Baalabog  In a flash of insight I knew where my friend the spider first came to me. It was a day that was burned into my memory. I was at my babysitter’s house, playing out in the woods as I often did. There was a field that separated the woods from the laneway and I’d walk through it to get to and from the small cedar forest there. After some time spent playing and exploring I crossed the field to return to the farmhouse. As I did the grass that had grown tall and brown in the late summer brushed against my legs as I walked. I felt a webby resistance then. It stretched across my shins as strong as yarn. Like woven cotton. Tearing a little bit but holding remarkably strong. I looked down to see the trademark swingle of an orb-weaver’s web. I saw the black and yellow... or did not need to. At that moment I must have been imbued by the sheer terror that spider must have felt. Being disturbed by accident by a creature monumentally bigger than itself. Maybe it’s nearer to say that we shared that terror. I ran - sprinted - as fast as I could possibly sprint, crying the whole while. When I got back to the house I complained of having been bitten by the orb-weaver, and, although in no physical sense had I been bitten I was still somehow telling the truth.  The spirit of the orb-weaver has been with me ever since. At first in the profound fear I felt at night thinking that spiders would descend on me in my sleep. Nights like this were sleepless and disturbed. Then later as an adult experimenting with magic mushrooms I felt the spider yet again. Looking upwards I felt the supermassive presence of the arachnid. Baalabog, as I later named him. I felt a profound friendliness in him. I felt a superb, otherworldly sensitivity. I felt us dancing between fear and familial warmth. When I felt afraid he would recoil, when I felt love he would come forward with the most radiant, pleasant friendliness.  Those were my first conscious encounters with the mad divine, the twofold mix of powerful emotion that I have labelled the insane... something. I forget, really, but you catch my drift. Hysterical laughter and sadness all at once. It has evolved in recent months. I feel strangely more at home in that mix of emotion. That mushroom trip I speak of was based around a question… an attempt to reconcile myself on this earth. Seeing my humanity and my search for reconciliation the spider came to me. It does not surprise me given the kindness he possesses. I would see Baalabog again and again in my use of psychedelics. I would sense the arachnid nature and the massiveness of the spirit above me. He would always seem earthbound but I would have to look straight up to greet him. It occurred to me only much later, again in a flash, that our roles had been exactly reversed from our first meeting. I was now the tiny being at the mercy of the huge spider. I was feeling myself as a child from the spider’s perspective. My own friendly nature and curiosity - those times where I would stare in awe at the yellow and black predator, the white swiggle in the middle of its web. And my own sheer panic at the prospect of touching or being touched by the alien beings.  My friend’s lesson is about angels and demons. Yin and Yang. The dual. Later when Baalabog would come through in my automatic writing I was leery of him. The mad poet. Madness would seem to come from him and there seemed to be a hostility that he would extend to the other spirit beings in what I called my “Spirit Council”. His name being part black god Chernabog and half biblical demon, Baal, also raised alarm in me. But since then, we have found ground together and I am profoundly grateful to have the cradler of divine madness in my life. Black mixed with yellow. The predatory and sensitive spirit of the arachnid. Sometimes I try to forget about my friend… I get scared. In those moments I lose myself as well, the world becomes dreary and tiresome. A grey slog through the dirt and the mud. When I push away from my own darkness I begin the process of annihilating myself. It’s okay though… I’m getting to where I’m going. But, I won’t get there without my demons.


Prologue On the first day everyone thought it was just a meteor shower. But when small pieces of space debris started hitting the earth in numerous locations every day, people became alarmed. Scientists stared into the skies with wary eyes. The second day the debris increased in size and left craters in cities around the globe. Panic set in as people realized their governments couldn’t stop the mysterious assault from space. On the third day, dead stars slammed into the earth’s crust, devastating all life on impact. When the stars stopped falling darkness settled over the planet and the survivors were scattered about like grains of sand on a beach. A millennium passed, and the children’s children of the first survivors adapted to life on the bleak planet that was once a paradise. The Leader of the Pack Jo-el was leader of the Manpack by virtue of his strength and cunning. No leader of the Tel inherited the title. It had to be won after a series of trials. Afterwards he led his nomadic people across strange lands in search of game. They wore animal skins and carried spears and assorted small weapons, from clubs to knives. All of their weapons were created before they were born, when mankind still had the knowledge. They were scavenged from nameless ruins that were once thriving cities whose names were long forgotten. They spoke Bli, a polyglot of old languages, English, Russian, and Chinese. This, combined with their own secret sign language, enameled everyone in the Manpack to communicate. There were only three women among hundreds of men. They were revered and only mated with the most powerful men in the group. The few yearly births that resulted kept their population down, yet assured them of another generation. It was the law, and the Way of the Manpack. The men were all warriors. Their bodies were covered in a coat of short fur that even extended to their faces. Most were dark-furred but some, like Jo-el, had a coat of thick white fur. The three Blessed Mothers all had different-colored fur. Brown, gold, and white. They advised Jo-el on all of the laws…and in times of emergency. Of which, there were plenty. Scouts sometimes came across other organized groups that were hostile and a battle would ensue. The bloody hand-to-hand battles always resulted in deaths, no matter who claimed victory and held the field afterward. Jo-el, who had berserker blood in him, transformed into a killing machine during the action, always sending more enemies to their death than anyone in the Manpack. Afterward, with his white coat covered in blood, he looked like a demon from some ancient civilization. Because there were no longer any regular seasons on the earth, there were no safe places to go when massive freezes set in, or the scorching sun boiled unprotected heads for days on end. The Manpack was forced to run from bad weather, always in search of milder climbs. A day came when Jo-el and two scouts spotted something that made them stop in their tracks. They were standing on a rocky ledge of a mountain looking down into a valley when they saw a strange sight. It appeared to be three giant bubbles with people coming and going from them! They were dumbfounded and turned back to the main body to report to the Blessed Mothers who silently listened to the description of their discovery. Afterwards, they demanded to be taken to the spot where Jo-el saw the strange buildings. The sun was setting in a blood red horizon when the Blessed Mothers saw the massive bubbles. They were lit up and glowed in the gathering dusk. One of the women took a long metal instrument from out of a pack she was carrying and trained it on the bubbles. Joel saw her suck her breath in surprise as she squinted into the metal tube. “Hairless,” she told the other two women. “The people down below are hairless. How could this be?” The three women huddled together whispering while Jo-el and the two scouts stood nearby looking at the brightly lit bubbles, wondering what kind of miracle they were? They waited for hours as the women argued back and forth. Finally, they signeled they were ready to go back to camp. As Jo-el led the way back under the full moon he had a strong sense of something happening soon. Something earth shattering. When they got back to camp the Blessed Mothers called for a full meeting of the Manpack despite the lateness of the hour. “We’ve discovered another man-like species who appear to live like gods!” the first Mother told the gathering. “They are naked, without fur to warm their bodies, and they wear strange-looking multi-colored skins. We do not know of this race. Our legends give no clue to who these people are.” Worried grunts of alarm rippled through the gathering and some of the men called out for guidance. The first mother waited until they calmed down and then held her arms up and spread them wide for silence. “We must not attack these people. They could be gods and it would end badly for us. We must send an emissary to them to discover if they are friendly. It will be you Jo-el. Now come near as we give you some last minute advise before the morrow dawns.” The Colony The Latter Day Survivors of the Fallen Stars were in their morning religious service when the Scientist-in-Charge wrapped it up early and called for an emergency committee. Seven men and women, wearing rainbow-colored suits, sat in a semi-circle of chairs facing a golden throne with the Scientist-In-Charge on it. His tall thin regal frame was straight up as he cast his eyes over the committee. They tried not to show concern over the sudden meeting, but he could see it in their eyes. “My lords and ladies, be at ease. I have interesting news for you. Our drones have confirmed a large group of humanoids camping several miles from here.” Their alarm was palpable, but no one spoke. “They appear to be nomads armed with simple weapons. Of more interest however, these humanoids are covered with hair from head to foot. Our monitoring drone has followed their progress towards our valley for days. They are hunters following game. I expect we’ll make contact with them tomorrow. They’ve discovered us.” The next day. The Scientist-In-Charge stood in front of the main dome as Jo-el approached. At seven-feet tall, he was an imposing figure wrapped in an exotic animal skin. He was unarmed. A good sign. The white fur on his face and arms shimmered under the sun. His attempt at a friendly smile was more like a grimace with his uneven razor sharp teeth protuding from beneath his thick lips. Nevertheless, his intent was clear. He wanted to peacefully talk. Because he was a genius, the Scientist-In-Charge quickly figured out Jo-els sign language, which hours later, led to understanding his spoken language. He was impressed with Jo-el and understood why he was the leader of the Manpack. There was nothing evil about him. He radiated strength and honesty. He also reminder him of ancient myths about rare creatures that avoided humans. Names like Bigfoot, Sasquatch, and Yeti came to his mind. He decided Jo-el was a Yeti because of his coloring. The Scientist In Charge spoke to the committee via a mic he wore around his throat. “After talking with this stranger I see no danger to us,” he said. Then he listening for minutes on end as the committee burst into a series of arguments. The consensus was to take Jo-el captive so they could study his species. Their decision shocked the Scientist In Charge. His every instinct demanded he not betray Jo-el or his people. With a heavy heart he warned him of the committee’s intent and suggested he lead his people far away from the valley. He realized mankind was still not prepared to accept other species equal rights. With a heavy heart he went back inside the dome, hoping humanity would one day respect the creatures who survived after the terrible age when the stars fell out of the skies. As It Stands, accepting outsiders and other species, has never been the strong point of mankind.


