I've started keeping a personal wiki for my writing, and I'm glad that I finally got around to making the page for Shipyard Cant. I've been looking forward to fleshing out this cant.
For a while I've tried to keep my "work time" and my "personal time" separate. I had separate user accounts on my computer, separate spaces to do work vs personal, all that stuff. Plenty of people said that was a good idea. But it made me dislike writing.
Writing is a part of my life. It's part of who I am. I don't want to set aside an hour where I'm in "writing mode", I want that to be part of my standard way of living. I want to sit at my computer, see that none of my friends are online, and decide to write for a while until someone is ready to talk. Those things should blend; it won't make me any less productive than I've been, and it'll make me a whole lot happier.
So yeah. I'm combining my work and my personal accounts on my computer (even as I keep my social media separate). I want to actually live and breathe writing again. The best of intentions tend to make me do worse, and it's important to realize when general advice doesn't fit me personally.
King Alfons the Invincible
sat idle on his throne
as illness kept him homebound
and worked into his bones;
Invincible he called himself,
unmatched in battle’s fray,
until he met the enemy
he couldn’t scare away.
He would have called for doctors,
but they moaned and tossed in bed,
and he would have called for priestly men
but the priestly men were dead.
One lonely messenger was clean
and healthy, so he weighed
his horse’s saddles down and took
abroad the call for aid.
I don't know if I'll ever feel as relieved as I felt today. I wanted to change my planned splash panel into a double splash, and I looked up, and I saw I was already on an even-numbered page. I looked at my outline and saw that I should probably just cut the entire next page anyways.
Page Eight. Finally I got to put a word of dialogue into this chapter's draft. Writing a character who doesn't have anyone to talk to is a bit harder than I thought it would be.
I'm supposed to be talking about Picus: an Elegy at my local library soon, and I'm genuinely so nervous. I haven't spoken in front of crowds in so long. My timidness is nearly getting the better of me, but I'm going to do it.
I'm always very worried that my writing isn't going to be good enough to be worth making. Then I try to remind myself that technical skill is not synonymous with artistic merit, and I realize that I'm actually scared that my ideas aren't worth speaking.
You’re going to die one day. Maybe it’ll be your fault, maybe it won’t. It’s not important. What’s important is this: do you want to keep on living? We’ll assume you answered “yes,” and it’s our pleasure to inform you that there’s a way to forfeit your ticket on that old black train, and (if you follow our instructions) you won’t be riding it for a very long time.
Once you meet your demise, you’ll find yourself on the front porch of an old, overgrown building. While it certainly isn’t your childhood home, you might find yourself convinced it is. A few of your most prized possessions will sit worn and forgotten inside the front windows, but all the entrances will be overgrown, and we advise against trying to go inside. (No one is ever really ready to see the memories of their life, and besides, you won’t be needing to worry about that just yet.) Death will approach you soon enough to guide you to your destination. When she does, repeat this statement: “I assert my right to prove my worth with a game.” Death has the power to raise an objection, but she never has—she seems to enjoy the play. She’ll indicate her acceptance by holding her sword horizontally, and it will be your responsibility to select the game.
Don’t choose chess. Chess is popular, but chess is fair, and if you think you’re looking for something fair, you must not have noticed the title of this pamphlet. There are a few guidelines we suggest following when making your choice: play a turn-based game, play a game you can talk during, and play a game with components of both luck and skill.
Let’s assume you (in accordance with our guidelines) choose to play double solitaire. Death already will have materialized her favorite wooden table and sat down. Be careful of her blade—she can be absentminded about where she sets it. Take your seat opposite her, nod respectfully, and shuffle. Try to chat while you do. We know she won’t have said anything yet, but we promise she’ll open up if you give her the chance. Try asking her about historical figures; we hear she has some wonderful stories about Nikola Tesla, and she’ll love sharing them almost as much as you’ll love hearing them. She likes collecting stories, so she’ll probably appreciate if you can provide an interesting one of your own.
Once she’s talking, ask her about herself. Ask how she’s been. She’s shy, so be gentle. You’ll notice her hands start to shake as she moves her cards, and she’ll start to hesitate on a few of her turns. Just be patient; no one has asked her about herself before. You should slow down to calm her nerves. She’ll appreciate that, but she probably won’t say so. Now talk a bit more. When she gets more nervous, slow down again. Soon you’ll feel the time between your moves drag out to minutes. This is good.
At this point, she’ll finally start talking about herself. Feel free to be inquisitive, but don’t ask about her boss; it’s a touchy subject. At first you’ll make conversation because we’re telling you to, but you’ll find yourself genuinely interested before long. She’s been alone for a long time, and everyone she’s ever met has feared or hated her. Your heart will ache as her voice trembles, and, at times, she’ll be completely distracted from the game.
Ask her if she’s okay. Tell her it’s okay if she’s not. We know you’ll worry it’ll come across as pity, but we promise it’s still the right thing to do. She’ll change the subject, and she’ll pick up the pace of her moves. This is also good.
Your job is nearly done. Don’t push things any further if she’s not ready for it. Let her lead the conversation. She’s going to play more thoughtfully, and you’re going to start losing. Don’t feel bad about that; she beats everyone. But, assuming you’ve done everything we’ve said, she’ll forfeit just a few moves before her victory.
The table will vanish, and you’ll be standing again. Death will congratulate you on your victory, and you should make sure to thank her for the game. She’ll touch the flat of her blade to your shoulder, and she’ll smile.
“Hopefully we can do this again sometime.”
You’re going to die one day, but not before you treat her to one more game.
The world was preparing for winter. Dead, shriveled leaves drifted across the sidewalk, and the rising sun still hadn’t chased away the cold of night. The market square was empty save for a few empty crates and rolled-up awnings. Patches of frost obscured the windows and dusted the grass.
Olivia pulled her scarf over her mouth and nose, preferring the scratch of the wool to the bite of the wind. The walk from her house a ways outside of town to the cafe was far, and walking any distance was walking too far in this weather.
The silver bell above the entrance rang out through the empty building as she shut the door behind her. She rubbed her hands together and stomped her feet to reclaim feeling from the numbness. Orange light filtered in through the window, casting the empty tables and pristine counter in a warm glow.
