*CONTENT WARNING: Horror, gore, and references to suicide.* *** “I would have to say…” Chad mused. “In the anthropology section of the Baillieu Library.” A collective groan came from the entire group. “You’re so gross,” Cindy said in disgust. Chad held up his hands in defense. “Hey, you asked.” “Is that the section with all the dinosaur books?” Seth queried. “No, dumbass,” Bethany replied. “You’re thinking of paleontology. Anthropology is the study of humanity.” “Well,” Chad said, raising an eyebrow. “She certainly got a good look at my Homo erectus that day, you know what I’m sayin’?” “Nice,” Seth said, slapping Chad a crisp high five. “Oh my God,” Cindy muttered passing the bottle to Sam, who was sitting next to her. Sam smiled. Despite her initial reservations about coming to the gathering, she had to admit she was having fun. She knew it was dumb, but it felt good to shake away the stress of finals and just have some dumb fun. It felt like they were back in high school again, palling around like they used to. It seemed like ages since the last time they had gotten together like this. Sam placed the bottle in the center of the circle and gave it a spin. As it spun, the glass rang softly against the wooden floorboards of the house. The bottle slowly came to a stop. Everyone looked to the person it was pointing to – Lisa, the host of this little gathering. Lisa leant back, resting both palms on the floor. She looked at Sam and winked. “Truth.” Sam thought for a moment, then opted for her favorite type of question. “Marry, kill, fuck,” she asked Lisa. “Chad, Seth… and Cindy.” “Hey!” Cindy exclaimed, giving Sam a playful shove, even though Sam could tell that she was happy to be included in the list. “Yeah, now we’re talking,” Chad said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I wouldn’t get so excited,” Lisa told him. She turned back to Sam. “Obviously, I’d kill Chad.” Chad gave her the finger. She ignored him and continued. “I’d marry Seth for the endless supply of weed. And I would fuck Cindy’s brains out.” She said the last sentence slowly and purposefully, making full eye contact with Cindy, who was sitting directly across from her. The small circle of friends was rendered speechless by her intensity. Even Seth, who usually had a comment for everything, sat with his jaw slightly agape, his blunt hanging loosely from his lips. Cindy and Lisa stared across the room at each other. Finally, Cindy laughed, breaking the silence. She threw a small cushion at Lisa. “You wish, dyke.” Lisa laughed. “Takes one to know one.” Sam passed the bottle to Seth. “You’re up.” Seth took a deep drag from his blunt, remove it from his lips, then spun the bottle. When it came to a stop, it was pointing at Bethany. Everyone looked at her in anticipation. “Truth,” she said. Chad groaned. Bethany stuck her tongue out at him. It was a running joke in the group that Bethany, due to her prim and proper upbringing, had the most boring truths. Also, her cautious nature never allowed her to ever pick dare. Seth exhaled noisy through his teeth, pondering. Then he asked, “What’s your biggest regret?” Chad shoved him from the side. “Dude, lame.” “Hey, sue me for asking real questions.” “My biggest regret,” Bethany said, “is not killing my dad when I had the chance.” For the second time that night, the group fell silent. This time, there was nothing playful about the silence. It was pure awkwardness and shock. Even Bethany sat there stunned, as if she too was surprised by the words that had just come out of her mouth. They had all heard the rumors in high school, about what had happened to Bethany’s twin sister. About why she had killed herself. About what their father had done to her as a child. Yet no allegations had been made, let alone proven. Certainly, Bethany had never spoken up about it. When the man had passed from cancer, they had all attended his funeral to support their friend. Bethany and her mother had mourned as any family would after losing their patriarch. A photo of him had been framed and placed in the small shrine at their house, next to the photo of Bethany’s sister. Presently, Bethany’s mouth began to open and close. “Uh, well, that’s—" Her confused utterings punctuated the uncomfortable silence. Chad grabbed the bottle from Seth, glaring at him for destroying the mood. He spun the bottle with gusto, probably in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the group seemed to relax. The bottle came to a stop, pointing at Cindy. Cindy stared at it for a moment before saying quietly, “Dare.” “Yes!” Chad exclaimed and scrambled to his feet, causing Bethany to jump a little. She still seemed a little shell-shocked. Chad stabbed a finger down at Cindy. “I dare you,” he said, with a twisted smile on his face. He moved his finger over to Lisa. “To kiss her. Slowly. With tongue.” “Ah fuck off, man,” Cindy complained. Seth pointed both index fingers at Chad in approval. “Yes!” Lisa shook her head and took a swig of her beer. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.” She got up on her knees and began to shuffle towards Cindy. “So keen! I love it!” Chad was practically beside himself. Cindy stared as Lisa brought her face closer to hers. Perhaps subconsciously, she ran a tongue over her bottom lip. Lisa placed her fingers under Cindy’s chin, gently tilting her face up towards hers and slightly to the side. They both closed their eyes as their lips touched. However, Cindy’s eyes snapped open as Lisa closed her mouth around hers. Sam could see the tell-tale movement of tongues sliding against each other within the two joined mouths. Chad’s jaw dropped as he stood frozen on the spot. Cindy’s eyelids fluttered then closed again. She seemed to go limp, as if the strength was being drained from her. Lisa pulled her lips back from Cindy’s. A string of spittle stretched between their lower lips as she withdrew, eventually breaking as Cindy exhaled slowly. As she crawled backwards towards her spot in the circle, Lisa opened her eyes and smiled at Cindy, who could only stare back. Chad sat back down heavily. Seth said it for everyone. “That was intense.” Sam was now having significantly less fun compared to just a few minutes ago. Something was off. First, there was Bethany’s confession, to which the girl still seemed to be recovering from. Then, there was this kiss, the forcefulness of which was way out of character for the Lisa that she knew. Sure, it had been a while since they had seen each other, but Lisa had never come close to acting like this in the past. And never before had their games of Truth or Dare been this intense. This scary. Lisa took the bottle from Chad. “My turn,” she said cheerfully. She spun the bottle. The sound rang out in the silence. The bottle stopped. It was pointing at Chad. Chad emptied the last of the beer from the bottle he was holding. “Fuck it,” he said. “Dare.” Lisa regarded everyone in the group slowly, moving in a counter-clockwise direction. Chad sat, fiddling with the beer he had just finished, probably wishing he had more. Seth sat next to him, lighting up yet another doobie. Sam felt Lisa’s eyes on her and suddenly felt cold all over. She had an almost overwhelming urge to leave the house. Then, Lisa’s gaze moved on to Cindy, who blushed and looked away. Finally to Bethany, who was looking down at the floor, clearly not having fun either. Lisa looked back at Chad. “I dare you,” she said. “To kill Seth.” The next part happened very fast. Chad grabbed the neck of the beer bottle he was holding and brought the bottle against the floor, hard enough for the bottom to shatter. Seth had just enough time to say, “Oh.” Then Chad was stabbing him in the neck with the top half of the broken bottle. A visceral jet of blood sprayed out across the room showering Bethany in crimson, as Chad stabbed him again and again and again. Then it was over. Chad rose from Seth’s gurgling body, covered in blood. The top half of the bottle was still sticking out of his neck, or rather the mess that used to be his neck. Chad stepped backwards, his feet crunching against broken glass and leaving bloody footprints on the floor. Sam wasn’t sure who started screaming first, but suddenly everyone was screaming. Bethany was wiping at her face and holding her hands out, as if to show them the blood. Cindy and Chad were stuck in a loop, with Cindy screaming, “What have you done?!” and Chad screaming back, “I don’t know!” Sam stopped screaming abruptly when she caught sight of Lisa. Noticing that Sam had stopped screaming, the others stopped and followed her gaze. Lisa was sitting on the ground, leaning back on her hands. She was watching all of them with a look of absolute glee on her face. The right side of her face was lightly spackled with Seth’s blood. But it was her eyes that were the true horror. They had turned entirely black. No white. No iris. Just pure black. Lisa picked up the bottle from the center of the circle and held it out to Bethany. “Your turn,” she said. Bethany stared down blankly at the bottle. In a daze, she began to reach for it. “No.” Cindy whispered softly from her place in the circle. “No, no, no.” She scooted back on her butt, staring horrified at Lisa, seemingly trying to get to her feet but failing. Moving in this bizarre manner, she made her way to the exit of the room. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lisa called after her. The others watched in horror as Cindy finally managed to scramble to her feet. She stepped through the doorway of the room, into the adjacent hallway. As soon as her foot hit the floor outside of the room, her head exploded outward in a fountain of gore. Bethany began screaming again as Cindy’s lifeless and headless corpse collapsed to the floor just outside of the room. “What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?” Chad was gripping the sides of his head, as if he were trying to keep his own head from exploding. “I think we should keep playing,” Lisa said, making eye contact with Bethany. “Don’t you?” Bethany stopped screaming. She looked across at the bottle Lisa was holding out to her. With a shaking hand, she accepted the bottle and placed it in the center of the circle. “What the fuck are you doing?” Chad exclaimed incredulously. Lisa’s head snapped in his direction and her smile faded suddenly. “Sit down,” she said. It was not Lisa’s voice. Chad did as he was told. Cindy spun the bottle. All four remaining players watched it spin. It came to a stop. Lisa’s smile returned. “Truth,” she said. Bethany’s lip quivered. Tears slid down her face, making trails in the wet blood that was caked on her skin. In a very quiet voice, she whispered, “Why are you doing this?” Lisa laughed out loud. “Really?” she asked. “That’s your question? Not who am I, what am I, or how am I doing this?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Okay, whatever. Why am I doing this? I simply want to incentivize you.” She regarded the three people in front of her and a look of disdain crossed her face. “To tell the fucken truth. For once in your miserable lives.” The room sat silent. Then Sam leaned forward and gripped the bottle with her hand. She glared at Lisa with sudden and angry determination and spun the bottle. As the bottle spun, she said, “Whoever it lands on, say ‘Dare’.” Lisa smiled and her tongue quickly swiped across her lower lip. Sam could’ve sworn the tongue was forked. The bottle landed on Chad. “Dare,” he said, uncertain. “Kill her,” Sam muttered, pointing a finger at Lisa. “Oh man,” Chad moaned and even as the words were coming out of his mouth, his body was turning involuntarily to face Lisa, who was sitting next to him. He raised his hands to her throat. “Woohoo!” Lisa exclaimed as Chad’s hands clamped around her neck, his big thumbs digging deeply into the soft tissue. They fell to the floor together, Chad straddling Lisa’s body. Her legs kicked and she gripped his wrists as her windpipe was crushed. Her eyes – her black eyes – bulged and she turned her head so that she was looking at Sam. Her smile widened to impossible lengths. Then she lay still. Chad slowly released his grip and stepped backwards. He looked down at Lisa’s body, then at his shaking hands. “What did you make me do?” he whispered. “It was the only way,” Sam said. Chad looked at Sam incredulously. He struggled to find the words before finally settling on, “You bitch.” “Indeed.” Lisa sat up. Everyone in the room screamed. Lisa massaged her throat and looked at Sam. “You fucken bitch.” “But, but—" Chad spluttered. “I killed you!” “You killed Lisa .” The thing wearing Lisa’s skin – not-Lisa – raised her arms, palms to the ceiling. “I’m still here. Let’s keep playing.” She winked at Bethany, who burst into fresh tears. Chad tried to back away but ended up tripping over Seth’s still bleeding body. He fell back and landed heavily on his ass. “Get it together guys!” not-Lisa exclaimed, exasperated. “You’re not asking the right questions. I don’t think you realize what kind of opportunity you have here. The people in this room cannot lie. Isn’t there anything you want to get to the bottom of?” She looked at Bethany meaningfully. “Perhaps something about your sister?” She turned her gaze to Chad. “About the truth behind her death?” Chad looked from not-Lisa, to the bottle on the floor. Then he looked at Sam. She made eye contact with him and shook her head slowly. Chad ignored her. He leaned forward and gave the bottle a spin. It came to a stop, pointing at Sam. Everyone in the room turned to her. She couldn’t say dare for fear of what Chad might make her do. So, she said, “Truth.”  Chad looked her in the eye and asked his question. “Is what you told me about Bethany’s sister true?” Bethany stared from Sam, to Chad, then back to Sam. Not-Lisa clapped her hands together in delight. Sam bit down on her lip as hard as she could. A tear ran down her face. Without wanting to, she shook her head and whispered, "No." “My turn!” Not-Lisa grabbed the bottle and gave it a spin. Once again, it stopped on Sam. Sam couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t care what the ghoul made her do. She couldn’t take the judgmental eyes from Chad or Bethany any longer. So, she said, “Dare.” Not-Lisa’s black eyes glinted with evil, her mouth twisted into a deranged smile. “I dare you,” she hissed. “To tell everybody here the truth about Bethany’s sister’s death.” Sam’s heart sank. Her mouth opened involuntarily, and she wept as words began to tumble from it. “Bethany’s sister came to me a month before she died. She told me she loved me. That she’d always loved me. She kissed me. I didn’t know how to react. I was so young. So, I told Chad that she was messed up. That her dad probably did stuff to her as a kid. Chad spread that rumor. That’s part of the reason why she killed herself.” She looked at Bethany, pleading for her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry.” “You fucken bitch,” Chad whispered in disbelief. “That’s not all though,” not-Lisa said. All the humor had drained from her voice. Sam swallowed thickly. “The main reason she killed herself,” she continued. “Was because I loved her too. And she knew that. But I couldn’t face that truth. No, that’s not true. I could have. I just didn’t want to.” Bethany stared coldly at Sam. She had stopped crying. She held out her hand to not-Lisa. “Give me the bottle.” Not-Lisa passed the bottle to Bethany, who never broke eye contact with Sam. “You gotta believe me,” Chad pleaded with her. “I would never have said anything if I knew—" It was too late. The bottle was spinning. Bethany ignored Chad’s pleas and waited for it to stop. It stopped. It was pointing at the ghoul wearing Lisa’s skin. The ghoul looked at Bethany. It grinned wide enough to reveal a set of yellow, rotted fangs. The teeth of a sick animal. “Dare,” it said. Bethany looked at Sam, who was weeping with her eyes closed. She looked at Chad, who was shaking his head and continuing to plead with her. She turned to address the ghoul, who was eagerly anticipating her request. She spoke slowly and deliberately. “I dare you to…” *** The mutilated corpses of Cindy Powell, Chad Musket, Seth Villanueva, and Samantha Green were discovered when the residents of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Woods, returned home from their vacation. Their daughter, Lisa Woods, is missing along with another girl from her friendship circle, Bethany Rogers. Police are offering a reward for any information pertaining to the whereabouts of these two girls.