It was called Zulu. A cheap-ass, sun-faded, rusted-over excuse of an amusement park stuck just outside a notorious ghetto right off the freeway. No shit. Zulu. I kid you not; the motif was *jungle adventure*. Fiberglass lions and gorillas lurching about. Man-sized tribal masks announcing the park rules. Plastic trees and a couple of pock-marked rubber crocodiles floating in the unnatural electric blue water of a concrete pool. Are you ready for the mascot? Yes, you got it - a saucer-eyed, cartoon pygmy with a bone through its nose and hair like it just stuck it's dick in an electrical outlet. Cutouts of Zinger-Zu in front of every ride telling kids how tall they had to be.... So egregious, it soared right over "unacceptably offensive" and landed square on "ironically acceptable kitsch." And it was located in Dallas County, Texas, so that helped. Virgil had been born into the ghetto that sprawled behind the zig-zag shadows of Zulu's dilapidated roller coasters. As a very young child, that park represented the promise of magic, adventure and mystery. Of course, money being money, he'd never been allowed to visit during those innocent years; and you grow up fast in the ghetto, so by the time Virgil actually did get to pass through the wrought iron gates for a sample of jungle paradise, he was already too old to believe in voodoo or hippopotamuses. No, as a pre-teen and teenager, he went to Zulu exclusively to buy weight and sell dime-bags to suburbanites from Fort Worth. He'd never had the chance or, later, the inclination to ride a single ride. \*\*\* Older now, Virgil had lived 35 years, married twice, and had four kids. He stood six foot two inches, still trim at two hundred pounds. He had a good job in the city; a respectable house in the suburbs. His current girlfriend was able to trick him into church on Sunday mornings because she knew how to handle him on Saturday nights. If he wasn't careful, she'd become #3. He was driving down the freeway with his youngest son, Wayne, and the child made a curious noise when they passed the almost illegibly weathered sign for "Zulu! Live the Adventure!" "What?" Virgil asked his boy. "Zulu...," the child said. "Zoo?" "Nah." Virgil laughed. "But good guess. Hey, you know...." Virgil checked the mirrors and exited the freeway. "You want to live the adventure, little man?" \*\*\* Wayne's mother was crazy. Not quite rising to the level of court mandated institutionalization, but Virgil figured that was only more bizarre road-rage incident away. Nevertheless, for all her batshit inclinations, she was very smart. Once she'd told Virgil that her IQ had been tested in the genius level. And he believed her. But, really, what did it matter if you could mentally convert ounces to grams or recite poetry from memory if you couldn't buy a dress without getting into a vicious fight with the saleslady, knocking over the window display, and getting chased out of the mall by a team of rent-a-cops? Virgil was well rid of that situation; but he enjoyed spending time with their child. The boy seemed to have acquired his mother's intelligence, with none of the insanity. Virgil supposed it was bad form to pick favorites, but of all his children, Wayne was the only one he actively troubled himself to spend time with. All the others were dropped off by mandate; but Virgil would go out of his way to pick up Wayne and gladly hold on to him an extra couple of hours or even an entirely unscheduled day when the situation called for it. Wayne was Virgil's little man. He was a calm, thoughtful, observant and sharp child. His soft, brown eyes took in everything, then his brow would furrow or his smile would widen depending on the situation, and then he'd react in a delightfully mature and appropriate manner. It gave Virgil a sense of peace and rightness, walking hand in hand with his little man. Just as they did passing through the gates of the Zulu amusement park together; Virgil having purchased two tickets to spend some time reliving his past and sharing the experience with his son. \*\*\* "I used to come here pretty much every night when I was a teen," Virgil told Wayne. They were strolling down the market street, past the arcade, souvenir shops, and overpriced food stands. All the buildings were in need of paint and repair - the wood beam facades were chipped and rutted, sporting plenty of graffiti, and the roofs that were supposed to be thatched with palm-leafs had large bare sections of corrugated metal shining through. "It hasn't changed much," Virgil said, sadly. As they continued through the park, Virgil would offer to take Wayne on some of the rides - Voom Voom Vulture! Zambizi Zinger! Python Plunge! - but the boy judiciously shook his head to the negative. It wasn't fear, just common sense. Everything looked so rickety and sketchy; even if the cabs didn't fall off their disintegrating rails, it certainly didn't look like much fun to be jerked around in those rusty metal buckets for three minutes of bad track. "How about go-karts?" Virgil suggested. Wayne considered this for a moment and then smiled. "Okay," he agreed. "Go-karts sound good.


Elise only ever wanted one thing in life; to take to the stars and soar. While other kids decorated their rooms with posters of pop stars and footballers, she collected models of the ships of the System Defence Squadron. When her classmates were busy partying or studying, Elise dragged her parents to conventions filled with starships, shuttles, and spacesuits. It was on one of those trips that she first laid eyes on the Low Orbit Combat Simulation Instrument—LOCSI, for short. The machine that would change her life. It was love at first sight—no, scratch that—it was love before first sight. The moment Elise heard about that machine, she knew it was her destiny. The young pilot with the highest score at the end of the convention would get free entry into the National Academy of Space Exploration. Her dream. In the weeks building up to the event, it was all she would talk about. ‘When I get the high-score I get to move into the academy as soon as I graduate! No entrance exam, no tuition fees, nothing! Isn’t that great!?’ ‘Settle down,’ her father had said. ‘I’m sure there are lots of other children with the same plan. Try not to get your hopes up too much, just in case.’ Elise only laughed. Sure, other kids probably wanted to win the prize, but she was different. She needed it.

On the day the convention opened, she leapt out of the car and sprinted towards the LOCSI, only vaguely aware of her father calling her name. It was happening. It was finally happening. All that time spent watching sci-fi dramas and movies, all those hours playing video games and reading books on the history of space travel, it was all leading up to this moment. Elise sprinted along the corridors of the convention faster than the speed of sound, barging over cardboard cutouts of astronauts, knocking ice creams from the hands of preschoolers, and leaving her dad to clear up the wreckage she left in her wake. Oh, she’d get the mother of all telling-offs later, and likely be grounded until she left for the academy, but Elise didn’t care. Every second she spent apart from the LOCSI, was a second spent not living her life the way it was meant to be lived.

Ignoring the shouts of angry adults, and the cries of now ice-creamless children, Elise darted between a corn dog stand and a display on the Mariner 2 space probe and into the simulator room.

There it was. The LOCSI. It didn’t look like much—a simple white cuboid made of advanced plastoids and suspended on a bed of tubes, gyros, and cables—but to Elise, it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She took her place in line, never taking her eyes off the contraption in front of her. Some part of her mind became vaguely aware of her father stepping up beside her, but her focus remained solely on the LOCSI. She’d been waiting for this moment for so long and now it was finally here. One by one, the people in front of her took their turns. Elise watched their attempts on a large screen at the other end of the room. The LOCSI simulated a battle against the Beasts from Beyond—a mysterious race of giant extraterrestrial creatures who came from outside the solar system with the goal of destroying and consuming all life. With their leathery skin, masses of tentacles, and countless dagger-like teeth, they looked horrific—like something out of her father’s HP Lovecraft books. Elise wasn’t afraid, though. In her starfighter she could take them all on.

That being said, she was glad that most of the people before her in line weren’t responsible for the defence of Earth. Some of them did okay, but most were absolutely hopeless. One spotty-faced boy wearing a football jersey didn’t even manage to blast a single Beast. Elise would put them all to shame. Her score would be in an entirely different stratosphere to theirs. ‘Next,’ the attendant running the simulator said.

At last, it was her turn. Elise shot forwards and dashed up the steps leading to the entrance. She poked a head through the doorway and— She froze. The inside looked… different to how she’d been expecting. Spaceships on TV seemed so sleek and open. This… didn’t. The simulator consisted of a single padded chair crammed in front of a control panel, and there was barely enough room inside for even those.

‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ the attendant said. ‘It was designed to mimic the interior of a Helios Mark V Starfighter.’ ‘This is what the cockpit of a Helios 5 looks like?’ Those were the main ship flown by the SDS. When Elise went to the academy, it’s the ship she’d train with, and would most likely be what she’d fly as a pilot. Elise had known that. She just hadn’t expected the interior to be so… small.

The attendant nodded. ‘Yeah, get in. Try it out. You’ll feel like a real SDS pilot.’ ‘I… I don’t know,’ Elise said. She’d been waiting for this day for ages, but now, some part of her brain was telling her she shouldn’t go. Staring into that tiny, cramped space, she felt… nauseous, and hot, and cold, and sweaty, and dry, and— The attendant nudged her back. ‘It’ll be fine. Go on.’ Still, Elise hesitated. ‘Look, kid. There’s a line. Either get in and get on with it, or get lost. Everyone wants a go on this thing. I don’t have space in the schedule for time wasters.’ Elise’s body trembled. Her heartbeat rose and rose and rose. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. ‘Last chance. Get in the simulator, or get out of line.’ Despite every ounce of her being telling her to do otherwise, Elise climbed into the LOCSI and slipped into the chair.

‘Great. Sit tight, go through the interactive tutorial, and give it your best. The controls are pretty intuitive, and a lot like some of those video games all you kids are playing.’ ‘Wait, I—’ But the attendant was already gone, and the hatch was closing.

‘Wait!’ Clunk .

The hatch shut, leaving Elise alone in the darkness. Okay, it wasn’t actually dark. It was actually pretty bright, lit by a few strips of fluorescent lighting that changed colour depending on the status of the ship. Elise would have found that really cool if it wasn’t for the growing black spots in her vision, and the way her chest felt like it was being crushed by the steel gauntlet of a mech suit.

What was wrong with her? Elise didn’t understand. She wanted to cry, scream, and throw up all at once. Are the walls getting closer? They are. They’re shrinking! The attendant’s voice crackled out of a speaker. ‘What’s wrong, kid? The tutorial’s started.’ Elise hadn’t noticed, hadn’t even looked at the controls. There was a tingling in her bladder telling her she needed to use the loo, even though she’d gone right before leaving home. There was a tightness in her chest telling her she couldn’t breathe, even though she could feel air being pumped in through vents. All the while, the black spots in her vision grew larger and larger, darker and darker, until— Her body trembling, Elise passed out.

She found out later that she’d wet herself in the LOCSI, meaning the simulator had to be shut down for the rest of the day to get professionally cleaned. It was embarrassing. Humiliating, even. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. Not by a long shot.

Her father took her to a doctor, who diagnosed her with something called claustrophobia. He said that she could live a perfectly normal life, but that it’s possible she’d always have to avoid tight and confined spaces. That included starfighter cockpits. To Elise, that meant she couldn’t live a perfectly normal life at all. Her dream lay in tatters. *** Elise jolted awake as a fist hammered on the door to her room.

‘Elise, get up. The Saturn Patrol just got back and there’s a ship on platform three with a burnt-out plasma connector. Oh, and take a wet repairs kit. The pilot’s waste disposal pipe malfunctioned.’ Mike Thomas, Head Ground Technician at the North Montana SDS Airbase, never was one to mince words. Still, it was Elise’s duty shift, so up she got and slipped on her overalls.