Behind the counter, there was a small door that led into the back storeroom and break area. Olivia hung her coat and scarf on the misshapen coat rack in the corner and pulled a brown apron out of the cabinet labeled “Olivia Rivers”. Next to that was a cabinet labeled “Lark Evans”, the only other labeled cabinet in the cafe. Olivia stretched out her hand, but quietly withdrew before touching the handle. She couldn’t open it; maybe Lark would want her stuff when she came back. If she came back.
Even after a week apart, the counter still seemed too big for just one person. While Olivia could easily heat water, grind coffee beans, and set out pastries like she needed to, it all felt wrong. She could move the appliances and display cases closer together, but then half the counter would be empty.
She didn’t want anything to be more empty than it had to be.
Just days before, the shop wouldn’t have felt empty. It would have felt alive with energy. She would have heard the clinking of glass or the running of water. Lark would have asked how the walk was, or Olivia would have joked around and pretended to forget what keys were, or…
Olivia frowned and flicked a clump of dust onto the floor.
It was 6:10. The cafe was supposed to open at 6:00. Olivia wiped down a few tables and swept the floor. It was 6:20. She counted the money in the register. 6:25. Finally, she walked to the front door and flipped over the small wooden sign.
The Song and Stream Cafe was open for business.
Not a minute later, there was a loud knock at the door. Olivia looked over, puzzled. Most people just walked in. Another knock, even louder. Olivia got out from behind the counter and opened the door to see a tired man in a plain suit holding a plain envelope. He looked like he “didn’t sleep well last night” for the past ten years. He adjusted a pin on his collar that designated a city official.
He held out his hand for a handshake. “Miss Rivers?”
“Yes.” Olivia gave his hand a small shake. “Who are you?”
“My name is Carl Jacobson. I’m here to inform you that your cafe’s operating permits have expired and must be renewed.”
“Well,” Olivia said, “all that administrative stuff is really Lark’s job.”
“Very well,” Mr. Jacobson said. “May I speak with her?”
Olivia could have kicked herself. Of course he couldn’t speak with her. Olivia couldn’t speak with her. No. Lark had left. Left Olivia, left the town, left everything she had.
“Miss Rivers?” Mr. Jacobson wore an expression of concern. Rather, Olivia assumed it would have been concern if he could muster more than a twitch of his muscles.
“No, you can’t speak with her.”
“May I ask why not?”
“She’s gone.”
“I see.” Mr. Jacobson handed Olivia the envelope. “Give this to her when she gets back.”
Olivia watched him leave before walking back inside. She turned the envelope over in her hands, then stuffed it into a desk next to the cabinets in the back. She probably wouldn’t know how to do whatever paperwork anyway, and maybe Lark could do it when she came back.
About a minute after Olivia returned to the counter, Molly walked in. She always seemed to have a knack for knowing what time she should show up to places. She tugged her fingers through her long, wind-blown hair as she hurried to the counter.
“Good morning, Molly! What can I get for you today?” Olivia said.
Molly gave Olivia a concerned look. “Are you okay?” she said. “It’s okay if you need to talk.”
Olivia shrugged. “It’s whatever,” she lied. “I’m getting over it.”
“It’s not ‘whatever,’” Molly said. “I can tell it’s not ‘whatever.’ You can talk to me, you know. I’ve always been here for you. I’m sure Nathaniel would love to talk to you, too. We’ve both—”
“Molly.” Olivia tapped her finger on the counter to prevent another one of Molly’s long rambling sessions.
“Yeah?”
“Can we just talk about something else?”
“Are you sure? I mean, I know you’ve been taking this hard, and I just want you to know that you’re an amazing person. If Lark didn’t see that, it’s her loss.”
Olivia forced a smile. “I’m sure. Was there anything you wanted me to get?”
“Yeah!”
Molly looked up and stared intently at the menu. Olivia waited patiently as Molly read every word and mused to herself. She did this every time, and she got the same thing every time. After several minutes of Molly’s reading and humming, Olivia decided to step in.
“Might I suggest a black coffee with a dash of milk and five sugars?”
Molly looked at Olivia as though she had never considered it in her life. “That sounds wonderful!”
Considering it was how Molly had taken her coffee since before Olivia even opened The Song and Stream Cafe, Olivia wasn’t surprised. She quickly prepared it and handed it to Molly with a smile.
“It smells great,” Molly said. “And are you sure you don’t want to talk?”
“I do want to talk,” Olivia said, “just not about, you know, that.”
As Molly opened her mouth to answer, a tall, thin woman walked in. Beatrice was the town’s biggest gossip—except perhaps Olivia herself.
“Customer,” Olivia said. “Sorry, Mols. I’ll talk to you later.”
Molly nodded and went directly to her usual seat by the window and the unlit fireplace.
Beatrice asked for a coffee and a bagel. According to her, James and Roland had moved in together the week prior, and everyone seemed to want to talk about it. She wondered if they were having financial trouble, but Olivia thought that those two had always seemed closer than just friends. Olivia declined to comment on Lark. Beatrice left, and in walked Ferdinand Keye. He ranted for a while about some kind of difficulty with the machine he was building in his workshop but managed to avoid all of Olivia’s questions about what exactly he was working on. She would have to ask Beatrice about it. He waved to Molly on his way out, but she didn’t seem to notice. In the early afternoon, James and Roland came in and ordered eclairs. They ate their food together, and Olivia told herself she wasn’t eavesdropping. She wasn’t eavesdropping, but she could easily remember everything they said. A few others had come through over the day, but Olivia couldn’t bother to remember the ones who weren’t very interesting.
Everyone left, and Olivia waited a bit before tidying up. The late afternoons and evenings were usually completely devoid of customers, but it never hurt to be sure before leaving the register. She swept up the few tables that still needed to be wiped and cleaned off the food displays, but she preferred to leave the full cleaning to when the cafe officially closed. She moved some dirty dishes into the back, then returned and walked over to Molly, unsurprised to see that their friend Nathaniel had managed to slip in when she wasn’t looking. The two of them sat in silence, Nathaniel penciling in the day’s crossword and Molly engrossed in a dime-novel romance.
Nathaniel “he with two first names” Alexander worked as a secretary at the town hall, so he always came over later in the day. Given visible light through the window, it seemed that he was actually let out on time for once. He was very tall and very thin, and Olivia had laughed at him and Molly a few times in high school when he hit his growth spurt. The height difference between those two was still comical, even when they were sitting down.