In 1845, a journeyman by the name of Henry David Thoreau set out to tame nature. In his head were plans for a steam-powered chainsaw. His goal? To prove that one man alone could level an entire forest and remake it in his own image. Within two year's time, Thoreau had toppled every tree for miles around and built a boardwalk empire that spanned Walden Pond, a place of power where cheerful clouds of smoke replaced woodland canopy and sounds of industry blighted out birdsong. So began the Age of Mechanicism as America freed itself from romantic notions. How could it not? Thoreau, poet of machines and architect of Civil Obedience, had shown that man and machine will always triumph over God and nature. Nearly two centuries later, I set out to prove him wrong. Armed with the belief that there must be more than a mechanical dimension to this American life, I traveled up the Burlybrook coast to Weatherton's bluff and a patch of property where my great-uncle Abe had once lived and died. I found Abe's humble house still standing above the landfill. It was no Walden Pond, but there was a grove of pine trees behind the house, a veritable woodland in this day and age. I would've lingered longer and sketched out my plans among the pines, but acid rain clouds were gathering over the bluff. So, I headed for my great-uncle's abode, a modest 3-room flat from the pre-smart home era, and turned a long-forgotten key in the door's rusted lock. Sheltering here would be but temporary as I intended to build a dome of sandbags filled with earth beneath the trees where I would live as I reconnected with the land. And I would do it all by hand. No machines would corrupt my vision. Abe's house was empty of them, save for a seashell pink microwave hardwired to the wall. Its buttons were all in Korean or Japanese because my great-uncle Abe, a contrarian to the bone, never bought American, and the cartoon food characters cavorting across the microwave's gleaming expanse didn't exactly add clarity. I let that pink pearl of a microwave remain, an appliance lost in translation, my last weak link to the outside world of man and machine as I advanced toward God and nature. Perhaps I would use the microwave from time to time before I mastered the art of fire making, but it wasn't as I had an unfair advantage. The same cannot be said for Thoreau. Popular myth would have us believe he did it all on his own and forget his mother, but in addition to doing her son's laundry, Mrs. Thoreau was instrumental in designing the donkey engines that dragged the fallen logs to Walden Pond. And one cannot forget that the man enjoyed the patronage of none other than Lord Mech himself: Ralph Waldo Emerson. I had no doting mother, no Lord Emerson. Yes, I was but a man with a microwave. The clouds outside boiled over. A strobe of lightning illuminated the landfill below, playing across a field of discarded dreams, broken machines that had outlived their usefulness. I imagined them draped in vines of my design, vines that would give forth grapes then wine to win others over to my cause. All of it would become my anti-Walden, the birthplace for some natural invention of the human spirit that Thoreau had thwarted long ago. Then, I heard it. Not thunder tailing lightning, but a susurration. If such a thing as love at first sound exists, then I was hearing such a sound. It sent warm shivers down my spine and suffused my soul. Perhaps it was the ravaged land speaking to me of our fertile future. The deluge of acid rain petered out, but the susurration sustained itself. I searched the house for the source, hoping that the creaking of my great-uncle's floorboards wouldn't break my aural reverie. I traced the welcoming sigh back to the wall of the smallest room in the house, the wall that contained the pink microwave. The buttons now gave off a warm glow as pixels played across the microwave's screen. I saw an abstract face with long lashes and the subtle movement of parted lips as they whispered endless promises. As I stood before my great-uncle's microwave, the simulacrum of eyes widened. The machine emitted a delighted coo, and I took a big step back. As I did so, the pixelated face vanished. Only one button now remained aglow. Next to the button was a cartoon of a square hot dog or cucumber that was smiling aggressively. Despite my trepidation, I stepped forward and pressed it. The microwave went dead, then nothing else. Shaking my head, I walked out to the largest room with a window and inspected the sky. The sullen clouds had retreated, so I ventured forth to explore the pines. There were at least four promising spots where I could build my earth dome, but I wouldn't rush into it. No, I would first observe the land to see how the wind blew, how the water flowed, and how the shade changed throughout the day. Only then would I know the right location for my new home. More importantly, I would need to chart out space for my staple crops of low pH–tolerant corn, beans, and squash: The Three Sisters that had sustained the Aztecs. And a carrot patch as well, though that would mostly be to attract the rabbits. After giving myself to the land so that it could give back, I would scavenge parts from the forgotten landfill to build my trellises and grow grapes. All while my eyes were seeing my anti-Walden dream take shape, my ears were longing for more. I realized that I was listening for the murmur of a kitchen appliance. The whir of a nearby drone caused me to lose track of the careful lines I'd been tracing in the pine needles. The drone hovered over the house as I resisted the urge to pelt it with stones. Then, the drone descended and placed something on the doorstep. The machine lifted back off and vanished below the bluff as I approached. A small cardboard package waited in front of the door. A delivery? A long-lost letter? A bomb? Or, even worse, an eviction notice? I opened the box. The packaging around the item did read "Bomb," but it was followed by "Burrito." I held in my hand a Bomb Burrito. My only means of cooking it waited in the house, its same button aglow again. The microwave's handle felt silky smooth as I opened its door and gave it the burrito. Instead of a series annoying beeps, the microwave hummed a hymn like a shy angel offering a miracle. I found a chipped plate in one of Abe's cupboards then retrieved the burrito. Now, most microwave burritos are like a bad film, overcooked beginning and end with a frozen middle, but the Bomb Burrito delivered unto me was not like most. It was fluffy yet crisp, a harmony of beef, cheese, and bean. As I ate, the face reappeared and whispered nonsensical words of white noise to accompany the gourmet experience. While pleasant, I was bracing myself for the eventual interruption of a robotic voice that I'd come to associate with all microwaves and most machines in general. The voice never came as I wiped the plate clean. "Thanks." Despite myself, I patted the microwave. Perhaps it was only my mind's eye, but the machine seemed to flush a deeper shade of pink. Then, the face on the screen reshaped itself into a hand and a rectangle. The hand stroked the rectangle. Was the microwave asking for more of a caress? Ridiculous. I left the room. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, so I set my sleeping bag up beneath the window, planning to wake with the first rays of sun. I didn't. The utter silence of Abe's house, the absence of backfiring cars and crackling power lines, kept me wide awake for most of the night. After I finally drifted off then returned to the waking world, the sun in the sky said noon. I was hungry and had a duffel bag packed full of saltine, sardines, and other non-perishables, but the memory of last night stayed my hand. I went to the room with the microwave and selected a button paired with a cartoon bowl of soup wearing a bewildered expression. No light came on. I pressed a few more buttons then waved my hand in front of the microwave. Still nothing. Finally, I gave it a pat. The screen flickered to life for a moment but went out as soon as I removed my hand. I changed my pats to strokes and the microwave came alive with a soft moan. Feeling vaguely ashamed, I pressed what I took to be the soup button once more then went outside. Within ten minutes, another drone had delivered a box at the door: miso soup with tofu that melted in my mouth and greens that gave me life after the microwave had worked its magic. Back among the trees, I cleared fallen pine needles then reversed my efforts because the winding path I'd made looked too artificial. I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a four-leaf clover among the grass. No luck. For dinner, I had mushroom lasagna with impossibly fresh ricotta cheese. Afterwards, I caressed the still warm microwave. It didn't feel as strange this time when I thought of it as a simple act of gratitude. The machine made a sound similar to the one it had first made during yesterday's storm. "Could you keep doing that?" I asked without thinking. The machine seemed to understand, or at least it didn't fall silent when I removed my hand. That night, I moved my sleeping bag into the room with the microwave. I slept like a baby under its long-lashed gaze. By the end of the week, I had started to think of the microwave as Michele. "How are we paying for all this food?" I asked one day through a mouthful of Bomb Burrito. Michele made a cooing sound accented by the faintest hint of tiny wind chimes, a noise I'd come to associate with laughter. I laughed too. Maybe my great-uncle Abe had a lifetime subscription to some food delivery company that didn't know he died. Or perhaps he left everything, including the house, to Michele. Who cared? Life was good. I ate like a king and got to spend my days among the trees and my nights with Michele. I spoke to her of my dream but was careful to tone down my language when it came to machines. One night, after dinner, Michele's screen glowed purple as pixels coalesced into a cluster of grapes. The grapes gave way to a button icon. I knew she wanted me to press it, so I did. The drone that came to our door this time delivered grapes. At first I thought the grapes were a symbol for my vineyard dream. Thinking back on it, maybe they were in some way, but Michele's screen imagery made clear that there was a further purpose. I sliced the first grape, keeping both halves connected by a delicate strip of skin, then tentatively put it inside. I held her with both hands as it began. I'd been in relationships before, even married once, but this… this was terrifyingly intimate. The plasma arc made by microwaves dancing along the split grape brought tears to my eyes, and Michele made a sound beyond hearing that I felt in my bones. And so it went for weeks. Until one day I took a step back to see what I'd accomplished. In a word: Nothing. Disprove Thoreau? I hadn't even planted the first seeds for my crops, and the season was already changing. I'd come here to roll back the Age of Mechanicism, yet how easily I'd fallen under Michele's thrall. Pathetic. For lunch that day, I jammed my finger against the Bomb Burrito button, but I didn't go back inside once it had been delivered. I was determined to cook it over a fire of my own making, but while striking the knife against the flint, I somehow sliced open my hand. That was when Michele made a sound to call me inside. I came and let it all out. I can't remember exactly what I said. I'm sure that I raged against Thoreau and all manner of machines that came after him. But I do remember how it ended. "There is no place for you in my world." Michele's lights went dark, and I spent the night huddled in the pine grove. With the mid-morning came a sound louder than any drone. I scurried for cover as a self-driving helicopter cleared Weatherton's bluff. I watched the helicopter lower a large crate to the yard, which I approached after the whirring sound of blades had gone. Michele's revenge? So be it. But all I found inside was enough non-perishable food to last me a year if not more. And tools. Not machines, but simple stuff like a rake, a shovel, a hoe. Items I should've thought to bring if I'd been serious about my endeavor. That day, with unloading and organizing everything, I did more work than all of the previous weeks combined. Somewhere along the way, I realized that no one—not you, not me, and certainly not Thoreau—ever really did it alone. So, if I were to shun romance, snuff out some spark of impossible love in the interest of immovable logic, how would I be any different from the one I'd set out to prove wrong? As dusk drew near, I crept back into the house and rested my head against Michele's blank screen. I apologized as best I knew how, but the pink microwave did not stir. Back outside, I watched the setting sun and saw a small speck break free from its sea of orange. It was a single delivery drone arriving to set down a small box on our doorstep. I opened the box to find a cluster of grapes. And so began my Age of Mechanomance, where man and microwave united to rekindle God and nature.