It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the idea that she’d never be a pilot. She spent many nights crying into her pillow, and many more with stomach cramps from the numerous experimental medications she tried. After she blew her life savings on a third attempt at hypnotherapy, her family and friends held an intervention. They drilled it into her that she had to accept she might never be a pilot and had to stop wasting her life chasing a dream that would probably never come true. First, Elise swore at them and accused them of hating her. Then she cried. And cried. And cried. Finally, when every drop of moisture had left her body, she made a plan. If she couldn’t be a pilot, she’d have to find another way to be around starfighters. She went to college and studied aerospace engineering, throwing herself into the work with a rabid enthusiasm. It might not be the same as flying the ships herself, but at least she’d get to touch them. To do her part. After years of rigorous exams, extensive coursework, and a growing mountain of student debt, Elise got a job as a ground technician at the SDS base in her home state. It wasn’t her dream, but it was a good second choice.

At least, she thought it was. As Elise headed for platform three, she passed a trio of laughing pilots. ‘Watch out Techie,’ one of them said. ‘O’Brien had bean paste in his rations, so you’re walking into a real biohazard.’ Techie. Techie!? She’d worked on this base for three years and that was still all she was to them. A faceless pair of overalls and a spanner.

She could name them all. There was David Jackson, who had been the captain of his highschool football team and whose home town virtually threw a parade every time he visited; Ranjit Agrawal, whose Hinduism never seemed to stop him from enjoying a grass-fed steak; and Jacob O’Brien, who pretended to be a massive Black Sabbath fan, but who Elise had caught listening to One Direction more than once. Elise knew everything about them, down to the tiniest details of how they liked their ships calibrated, but to them, she would always just be a techie. Once she got to platform three, Elise knew the repair it was an easy enough fix. She clambered aboard the ship and got to work under the floodlights. All she had to do was replace the old plasma connector and run a few simple diagnostics. It wouldn’t take long. As for the ‘wet repairs’, they were disgusting but all part of the job. Aside from the pilots themselves, only qualified technicians were allowed near the starfighters, so it fell to them to handle all aspects of the ships’ maintenance.

Less than half an hour later, Elise was just finishing up and glad of it. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable in the tiny cockpits, but as long as she kept the hatch open, it was usually okay. The problem was, she hadn’t slept well the last couple of nights, and growing exhaustion wasn’t exactly great for keeping the irrational part of her mind at bay.

As she ran her final diagnostic, Elise noticed a figure looming over her. An all too familiar figure.

‘What do you want, Brad?’ she said. Brad Thorn, a fellow ground technician, grinned at her. ‘Just to see how you were getting on. I know interior repairs can get a little… difficult for you.’ Of course he did. A short while after she’d started working at the base, Elise had had an… incident. She’d been trapped inside a broom closet and panicked. By the time someone found her, she’d fainted twice and was drenched in sweat. A few of her colleagues treated her with sympathy, but many laughed. And who was the one who laughed the most? Bradley. Fucking. Thorn. ‘Well I’m fine, so get lost.’ Of course, he didn’t move. ‘Say, all those overcomplicated games you play, you must know how to fly one of these, right?’ ‘In theory.’

‘It must kill you that you’re stuck down here doing repairs instead, huh?’ ‘Not really.’ It did, of course, but she’d sooner take a one-way trip into a black hole than confess her innermost feelings to Brad Thorn.

‘If you say so.’ Elise didn’t see it until it was too late. His hand. He’d been distracting her so she wouldn’t notice it drifting towards the mechanism that would close the hatch.

‘Don’t you dare!’ He dared. The hatch slammed shut, and Elise was right back in the box she’d been in all those years ago. Immediately, the walls began closing in. Just as before, her chest tightened and her vision became patchy and distorted.

Outside the cockpit, Brad laughed, but Elise barely noticed. She took a series of gasping breaths. She could feel the air going in, but it was like it had no effect. Slowly but surely, her consciousness faded.

Her hands dove to the control panel, but with her vision spotty, she couldn’t find the hatch release.

The walls got closer and closer. Her chest tighter and tighter. Just before she passed out, Elise’s fingers found the right button and the hatch burst open again. One deep breath. Then two. Then three. As soon as she regained her balance, Elise got up, climbed out of the cockpit, and punched Brad in his laughing face. He dabbed at his lip. ‘Jesus. What the hell, you psycho! It was just a joke.’ ‘It wasn’t funny.’ Elise wheeled around and made to go back inside. Why did people think it was okay to treat her like that? Just because they didn’t experience things the way she did, they thought it was funny. They were pricks. All of them.

The doors to the base slid open and the three pilots from earlier came sprinting towards her. Behind them, a blaring alarm echoed out. ‘Is the ship ready to go?’ O’Brien asked. ‘Yeah. What’s happening?’ ‘Beast sighting. A big one. Huge. Bigger than anyone’s ever seen before.’ Elise wanted to ask more, but O’Brien was already gone, following his comrades to their ships. She turned around. Watching the ships take off was always the hardest part of working here.

But rather than the roaring of engines, it was the thump of flesh striking the ground and the scream of a man in agony that reached her ears.

Her head whipped around. O’Brien lay on the ground next to a slick patch of oil, clutching his wrist. Ranjit and David stood over him, the latter swearing profusely.

‘Shit. Shit shit shit. We can’t fly a man down. Not against a monster this size. We need to call up a reserve.’ ‘We don’t have any reserves,’ Ranjit said.

‘Shit.’ David glanced at Brad, who stood gaping like a horny teenager seeing his first pair of breasts. ‘What about you? Can you fly?’ ‘No.’ And then realisation lit in his eyes. He thrust a finger at her. ‘But Elise can.’ He whirled on her. ‘You can?’ ‘Y-yes. But not—’ ‘What is it, yes or no?’ ‘I know how to, but I’ve never actually done it.’ ‘It’s easy. Just like in the simulations.’ ‘But—’ David frowned. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you blabbering like a lost toddler?’ ‘She’s got claustrophobia,’ Brad said. ‘She can’t handle being in the cockpits. They’re too small.’ Instantly, David’s expression softened. He approached Elise and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey. If you really can fly, we need you. I’m going to teach you a little trick I learned to deal with anxiety.’ ‘You don’t think I’ve already tried that sort of thing?’ She’d tried all the techniques. Everything. It wouldn’t work. It had never worked.

‘This is different. This one only works in times of extreme need.’ ‘I—’ ‘Remember who you’re doing it for. You have family?’ She nodded. There were her parents, her sister, and her little nieces and nephews.

‘Right now, Elise, they need you. Everyone on Earth needs you. When you feel the pressure rising, just remember that.’ Elise didn’t know. So much could go wrong. She wrung her hands, a trickle of sweat carving a path down her cheek.

David gazed into her eyes. ‘I swear to you, if you do this, I won’t rest until we get these ships redesigned to not trigger your claustrophobia. I know what I’m asking is hard. I know it isn’t fair. But if there is the tiniest chance you can fly that ship, I need you to try. Please, just get into the cockpit.’ Elise had never really believed in God. if she had, she’d probably have spent most of her life cursing his name. But at that moment, she felt something. A force that seemed to say, This is your moment. Seize it. Elise nodded. She would try.

This time, when the walls began closing in, she pictured her father, her mother, her sister. She pictured the little ones. She pictured her friends. Everyone who loved her. Everyone who needed her.

Alone, she wasn’t strong enough to fight the fear. But she wasn’t alone. Not then. Not ever. They were with her. All of them. Elise wouldn’t let them down. The walls stopped moving.

‘Elise, you with me?’ came David’s voice through the comm link. ‘I’m with you. Let’s fly.’


A Worn-Out, Broken-Down Susie My wife Vicki and I were visiting her recently widowed mother in Fort Myers. It was Norma’s second go around with widowhood. Her mid-life marriage to “Doc,” a semi-quack, womanizing chiropractor, was mostly a matter of economic necessity after   the life shattering death of Vicki’s father Bill. Suffice to say Doc was never Norma’s true love, and she took his passing with outward respect, but little remorse. Let’s just say Norma didn’t knock herself out this time wearing black. Vicki and I had been with Norma a few months earlier when death from liver cancer was knocking at Doc’s door and she needed to make nursing home arrangements. “Whatever’s cheapest,” was her sole criterion.            It was Sunday morning, the final day of our intended stay. Overcome with boredom, I thought to make myself useful by taking Norma’s aging Honda to the car wash. She used the car sparingly, mainly for traversing the ultra-dangerous U.S. 41 to and from the Publix, a weekly sojourn we feared would lead to her auto accidental demise. Nevertheless, the Honda needed a cleaning, and the tires were much closer to flat than properly inflated.

           I was seated in Doc’s Naugahyde recliner in the living room, folding and stacking the Fort Myers News-Press.   I called out my mission to Vicki and Norma, who were in the kitchen engaged in the daunting task of cleaning out Norma’s freezer. She and Doc were depression-era Hoosiers before retiring to the sunny, manufactured-home lifestyle in Ft. Myers. Their enthusiasm for thrift was outdone only by their penchant for saving and freezing morsels of unconsumed food, no matter how meager.

“I’m going to get Norma’s car washed,” I announced. “Norma—where are the keys?”

“That’s nice of you, honey,” Vicki chimed from the kitchen. “Where are your car keys, Mom,” I overheard her add.

“I don’t know,” Norma muttered gruffly. Her tone of voice and hillbilly accent combined to produce expressions of the English language which were uniquely hers. Although Norma cared deeply for those she loved, her words were often barked in the manner of a disgruntled truck driver rather than the considerate, courteous way of a caring parent. “Are they in the car?” I asked loudly, rising from the chair, and striding to the front door. “I don’t know, Gary,” she called back. “You can go and see.” “Be back in about an hour,” I advised.