“Hey, guys,” Olivia said with a smile and a wave. Nathaniel immediately closed his paper and gestured towards the chair opposite him, which Olivia collapsed into. She leaned back, looked up at the ceiling, and took a long, slow breath in and out.
Molly neatly dog-eared and closed her book. “How was the day?” she asked.
“Not too busy, but I’m still exhausted. Boring conversation, to boot,” Olivia said. “What about you?”
“I’ve been transcribing a few interviews,” Molly said. “Long ones, at that.”
“What are they about?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. They’ve been all over the place, and the client didn’t say what they were for when she emailed me.”
“I see,” Olivia said.
The group sat in their little corner and chatted for a while. At one point, Nathaniel challenged Olivia to a game of California Jack, ready to show off his strategic prowess. He lost, but just narrowly. Olivia and Molly cheered, and Nathaniel sat quietly with a small smile before Olivia pulled him into a hug. Molly then struck up a conversation with Nathaniel, purposely providing an inaccurate story about Ancient Carthage, then resting her head in her palm as she watched him passionately correct her. Olivia managed to get Molly talking, and she ended up complaining about someone on the internet who gave an overly simple explanation of Victor Frankenstein without any understanding of nuance.
Olivia could see that Nathaniel was thinking, and he was looking directly at her. At first she thought that he was still pondering over Molly’s rant, but he was looking at her with the piercing eyes of someone examining something, not the vacant eyes of someone thinking inside their own head.
“What’s up?” Olivia asked.
Nathaniel shook his head. “Everything you’re saying and doing is like everything’s normal, but your words and actions conflict with your demeanor. Do you want to talk about something?”
Olivia regretted asking. “I’m fine,” she said.
“You clearly aren’t,” Nathaniel said. “That’s why I said something.”
Molly gave him a sharp glare. “Dude. She said she’s fine. Cut it out.”
Visibly unsatisfied, Nathaniel sat quietly, passively watching Olivia. The conversation died down after that; it was reduced to a few quieter exchanges between the girls. As night fell and the sky darkened, Nathaniel and Molly both left. They said their goodbyes, promised to drop by the next day, and went on their ways.
Olivia began her evening cleaning, stopping at the desk in the back. She looked at the wrinkled envelope, considering. Maybe she should do something about it. But the administration was Lark’s job; she was the one who always did it. But Lark… Lark wasn’t…
She slammed the cabinet shut and fumbled with her phone for music.
The pounding noise drowned out any unwanted thoughts as she kept cleaning. When she was finished, she stopped at the door and looked back across the empty tables, across the long counter. She frowned before shutting off the light and leaving.
It was late; the town was mostly quiet. Olivia knew she should go home and rest, but she couldn’t bear to be alone with her thoughts. Instead, she turned her attention The Enigma Project, the town’s only nightclub and the only activity to be seen this late. Even from outside, Olivia could hear its loud, pounding music and see its bright, flashing lights creeping around the blackout curtains. She nodded at the bouncer and walked in.
Energy coursed through the air, drawing Olivia inward. The lights shifted between red and blue in time with the synth-heavy music. There were a few people at the bar and even more dancing. Olivia usually forgot just how many people lived in this town until she saw a crowded place like this. Or maybe The Enigma Project just always seemed crowded. Through the lights, music, and talking, Olivia couldn’t focus to get an accurate headcount.
The bartender, Dalton, was flirting with a few of the women at the bar. He smiled, laughed, and winked as he poured their drinks and made conversation. He ran his fingers through his perfectly combed hair. Every once in a while, he’d adjust the cuffs on his dress shirt or fidget with a button on his vest. He spent far too much time making himself seem effortless, and it worked like a charm.
Dalton had always been popular with the girls. Back in high school, he had a fan club of sorts, where the girls seemed to bond over being infatuated with him, but also seemed to hate each other for the competition. And Dalton was one of those people who wasn’t really cool because of what they did, but because they were cool, end of sentence. He joined the chess club in his sophomore year, and he was good, good enough to be captain. But instead of him becoming a loser, chess became cool. A lot of students started learning, but Dalton would easily beat any of them. And some of them thanked him for it.
“Olivia!”
Dalton was waving at her. She walked over to the bar, and he slid over. The women glared at her.
“Hey,” Olivia said.
“What’s up?”
“Not much.” Olivia looked over at the women. “I think they’re mad at me.”
“They can wait,” Dalton said, waving his hand dismissively. Typical. “Besides, you don’t even like men.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“So,” Dalton said, “it’s not like I’m going to make a move on you.”
“You might.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dalton muttered, rolling his eyes. “Olivia, if some girl I’m not dating gets jealous and possessive of me for talking to my friend who, again, doesn’t like guys, she can fuck right off. Now, I’ll ask again. No deflections. What is up?”
Olivia cast her glance over Dalton’s shoulder and at the racks of bottles behind him. “I want a drink.”
“You drink?”
“I’m a customer,” Olivia said. “I want a drink.”
Dalton raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you work tomorrow?”
It was Olivia’s turn to wave a dismissive hand. “Whatever.”
“You open early, I thought.”
“I said whatever.”
“Okay.” Dalton shrugged. “What do you want?”
“What do you have?”
Dalton stepped back and threw his arms out in a wide gesture. “Baby, I’ve got it all.”
“Just give me something sweet.”
He rummaged with something, poured something, then came back with a brilliant pink drink in a tall-stemmed glass. Olivia took a sip and considered the flavor. It was either lime or cranberry. She took another sip.
“Okay, they’re really starting to get mad,” Olivia said. “You should get back to it.” She didn’t want him to.
Dalton looked over to the women. At this point, most customers would be talking and laughing among themselves, but they were still whispering and shooting glances at Olivia.
“Yeah, I should.” He paused before turning away, looking at her with…pity? “It’s on the house tonight,” he said, and then he was gone.
Olivia stayed and drank until well past midnight. When she was delirious from both alcohol and exhaustion, she went home. Dalton must have escorted her; she found a note in the morning explaining that she was in no state to walk home alone and telling her where to find her shoes and wallet.
Her fatigue meant she had trouble functioning at work the next day, but she kept the same routine over the next week. She meant to sleep in on Saturday, but a loud knock at her door woke her at nine o’clock. She groggily answered and saw Mr. Jacobson standing outside her door, clear annoyance mixed with his tired demeanor.
“Miss Rivers?” he said.
“Right. You,” Olivia said.