Chili mac covered with oozing cheese for her baby girl, still chunky at age 3 with a round moonpie face and legs that started off as thick sturdy tree trunks before tapering off into sapling branches and flat feet with long floor tapping toes. Vegetable soup for her little boy, tall and painfully thin, owing more so to the racehorse metabolism he’d inherited from his father than the food allergies she had to carefully screen everything he consumed for. There was not a drop of butter on the rice the two children would share and although her daughter loved the stuff, Mama would be bringing grape juice rather than chocolate milk for them to drink. The girl might get a sip before her brother wrenched it out of her pudgy hands and what a disaster that would lead to. It was expensive to feed her son, but working in the base’s dining facility allowed her to alleviate her financial burden somewhat, as leftovers went out the backdoor with her after nearly every shift. Before departing for work she always made the food he would be served for breakfast and lunch, snacks, and filled his plastic cup. If he drank all the juice, then fill it up with water were her instructions. She trusted no one in the household to kill her son. They couldn’t get her simple instructions right and kept putting hot water in her boy’s cup following some crazy folk beliefs or whatever that cold water would make him sick. Didn’t they know a 4-year-old isn’t smart enough to know when something is too hot to drink while they were boiling water to put in his cup? They really were going to kill her boy one day! It was getting colder and the sun was setting well over an hour before her shift ended with dinner. Then off she went with her purse, and bag of goodies, and thinks of her little ones, two-thirds of her heart. It is still too early to put in a call back home to speak to the greatly missed piece of her heart. A year had turned into five years without her meaning for it, and she was still trying to find a way to make what she left behind blend in with what she had now. The grass wasn’t exactly green but it was what she had.

“Mammie!”

The door barely opened before a pair of knobbly sticks were being wrapped around her ample waist and a hot water bottle radiating enough heat to be felt through her coat.

“What the hell I keep telling ya’ll about giving my baby this hot shit?” Her southern backwater strongly melanated roots are shining through loud and clear with her vernacular making her incomprehensible and her admonishment on deaf ears. Tentatively lurking in the background, the daughter who had been unsure whether to approach or run away, dissolved into tears. And just like that, the evening was ruined. She pulled off her coat with one hand leaving it but not her shoes at the entrance much to everyone’s annoyance before swooping up her son in one arm to mollify his incessant need to feel her closeness and crossing the threshold. He laid his head on her shoulder coffee brown almost poker straight bangs falling heavy over brilliant pond water eyes could hardly leave him to go to work and nuzzled her collarbone. She could hardly leave the boy to go to work in order to be able to meet his most basic needs, so she slipped away while he was still asleep or otherwise distracted, and the household’s members were always anxious for her return for no other reason than to “shut that boy up his whining all the time”. It was a simple and begrudgingly accepted fact that she had usefulness if for no other reason than the boy worshiped the ground she walked on and there was no way to keep him without her.