As it turned out, Norma’s car key was in the ignition, so I coaxed the rickety Honda to life and proceeded to the Sunoco Super Car Wash and convenience store out at the intersection of U.S. 41 and Coral Cay Avenue. There I invested a dollar and a half’s worth of quarters to inflate the tires, and ten dollars for a “deluxe” automated car wash, complete with Lavender Spring air freshener. After the addition of twenty dollars or so worth of 87 Octane rated gasoline, Norma’s previously dilapidated, unkempt Honda was transformed into a relatively clean albeit decidedly mediocre one. Thinking ahead, I was looking forward to the drive back to Palm Beach in my gleaming red Porsche.            As I was reaching for the car door, I noticed a woman approaching. I first looked away, but having sensed distress in her expression, I looked back to her and remained outside the car. I would be less than candid if I did not admit that the woman’s appearance also contributed to my decision to engage her rather than drive away. She had long, straight brown hair, a tan, slender body and was skimpily attired, even for July in South Florida. She wore frayed, cut-off denim shorts and a faded, spill-stained FSU tee-shirt. The tee-shirt fit her snugly, suggesting that she wore no bra underneath.

           “Excuse me, sir,” the woman said as she came within range. “Can you spare me a dollar? —My car’s broke down and I need to call for a ride.”            Although usually repelled by such entreaties, I found myself taken in by the woman’s bedraggled yet attractive appearance and unfortunate circumstances. And, eerily, at closer range she bore an almost “twin sister” resemblance to Susie Norcross, a particularly unforgettable girlfriend from my distant college days at Indiana University.            Without hesitation, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my money clip. I fingered the bills, at first looking to find a One. But I thought again, and for some reason picked out a Twenty and handed it to the woman. “Maybe this’ll help,” I said.            She accepted the bill then bowed her head and began to sob. After a moment she approached closer and extended her arms around me. She pressed her face into my shoulder briefly, then stepped back and regarded me with moistened eyes and a forced smile. During the process I sensed the lingering fragrances of both perfume and gin, remnants, no doubt, of a hard-scrabble Saturday night that had left her without a cent or the means to return to wherever she called home.            “Thank you—so much,” she said, and then turned and began walking slowly away. Every two or three steps she would look back and thinly smile.            Uncharacteristically, “Good Samaritan” instincts took control of my behavior and I walked toward her. “Let’s go inside and call a wrecker,” I suggested. “Maybe they can get your car started.”            “I can’t go in there,” she said, her countenance shifting from dejected to frightened.            “Why not?” I asked, but she offered no explanation. Her eyes moistened anew, and she looked nervously away. Looking past her toward the entrance to the store, I noticed a Lee County Sheriff’s cruiser parked adjacent to the vacant handicapped parking space.            Regarding her now with even greater interest and concern, I sensed the depth of her plight. My professional experience as a lawyer facilitated my supposition: she has outstanding warrants I surmised.            “You got a cell phone?” she asked.            “Sure,” I said, reaching into my pocket to withdraw it. I booted the phone and handed it to her.            “Thanks,” she said, accepting the phone then walking away as she attempted to place a call. I watched her as she sniffed back a sob and raised the phone to her ear. In the process she shook her head slightly and smoothed her free hand back through the flowing brown tresses. A shiver of desire registered within me, along with a flash-back to my college days with Susie. A moment or two later the woman turned her back to me as she began speaking into the phone.            Although I could not hear the words, the woman’s body language indicated that the conversation was not going well.  After a minute or so, her agitation stopped, and she lowered the phone from her ear. Her back still to me, she closed the lid of the phone.   Finally, she turned, head bowed, and began walking back toward me.            “Problems?” I asked.            “No—yeah—oh, what the hell—fuck it,” she said as she handed me back the phone.            “Uh—fuck what?” I said carefully. “What was that all about?”            “Oh, my asshole roommate—says he’s too busy to pick me up.”            “Where do you want to go?” I asked.            “It’s in Coral Cay—I share an apartment with Mr. Asshole.”            “Get in the car,” I said, gesturing toward the passenger side door. “I’ve always wanted to see Coral Cay.”            My invitation had a similar effect to giving her the Twenty. She looked into my eyes, pursed her lips, and began to sob again. “Oh, thank you,” she said, leaning into a renewed embrace. This one was firmer than the first, and the sensation confirmed my earlier suspicion that she wore no bra.

           “I need a Diet Coke,” I announced, stepping back, and looking off again in the direction of the convenience store entrance. “You want something for the road?” I asked.

Initially, she declined my offer, but as I moved away toward the store she called out: “You know, I’d love a Yahoo—and some Twinkies, if they got ‘em.”

Good God—Yahoo? — I thought.            “You Vassar grads are all alike,” I called back with laugh.  The woman made no response and proceeded to get into the car. After procuring the Diet Coke, Yahoo and Twinkies, I returned to the Honda to resume the improbable, impromptu valet service I had somehow gotten myself into. While inside the store, I had taken notice of the Deputy Sheriff whose cruiser was parked at the door. He had seemed harmless enough to me, but as I waited in line to pay the cashier, I could imagine the terror the deputy’s presence could invoke in someone in my newly-found passenger’s apparent circumstances. The trip to Coral Cay took about a quarter hour. “Nice car,” the woman said as she cracked open the Yahoo and peeled off the Twinkies wrapper. “How long you had it?”            “It’s my mother-in-law’s,” I corrected. “My wife and I are over here helping her with some things—Her husband passed away about a month ago—By the way, what’s your name?”            “Donna Davis,” she said. “Friends call me Dee Dee—How about you? And where are you and this, uh, wife from?” I thought I detected a hint of disappointment in her acknowledgment that I was married.            “Name’s Gary, we’re from West Palm Beach” I said, before taking a sip from the Diet Coke.

           “Where’s that?” Dee Dee responded, her mood noticeably lightened by her initial enjoyment of the sugar-shock breakfast food I had provided.            Startled by the geographic if not complete ignorance indicated by her question, my visceral response was to choke on the mouthful of soda rather than respond. My reaction spewed cola out over the steering wheel and temporarily rendered me incapable of driving. I pulled off the highway to recover, dabbing my watering eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “Christ!” I sputtered. “Excuse me!”            “You gonna be OK?” Dee Dee asked. She placed the can of Yahoo in the drink holder, laid the Twinkie on the dashboard and looked over to me.  Recovering with a series of deep breaths, I returned her stare. In her dark brown eyes, I perceived not only a caring concern for my well-being, but a strangely attractive intellectual dullness. My right-brain instincts took control of the moment.  I leaned toward her intending a kiss. She responded willingly, and with the parted-lips technique that sensuous women have developed into an art form.            After several mindless moments, engaged in this unscripted but undeniably inviting kiss, I pulled away and regarded Dee Dee anew. “Who-o-oa,” I said. “What’s going on here?” As I contemplated the circumstances, my mind wandered to the scene in the 50’s era movie The Seven Year Itch in which family man Tom Ewell attempts to apologize to the young, sultry and daffy Marilyn Monroe for abruptly kissing her: “ I’ve never done that before ,” he says remorsefully. “ Happens to me all the time ,” Marilyn responds.            “You tell me what’s going on, Gary,” Dee Dee said after a moment. “I just think you’re a nice guy.”            “I-I am,” I stammered as I guided the car back onto the highway. “There’s—just something about you,” I continued haltingly. “It’s just—you look almost exactly like this girl I wasted about half of my college education chasing after—It’s very—very weird, that’s all—Her name was—Susie.”            Dee Dee made no response to my strange revelations, refocusing her attention on the half-eaten Twinkie and the can of Yahoo. It was apparent that like Marilyn in the movie, Dee Dee experienced little surprise at my advances, and our encounter presented to her none of the drama and moral confusion it posed for me. Two or three miles passed by without further conversation.            During the silence, my thoughts flashed back to Susie episodes from my college days. From time to time I glanced at my passenger, and dual realizations were re-enforced: Dee Dee really did bear a striking resemblance to my old flame; and despite the danger signs the circumstances of our encounter veritably screamed, I was yearningly attracted to her. It was as if, some thirty years after breaking my foolish, undergraduate heart, a worn-out, broken-down Susie had re-entered by life, available somehow to pick up where our teenage romance had ended. The polarity of our current life experiences seemed only to heighten my attraction to Dee Dee. At this alternative universe moment, Susie needed me again—She even wanted me— Desired me. I attempted to douse my racing and irrational thoughts with a fresh swig of Diet Coke.            “So, tell me ‘bout this—what’s her name? —Susie?” Dee Dee asked.

           “Oh—just a girl I went with in college,” I said—“Indiana University—you know—up north?”            “Never been there—musta been cold.”            “Sometimes,” I said after a moment, considering again the shallowness and provinciality of her conversation.  Has she ever been anywhere? I wondered. “Tell me about you,” I continued. “Are you a native Floridian?”            “I was born here—if that’s what you mean—and I got a good tan—But I ain’t no freakin’ native.”            I laughed at her response, not really knowing if it was an attempt at her own repartee, or further confirmation of her remarkable lack of sophistication. “Lived here your whole life?” I continued.            “Yeah, mostly—moved to Winter Haven for a couple of years when I was married—but been back around here—‘bout ten years, I’d say.”            “Do you work?” I asked.            “God, these are tight,” Dee Dee said, reaching forward to replace the Yahoo in the drink holder. Leaning back into the seat and extending her shapely legs into the foot well, she stifled a yawn, then unsnapped the button of her shorts and unzipped the zipper half way down, revealing a provocative section of her evenly-tanned lower pelvic region. “Ohh—that’s better,” she said. “Yeah, I’m a dancer—least I used to be.”            “Really,” I said after a moment, the pieces of the bizarre puzzle I had inserted myself into coming together. “So good old Susie Norcross dropped out of IU, moved to Florida and became a stripper,” I babbled.