“I’m here to collect all the paperwork you owe me.”
Olivia rubbed the back of her neck. “Of course! It’s done, I just… I need to go pick it up. Forgot it at the cafe, ya know?”
Mr. Jacobson narrowed his eyes. “May I speak with Miss Evans?”
“No, you may not.”
“Why would that be?” Mr. Jacobson asked.
Olivia stiffened. “She’s—”
Gone. She’s gone. Really, truly gone.
“—out for a bit,” she finished.
The two of them stood silently for a moment, staring at each other. Olivia was sure that he was going to insist or that he would penalize her in some way. But he just continued standing there, not moving and not speaking. Olivia leaned against the door and put a strained smile on her face.
Jacobson sighed and shrugged. “Then I will see you later.”
The cafe was closed on Saturday, but Olivia went back anyway. She thought she might be planning to find that envelope, but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t think she wanted to. As she approached the desk, she paused by the cupboards in the back. She stared at Lark’s cabinet and reached her hand out. She grasped the handle and pulled it open.
The interior was the same as it ever was. There was a schedule of radio shows taped to the inside of the door, a brown apron was hung on the back wall, and a faded yellow sweater was carefully folded and placed in the center of the small space.
It was the same sweater Lark had been wearing when she and Olivia first met. It was much brighter all those years ago. Olivia could still remember seeing that sweater for the first time, flitting like a canary through the dark, drab night market. A bright splash of color against a world devoid of pigment. Now Lark was gone, but the sweater was here. Was it a parting gift, or did Lark just not want anything that reminded her of Olivia?
Olivia picked up the sweater and looked it over. The left cuff was beginning to fray, and the right cuff was just a tangled mess of cotton threads. The hem—where it wasn’t burnt and blackened—was faring only a little better. There was a small hole on the sleeve just above the left cuff where Lark would get her thumb caught while pulling on the sweater. Olivia once suggested she buy a new one, but Lark just laughed and said that she’d buy a new sweater when she needed to. Apparently, she never thought she needed to.
She could still see the faint spot where she had spilled coffee on it. It was the day of the grand opening of The Song and Stream Cafe, a name they created to forever connect their names. Olivia had brewed a mug for their third customer, but in her giddy excitement, she tripped over the coffee maker’s extension cord. She caught herself before she fell or spilled the entire mug, but not before a splash of coffee fell upon Lark. Lark got most of it off with a napkin, but she never decided to properly remove it with stain remover. I kind of like it, she would say. It’s a keepsake of sorts. Some people get a tattoo to remember an important day, and I got this.
And the burn. Another keepsake of another hectic day. It was a chilly evening, and Nathaniel and Molly were both sitting in their little corner next to the fireplace. Olivia had been in the back of the cafe at the time, but apparently, they had been arguing about how to light the fireplace, so Lark had gone over to help. The next thing Olivia knew, Molly was shouting about a fire, and so she rushed over to check on things. Lark’s sweater had caught, and Molly and Nathaniel were darting around, trying to figure out what to do. Nathaniel grabbed a tall glass of water and dumped it over Lark, getting her dripping wet. The three of them stood quiet and still for a moment, then broke out into bouts of laughter. Afterwards, Olivia had made sure to teach them all the proper ways to start a fire.
Olivia shook her head and returned the sweater to the cabinet. She folded it, unfolded it, and then folded it again. It wasn’t nearly neat enough, so she tried again. And again. She set it down and sighed, looking at the now-messy mockery of Lark’s pristine personal space.
Those memories were nice, but there were bad moments, too. Like the day Lark ripped Olivia’s heart out.
It had been early in the morning, before opening. Olivia was laughing and talking, but Lark wasn’t. She wasn’t even giving Olivia a smile. This wasn’t unheard of behavior, but Olivia could tell something was different. So she tried even harder.
“Did you hear about Dalton?” Olivia said.
“We need to talk,” Lark said.
“Someone said he got a girlfriend.”
“Olivia—”
“I don’t believe it. He’d never tie himself down like that.”
Lark grabbed Olivia by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “Listen to me. You know, this is one of the problems.”
Olivia stopped, confused. “Problems?”
“You love to talk, but you hate to say anything. I try to bring up something serious, and you’re so conflict avoidant that you ignore it entirely.”
Olivia didn’t respond. Had Lark really tried to say something?
“I’m sorry.” Lark let go of Olivia’s shoulders. “It just seems like you want something I can’t be.”
Olivia leaned in to hug Lark, but Lark pulled away. “I love you,” Olivia said. “You’re everything to me.”
Determination won out against the conflict on Lark’s face. “I think it’s time we go our separate ways,” she said.
“You can’t mean that,” Olivia said. They were in love. Of course Lark didn’t mean it.
Lark shook her head. “I do.”
“Wh— What?”
“You’ll be fine; you have a life here. I was just…passing through when we met. I think it’s time I passed through for good.”
“We can make this work!” Olivia was desperate. “We can figure something out!”
“I’m leaving now,” Lark said. “Goodbye.”
“Lark, wait!”
But she was gone.
Now Olivia ran the cafe alone. The Song and Stream, the songbird and the river. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even fill out some stupid forms.
She turned to the desk and threw open the door. She grabbed the creased envelope from inside it and tore out the papers inside. She didn’t understand any of the form numbers or terms, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded again. She clutched them in her fist and darted outside. She headed straight to the town hall and barged in.
“Olivia?” Nathaniel looked up from his desk in confusion. “Are you okay?”
Nathaniel pointed, and Olivia walked through the door without even knocking. Jacobson must have been asleep, because he sat up abruptly in his chair, clearly startled. He rubbed underneath his eyes and looked over at Olivia.
“I want help filling these out.” Olivia slammed the papers onto the desk. “And can I change my cafe’s name?”
“Yes, that is permissible.” Jacobson pulled a binder off of the shelf behind him and began flipping through it. “But in addition to form P7, which you already have, you will have to fill out forms R2 and T15.”
Nothing to encourage small business like bureaucracy, right? Olivia groaned to herself as she took a pen and started following Mr. Jacobson’s instructions. They both almost lost patience at various points of the hours spent in that small office, but somehow they managed—even if they finished after the town hall officially closed.
“So this is it?” Olivia asked. “Everything is set up?”