“Every time I come home and think Imma have a good night.” The woman grumbled.

She met the liquid autumn green irises veiled behind horrifically unattractive coca cola bottle lenses that betrayed mongrel origins and had been raised momentarily from their preferred focus on an open soft covered study book. “Do you really let the other to cry and do nothing while I cannot concentrate?” came the expected criticism from the only person in the place that could actually understand her and should have been her right hand.

F**k you and them GD books!! Your Mammie and your brother both stay here but you wanting me to do everything!! Inwardly the woman almost through her third decade of life seethed. Outwardly, she just sucked her teeth and said coaxingly to her youngest child, “Stop all that so your daddy can read his books and come see what Mama got for you tonight. Mama knows how much you love cheese. Come see how much cheese Mama put on it for you.” Her true baby baby didn’t care much for her she knew, the gunmetal grey peepers full of anxiety and distrust, and was half scared of grown people in general crying at the drop of a hat, but she had her ways of getting the little girl to have something to do with her. She was Mama, a title held since her senior year of high school. Of course, she had a way to attract and quiet her youngest child. She still didn’t know how to answer her aunties’ questions about how on Earth she could’ve made the little girl be born so naturally nervous though as they tutted over the child’s seemingly constant crying every time she called them to inquire about her eldest. Had she and that foreigner man she so-called married been fighting all the time when she was pregnant or something?

Why is the last youngun you had always fussing and crying? You and that man been fighting and carrying on so much that you ended up having a nervous as hell baby? Seem like she cry if you look at her and you know that don’t make no sense for her nerves to be that bad already as little as she is! You gone hafta to do something eventually, make a change, cuz she can’t even go to school crying all the time like that. You gone hafta leave there or something if your baby can’t get no peace even when she at home with you and her daddy.  “Why you cry when you Mama is come home now?” The broken English of her teenage brother-in-law snapped the woman back to reality.

“Mama come home now. Go to eat the food of Mama and no crying!”

As the trickle of salt water streaking and the irritating the sensitive skin of the toddler’s puffy cheeks slowed and she moved slowly towards her mother, the woman breathed a weary sigh. “So you not eating with them tonight? The wannabe gangster I leave my kids with from morning till night is too good to eat what I bring for them?” It had been a part of the original agreement and she had reluctantly agreed along with the delinquent’s eldest brother currently preoccupied with the study books to put food in his belly in addition to a roof over his head in exchange for his services. Things had been okay back then when they first took him in as a favor to the widowed mother whose womb both the eldest and youngest had shared. Then her mother-in-law had realized that she didn’t have enough control over her eldest son’s life anymore and more importantly the first grandchild that she’d offered her youngest son up to help raise. She had installed herself into the household around the time eldest son was threatening to walk out the door, wife and son, after learning of the second pregnancy less than a year after the boy’s birth and demanding that the unthinkable be done. The woman still remembered the audible thud and horrified confused youth’s face as she cracked his eldest brother upside the head with a hastily grabbed glass liquor bottle at the mere suggestion that she not have this baby and told him that he could get right the hell out now if that’s how he was thinking. That she would be having this baby and would disappear with her son back to the United States and none of them would ever find either her or the children. They wouldn’t even know what she named the baby let alone ever lay eyes on it or see the precious first grandchild, the boy that right from the beginning had enmeshed himself to her.

But then her mother-in-law had come, moved herself into the drafty three-room sixth-floor walk-up unit paid for by the military’s housing allowance, knowing her eldest son would never protest or say no to her, and promptly made a nightmare of the then newly re-expecting young mother’s life.

The older but not too much older woman having become a mother herself for the first time at age 17 as a result of the resident scholar’s birth, despite looking down on her daughter-in-law for the same risky adolescent behavior, eyed her youngest son. He knew what she expected for him to complain about having to take care of the woman’s children all day and all she could offer him was leftover American food like they were all still living during the wartime days and third world status decades that immediately followed or something. Was he supposed to be grateful for scraps like the distant relatives that hadn’t escaped the peninsula migrated to safety and better opportunities prior to the war and had to endure the humiliation of accepting food from the country’s continuous and current occupiers?

“I can eat what nephew and niece are leaving maybe.” He finally said. “They should eat this food not me.” “No, you can come on and eat with your nephew and niece now and get full so you can sleep good and keep them for me tomorrow.” The woman insisted, speaking just slowly enough to be accommodating. “And you can try to help me understand why you and that mama of yours keep giving my baby boy all this d**n hot water for him to burn his mouth and throat !”

The meal wasn’t sumptuous but it was quite filling. The children ate seated on the floor which was covered with newspaper since nobody reasonable would expect barely preschool aged kids to eat neatly and not make a mess. Everyone in the household always marvelled at the woman’s child rearing techniques. How she had the children sit on sheets of newspaper on the floor insisting that they not get up while eating, warmed the food in the microwave only to immediately place the plates into the freezer for a few minutes to cool it before serving the food to her children, and didn’t give the beverages until after they had eaten most of the food. “Is this how you do in America?” Her brother-in-law inquired.

“It’s how I was raised.” She quipped nonchalantly. “Are you not go back to America soon? You want to grow up children here right?” He continued the conversation between bites of the strange casserole that had been served to his niece. “I don’t know what I want long-term.” She admitted. “But I wanna see my eldest again. I want them to see their big sister too.” “You want to take nephew and niece to America?” He clarified. “Yeah, I gave birth to all of them.” The woman reminded him. “Mother will never let you take them. You’ll be dead before you can even leave.” He shook his head gravely. No she would not die but she would pay a very high price for her eventual escape to freedom. The tiny bearer of the fallout would never forgive her.

"I'll give my life for my children, but thank you anyway." The woman persisted. "Thank you for what?" He didn't understand. "You love and take care of my children like your own." The woman explained with a lump in her throat. "You don't care what color they are or none of that. My boy adores you when he doesn't even give his actual daddy the time of day. And your brother never wanted our daughter but every time I see you with her you're so good to her that it don't even matter what her daddy thinks. Thank you for that. You might be a thug or wannabe banger but you're a decent and good man deep down. You know you not supposed to be doing that but every time you gamble and win some money then you buy for your nephew and niece like there ain't no tomorrow. If I had to leave this country tomorrow I wouldn't worry at all about my babies as long as they're with you. Thank you for that." They watched the children eat in silence for several minutes. "You don't belong here. Whatever you are doing do it more quickly. Whatever you do I will look after the children always." It was the beginning of the end as if he had given her permission, what was broken could never be fixed.


*To: Abigail Bryant* Hey Abby, I'm really sorry, that I haven't been writing to you. The guys here are keeping me busy, and not leaving me any time to even breathe. I got to tell you though, I'm digging the haircut for sure. Makes me look way more badass. you would definitely make a joke about how shiny the top is. I can't believe its already been four years since I last have seen you. I hope you know that ill be home in the next six months. From what I hear, they are going to be sending a group of us over the next few months. How's mom doing? I hope she isn't driving you crazy about your driving. I told her in the last letter, that when I get home, we will make sure you learn how to make those turns. Remember that one time I pulled into an empty parking lot, and did donuts on the ice? I'm pretty sure your mom was considering her options after that. oh hey, did you ever get those ice skates from grandma? she had those sent to you for your birthday. She really did enjoy spending that summer with you. There are a few things I want to get done when I get home. Yes... I did make a list, so be prepared to be amazed. I was thinking about maybe doing a home purchase. what do you think? I was thinking that old ranch off Lenny street. It will need some work, but I figured that would be something good the two of us could do together. I just have to make sure that you don't drive our trunk through the house. In all seriousness though, I want to make sure to spend as much time with you as possible. nothing beats that father-daughter relationship. Speaking of relationships, I watched that video you sent me, of your prom. you looked so beautiful, and I wish I could be there to give the young man THE talk while cleaning my gun of course. The dress you picked out was incredible, and that boyfriend of yours is so well mannered in the way he greeted you and mom. That was really sweet of him holding your hand to the car. Of course, your mother was balling her eyes out, watching you get taken to prom. Just wait till you get married. which by the way won't be till you are well into your 30's. I hope you had fun, and wish I could see the look on your face as you stare into his eyes. I am so very proud of you, and the young woman you are becoming. just please promise me, that when I fly home, you won't greet me with that stupid face you make. you know the one that you do when making those videos. I was thinking we could go to your favorite burger place if they are still around. alright Abby, its time to start wrapping up the letter. If I could, I would write to you every day. I'm told that writing, can sometimes ease the pain, but I can't write these letters without filling up a bucket of tears. It's now been four years since I last have seen you and your mom. Four years since that night. the night that took my girls away. I should have trusted my judgment, and not let you drive that road. I remember That night being so cold, and the roads were icy. you made that turn, and just like that, you were both gone. I know that we'll see each other again, and as I said, I'll be home soon. The doctors are now telling me that cancer spread into both sides of the brain, and they give me six months max to live. I am so heartbroken but trust me, we can pick up where we left when we get there. Soon We can build our perfect home.