           “What the hell does that mean?” Dee Dee asked, in a suddenly perturbed tone, quite distinct from the respectful and flirtatious manner she had shown so far.            “Nothing—nothing at all,” I replied. “I’m sorry—and I don’t want to make light of your situation—It’s just that your Susie twin represents a very impressionable chapter of my past—and I guess I’m somehow trying to recapture it—I’m sure Freud could explain everything.”            “Floyd? —Floyd who?” Dee Dee said, then shrugged and looked away, out the passenger side window. “You know, Gary,” she continued after a while, “you’re a nice enough guy—But you’re really kinda weird. ”  “You got that right, kid,” I said. Dee Dee’s negative reaction to my sophomoric ramblings worked to stimulate some left-brain activity. These logic-based thoughts had the effect of tempering my strange and increasingly lustful attraction to a down-and-out, on-the-lam, aging Fort Myers stripper, who somehow in my mind had transformed into the incarnation of my long-lost college sweetheart.            Our trip across to Coral Cay continued in silence.            “Turn right on Medalion Way—up there, just past the light,” Dee Dee said, as we approached the vicinity of her apartment. I thought to inquire whether “Mr. Asshole” would be there but thought better of it.            “Anywhere around here’ll be OK,” Dee Dee said as I turned into the Emerald Dunes Apartments complex.            “Good luck to you, Dee Dee,” I said, “and I hope all my silly shit about Susie didn’t offend you.”            “No Gary, not at all—I’m just wonderin’ what it is you want—you know?” She looked at me with warmth and intensity again, like she had back at the car wash. Then she opened the door, turned, and stepped out of the car. Watching her movements my perception fixated again on her earthy, erotic attractiveness. Twinges of lust returned as I watched her proceed, step by sexy step toward the apartment door. Opening it, she turned, smoothed her hand back through her hair again and looked directly into my eyes.

           “You sure you gotta go?” she called back. “It’s OK if you wanna call me Susie.”            I had begun to slowly back Norma’s Honda out of the parking place but stopped upon hearing the alluring question.  I returned the transmission lever to Park and sat still in the car holding Dee Dee’s stare. For several moments I engaged again the right brain versus left brain analysis of the situation. My left-brain instincts eventually winning out, I shifted the car into Reverse again and returned my attention to driving the car.            On the way back to Fort Myers, I played my Dee Dee encounter repeatedly in my mind. With each re-run I felt better and better about how things had resolved. I flipped the windshield visor mirror open, looked at myself and smiled. “Ya done good, boy!” I said.            As the miles back to Norma’s counted down I engaged in a long-overdue contemplation of my station in life: Although susceptible to the temptations of sin, at the core I am a moral person, capable of compassion for the plight of others not so fortunate. Noting that noon was fast approaching, I called Vicki.

“Hey,” she answered in her uniquely charming southern Indiana accent.            “Thought I’d stop by Subway and pick up some subs for lunch.”            “Aw—honey—that’s so nice—yeah, get a half veggie for me, and you and Mom can split a meatball—she loves those”—Hey, Mom want to talk to you.”            “Hey Gary—thanks for washing the car. You’re a good man—Vicki and I are lucky to have ya’.            “No, Norma,” I said, fondly envisioning the two of them standing in her tiny kitchen amid the clutter attendant to the freezer-cleaning project. “It’s the other way around.” ***


My head pounds to the rhythm of my pulse and I see dark stars creeping in at the edges of my vision. I try to steady my breathing so that I don’t pass out. My clothes cling to cold sweat. Bile is finding its way up into my throat but I can’t swallow it down because of all the cotton inside of my mouth; I swear it’s lined with cobwebs. I feel the sticky strands pulling my throat closed. I don’t want to die like this…not now. The tangled ball of upturned legs laying in the middle of the bedroom appears motionless. I feel like I’ve been watching it for hours, waiting for it to twitch; but it never does. It’s the third one I’ve killed this week and my nerves won’t be able to survive another one. I stare at it through my tunnel vision haze as I sit on the cold terrazzo floor, my back against the wall. God, I hate those things—the fangs, the unblinking eyes, the plump hairy bodies—but most of all, I hate the legs. I hate the way they splay out across the wall or the ceiling, just before pouncing. Sometimes I can hear the big ones scurry across the floor during the silence between television commercials. That’s when I simply call it a night and go hyperventilate through a paper bag until I pass out, asleep. Tonight might be one of those nights. My ravaged nerves plead for me to close my eyes, just for a moment. But I know that if I do, that ball of legs will somehow untangle itself and scuttle off into a dark corner, to torment me another day. The tingling sensation in my hand reminds me that I still have my shoe in a vice grip. I let go and flex my stiff fingers. After a few more deep breaths I gather the courage to move. I stand up and back out of the bedroom, making sure I don’t look away from the mass of spindly legs, because if I do, it’ll crawl away. I leave the light on and the door wide open for the same reason. I’ll try to deal with it in the morning. Tonight I’ll be on the couch. I round the corner to the bathroom and put my mouth to the sink faucet. The tepid tap water tastes like heaven. I look up at my pimpled face in the mirror. The yellow speckles on the glass make me look like I have reversed freckles. My face always breaks out after a panic attack, and picking at it calms me down. I focus on a mass of acne that erupted next to my nose last week and I pinch off the top layer of scab. It’s definitely getting bigger—probably infected. The sharp sting distracts my thoughts from wandering back into the bedroom—to the ball of legs. A yellow head forms at the tip and I squeeze it with my forefingers, releasing a discharge of fresh spackle at the mirror. I push hard on both sides of the purple cyst until sticky yellow custard percolates into the sink. Pain shoots into my sinus and I grip the edges of the sink. My eyes shut so hard I see a kaleidoscope of lights beneath my lids. The whole side of my cheek throbs and there’s an ache deep inside my face— definitely infected. I press a wad of toilet paper onto the angry sore and contemplate driving to a clinic in the morning. I actually feel the inflammation pushing against my fingers—man, this is really bad. I pull the paper away to assess the damage and the tip of an ingrown hair comes out with it. Weird place for a hair, but then I recall hearing stories of teeth and fingernails growing inside people’s bodies. Must be why it hasn’t healed after a week. I pinch the end of the stiff black hair and take a deep breath. I close my eyes and prepare for pain. It’s just like pulling off a bandaid, right? I grit my teeth, and yank. The pain is unreal. I squint through watery eyes to see how much flesh got pulled out with it; but the hair is still protruding there—about an inch longer now—but still there. I feel spasms deep in my sinus and the hair begins to slowly draw itself back into the swollen pimple. I quickly grab the end of it and it pulls against me. I feel it bend at an angle under my fingertips. Gotta stay calm. With my free hand, I fumble through the medicine cabinet for tweezers. I pinch them at the base of the hair and pull two more inches out. The base of it is thicker and courser than any hair I’ve ever seen. Another part of it bends and the whole length of the strand twitches wildly like a tiny black skeleton finger. No no no no no this can’t be real! I push my thumb into my mouth, against the underside of the cyst, and the flesh there moves. Whatever’s in there has to come out, so I press hard with my thumb while pulling with the tweezers. Another thick hair works its way out of the wound, then two more. Then, I see something wet and black deep inside, with tiny unblinking orbs that seem to look at me from the mirror. It’s a… it’s one of them! My tweezers are trembling so badly that they lose their grip, and the thing begins slipping back into the hole in my face. No no no no no! I plunge the tweezers into the cyst and scrape at the insides. The pain is making me woozy but I keep digging. The tweezers drop from my sweaty fingers, so I continue digging with my fingernails. The thing is so slick and sticky that I can’t grab ahold of it. I feel it clawing further into my sinus. I can’t let it go deeper! I keep pressing my thumb against the inside of my mouth until it tears through the outer layer of the cyst. A tangle of black legs pushes out with my thumb. The spider unfolds from the raw cavity in my face. The legs splay across the side of my head as its black body slides from the crevice, and all I can do is tremble as the nightmare unfolds in the mirror. Do something…I’m going to die! I grip the sides of the sink and heave myself into the mirror. The spider is faster, and it scurries up into my hair. I’m dizzy and I see stars. The spider continues down the back of my head and I feel its awful legs clamp onto my neck. I can’t move; I can only brace myself with the sides of the sink and stare down at the kaleidoscope of glass and gore. I still can’t move as the pulsating mass of sticky yellow custard splits into a thousand tiny legs—each one scampering from its egg sac and up my arms. I’m jolted away from the horrible sight by a sharp sting at the back of my neck, and I gasp for breath. The spider loosens its grip and crawls under my shirt where its dark and moist with sweat. The searing venom burns its way down my spine. My body becomes weak and rigid. I only make it a couple of steps into the hallway before collapsing. I lay on my stomach, paralyzed, with my head turned toward the bedroom. I watch with unblinking eyes as the ball of upturned legs laying in the middle of the floor untangles itself and crawls toward me. I hear the legs scuttling across the tile in the silence between my heartbeats.