“Yes. You have nothing more to worry about. Now if you wouldn’t mind…” Mr. Jacobson lazily gestured at the door as he closed his eyes and laid his head on his desk. “Tell Mr. Alexander to lock up after you leave. He should still be here.”
Olivia walked back into the lobby to find Nathaniel filling out another crossword. “You’re supposed to lock up,” she said.
Nathaniel folded his paper and placed it in his bag. “You took a while. Did you do whatever you needed to?”
Olivia triumphantly held up her copies of the forms she submitted. “Yep yep!” Everything was going to be just fine.
Putting up the new sign was the hardest part of her cleaning the next day. It was the only “cleaning” that was actually better classified as renovation, but Olivia didn’t want to call it that. She created a new table layout, too. Just a few major changes to dispel the memories of the past. She briefly wiped down the tables, laid out pastries, and counted money in the register. At promptly 6:00, she walked to the front door and flipped over the small wooden sign.
Lauren stopped her bike and looked out over Ruin Bay.
She had delivered papers along this route every day for the past two years, and she had looked at the bay a lot early on. Over time, it became mundane and she stopped caring so much. She wasn't sure why she paused now. Maybe it was because it was her fourteenth birthday, or maybe the winter's blooming flowers had caught her eye the right way. She breathed in a warm January breeze, and she put down her kickstand to steady herself.
The yellow sunlight reflected off the needlepoint of a massive skyscraper. The tip of the needle protruded about seven meters out of the water, and the building vanished deep beneath its darkened surface. When she was a child, Lauren would challenge Michael, the kid next door, to see how many floors deep they could see. Now Michael was apprenticed at the town hall to make sure neither of the computers operated the machines for more than their allotted twelve hours per week. Atlanta's old town hall was down in the bay somewhere, and she had heard that it used to have more than a hundred computing machines running around the clock to make the city run. When she had asked how they managed to use that much electricity without burning the city up, she hadn't gotten an answer.
Michael could have been down there somewhere, working on the computing machines. Lauren could have been delivering papers along the ancient asphalt streets. They would have needed at least five of her to deliver papers to everyone down there. Maybe more. She looked through one of the windows towards the top of the skyscraper; a metal chair and desk floated listlessly, abandoned and without purpose. Every one of those rooms in every one of those massive buildings must have felt the same. So warm and loved, then just so...empty.
She dragged her bike away from the edge of the cliff and put up the kickstand. Taking the handlebars in her shaky grip, she pushed off towards the last few stops on her route.
To sing, oh Muse, is freedom over time
and life itself, the cage whose walls I climb
with hopes of seeing what you have to show;
but on my eyes a creeping moss now grows:
my life and love have doubled, but that light
has blinded me and pushed you from my sight.
Then like a nightingale upon my back
into my ears you sing your verses black,
into my ears you sing your verses white,
into my ears you whisper still that blight.
Dispel my doubts of why you torment so,
as if to you there's something more I owe
than this elusive tale you play through me:
as my musician, me as just your key.
I tried to shut you from my life, but then
you pecked my ears and made me hear again
the tales you whisper from the great beyond
and broke my heart with nothing but your song.
So sing! Unless I sing for you, you’ll stay
inside my ear and give me not a day
of rest or play. My nightmares ever grow.
Will singing for you make my thoughts run slow?
Will you let me sleep in peace at last
if yet again you force me through the vast
and cold abyss you love? I know your gift
is still the only thing that lets me lift
my mind into the stars above. So sing!
Play coy with someone else, with me you sing!
We’ll sing the story of the English girl who lay in bed,
whose parents hoped despite it all, whose doctor worked in dread,
for nothing could revive her strength. With nothing to be done
away, her parents brought her home where she could see the sun.
The doctor told them sun was good, but air was more to blame:
miasma had its hold of her, the window from its frame
should go, but nothing could have hurt the poor girl any more
than hearing children playing out across the dew-dropped moor.
She longed to join them even more than longed to be alive.
Most girls at seventeen years old began to live and thrive
and grow into full women. Beatrice could not believe
they’d give up being free as birds up in a tree whose leaves
and blossoms always stayed pristine and soon to open wide
when she had never spread her wings, and in a cage she died.
Her room was strewn with trinkets, what a pretty cage it was!
Pretty to her visitors who couldn’t see its flaws.
Her parents filled her room with things and colors bold and bright,
but looking at them every day had burned and strained her sight.
Her only respite from her thoughts and hatred for her life
were books of gods and monsters, heroes and their times of strife:
the war of Troy, the journey home for Trojan and for Greek;
Ulysses had a home to reach, Aeneas had to seek
one far away to build a life when all he knew was burned,
but though the sea was hard and all the hateful gods returned
to torment him and curse his crew and send them off their course,
still other gods and goddesses would lend them all their force,
and then they founded Rome itself. They weathered out their storm
and built a town with Vesta’s love to keep them always warm.
Maybe, thought the sickly girl, the gods were still around
and waiting for the one they chose to rest within the ground
where Pluto’d greet her lovingly and hold her in his arms
away from sickness, cages, fears, and all those living harms.
Someone out there loved her so, and someone truly cared;
why else would living be so hard? Why would she be so scared?
Why would the world have taken from her everything she loved
and given nothing in return? Why would great God above
desert her, hate her, give her sickness all her years on Earth;
deliver her straight to the grave mere minutes since her birth?
Pluto loved her. This she said to stop from going mad
and dropped her bitter temperament. Her parents both were glad,
but Mother felt a stab of pain. She saw her daughters love
for life fade out. But now she’d take with grace her place above.
Upon the same day as her birth a winged man appeared
with feathers black and sword in hand, and though she should have feared
his deathly craft (for Death he was), he spoke her name aloud,
and overjoyed he knew her name, she sat up tall and proud.
“Beatrice, get out of bed and pay your destined fare.
No matter if you beg and plead, you cannot keep your hair
uncut. I’ve learned this once before, and never will again
be swayed by deals or senseless pleas. I’d sooner drown you in the fen
than let you take my due from me, my heaven-given right.
But if you want to make me laugh, then tell me of your plight.”
“Please don’t laugh, I’m not afraid of going down below
and falling in my lover’s arms, and when the nectar flows,
I’ll feel some joy for all his world I find myself within,
and sing a song for all the souls as my new reign begins,
and though I know that Proserpine was queen before my birth,
I’m sure she’d help me take my place with her beneath the earth.”