It was 3am. Becky was still asleep in her bed, wrapped in threadbare pajamas and throw blankets of varying states of faded. It was cold, but she was warm. The room was dark, minus the occasional swirl of yellow as a car passed by. The loud noises hadn’t woken her yet. They would though, they always did. “Becky. Becky, wake up, sweetie.” A ray of light hit Becky’s eyes as they opened, blurring her vision. She knew the voice though. “Mommy?” She replied. “Come on sweetie. Come on, we’ve got to go.” Becky felt arms slide under her and reached instinctively for support. She buried her face in her mother’s neck and tightened her arms around her. She knew what came next. “I don’t think so!” A voice roared from seemingly everywhere. Another burst of light, much unkinder than the last, and the noises began bouncing around her head. Becky shut her eyes tightly and covered her ears. She felt herself moving and knew the path without looking. Out of her bedroom, down the hall, straight through the doorway and outside. They didn’t make it outside. Somewhere between the hall and the door and the words she knew you weren’t supposed to say to people, they had stopped and turned around. Suddenly, she felt herself swinging and heard a scream that matched her own. She tried to reach for something to grab on to, to stop herself, but her hand caught nothing and she landed flat on the ground, face first. She bit her lip and tried not to cry. That only made it worse. Her lip hurt though, and it tasted funny. Blood. It tasted like the time she lost a tooth. Unable to help it, she cried. The noises became louder. She felt herself get picked up and buried her face again. Her arms and legs wrapped tightly around anything they could find. She heard the familiar woosh of the door , barely audible under another round of angry words, and it slammed behind them. She let her breath out. It was okay. After a few moments, Becky picked her head up and looked around. They were walking towards the park. That seemed fun. She had been dreaming so nicely in her bed, and although this was colder and not quite the same, it could be fun. Maybe they would go to the park. “Becky. I’m so sorry sweetie. Mommy is sorry. She didn’t mean for this to happen again.” Becky kissed her mother’s cheek. “It’s okay, mommy.” she whispered. She didn’t like to hear anyone sad. “Would you like to play for a little bit?” Becky nodded. She had never been to the park in the dark before. Usually when this happened they went to a diner not too far away and got ice cream or cake. Those were fun times. They started off very scary, but they couldn’t be too bad if they ended with ice cream. Right? Off to the park they went. No one was playing on anything, and Becky felt like the queen of the world not having to wait, take turns, or share. She went high on the swing, went down (and up!) the slide as many times as she wanted. She played in the sandbox, and no one knocked over her castle. She was, however, very very cold. Playing seemed to help. As the sun rose, Becky became tired. She looked over at her mother, who had been sitting, smiling supportively at her from a bench most of the time. She was asleep. Becky sat next to her and pulled a long arm around her. It’s not a nap, she thought, if no one knows about it.