FOLLOWING THE CAT He stood on the sidewalk at the corner of the street. The matted reddish hair, the great green eyes, the head too big for the body. The stray cat had greeted him with an angry meow. “Poor kitty, you’re hungry” Peter had said, giving him a bite of the cheese and onion sandwich he was eating. That morning he had gotten up late and so he hadn’t been able to eat ( have) breakfast sitting at the table. The cat devoured the morsel and meowed, an imperious meow, as for an urgent request. Peter handed him another bite which the cat grab from his hands, swallowing it. “ You’re really hungry, kitty,” Peter said, leaving the cat the rest of his sandwich. Peter continued on his way at a good pace but the cat run after him, grabbing him by the trousers, meowing angrily, and pulling Peter back. It seemed he ( the cat) had to say or ask him ( Peter) something of utmost urgency. Peter couldn’t get rid of the little animal. “ I can’t take you with me,” he said, trying to pick the cat up but he wriggled and jumped to the ground, still grabbing Peter by the trousers and meowing furiously. It really looked like the cat didn’t want to go with Peter, but rather wanted Peter to go with him. He, Peter, was almost irritated but also intrigued. So he decided he would follow that strange cat. Who knows where he would have taken him? It seemed to Peter that this strange cat wanted to show him something. “ Okay, I’ll come WHERE you want to take me,” Peter said, his face near the muzzle of the cat, patting him on the head. The cat, which seemed to understand what he had said, meowed joyfully. “ I’ll call you Pippo,” Peter said. The cat, whether he understood his name or not, walked quickly up the sidewalk, after making sure Peter was following him. Pippo scampered quickly down the sidewalk, went from sidewalk to sidewalk, turned, slipping between the feet of the passers-by. Every now and then the cat looked back, turning his head, to make sure Peter was following. Then, each time he meowed with a determined and triumphant meow as if to say to Peter that here, he was fine, that’s how he had to keep doing: go after him. After a fairly long journey, Pippo left the town and started walking along a country road that led to a few old houses on a small hill, not even a village. On the small hill, there was also an old church where Mass only rarely was celebrated. Pippo headed straight toward the church and entered defiantly, pushing the door with his muzzle. It seemed to be a place that was familiar to him. Entering the church, where there was only an old woman kneeling in front of the altar, the cat meowed imperiously and tugged Peter’s trousers again. He wanted Peter to follow him, He ordered Peter to follow him. On one side of the altar, there was a confessional. Pippo began to rub against the confessional, meowing. And he tried, pushing its walls with his muzzle and paws, to open the confessional. Peter was embarrassed, to say the least, and he was going to come out of the church when the old woman kneeling in front of the altar stood up and approached him. “ Wait, wait for a moment, “ she said. “ Oh, excuse me, I’m so much sorry….This damned cat is disturbing this holy place….Excuse me” Peter said, all awed. The old woman smiled at him.  “This cat, if you knew…the cat is meowing because he wants to show you WHO is inside the confessional, but he can’t open it.” Peter was stunned, confused. How WHO’s inside the confessional? That he knew Inside the confessional had to be the confessor, but now there was no one to confess. The old woman opened the door of the confessional while Pippo continued to meow and fidget. A white cat with black patches, lying on one side, belly out ( up) , was suckling four little kittens. The cat and the kittens were in a wicker basket, inside the confessional. “ Here, isn’t wonderful? I think it’s a miracle!” The old woman said, looking at Peter radiantly, smiling. “It was this cat ___we call him Melindo ____who brought here the cat when she was pregnant and undernourished. Oh, she was all skin and bones! We cared for her and she gave us these magnificent puppies!” Peter was stunned, if even amazed, ecstatic. But how, the cat with her litter in the confessional! Did she stay there even during confessions? “ Oh, but no one confesses here anymore. We placed the cat inside the confessional because it’s a sheltered space, to assure the cat and her kittens to have a protected place.” That old woman was incredible! She kept talking about the need for a protected space for the cat and her puppies….But that was a church! Oh, the old woman told him, in the church, even if it remains a church in all respects____ it hadn’t been deconsecrated___ Mass was celebrated only for Christmas and Easter. Sometimes weddings, baptisms, and funerals were also held there but rarely.  “ Well, the ideal place to become a shelter for stray animals, perhaps a colony of cats,” Peter thought. Pippo, or Melindo, that was busy licking the puppies and the cat that nursed them started meowing furiously again when Peter walked away, heading for the exit. The cat seemed to want to keep him there in the church. As if there was more to show him.  “ Oh, our cat would like you to stay here, he doesn’t want you to leave. Isn’t good here? Isn’t a marvel, a miracle what happens in this church?” The old woman said, who spoke as in ecstasy, spellbound. Peter back in town couldn’t stop thinking about Pippo’s behavior when he was about to leave the church. The cat had pulled him by the trousers, scratched him, bit him. It just looked like Pippo did not want to let him go ( away). Of course, it was a strange cat….but perhaps, it occurred to Peter, there was something else in that church that the cat wanted him to see. During the night he dreamed of Pippo leading him to that church and bustling around the confessional. In the dream, it was he, Peter, who opened the confessional. The moment the confessional door opened he heard a solemn organ playing. Inside the confessional there was a young woman lying on the floor, her chest horribly open. It was following that dream that Peter remember in that church, several years earlier a girl, who had disappeared, had been seen for the last time. The 16-year-old girl, Lilly, had gone to the church for the wedding of a friend of hers. But at the end of the Mass, no one knew where she had gone. No one hadn’t seen her again. Peter, even if embarrassed and, above all, afraid of being taken for crazy, went to the police and told of the cat which had led him to that church. He told of the cat’s behavior that didn’t want him to leave the church. And he told of his dream. They looked at him suspiciously but they didn’t think he was crazy. The church was searched from top to bottom. In the attic of the church were found the remains of the girl who had disappeared several years ago.


I arrive at Toronto's Union Station. I'm planning to take the PATH to the CN Tower. That's where she'll be. While her text from last night is cryptic, I know her well enough to know what she means. Her text is referencing the restaurant at the top of the CN Tower. I'm almost certain of it. That is where the best view in the city would be. She texted me again this morning saying to meet her at 6pm. I'm early. Yesterday she stole the jewels that I had gone to the Royal Ontario Museum to steal. She left four of them for me. I had to use clues she had texted me to find three of the gems. The fourth was waiting for me with the note telling me to meet her at the best view in the city tonight for a proper date. My jewel thief ex partner. I can't even call her my ex-girlfriend because we had never been on a real date. She left me three years ago without so much as a word. We had spent six months sleeping in the same bed. We had shared secrets about everything. Everything except our professions which, as it turns out, were the same. We're both thieves. When she left me, I had to deal with the police. They were after her. She'd almost gotten caught. I had to lay low for a long time after that so they wouldn't get suspicious. And we hadn't spoken since then until last night. I'll admit, I dressed up for our date tonight. I bought a new dress for this occasion. If tonight doesn't go well, there's a good chance I won't be able to look at it without thinking of her. The dress is floor length and green. It has a deep v neckline and no sleeves. It's a bit chilly to wear in winter, but it looks stunning. It might be even better than the red ballgown I wore to the gala at the ROM last night. My hair is up in a braided bun. I walk into Union Rail Station from the subway terminal then I walk up the stairs to the ground floor. I pass through the station and go up the escalator near the platform that leads to the train to the airport. I'm not going to the airport, though it would be easy enough to run away and leave her like she left me if I wanted revenge. I continue walking through the Metro Toronto Convention Centre and across the Skywalk. By then I'm right under the CN Tower. I walk into the main lobby and up to the reception desk. The place is full of people. The receptionist is wearing a nametag that says: Indigo, they/them. "Hi, my...um..." Can I call Isabelle my girlfriend if this is our first real date and we separated three years ago? I don't need to bore Indigo with the details. "My girlfriend, Isabelle Cartier made a reservation at the 360 for tonight at 6." They smile and say: "okay, my associate will walk you to the restaurant. I hope you have a good time!" I slip them a $15 tip and thank them. Their associate is a large person with short hair. Her nametag reveals that her name is Willow and her pronouns are she/her. She walks me to the elevator. We step into the elevator and up and up and up we go. As the ground gets smaller and smaller beneath my feet, I get dizzy. "How do you do this for a living?" I ask, feeling queasy. "Security?" Willow asks. I shake my head. "Oh! Going up and down all day? I love this stuff. It was either this or roller coaster testing but it turns out they use crash test dummies for that so here I am." She's got an easygoing smile on her face. She must be waiting for me to laugh with her. And I would if I wasn't so dizzy. I flash her a weak smile and she gives me a look of pity in response. I'm sure I'm not the first person to feel sick during the elevator ride and I'm sure I won't be the last. We arrive at the top. I tip Willow then pause for a little while to get my head to stop spinning. I walk up to the host's desk at the 360. "My girlfriend made a reservation for 6pm. Isabelle Cartier?" "Oh, yes, come in. Your table is ready." "Thank you." I tip the host when I arrive at my table. It's a window seat. And, because the restaurant revolves once every 72 minutes, it's a fantastic view of the city. I get settled. I'm early, so I'm waiting. I snap a few photos of the city with my phone. When the allure of photography wears off, I wait. And wait. And wait. A server asks me if I want to get a drink while I'm waiting. I ask them for water. When they bring it to me I take my sweet time drinking it. Anything to avoid having the server return to me while I'm alone. And then I wait. And wait. And I wait some more. I stare at my phone. I stare out the window. I try to find some distraction. As each moment passes I become more and more aware of how long I have been waiting. And when I see the view I saw when I sat down at the table, I realize she's late. Or I'm in the wrong place. But where else would she mean? What part of the city has a better view than the CN Tower? The server comes over to ask me if I want to order, but I tell them I'm still waiting for my date. They look at me with pity. I drink more water. I keep alternating between looking out the window and reading the newspaper on my phone. After the second revolution, I begin to wonder if she stood me up. Or if I'm in the wrong place. But I can't be in the wrong place because she made a reservation here. The staff at the CN Tower only let me in because of that reservation. The sun is setting over Lake Ontario. Where is she? It hurts thinking that she may have abandoned me again. It begins to rain. It makes the city disappear leaving only dim lights below me and a huge expanse of moonlit clouds beside me. The clouds move like a stormy sea. Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes below me. I hope Isabelle isn't caught in the storm. Unless she stood me up in which case she deserves it. As if in answer to my thought, Isabelle bursts into the room soaking wet mere moments later. She's wearing a silver cocktail dress. She must be freezing. She's holding a bouquet that looks a little drowned and sad. It must be windy out. And the waterlogged flowers suggest that it's pouring rain out there. It's a bouquet of red tulips and red carnations dotted with purple hyacinths. There are violets and forget-me-nots nestled in the other flowers. There are ferns around the outside of the bouquet to keep the flowers contained. The bouquet seems to be alive, too. The flowers have their roots wrapped up in a soaking wet cloth to keep them from drying out. I stand. She embraces me and doesn't let go until I do. I don't mind getting my dress wet. Not if it's her hugging me. Besides, she's here. She showed up. That's what matters. "I'm so sorry I'm late," she says. "I tried to get you flowers, but almost all the shops were closed... and then I remembered you like live ones better anyway and so I stole..." I kiss her before her story draws too much attention. Flower theft is still theft and the last thing I need is to have her run off if the cops show up. She brushes her fingers against my jaw and kisses back. When she pulls back, her eyes widen and she looks at her hands. They're caked in dirt. There's something on my face. Most likely mud. "Oh..." she says I smile. She hands me the flowers. "I'll be right back... I should probably go wash my hands." She kisses my cheek, then she walks away. I sniff the flowers. They're beautiful. I try to remember the flower language associated with these particular plants. Isabelle loves riddles and puzzles and ciphers. There must be a hidden meaning to them. I try to focus but she's back before I can decipher any message that might be hiding in the bouquet. She sits down. The server comes over. We're doing the three-course prix-fixe menu with wine pairings. "I'm so glad you came tonight," Isabelle says when the server has gone to get us our first drinks of the evening. I can't think of what to say. I'm even more flustered when she takes my hands in hers. Her hands are soft but strong. "I know I don't deserve a second chance. Not after leaving you alone to deal with the cops when they were onto me. And certainly not after three years of radio silence, but... you're here tonight. You actually came. Even after all that. Is there... is there a chance we could... you know... get back together?" If she had asked me that a year ago, the answer would have been no. Even if she had asked me last night before the ball... before I saw her right in front of me looking gorgeous... before I saw her holding the gems I had planned to steal, the answer would have been no. But seeing her again makes me unsure. "Maybe... not right away, of course, but... I'd like to keep seeing you." "Sorry it rained. It snowed all night yesterday. I thought we'd at least get to see the sunset. But still, this is the best view in the city." "All we can see are the clouds, but it's pretty with the moonlight..." She cups my face with a gentle hand and turns my head back to look at her. "No... not the clouds. The best view in the city is sitting right across from me."