For just a moment Death forgot his malice and his hate
and laughed at the absurdity of her imagined fate.
He dropped his sword and clutched his sides and grinned from ear to ear.
Black feathers fell from shaking wings which, meant to stir up fear,
did nothing more than show his mirth. And with this sudden change,
the girl believed him evil still and, worried at this strange
new attitude, she said, “I don’t see why you laugh at me.
I thought that I was to be held and loved eternally.”
He would have told her she was wrong if he could force his lips
to speak the words. He raised his head, but down again it dipped,
and, thinking how her hope would break when seeing how her death
meant nothing to the deathless god, he seethed and slowed his breath.
His smile twisted, pure no more, and with malicious glee.
To think a boat in harbor, having never gone to sea,
would catch a foreign prince’s eye before a murd’rous wave
destroyed its hopes of sailing or of having worth to save.
“Of course!” he said. “Forgive my laughs.” He placed his sword upon
her neck and cut her hair and led her to the Acheron.
He didn’t pause to let her glimpse the children playing ‘round
the aspen shaking in the wind, whose leaves fell to the ground.
They passed a man and woman lying by the river’s shore,
cooing and caressing both the other they adored.
When Beatrice reached out her hand in greeting as she passed,
the lovers shuddered violently and held each other fast.
They could not see her, but they heard a sickly silent song,
and Death ignored them both and dragged poor Beatrice along
this river’s flow through patchy moors then underneath the ground,
and through a crevice in the earth Death slipped without a sound
and dragged the girl into the dark. Though dark, the girl could see
as if it were a twilight’s gloom, and barring certainty
of color, or of vibrancy, or depth, or wear, or sheen,
the girl perceived a massive throng of souls trapped in between
the cave wall and the river, and to the river fell
some luckless souls who screamed in pain, and fruitlessly they yelled
their pleas for mercy. Creaking wood and scraping chains made deaf
the ferryman, whose fraying beard obscured his cracking breath,
whose tired eyes so long ago had lost the will to see
the fear and pain of all the souls he saw eternally.
Some wouldn’t ever leave this cave. More souls came by the day
than five of him could in five weeks come grab and take away.
He sometimes cried, and as the tears rolled down his withered face,
he felt a sadness in his heart he didn’t want to place,
so down he cast his eyes, ignoring all the writhing crowd,
ignoring those who splashed his boat and cursed the boatman proud.
But Death stepped forth and blocked the way of throngs of groaning souls
to bring up Beatrice to Charon’s boat. Ahead, her goals
so poorly thought, behind, her life and screaming, restless shades
while Death reproached them rich and poor and shoved them with his blade
to let her speak. She shaking stood and told the ferryman
all of her life and of her death and of the holy plan
which called her to the world below, and Charon blankly stared.
Death put his finger to his lips and pulled a golden pair
of coins out of his pouch. He placed them in old Charon’s palm,
and Charon took them silently and waved the girl along.
The splinters of the rotting boat cut deep into her thighs,
but she sat straight. Death sat across. The cursing and the cries
of all the cheated souls escaped unheard from their dead lips
and down along the reeking rocks whose rotted mosses drip
away as all the cries of pain fade into naught. The boat
goes on in silence. Charon wants to warn the girl. His throat
won’t open. He tells himself he can’t talk over Death
and casts his eyes to look away and save his cracking breath.
The river’s back rose up and fell like coils of a snake.
The waves grew high and twisted ‘round so on the boat they’d break
and splash the passengers. Though Death and Charon both stood fast,
and firm, unflinching, Beatrice fell crying from the blast.
The water felt like needles, the waves they felt like knives,
and Beatrice had never felt such pain in all her life
or death. She huddled under Charon, hoping for some rest
and shelter from the pain and fear, but all her very best
attempts to dodge her suffering just doubled up her woe
as water pierced her from above and splinters from below.
She trembled and she whimpered even once the waves had ceased
their raging and their gnashing. Like a pious, fallen priest
she muttered and she prayed. She flinched at every little drip
she heard resound around the moss and rocks. Old Charon dipped
down low, and grabbed her wrist, and hauled her up upon the shore
where they had stopped: a moor of rock as ghastly as before
but just as lacking in the things which soothed the weary sight,
although their sight was cut off by the solid crumbling height
of ancient cliff which stood ahead. A narrow flight of stairs
wound up the side, adorned with souls caught in the traps and snares
which held them by their ankles staked and swinging in the breeze
which set the scent of carrion deep in the sickly freeze
which eagerly coerced the girl to stumble, slip, and fall
into a hidden trap and join the others on that wall.
But Death was with the girl, and he made sure she didn’t stray
into the traps around. She used his footsteps as her way
and as her stepping-stones across the dangerous frozen sea
that was the rocks and steps. Then one soul twisted ‘round to see
who passed, and seeing Death come with this girl called out her name,
and with wet eyes he conjured up his focus and exclaimed,
“Oh, Beatrice, my niece! I hoped you’d never walk this path,
at least until much later, and every day I asked
whatever gods watch over men and girls to keep you safe
and keep you always far away from this dank wretched place.
I tried to walk around the fields, but never could forget
my baby brother staying strong. I thought I could outwit
the guards, the dog, the boatman too, and make sure that he fed,
and that he drank, and that he took the time to lay his head
and get some sleep regardless of his worry for your life.
But gods, I never wanted you to die in all that strife.
I thought that maybe I could just pop out to say hello
and keep you company for just a night before below
I’d slip again, unnoticed. But the traps move every day
and even though I focused and made sure I went the way
that I was shown by Mercury, I fell and stumbled in.
But you, you have a moment here before despair begins!
Run! Free yourself! Get out of here—!” Here, Death covered his face
and slammed his head against the wall until he lay in place.
And Beatrice stayed for a spell. “Your fate just isn’t mine.
You were brought here simply for your use of all your time.
Such fears and pains are not for me.” She placed her shaking hand
upon his cheek and wiped the tear that lonely down it ran.
Death grabbed her wrist and dragged her from her uncle swinging still
and onward, farther up the steps. She felt her wilted will
embolden with each step she took—she thought her choice was free,
but if she had done otherwise coerced she would have been.
The land atop the ragged cliff was covered with its shrubs
of faded, grayish asphodel. Some had been cut to stubs
by idle ghosts who, lacking for a better thing to do,
took out their boredom on the plants. The whip-poor-wills that flew
along the porous ceiling cried incessantly and plunged
to rip the petals from rotting stems left in the grunge.