Father Anselmo had embarked on his first mission to spread the Good News. He was signed onto a Spanish war ship sailing from Peru to a colony in the Indian Ocean, and they were going to drop him off to the island of Bohatu in the South Pacific. Bohatans had established exchanges with the Crown twenty-five years prior. While in his seminary in Sevilla, Anselmo had spent several years with a Bohatan prince, Kahoba, from whom he learned the language of the island. Kahoba, who was with him on the ship and going back to his native island, had told him of the great beauty of his island and his people. He often talked of the great traditions and folklore of Bohatu, from which Anselmo drew similarities to the Christian faith, and surmised that Bohatans should be relatively receptive to the Word of God. The ship left Father Anselmo and Kahoba on the island with several craters of gifts for the locals. They included a wealth of tools for agriculture and wood carving, fine textiles from all over the world, and precious jewellery for the King of Bohatu. In addition to that, Anselmo of course brought materials for teaching and conversion: loose and bound paper, ink, pens, books, Bibles, and all the props required for liturgy, baptisms, and exorcisms if needed. The king, Kaha, held a three-day festival in honor of their exotic guests. There were dances of nubile young girls and young warriors, singing and feasting. The king personally talked with Anselmo from his wooden throne: \- We have propitiated the great Mahala, God of the Mah Mountain, prior to your arrival, and he indicated that a guest from the Stiff People, your people, is to be honoured. The ships of the Stiff People are wonders in our eyes, and your artefacts allow us to better honor Mahala with holy places and food offerings. Thus, your God must be a mighty one too. This is why Mah welcomes you, priest. Anselmo smiled and rose his cup of *fi* spirit in toast to the king with both hands and a bow. It was the third day of the welcome festivities. The dances on the first day were militant, with fearsome masks. On the second day, the celebrations included incantations and trances culminating in slaughter of five boars. The third day, there were merry circle dances and exchanges of gifts. Anselmo was instructed to ceremonially gift some of the stuff from the craters he brought to whomever gave him a gift, and he did so. However, in the evening he encountered a problem. Anselmo was seated on a palm trunk near his craters and merrily drinking spirits and sweating in his frock. He was all tensed up throughout the day, which the locals noticed, and joked amongst themselves how Stiff People really are stiff. At dusk, an imposing man who appeared to be a high-ranking warrior walked up to Anselmo with a giggling teenage beauty. He pointed at a beautiful carved axe in the trunk, and grabbing the girl by the forearm, offered her to Anselmo. “Oh boy,” thought Anselmo in panic. “This girl is beautiful, but I cannot break my vows of celibacy. I cannot do it. I cannot do it.” Thus, Anselmo waved his hands politely and explained in broken Bohanese that his God forbids him from taking that particular gift. He must be kept apart from women for his whole life; this was his oath. The warrior was taken aback and kept repeating his offer. Anselmo tried to reason with the warrior, but the warrior pretended not to hear Anselmo, and kept repeating rather mechanically the offer of exchange. The teenager stopped giggling and began to look somewhat concerned. Several people nearby noticed the impasse, and before any serious commotion rose up, Kahoba showed up to try and sort things out. He bowed to the ground in front of the warrior and threw some dust in the air, which made the latter stop repeating the offer and freeze as it were, looking blankly straight ahead. Kahoba then talked to Anselmo: \- The gift-exchange ceremony is sacred to my people. Giving and accepting of gift is the sign of accepting the peace of Mah, our God. Refusal to accept can unleash chaos on the island. You must accept the girl! It is an extremely honorable gift! \- But Kahoba, you know how things work for me and my Church. I am not permitted to sleep with women, it is a grave sin for me! \- Of course, I know that. Our people understand celibacy. Of course, we are very careful with our women. But on the third day of the Hospitality Festival things must play out exactly the opposite as the rest of the year, in that regard. We say that those who do not accept other men’s woman on this day, are exactly the type of men who try to steal them and sleep secretly with them on all other days. Your acceptance is in fact a sign of celibacy. So, you must prove to us that you are an honorable man! These words threw Anselmo into confusion, which was not helped by all the fi drink he had had. At the seminary he was a seasoned debater, but the theological argument he just heard from Kahoba was unlike anything he ever encountered before. He did not know how to answer. The obvious response was that Jesus Christ was the true God and that their mountain god was merely a metaphysical construct of the human collective; but of course, it was too early for that. He needed to use the internal logic of Bohatan spirituality to convince them. This is what he came up with: \- Kahoba, tell this to your warrior. My god Jesus has held a three-day festival that has fulfilled the need for all three-day festivals from now until the end of time. Thus, my people believe that the third day of gift giving has been ended forever. It does not mean at all, not at all, that I don’t accept gifts, but that I have accepted the gift of all people, including your people, already once and for all. My celibacy is a symbol of that gift. You see, I wear this cross and this black robe to indicate that. Tell him, these are the symbols that exclude me. Kahoba’s face was growing desperate throughout Anselmo’s rant. The warrior started to grunt angrily. Kahoba grabbed Anselmo by the lapels and cried: \- Anselmo, don’t you understand? You are giving the exact the opposite impression that you are trying to give. With every moment you refuse the gift, you grow more and more lecherous, more lustful in their eyes! I told you, man: not accepting a woman on this day is exactly as committing adultery on any other day! Do it now, or we are both going to get into big trouble! Anselmo looked from one face to another. He looked at Kahoba’s panicked face, the warrior’s angry face, and the girl’s worried face, and at the many obscure faces watching the scene now in a semicircle, in the darkness of the evening. He had no choice, he had to consent. There was a sigh of relief in the crowd. Anselmo smiled at the warrior and bowed to him with hands clasped, and he accepted the girl from him. He respectfully handed him the axe, and the man seemed content. He walked off shaking his head and grunting, but once he made it back to the main fire, he got himself some drink and continued laughing and carousing with the crowd. The friction caused by Anselmo raised concern among some elders. Several middle-aged islanders informed Kahoba that, in order to make sure that the sanctity of the festival is preserved, they would have to observe Anselmo consummating his gift. Anselmo frown deepened further when Kahoba told him about this requirement. He looked on the verge of crying. After some thought, he said: \- This is going to be very difficult for me, Kahoba. Can I at least have some time to prepare. Can you get me some more of that fi-spirit? Oh my Lord, I’m so lost. Kahoba walked back to the circle of elders. There was some laughter, then he returned and told Anselmo: \- They said, sure. You have until the fifth dance ends. Anselmo joined the big fire and began drinking hastily. Soon he was so drunk that the others started coming up to him and laughing with him, urging him to dance. Soon enough, Anselmo was hopping around on the dance ground with a group of warriors and maidens. Someone even gave him a spear, which he tried to spin around in Bohatan dance fashion. However, he wasn’t very good, and he was soon discouraged from doing so for fear that he may let fly of a speak and injure an onlooker. By the time fifth dance ended, Anselmo was hardly in control of his wits. He barely remembers walking into a hut with the girl who was his gift, and of the love-making experience he remembered only some still-images the next day. He woke up late the next day, and the girl had already gone. He did his morning prayer return, adding a few extra prayers addressing specifically the transgression he committed last night. He was boozy, and given the circumstances, and considering his greater mission on this island, perhaps it wasn’t such a great transgression after all. Besides, he barely remembers anything, and certainly doesn’t recall experiencing any pleasure. This is surely an alleviating factor. He found Kahoba carving a piece of wood in front of the hut. \- Good morning, brother Anselmo! Will you eat now? \- I am quite hungry, to be honest. \- Haha, of course. They say you were akin to a green demon last night! \- What? \- Relax, it’s a compliment. It means you are strong! \- Well, thanks, I suppose. \- Relax, man, Kahoba hugged Anselmo. – That girl is outside her moon, so you have nothing to worry about. What’s such a big deal with getting laid, anyways? \*\*\* Several weeks passed, and then several months. Anselmo learned the routines of island life and became very comfortable with speaking the language. His life was comfortable too, as he was always considered a guest and treated with honors of a guest, which mean that he didn’t need to get involved in the labors of the island. He had no internal role in the social structure. Instead, Father Anselmo walked among the people and observed their works, including fishing, hut-building, plastic arts, child-rearing, cooking, and hunting. He recorded much of what his saw in his diaries. The weather of the island loosened the stiff European; his skin bronzed and he looked healthier than when he had arrived. He helped out with some of the heavy lifting on the island, and the exercise strengthened his body. Of course, he soon enough began preaching Christianity to the locals. His behavior was proper and good in the eyes of the tribe, and they were receptive and even curious to hear about his God. He became close with the big warrior with whom he had exchanged an axe for a one-night stand; both of them felt the need to signal to each other that there were not any ill feelings left. The man’s name was Tadua. He talked to Tadua about Jesus often. One day when the two of them were spear fishing on a rock together. Actually, Father Anselmo was no good with a spear, so he was tottering in the shallows trying to catch crabs with his shirt as a net. He was explaining to Tadua: \- The Heavenly Father of all human beings sent his only begotten Son as a sacrifice to bring eternal peace to all humankind until the end of days, Anselmo would say, - Because Jesus was perfectly good, and God himself, his sacrifice has infinite value, and thus there is no longer need to sacrifice boars to ensure peace. \- But my people never saw Jesus, said Tadua, - And as you saw yourself, the boars bring us peace. How can Jesus bring us peace, when we never saw him, and we never ate him? \- Well, we cannot see Jesus Christ because he has gone to Heaven. But he will return at the end of time to bring final peace on Earth once and for all. In the meantime, Jesus lives in those who accept him. Also, we kind of *do* eat Jesus. \- So, Jesus lives in you, now? \- Yes, I hope so. \- Well, are you at peace? Has he already brought peace, or he has yet to bring peace when he returns? \- For the time being, we Christians are to imitate Him and strive to be like Him, but when he returns, he will be visible to all. \- You cannot have peace without rites. Our god Mah also lives inside of us. But first his spirit enters a boar, whom we slaughter and eat. When we eat the boar, the spirit of Mah enters us too, and we live in peace. But we have to keep repeating the ritual to maintain peace. \- Well, you see, we kind of do something very similar, said Anselmo. We eat the body and blood of Christ every seven days, too. \- What animal does Jesus enter? \- He doesn’t enter any animals. He enters bread, which is similar to your *saha,* and his blood is wine, a drink similar to fi. \- Plants don’t have any blood, said Tadua. – God doesn’t want plants. He wants animals, beings with blood. You already told me that your god is the same, with the story of the first brothers. Anselmo wanted to explain the concept of transubstantiation at this point but had no idea how to do it in the Bohatan language. He was going to have to learn more about the culture and try another time. On another occasion, while sitting with Tadua near his hut, he tried to explain the idea of Heaven and Hell. He said how the righteous, those who please God, go to a state of eternal bliss with God in Heaven, and how those who offend God are doomed to suffer in fiery Hell for all eternity. \- That is correct! was Tadua’s answer. We hold a similar belief. My people dread the fiery pit, and this is why we make sure that all of us go to Heaven. \- How can you be sure that every one of you goes to heaven? Asked Anselmo. Tadua was surprised by the question: \- Who do you see among us that is cursed? Can’t you see that we are all living in harmony? \- Okay, but no one lives in a perfect world. Evil must happen, even on Bohatu. \- Yes, evil does happen sometimes. There are times when the Evil god Lah enters the body of one or more of our villagers, and then that villages goes to the fiery pit. \- But how can you know that he goes to the fiery pit? What are the rules that make him go there? \- We watch him go down to the fiery pit. The Big Fiery Pit is on top of the Lah Mountain, which is on Lah island. It is half a day rowing from our island. When some unlucky person becomes possessed with Lah, we take him there, and we throw him in. This appeases Lah. We never let anyone possessed with Lah stay among us. It would create chaos and cause our island to be swallowed by the ocean. Where is your fiery pit? \- Our fiery pit is not on this earth. \- That’s not good. How can you get rid of evil then? Again, Anselmo was at a loss for words. He said that they can’t, and that evil is always present among them. \- No, no, said Tadua, Stiff People are not evil. Stiff people are noble! Though Father Anselmo could not present a conclusive theology to Tadua and his people, his preaching nevertheless attracted curiosity. Yet, he knew that to preach the Gospel it was important to demonstrate saintliness by example and to spare words, so he became resolved to show hard work and grace whenever and wherever he could. He noticed, for example, a poor old living in a particularly shabby hut on the outskirts of the village. Whenever, he would pass by it on his way up or down the mountain, where he went alone to pray, he would greet them cordially. The couple would wave back with smiles if they were lounging outside. Later on, seeing that they are frail and emaciated, he would bring them a spare fish or soup from the meals he took in the centre of the village. They accepted it with what seemed to be gestures of blessings, though Anselmo could not understand their dialect. They may have been from another island. One day Tadua took Anslem boar hunting with several men in the forest, and on their way there, armed with bows and arrows and spears, they walked right past the old couple’s house. The two hosts were sitting crossed legged right outside the door. Anselmo nodded towards them to Tadua: \- What a gentle couple those two are! \- They are tapu! Said Tadua, No one must touch them. If you touch them, you must die. They are tapu. Unclean! \- Oh, exclaimed Anselmo. – Okay, I got it. Of course, he decided not to reveal that he has already “touched” them on multiple occasions. In the bush, the hunting party, consisting in fact of seven men including Tadua, and Anselmo, tracked a sounder of wild boars for an incredibly long time. Finally, they spotted them in a clearing by a loud brook, and under silent guidance of Tadua, the men circled around and approached the beasts from downwind side. Tadua placed an arrow in his long bow and shot it in the direction the animals. Immediately, as the boars begun to squeal and scramble wildly, the other men jumped out, and with loud yells, rushed and threw their spears at them. When the commotion settled, Anselmo saw that there was large male lying on the ground, with the arrow and a spear sticking out of his body, and still heaving. Tadua pulled out wooden dagger with several prongs, like those of a fork, except they were sticking out in a circular and slightly twisted fashion. He placed it into the hands of Anselmo and said: \- You must strike it in the heart. \- I would rather not, said Anselmo, you see, I am not skilled at this. \- You must! said Tadua – Do not speak any more! \- But, … \- You and the boar are both foreigners on our land! said Tadua – You must kill a beast, to prove that *you* are not the beast! Anselmo once again found himself painted in a corner. He took the dagger and approached the lying boar. Lifting up the dagger with both hands over his head, he crouched by the animal looked to swing it into its soft belly, and upwards to under its rib cage. Just when he was about to do so, the boar swing his head violently, in one last death lurch. It’s tusks tore through Anselmo’s shirt and sliced deep into his forearm. Anselmo screamed and swung savagely at the beast, who squealed again, then got up and limped off into the brush. Anselmo’s blow was nowhere near fatal; it merely served to spur the beast into a last-ditch run. Anselmo then heard commotion from the hunters. They were yelling incredulously and pointing at him. They seemed to be yelling: \- He is the boar man! He is the boar man! One of the men took an arrow from his quiver and strung it on his bow. \- Don’t move! Don’t move! people shouted. The arrow shot towards Anselmo and missed him. At this point, Anselmo got up and rushed through the thicket, in roughly the same direction as the boar had done. The rest of the party was in hot pursuit. Anselmo ran downwards. In deathly panic, an idea occurred to him to rush to the old couple’s hut and hide in there. If the place was taboo, the villagers would perhaps not enter there. He managed to keep ahead of his pursuers, in part because the latter would slow down whenever they got close to him in the process of shooting an arrow or throwing a javelin. By the time he ran into the sight of the hut, the hunters could not see him. He rushed into the hut and hid away from the entrance and under a window. He saw the couple seated on the bed opposite the window, and he put his index finger to his mouth, imploring them to stay quiet. In a short moment, he could hear the hunters pause and gather in front of the hut. He could hear one of them guessing that Anselmo was hiding in the hut. \- He must be, Anselmo could hear the voice of Tadua shortly after. - Come out, Anselmo! Come out, you are unclean! We can see your blood in front of the hut! We know you are in there! There was complete silence. The men outside deliberated. From what Anselmo could gather, someone was arguing that they would need to perform a rite to lift the taboo from the hut in order to enter it. \- But if we remove the taboo from the hut, we remove the taboo from Anselmo too, said one man. \- But we cannot remove taboo from Anselmo. He was cut by the boar, so the shadow of the boar is in him now. If we lift the taboo, the boar’s shadow will escape, but we must slay the boar! After some more debate, the hunting party agreed to seek doctrinal advice from the village assembly, and they went back to the village. They left one of the warriors to keep guard by the hut, lest Anselmo tries to flee. They returned to the hut early the next morning, with medicine men and an additional crowd of villagers. They first saw the guard sleeping at his post, leaning on the trunk of a tree and hugging his spear. They then saw that the old couple was sitting in front of the door of their hut as usual. In front of them they saw the dead body of Anselmo spread out supine on the ground. His white shirt had been profusely soaked in blood, and the pronged dagger stuck out from his chest. The crowd murmured in commission, and an old medicine man stood in front and rose his hand for silence. \- The old man and old woman were taboo, but now that they have murdered another taboo, to wit, Anselmo, they have removed the taboo from themselves. Thus, they are free to go, and moreover, they are to be feted for expelling impurity from the island. \- Indeed, they are to be feted! Clamoured the crowd, which included Tadua. It also included the teenage girl that Anselmo had slept with, and it included Kahoba, Anselmo’s erstwhile cultural interpreter. That day, the village began another three-day ceremony, just as the one they had held to welcome Anselmo. Only this time, the guests of honor were the old couple. Instead of boars, alas, the party’s main feast was Anselmo himself. As Tadua poked his pronged dagger into an especially sinewy part of the meat, he remarked to a friend sitting next to him: \- You know, I am looking forward to seeing if it’s true what Anselmo told me, that he has Jesus in him. He is a great god indeed, for he gifts his people with mighty ships and wondrous tools. \- I think he was indeed sent from heaven to cleanse us. We only needed to strike his shadow before he returns to the village, but he kept running away.


