1945.
  
  IV. Afterword
  
  I am Avery Jones, and I have died.
  
  This thin strip of land runs east-west through the river Acheron.
  
  A small girl approaches. I think she must be Sophie, a character in the book I've been writing. Perhaps these are the fevered imaginings of a dying brain. But then I look more closely and realize that I am looking into my sister's face. Oh, Lucy! And that boy trailing behind her, that is just the child I once was.
  
  A man stumbles into view from the depths of the night. He peers for a moment into Sophie's face, saying "FIDDLESTICKS"
  
  To me, he says --