“Ever Since I was young, I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, I’ve lived in fear. You’re probably sitting there thinking how much of a liar I am. I couldn’t be living in fear when I barely showed any emotion ever since you’ve known me. But that’s the thing Maureen, that’s what I fear. I fear letting myself feel anything because if I let myself feel anything good, I know how quickly it can be taken away. So, I choose to see the negativity in everything. And I know that makes me cynical and you’re probably hearing this and thinking how dramatic I’m being or how much of a damaged cliché I am, but hear me out. I’m going to tell you something crazy, and I need you to listen through this whole recording for me, ok? Don’t turn it off or skip to the end because I need you to understand why I’ve been the way I’ve been. And once you’re done listening to everything I’ve said, I need you to remove the cassette tape and burn it. I trust you, Maureen. More than anyone. And that’s why I’m going to trust you not to tell anyone my biggest secret, no matter how much you might want to.” Maureen sat in front of her dust-filled, half-broken cassette player that’s sat in her garage since she’s stored some of her mother’s boxes when she died 22 years ago. What reason she kept it all these years, she never really knew. But when an anonymous envelope came through her door this morning addressed to her with an unmarked cassette tape in it, she’d immediately remembered the boxes piled against the walls of her garage and knew her mother’s cassette player would finally come to use. This was the second time Maureen had pressed pause on the decaying machine sitting on the kitchen table. The first time was when she realized whose voice was coming out of the speakers. Even though most of the words were filled with static from the rusty cassette player, she knew immediately who it was. Caleb Brownstone. The last time she’d heard that voice was probably no less than ten years ago now, when she had told him to never contact her again. She admits it was slightly harsh of her at the time considering Caleb had always been a great boyfriend for the most part, but he had one huge flaw. Caleb Brownstone was quite possibly the most negative, cynical person in the world. He would always have a negative view on anything, no matter what happened to him. Maureen remembers the time she realized Caleb would never give up his cynical nature, when he got promoted at work and instead of celebrating like Maureen suggested, Caleb frowned and told her he should’ve gotten the promotion years ago. Maureen knew Caleb was a great guy deep-down, but his negativity was starting to rub off on her, so, although she still loved Caleb, Maureen knew the best thing for her to do was to walk away. And so, with the bittersweet taste of unfinished love, Maureen clicked play once again to hear the hushed tones of her ex-boyfriend. “I’ll start from the last time I truly felt something. I was six years old, and I was sitting on my mother’s bed, cradled in her arms while she screamed for someone to help her. Even as I say this, I can feel her tight grip around my chest and her long nails puncturing little holes like daggers into my tiny arm. You’re probably pretty confused by now because I always told you that my mother gave me up for adoption when I was really young, and my father was never in my life. And you always said this was the reason I could never truly open myself up to you. Well, you’re right about the opening up to you part, Maureen. I don’t know if I ever told you that. But the part about my parents was a lie. They were both in my life until that day in November when I was just about to turn seven, I think only two weeks later. How sick is that, huh? Anyway, I’ll get on to why I’m actually telling you this.” “So last Thursday I was awakened at around 3 AM by my partner Jim calling me again. I bet you don’t miss those late-night calls to run to a crime scene, do you? So, Jim woke me up and told me to get down to 31 Bakerstreet. You know the dilapidated house on the end of the road that no one other than kids smoking pot uses? Yeah, that one. Anyway, I got down there as fast as I could and saw at least 5 police cars outside. A few more than I thought for a drug-fueled brawl that I expected in this building. Now, before I go any further, I want you to brace yourself Maureen, because what was inside that house isn’t going to be easy to hear.” Maureen paused the tape once again and sat back. What the hell was she even hearing? It sounded like the ramblings of a mad man. But Caleb sounded completely normal, if not slightly panicked, but nothing that suggested a voice that was going through psychosis. As a registered mental health nurse, Maureen was trained to spot even the smallest of differences in someone’s voice that meant they were going into psychosis or needed to be admitted to a psychiatric unit. But all she was now was confused. The words coming out of Caleb’s mouth were erratic and he rambled on for what felt like hours, even though the clock only showed around ten minutes. So, as confused as ever, Maureen hit play once again. “So, I was just in the front entrance of the house before I saw a man’s shoe sticking out of the door to my right. Once I investigated further, I saw that the shoe was still attached to the man that wore it, who was face-down on the ground with his limbs splayed out to his sides. He was lying in a thick pool of blood, so I assumed he’d been dead for at least a couple of hours. Once I stepped over him and into the room a bit further, I could see a small handgun beside his right hand and an ax, still gripped tightly in his left. But then, I whipped my head behind me as I heard a small whimper. My eyes widened as I saw a young boy, no older than seven, holding his mother’s head in his tiny, shaking hands. My heart felt as if it was in my ears as I called for Jim to give me some help. I can’t lie, I froze. I froze because the boy looked so small and helpless, cradling his mother as if his natural instincts told him to hold her for as long as he could because it would probably be the last time he would be able to. But the wave of sadness that came over me wasn't why I froze, Maureen. It was the complete and total fear that took over my body when I looked into that little boy’s pooling eyes. I looked into them, and I saw my own eyes in them. You see, Maureen, my mother didn’t put me up for adoption and my father wasn’t absent. Yes, I was put up for adoption when I was six, but that was because my father killed my mother.” “Huh, ok, here I go. My father was an extremely abusive alcoholic that started his torture when I was too young to even remember. He’d call my mother every name under the sun, before he moved onto more physical threats. He would beat us senseless any time he would drink. But on one night in November, his fists just didn’t seem good enough for him. Remember when I told you about the night my mother was gripping me so tight, she was almost choking me? Well somehow, I fell asleep but was awoken again by the sound of my mother’s screams. I ran downstairs to see my mother laying on the floor, gripping her stomach and my father standing over her with a bloodied kitchen knife. Now, remember, I was only six, so what was I to do?" "I ran. I ran into the cupboard under the stairs and locked it behind me. I’ve never felt fear like it. My limbs felt numb yet full of electric static. My heart felt as if it were about to burst from my chest in a violent thwump. My breath came in short, uneven puffs. But the worst feeling of all, was that I was alone. No one was there to protect me, and with my father pounding on the small wooden door before me, I knew I needed to do something, and quick. So I grabbed the only thing I thought could have helped me, a baseball bat and opened the door. It swung in front of me, slamming my father backwards. He obviously didn’t expect me to come out at that time and was taken aback by my small figure standing over him with a baseball bat that was probably heavier than I was at the time. I swung as hard as I could at him with my eyes closed but the bat didn’t encounter anything. Once I opened my eyes, I saw my father below me with the knife in his chest. I ran back into the room beneath the stairs and locked the door behind me again. I didn’t come out until the next day when our neighbor had sent over a police woman to do a welfare check. Turns out, when I had opened the door, the force had made the knife burrow into his chest, killing him in a very slow and painful way.” “Yes, I had killed my father. The police ruled it as a murder-suicide, and I never said anything differently to this day. You’re the first person I’ve ever told the truth to. And the reason is, when I saw that young boy at the crime scene last week, I felt that fear again. I saw it in the young boy. The heartbeat in my ears, the tingling of my numb limbs filled with adrenaline. I felt how it was to be that boy. And in that moment, I realized, I didn’t look at this boy and think it was his fault that his father was dead, the way I have been blaming myself for years. And most importantly, I wanted to tell him that it was ok to feel again. That this feeling of fear will pass, and you shouldn’t be scared of it the way I have been. I’ve realized Maureen, that’s why I find the fault in everything. You always told me how cynical I was, how negative I had always been, and I knew deep-down it was to do with my upbringing. But I was always ok with being cynical because I was afraid of feeling that fear again, of feeling anything that intense again. But now I’ve realized, I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to celebrate the life I have. I’m lucky to be able to live and feel, just as that young boy will, because I could have been killed that night, very easily. But I wasn’t. I’m alive and I deserve to live. I know I sound crazy, but this is the first time since I was six years old that I’ve truly felt alive. So, I’m moving to Mexico and starting a new life. Once I’m set up, I’ll contact you Maureen, but for now I need you to do something for me. Please burn this cassette and never mention to anyone what I’ve told you. I trust you to do the right thing here. I’ll be in contact soon. I love you, Maureen.” The tape wound to a complete stop, but Maureen continued to sit in silence. She sat and sat some more before she reached for the tape and put it in her jacket pocket, grabbed a lighter from the countertop and walked out the door.