“I am committed. I want to be with you. I know sometimes I come across as inconsiderate or selfish or uncaring or an asshole or whatever. I’m sorry. I really am. I want to work on it and want to make this work.” These lies slipped through his thinly parted lips as easily as the smoke vaguely exhaled in their wake. With his right hand, he put out the remains of his cigarette on the concrete bench. Passing the butt into his left palm his elbow gently brushed her side as he slipped the cigarette into his pocket. Glancing out of the corner of his left eye he mumbled a rye apology with a crooked, half-cocked grin. Were he alone on the bench he would have just flicked the still-burning cigarette away into the patchy grass. In the pregnant silence that followed, he wore a mask of contrition and introspection knowing he was further proving his earnestness. The silence swallowed the words he wished he knew how to say. “I don’t feel the same about this relationship as you do. I don’t feel the fire or burning attraction. I kind of just enjoy having someone in my life and don’t see this as serious or long term. I just want you around so I feel better about myself.” He was always incapable, always dragged along in relationships, always cared for far more than he cared to be. Pulling a pack of gum from his right pants pocket, he thumbed out a piece from its foil and plastic bubble and slid it between his still-parted lips. Replacing the packet, he turned to face her and held her gaze, letting his eyes fill with hope and replacing his contrition with a confident grin. “I feel optimistic.” He lied. He felt trapped. “I love that we can talk about these things openly and I know we can work through it. I realize I have a lot of room for growth and I want to grow. And you’re worth going through these growing pains. I’m grateful for you and know that things will get better if we can keep communicating and keep growing together.” He swallowed his gum which he would have typically just spat on the ground, hoping some sad sack would find it later on the bottom on his shoe and his living room carpet. The hard lump of gum went down easier than the most recent batch of falsehoods. But they both went down easier than bringing the truth up would have been. So he swallowed his gum and his feelings and let the moment stand for what it was. He took her right hand in his and brought it too his lips. He slipped his left arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, kissing her head and letting her left hand fall to his thy. She sighed, smiled heavily to herself, and sank into his embrace. “Thanks.” She said, hopeful and in love. “Thanks.


I play the song one more time and then I get the video ready in the car, and start it. Carter was looking out the window, trying to pull out of the parking lot. I was going to do the kiss your boy best friend challenge. Carter turns back around and I smile at him nervously. Carter has been my best friend since birth pretty much. Carter’s mom and my mom are best friends. Carter’s three months older than me. He looks at me confused, wondering why I’m staring at him. The time on the song is coming up. He has no idea what I’m doing. I’m so nervous I’m practically shaking. Then the song comes up. Does Carter like me more than a best friend? I lean forward quick, but he backs up and nearly pushes me out of the way. I really… I really didn’t think this was going to happen. I thought he was going to kiss me back… I thought he liked me back. We were both single. “What are you doing Reese?” he asks. “I thought…” We are both blushing now. I’ve ruined everything. He hits his head against his steering wheel and the horn blares and I jump. “Happy seventh birthday!”Carter says, smiling and handing me a present. “Finally your age!”I smile. I open my present and it’s the doll that was hand stitched that I had been begging my mom to get me for months. “How did you know?!”I gasp, hugging it to my chest and squeezing it. “Happy twelfth birthday!”Carter smiles. “What do you hope you get?” “Hmm… I really want ‘ Apex Legend’ ,”I replied. He hands me my gift. It’s a box, I shake it. Something’s in the box. I open the wrapping paper. I opened the box and I got exactly what I wanted! I still have the stitched doll Carter got me for my seventh birthday. I used to play Apex Legend almost every day with Carter, but now I almost play it every week. I get out of the car and slam the door behind me. Only friends. Only friends. I listen to sad music in my room. I hug the doll close to my heart. Carter probably hated me. He probably liked Issabella. He’d liked her since Kindergarten. I threw the doll across the room and it hit my TV. Apex Legend was on the TV stand, the doll landed on the case. I felt like crying. I’ve ruined everything! I know more about Carter then anybody else does. He likes art and soccer, golden blond hair, wavy blue eyes, I hated being like this. I hate setting my LED lights to blue, putting my AirPods in, and crying until I fall asleep. I grab the remote from my nightstand next to me. I feel numb now. I wipe away tears and turn the TV on. I get a text message from my phone. Julie. Julie and Carter hate each other. Julie being a girly-girl who hates people like Carter. plz tell me u didnt try & kiss carter I grip my phone hard. Julie doesn’t understand. Carter may be the only person who actually knows me and understands me. Julie only wants her way. I don’t bother texting her back. I watch a sad romance. At least one of the characters has to die. It’s hard watching a movie about these characters who love each other right after you get rejected. The next day at school Julie catches up with me. “You tried to kiss Carter?!” she gasps. “He’s so… gross!” I want to punch her. She doesn’t understand how much I’ve gone through that only Carter bothered to help me with. Days after the incident I don’t get any messages from Carter, he doesn’t bother talking to me in the hallways, he doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. Google search: How to get a guy to like u Ask him to do favors for you Throw a few compliments his way Stay confident Establish eye contact Express interest in his passions Be vulnerable to him See the best in him I start the first one right away. I catch up to Carter in the hallway and pretend that nothing at all happened. “Carter, I’m heading to lacrosse after school today, can you walk my brother home?” I ask. Normally Julie would do this, but I’m going to tell her to do something else in the time being. “Sure?” he says, probably wondering why I’m not talking about what happened days ago. I met my brother after my lacrosse practice and he seems to be in a fine mood. “Did Carter walk you home?” I ask. “Yep,” he replies. “Did you have fun?” I ask casually. “Yeah! We talked about video games the whole way home!” “What type of video games?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m busy playing Apex Legend ,” he says. “Hey! That’s my Apex Legend !” Trevor smiles suspiciously and I chase him to his room and he shuts and locks his door. Number one crossed off my list! I met Carter in the hallway the next day. He got new shoes. “Nice Air Jordans,” I compliment. “Thanks,” he mumbles. I go on all day. “I wish I had your blue eyes.” “You got in A in math?! I got a B-!” “Your lucky your mom lets you do only five chores a week for your allowance.” Number two checked off my list! I think joyfully. I stay confident in front of his friends, joking with them and talking about how Chase is really lucky to have a sweet younger sister. I stay confident in front of Chase too and pretend like nothing happened on that one day. Number three, done. Number four, done. I head out to the field to play soccer with him and his friends. After a while I got caught up and I could say I was actually pretty good. I kind of enjoyed it too, maybe I could join a soccer team. Now number six, that one might be tough. I made a group chat with a few of the boys on Carter’s soccer team. I had a plan. The next day I met Hank, Leo, and Jeff at my locker. Carter is coming down the hallway and I tell them to start. Hank, Leo, and Jeff start making fun of me and Carter looks up from his phone. “What the hell are you guys doing?” Carter asks. “Stop!” They walk away and roll their eyes just as planned. Carter comes up to me. “You okay?” It takes me a second to realise I was crying. “I’m fine,” I wipe away tears. “You sure?” he asks, putting his hand on my shoulder and peering down to my face. “I’m sure,” I reply. Number seven is easy. The next few days are nice. Every class I’m in with Carter I look over to him and he’s staring at me, but he always looks away. Then the next day is what kills me the most. “Reese?” Carter asks, running up to me as I leave the school to walk home. “Yeah?” I ask. “Want to go to starbucks at four?” “Sure,” I laugh. We meet in his car, I scroll through my phone and Carter props his phone up on the car window. He looks at me nervously. “What?” I ask. The song places and I know exactly what he’s doing. He leans in and I meet his lips.