Pythagoras and Plato kept their conversation sad
with Mill and Bentham. Though before delighted to have had
these conversations, years had passed, and nothing new was said
to prick their minds, and while the cultist rubbed his weary head
and brushed aside the words he heard, another shade flew past.
The swift Achilles flew on foot, and none were quite as fast
as him, so no one followed suit. His lonely, hollow race
he ran alone. Before, the other shades looked on his pace
as challenge, but for centuries they tried and failed to win,
so swift Achilles never would earn victory again.
And Sisyphus, who nearly reached the top of his bald hill,
watched his boulder slip away, and with a desperate thrill,
he watched it roll its way back down. He looked around the gloom
and laughed at all the wretches there below who had been doomed
to run in circles with no goal. He started walking slow
back to his boulder and his task and purpose far below.
And Beatrice soon noticed Death had left her there alone
with one foot in the slimy soil and one upon the stone
which crumbled on the hanging spirits tied up on the wall.
She felt it break, she pitched, and then she failed to stop her fall
into the fungus, dirt, and bugs that fed the plants and birds;
she pushed herself up, coughing. All the other spirits heard,
and even one or two glanced up, but none came forth to see
or try to help or get her news of those above and free.
She stood and caught her balance, waving off the birds that flew
around her head and squinted through the grayish-greenish hue
that cloaked the Underworld. She saw a warm and cheerful light
which faintly glowed a mile off atop a hill whose height
and power dwarfed the hill that felt the boulder rise and fall.
The light sat safe and hid, protected by a gnarled wall
that tried and failed to keep the light and cheer from getting out
and reaching those stuck down below. The girl put down her doubt
and weaved her way about the bushes choking out her way
and shedding on her stinking petals, lifeless, dull, and gray.
‘Round and ‘round the rugged rocks a ragged rascal ran
first the one way, then the other, hiding from a man
who shouted, screamed, and shook his fist. The rogue held to a vase
which gleamed against his mossy garb and darkish, tanish face.
As though from Sherwood’s trees themselves, his shirt was emerald green
and pants were dirty brown, and for it all what most was clean
about him was his quiver, arrows, bow with oaken sheen.
He thought he saw an opening and made to pass the guard,
but he was caught. The looming man brought him into the yard
beyond the iron gates. The vernal bandit threw his loot
into the field, to the ghosts. It snapped a tender shoot
of newly-budding asphodel as it fell on the ground.
And not a soul so much as turned to wonder at the sound.
The rogue was dragged beyond the gate and to a sideways path
which led him down to Tartarus to face the burning wrath
the King decreed. He was shut up inside a pitch-black maze
whose stony walls did shift and writhe, whose jagged floor did raise
and dip and cut his hands and arms and feet—his boots deprived
from him he walked on glass and slate, and always he survived
to feel the cuts and pains that would kill any man alive.
He had to walk that endless maze and find a golden key
that would unlock the iron door, but since he couldn’t see
he had to run his hand along the wall and slice his palm
for any hope of knowing where he was and where he’d gone.
But every night a Fury would descend and send him snakes
and spiders crawling o’er his feet. His misery she’d make,
but silent and unknown to him she’d do a second deed
and move his golden prize away so that he’d never free
himself, but in a stagnant pool of water he might see
the glimmer of his foolish hope and of the gilded key.
Beatrice dashed through the door before it slammed and latched
and stole her way along the path. She thought the man who snatched
the vase was gone, and justice served, but she knew not the pain
undue that Robin Hood now felt. But if she did, what then?
Would she turn back and run away? Or would she steel again
her nerves and tell herself that Pluto knew the best for all
and wrongly seemed unjust at times? The spirits on the wall
had not convinced her to turn back and give up on her dream
of being loved here after death. Or else her death that seemed
so justified and favored would turn out to be a fraud
of cruelty even Parliament would cringe to give their nod.
So on she put her blinders, and to the golden doors
she took her steps and stumbled. Then, when standing just before
the silent house, she looked about, and to the guardsman said,
“Oh, you who guard the palace from the envy of the dead
and save our wondrous Pluto from the cares upon his head,
will you not open up the gate? The king that waits inside
waits for his lover that he culled and wouldn’t want to hide
away from all his glory. Here I am, don’t make him wait.
Deliver me into his hands and ease his sorry state.”
The shade was at a loss for words, and as he worked his jaw
to figure out what he should say, he glanced aside and saw
dread Proserpine, who wore a dress of stars and dying suns
bequeathed to her by Night herself. Those pricks of light were spun
into a cloth of space and void, which fell in inky black.
The guard went pale, his eyes went wide, and then his jaw went slack
as back he shrunk from her: the rightful Queen of Pluto’s throne.
Within the shadows where she stood her spiteful fury shone.
But then she stepped, and in the light which fell through window’s glass
her fury seemed much softer and benevolence did pass
across her face which twisted to a grin of friendly cheer.
She kept her face from startling the girl or spreading fear
into her heart or head. The guard had darted from his post
to only leave the holy Queen and squalid, stupid ghost.
“I hear you’re here to see the King. One more is quite a joy,
especially if, like you say, you’re now his newest toy
who’s come to take my spot.” She stopped and gathered up her dress.
“So why not come to dinner then and make sure that your death
has all the meaning that it should?” She threw open the door,
and all the candles squirmed their light across the stony floor
in welcome, or in laughter at the girl stood at the door.
The floor was rough-hewn cobblestone, the curtains silken gold,
and all along each iron-wreathed wall were trophies to behold:
the spear of great Achilles, whose mother missed the heel;
the shattered frame of Orphey’s lyre, which made the monarch feel
a hint of mercy for the first of times, and for the last;
and there beside, the Nemean pelt was taken from the grasp
of Hercules, who raged and interfered with Death’s exchange—
Death gave an inch, he took a mile, and none that was arranged
was given up. He had some herbs all dried and spread about,
all taken from the German man who felt the right to doubt
the clear instructions given him about who he could heal,
and who had groveled in the end for just one life to steal.