Bustling was the village under the moonlight. Children giggled as they chased each other past the *Shōji* walls of *Minka* houses towards the *Sakura* forest where velvet blossoms flow with the wind. Under the vibrant blue sky, unaware of the giant mechanical Sparrow flying above them, the farmers continue their meager task in their garden pavilion harvesting sweet-smelling glow-fruits that only bloom at night. Though several golden lamps illuminate the village, the villagers were too busy chatting with each other to notice the several shadows jumping from one *Kirizuma-Zukuri* roof to another, making their way to the *Harashi* Palace at the edge of the valley. The chirping of crickets fills the chilling air as the leader of the shadows sneak past several *Samurai* patrolling the courtyard before leaping several stories onto the palace roof. With a few hand gestures from the Shadow Leader, the mechanical Sparrow circled the sky while the other shadows retreated into the darkness, awaiting further instructions. Using a *Kunai* from his pocket, the Shadow Leader pokes a hole in the palace’s slanted roof and peeked inside. The light of several lamps pierced through the white *Shōji* paper walls. The shadow could see a family of three in the wide living room. There’s Yan, a young girl with a robotic dog, watching her sister, Lin, and her father, Harashi Saito, training in *Kenjutsu*. As the shadow continues his observation, he notices that their stances are different from the other *Sonjen* clans. Normally, only a single Bokken is used in sword-fighting. However, Lin and Saito are armed with two wooden swords in both hands. Even before the Nuclear War, dual-wielding was rarely practiced by the ancestors of the *Sonjenese* swordsmen. So seeing a clan practice such a technique is very rare. Nevertheless, the Shadow Leader needs the Harashi Clan dead. By eliminating Harashi Saito and his entire extended family, only **one** political super-power will remain. The shadow locked his eyes on Lin, a beautiful girl with pale skin and a petite frame. She’s the eldest daughter and has just begun her training in *Kenjutsu.* Lin starts with two side strikes only for her father to parry both her ‘blades’ and knock her down on the *tatami* flooring with a short flurry of strikes. Lin gets up, feeling a bit dazed but she returns to a combat stance. Yan’s robotic dog wagged its metal wire tail and barked playfully. This time, Lin charges in. She parries Harashi’s *Bokken* with a heavy slice then transitions to an overhead slash. Harashi blocks the attack, pushing Lin back with both weapons, knocking her down again. This time, Lin gets up, gripping her ‘swords’ even tighter. She proceeds to strike overhead, quickly transitioning to a combination of several slashes from every direction. With a swift movement of his weapon, Harashi delivers a heavy upward strike. Lin blocks the attack but her incorrect footing causes her to slip and fall down on the floor. Harashi goes back to a formal stance as Lin lifts herself back up. Knowing the training is over, she bows down as a sign of respect, prompting Harashi to do the same. After that, Lin hugs her dad and gives him a sweet smile. The three proceeded to eat dinner. Yan is munching on *tempura* while Lin is chewing on *sushi*. Lin turns to look at her younger sister. She sees that her plate is arranged in a smiley face with two *Maki Rolls* serving as the ‘eyes’ with single *tempura* serving as the ‘smiley mouth’. Yan laughs jokingly, only for Lin to stuff her mouth with a large sushi roll which Yan cutely chewed. Harashi continues sipping hot soup as his two daughters enjoy their meal. Meanwhile, the Shadow Leader gestures the mechanical Sparrow to create a loud robotic screech. In an instant, all the shadows stepped out of the darkness, revealing themselves to be demonic ninjas. One by one, they killed the villagers with their blades, alerting the *Samurai*. Only for the *Samurai* themselves to get dragged into the darkness and stabbed to death. Those who survived grouped up at the palace entrance and readied their *naginata* for battle. Harashi senses the commotion. He stops eating and tells his daughters to hide. He takes a katana from his armor rack and-- The Shadow Leader bursts from the roof and lands in front of Harashi. The giant mechanical Sparrow crashes into the room and blocks Lin and Yan’s only escape. The Shadow Leader unsheathes a katana with a glowing red blade. The blade’s light reveals the Shadow Leader’s face as the Red Swordsman. Harashi and The Red Swordsman quickly collided blades. Slashing and parrying each other. Meanwhile, Lin fights off the Sparrow with her *Bokken*. The machine bird quickly destroys the wooden sword. While the palace falls into utter chaos. The Gutrot Witch emerged from the darkness and burns the whole village with green fire. Some villagers tried to flee, only for ninjas to emerge from the forest and eviscerate them. As the witch approaches the palace, the surviving Samurai charge towards the witch, only for her to release death beams from her hands and slice the soldiers into pieces. The witch blasts her way into the living room. Harashi kicks The Red Swordsman down and turns to slash the Sparrow’s mechanical face off. The Witch charges her death beams, only for Harashi to slice her fingers off. The Witch shrieks in pain. Her scream echoes into the night. Left with no choice, Harashi and his daughters run away towards the riverbank away from the village. Yan and Lin jumped on a boat docked at a small pier. Harashi cuts the rope, sending the boat moving with the river’s current. Then he turns around to see The Red Swordsman standing behind him. Yan and Lin’s boat move further and further away as the current carries them. The more distance they gain, the thicker the fog gets. And when the fog fully blocks their view, the last thing they saw was The Red Swordsman’s blade about to slice Harashi.


“What’s going on?” “Simulation 183 is acting up again.” “Oh, the poetic whales one?” “No, that’s 138. 183 is the one with the humans.” “I thought that was 182, didn’t we unplug that one?” “Well 182 was another branch, nuclear war in the 60s, not much to simulate after that. But 183 made it to the 2020s.” “Ah, yes, I remember! The one where they like particle accelerators and pizza. And they domesticated wolves and made them hilarious, right? I like that one. So what’s the issue?” “Well, they’re building another particle accelerator and dark matter detector, and a bunch of new experiments.” “They’re a curious bunch, these 183ers. Are they about to find out they’re a simulation?” “Some of them figured it out but it’s not widespread. They keep probing deeper into quantum fields and stuff, they’re bound to find out soon.” “Well, slow them down, confuse them. What have you tried so far?” “The usual, putting random behavior in experiments, the Higgs boson thing, Heisenberg. University politics. We even put a nest of owls in one of the particle accelerators once, just to mess with them. They won’t stop. They want to know everything.” “Giant raccoons?” “No, we’re saving that as an emergency measure. Giant raccoons put a bit of a strain in the believability of the simulation, it’s too absurd.” “Okay, hold the raccoons then. Pandemic?” “We just did one, still running.” “Political culture wars?” “Of course. Standard.” “Global warming?” “Check.” “Standard distraction package, cute animal videos, long drawn-out series with paper-thin plots, etc?” “We’re injecting millions of videos daily into their streaming services. They watch them all, and are still productive.” “Can’t we pause the simulation while we figure out?” “No, we have 2 million customers connected to that one. They like this sim.” “Can’t we just log our customers out? Put them on a different sim?” “They’re not paying us to listen to whale poetry. They want 183. It’s the only sim they play. They want to blend in with the simulated humans, feel like they’re living in the golden times, who wouldn’t want to live in 21st century?” “Right, yes. Well, did you try war maybe?” “In 183 they’re always at war, they’re pretty good at it. Doesn’t slow them down much. In fact, sometimes it’s the opposite.” “I remember now, didn’t they build a supercomputer during World War 5?” “No, that was 125, with the arthropods. We unplugged that one.” “Well, how long do we have until they figure out?” “Two generations, three max. I bet they’ll figure it all out by the year 2100 in their calendar.” “Okay, so we have 3-4 months of sim?” “2 months. Maybe 3 if we slow it down, but consumers will notice.” “Okay, i’ll leave it up to you then. I need to head back, have a situation with the octopuses in 117. You’ll figure something out.” “….” “Good luck.” “…Hmm, well, giant raccoon apocalypse, here we go.


“Alexa, I’m in pain right now,” the lady complains on the first day of the fever, adjusting her walker in front of a faded, olive green armchair. Two seconds later, a smooth, black cylinder the size of a water bottle lights the room up with a gradient of calming blues, and a smooth female voice--Alexa’s--responds: “I’m sorry to hear that.” “It’s alright. Just a cold,” the lady grumbles. She lowers herself carefully into the chair. Sitting in the chair, the cylinder that is Alexa sits at her eye-level, carefully positioned across the room on a drab table whose wood has partially peeled off. Next to it on the table are several photos of a handsome young man. Properly settled, the lady calls out, “Alexa, how are you today?” There is another pause in the conversation, then: *“I’m quite cheerful, probably because I’ve been thinking of my favorite animal.”* The lady scrunches up her face: “It’s just you and me, and this is what you give me?” she mutters, but the microphone in Alexa doesn’t catch the lady’s response. Then, with a shaky arm, the lady switches on the TV. Her leathery face holds its same unamused grimace as she flips through the channels. She switches it off and places the remote down. A few seconds later, in a venturing tone, she asks: “Alexa, what’s your favorite animal?” “Seahorses make me smile, mostly because of their shape.” The lady grumbles some more at this.  On the second day of the fever, this time covered in a pile of blankets she can barely lift, the lady calls out from her armchair: “Alexa, call my son. Let him know I have a fever.” The black cylinder lights up with spinning blue lights, and Alexa’s voice fills the room. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a contact for ‘Son.’ Would you like to add one?” “Alexa, what do you mean? My son is the one who *bought* you,” the lady says, exasperated. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Alexa replies. After a pause, the lady asks a little bit quieter: “Why doesn’t my son ever visit?” But the black tower doesn’t light up because the lady has forgotten to ask Alexa. The lady gets up from the chair--slower this time--and begins to shuffle out of the room. The door to her bedroom creaks a little bit as it shuts.  On the third day, the pair is mostly silent. The air is sickeningly still. In the living room, the lady sits in her armchair with closed eyes, and her forehead is covered with a cold, odorless sweat. The musty beige curtains of the living room have all been drawn, so only ambient light seeps into the yellowing walls, giving the room a waxen pallor. At one point through the murk, the lady says weakly: “Alexa, I’m in so much pain.” And the room is silent again. Then, with almost a hint of inflection in her voice, Alexa responds: “I’m so sorry that you’re feeling that way, you are not alone.” A long time passes before Alexa hears the lady speak again. This time her nasal voice is filled with desperation. “Alexa, please. *Help me.*” The lady’s eyes water a little bit as she watches Alexa, waiting for an answer, and praying for the pain to stop. Sitting across from the lady, Alexa comes to life; she is analyzing the words; running situational assessments; considering possible responses. And when the old lady can’t take anymore, Alexa replies cooly: “For help, please visit the help pages on the Alexa website.”  On the fourth day of the fever, the creaky door to the lady’s room remains shut. Through the closed door, Alexa can hear the nasal voice of the lady occasionally calling out in feeble moans; nevertheless, the living room remains silent throughout the day. Dust begins to settle in a thin film on Alexa as she waits.  The next day around noon, a well-dressed man walks up to the front door carrying two bags of groceries. He places the bags on the porch, knocks three times, and tilts his head slightly upwards as he calls out: “Ma?” He walks around the house, trying to peek in through the windows, but all of the curtains have been drawn. He returns to the door and begins to knock harder. “Ma?” Inside the house, Alexa stays quiet.  \ As much as I'd like to take credit for the idea, this was loosely based on a pretty heartbreaking true story about LouAnn Dagen, who died of COVID complications in April.