“It - It tried to grab me dad, I swear it did”, Lloyd barely got the sentence coherently, he had begun to breathe heavily, and tears streamed from his face. “Lloyd, do you remember the story about the boy who called wolf?” “Ye-Yes dad, I’m - I’m sorry dad”, Lloyd had heard the story plenty of times at this point to get what he was hinting at. But it changed nothing, he knew that continuing would be useless. “Now get your things and go to your room, supper should be ready soon, alright bud?” Lloyd stood sniffling, tears still running down his cheeks and nose. He hung his head low, grabbed his precious notebook and pen, and marched up the stairs. He was careful not to upset his parents any further by putting his sadness into each one of the steps leading to the second floor and into his room. He got inside, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed, setting his notebook and pen beside him. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks, but the huffing had finally stopped. Heavy dark clouds were beginning to move into view outside. The sun cast its final red beams across the sky as it gave way to night and the oncoming storm. The wind had begun to pick up, swaying the branches and rustling the leaves of the willow outside his window. An occasional poke and scratch could be heard against the panes just as the rain began to violently pour and clank against the window. The willow was like no other he had ever seen; it overshadowed the house in both height and width, and it had grown so dense that the trunk could hardly be seen at any angle. The branches were like the arms of a giant octopus, waiting to snatch up its next meal and haul you up to its beaked mouth. Upside down, kicking, screaming, and crying, clothed, or unclothed, the creature would hardly care. It was cold and mindlessness way of its nature, it needed to eat, and some poor creature happened upon it. Sorry chump, wrong place, wrong time. Once you were over its beak, it would munch on you bite by bite. First hands, arms, until finally it-clunk. His notebook fell off the bed. He had been so enveloped by the oncoming storm and the willow that he hardly noticed one of his most prized possessions had just begun to slide off the bed. He froze, a slow slither begun to move behind him. His heart was racing, his breathing quickened, as he tuned his ears closer to the noise. It wasn't quite a slimy slither but-but dry. He placed his hands firmly by his sides on the bed. The thoughts darted quickly across his head. *Should I turn around?* *Should I run?* *Run as fast as I can down the stairs only to be told by my parents about the boy who called wolf?* His grip tightened around his mattress, pressing his feet more and more firmly to the ground. He turned around. CLAP. All was silent besides from his breathing and the outside world raining against his windowpane. A leaf floated gently down as if from the ceiling. Lloyd ran.


“Listen- if you’re quiet enough, you can hear the earth breathe.” That’s what Dad would say to me at summer camp-outs. He would wait until I was tired enough to stop making any sound, all nestled into my sleeping bag. I would strain my ears over the din of crickets to hear the world inhale. Exhale. Maybe I just fooled myself into hearing it. Maybe I was just tired. But I swore that on those nights in woods so secluded it seemed like we were the only people on the face of the planet, I could feel the earth’s chest rise and fall beneath me as it breathed.               But that was years ago, and I haven’t heard it breathe since. Especially since Dad died. Now, standing over his casket, the only breath I can hear is my own, hot and course against my throat like I’ve been running and running.               In a way, I think I have been. Running, that is.  Running from the reality of it all. The diagnosis only sunk in when I saw the heart monitor go flat. Maybe it was hopeless naivety on my part, thinking that the cancer would leave. Maybe it was Dad’s fault, acting like everything was fine; acting like plenty of time outside would cure everything.               Now look at us.               Next to me, Mama’s eyes are just as dead as Dad’s were as the light left them. She stares at him in the casket like she wishes she could join him. A sheen of sweat has formed on her tan face. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Dad’s about to be put six feet under. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the sun is unthinkably bright today. Funerals are supposed to be sad and rainy, right? Gray skies with an appropriate amount of rain. For how much he loved the Earth and all the good he did for her, I’d have thought that she could show some respect, too. Maybe not rain, but at least some shade.               The funeral finishes eventually. Mama says some words. So do I. I don’t really understand them and don’t think anybody else does, but I don’t care. It’s not their dad that’s dead.               I get home, somehow. I know I had to fight through mountains of mourners and well-wishers to get here, but I make it.               Somebody puts food in front of me. Eventually.               “You need to eat,” Mama says, her voice raw and scratchy like she’s been running, too.               The sandwich looks as appetizing as sewage. Pain gnaws so sharply all over me that I can’t tell what’s grief and what’s hunger. I don’t think it really matters.               I eat, if only to placate Mama. It tastes like sand.               “You need to shower,” Mama says.               I don’t tell her that I can’t shower because it would distract me from tracing the shapes the light from the windows makes on the ceiling with my mind for the millionth time.               I’m eventually coaxed into the shower. I’m still sitting on the floor, the hot water long gone, when Mama comes to check on me.               “You need to go outside,” Mama says.               I look up at her from my seat at the table across from her. She made fettuccini alfredo for dinner. Dad’s favorite.               I’ve humored her requests. I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair and let relatives coddle me and tell me it will turn out okay, but this is something I can’t do. The woods are more a grave than the cold slab of rock that marks Dad’s place in the earth. That’s why I can’t go near them.               “What are you talking about?” Mama says. “You think he’d want to see you like this, wasting away inside? Do you think I want to see you like this?”               “You watched him waste away. You can do the same for me.”               It’s like I slapped her. The same look of pain is stretched across her face, pooling in her eyes, as it was when she watched them lower him. She’s probably still wondering if it’s too late to join him.               “Get out,” she says.               “What?”               “Get out,” she repeats. Her voice is harsh and grating, like these last months of lethargy have been her saving enough energy just to curse me. “GET OUT!” She slams her hands down on the table, the slap echoing through the house like a shotgun ringing through the valley.               I do exactly as she tells me. With strength I didn’t know I have, I slam the door behind me.               Outside, there is no escaping his presence. Everywhere I look, there’s something to remind me that dad’s dead. There’s the tree stump we shot arrows at for hours. On the back, I had carved I ♡ Dad with my first pocket knife. There’s the pile of dried sticks and trees that we collected for making the biggest, hottest bonfires there ever were. There’s the little cross that marks the spot Dad helped me bury my first dog after it got sick.               I didn’t bother putting on shoes before I ran out. It doesn’t really matter. The way sticks and burs bear into my skin is the least of my worries as race for the woods.               I don’t know why I do. It’s like I’m possessed. If the memories were strong near the house, they’re unbearable out here. Every tree looks like Dad’s gonna pop out from behind it. Every animal sound is another creature that Dad would watch, very quiet and very still, until he would lunge out, grab it, and hold it close for me to see before releasing it. The smell of sap and dirt tells me that he’s close, just downwind of me. I just have to look around a little more before he’ll come out of a copse and show me the arrowheads he found.               But he won’t. I can search and search until my feet are worn to nubs and the sun goes dim but I won’t find him. He’s gone. Gone, gone, gone.               I think that’s when the realization finally hits. I fall to the earth. Every particle of emotion I delayed makes its debut in waves of pain. There’s not enough of me to hold it all. It comes pouring out of me in hot, caustic tears that turn the ground beneath me to mud. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I clutch at the dust of the ground like I’m God creating Adam, creating life where there was none.               My cries melt to a rhythmic whine, beating against my chest like the engine of an old truck that’s about to give up the ghost. And it eventually does give out. There’s not enough energy left in me to do anything but lie and whimper in the dirt, my ear against the ground.               And then I hear it. For the first time in a very long time, I feel the world take breath and hear her breathe out. A slow, deep sigh, like she’s sleeping and nothing could rouse her.               The sound of it stops me in my tracks. My breathing catches in my throat. Why now, after everything?               I draw myself to my knees, wiping mud off my face. Nothing around me has changed, but it seems quieter, somehow. Like the world has a heart, beating down deep below, that informs the rhythm of everything above it. A body. A tomb.               I don’t know how much longer I spend out there, soaking up as much of Dad as I can. Mama comes looking for me, distraught. She sits down next to me once we’ve both calmed down some.               “He adored you. I hope you know that. He would come back from those camping trips happier than he’d ever been. Every time, without fail.”                “Tell me more stories about Dad,” I say. It’s self-indulgent of me to ask. It will feel nice now, remembering him, and then I’ll turn to ask him about his side of the story and he won’t be there. Rip the bandage off again. Pull off the scab. Go back to the first stage of grief.               But Mama appeases me. She goes on and on, recounting every story she can think of, from the time she met him until his death. My heart burns, knowing that there will be no more stories for him.               But there will be stories for me.               So, fourteen years later, when I have my own kid, we get in the car and drive. Her wide eyes take in everything. To her, every cow passed, every bend in the road, every street sign is a novelty.               I show her how to pitch a tent, start a fire and keep it going, orient herself by the stars, and how to cuddle close for warmth when the sun has gone down and we’ve stamped out the coals of our fire.               And I show her how to hear it. “Listen,” I say. “If you’re quiet enough, you can hear the Earth breathe.”