The King sat on his ivory throne as cautiously they walked
towards him. Proserpine pushed up the tiny girl to talk,
and so she did: “Oh Pluto, thank your kindness and your love;
I used to think so highly of the world that kicked and shoved
me into bed for months and years, and kept me without end
a prisoner in my own body. Morpheus had sent
me dreams and fancies to accept the wondrous role I play
in death. And when I looked outside and wished that I could stay
alive forever, I could think of you and of my place
beside of you, beside your queen, a pretty, fragile face
that you adore. And though I know I’m young, I still can flaunt
myself, or keep you company, or anything you want.”
Pluto glared at Proserpine, and then back at the Brit.
“Let’s first explain just who you are and why you think you get
to breathe my air and tread my floor?” He motioned her to sit.
But Beatrice stood like a fawn who had just realized
her mother now was far away, and that the glassy eyes
which lay a foot beyond the trees belong to vile hounds,
and when the fawn begins to run, the hunting horn does sound
around the forest wide, and leaping ‘cross the brooks for fear
that she’d be eaten, separates herself from other deer
who might have helped her hide herself, or else confuse the dogs.
And like our fawn, our Beatrice ran out into the fog
and ran past all the other ghosts, but, coming to the steps
she heard her uncle’s warning burned into her mind. She leapt
first left, then right, then turned around and stumbled through the brush,
the petals falling off on her and coating her with mush.
She lost herself. The only thing that she could see around
was Sisyphus upon his hill. He spoke without a sound
that she could hear from all this way, but then he seemed to laugh,
and then she turned and saw the Queen, her eyes alight in wrath.
She didn’t speak, and Beatrice fell to the ground in pain
and stammered her apologies for being proud and vain.
The Queen was silent. As the words fell from the poor girl’s lips
they fell as petals. From her eyes the sweetest nectar dripped
in place of tears. She tried to stand, but found her hands and knees
were rooted strong into the ground. The last thing that she sees
before her sight betrays her too: the queen now turns away.
And Beatrice begs one last time for Proserpine to stay.
The whip-poor-wills swoop down and pick at Beatrice’s flesh
and beat her clothing with their wings, and now she has been threshed
and her humanity removed, the pain will never leave,
and there, an asphodel among the rest, she wilts and grieves.
When trees upon the ridge inscribe the sky
with inky lattices against the stars,
brooding over humans from afar
and howling, hoping we will spare reply,
I close my eyes and listen to the wind
and tell myself that this time I will hear
the forest's words, but as I tilt my ear,
my wandering eyes begin to flit and dim.
Afraid, I pull myself back to my porch
and cast my gaze as deep into the night
as I can make believe I see the light
of some long-forgotten, waiting torch.
I peer between the stars and will my soul
into the heavens, far enough to see
a distant world where I can have the means
to wander 'cross the landscape with no goal.
Out there, I'll scale a mountain, see a lake
so serene that birds refuse to sing
unless they break the magic spell that rings
the shores and gloomy fog that never breaks.
I'll stand and feel myself intruding there,
and for a moment, I'll think to turn around,
but then I'll hear the waves, I'll feel the ground,
and I'll know I never would have dared.
Approaching, yearning, desirous to behold
my reflection, and see the things I don't
yet know about myself. If nature won't
reveal them here, they're never to be told.
And yet, I reach the shore, and catch my breath,
and ready myself to understand
my purpose. My life. The way the land
has shaped my body, cradled it to death;
whatever's there, I cannot say for sure.
I can't imagine what would bring me peace,
so there I always let my mind release
the imagined planet's stern, deceitful lure.
Back to Earth I come, and back to life
to see my spouse come checking up on me.
I feel guilty for not being happy
with a peaceful home and pleasant life.
For the last eight years, Steven had tended to the most important, most thankless job at Spokes Zoo: taking care of the squirrel.
He had asked for assistants or advanced automation, but every time he brought it up to the administration, he heard the same tired line about finances. The money just didn’t exist, he had been told to accept. Steven had thought that his superiors would be moved, if not by his old age, then by his job. Francine was the last female squirrel alive; if she died, they’d lose all hope of her species continuing on. So it was his job to watch her, feed her, and tend to her medical needs.
Over the last two weeks, she had gotten worse. Much worse. Her fur was matted, and her left eye was swollen shut. The pus around her eye glistened in her artificial moonlight, and Steven couldn’t help but wince with guilt. She lived in a simulation of the forests of centuries past, but she wasn’t satisfied. Her instincts kept her clawing away at the corner of the glass, trying to escape. And through it all, Steven had to sit and watch. He thought it was cruel. No matter how nice the habitat was, it was still ultimately a prison.
Officially, animals that were extinct in the wild couldn’t leave their habitats. Medical treatment was to be administered inside the enclosure, and under no circumstances could an animal be allowed out. With Francine, though, Steven just couldn’t accept that anymore. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep her going, so he thought that maybe he could at least let her explore his office a few times before she died. This evening was one of those times.
“Good girl, good girl. Up you go.”
Steven set Francine down on his desk, and she twitched under the harsh, unnatural light. He dimmed his lamp to try to simulate some sort of a gloom.
“Just like the moon, right?”
Francine scurried away and started sniffing around the corners of his desk. Of course she didn’t respond to him, but Steven felt his heart sink anyway. He spent a few more minutes than he needed fetching his gauze and ointments. Maybe he could give her a little time uninterrupted. When he returned to dab antiseptic on her swollen eye, she scurried away, and he couldn’t catch her. He told himself his aching fingers weren’t as nimble as they used to be, but when he finally got her in his hand, she let out such a pitiful squeak that he immediately let her go.
Maybe squirrels would live for another generation or two if he managed to keep Francine alive, but Steven couldn’t figure out how that mattered. Squirrels had gone extinct in the wild centuries ago, and really, that’s when Earth lost them. Having five living members of a species cooped up in cages didn’t mean anything had been avoided. Steven and his research colleagues always talked about the importance of this kind of work, but he was willing to wager that if any of them were here, they’d see exactly what he saw: a tired, pained, scared creature who didn’t know or care why it was being confined. It didn’t know why its pain had to go on.
Francine had climbed onto the windowsill and was staring out at the endless sea of city lights. Maybe she was looking for some nonexistent forest on the horizon, or maybe she envied the insects and vermin in the streets below. She pawed weakly at the glass and turned her good eye questioningly towards Steven. He couldn’t stand the way she looked at him. It made him feel oddly ashamed. He decided it was time to put her back in her cage.
She was determined not to cooperate. Every time Steven reached out to grab her, she let out a panicked wail and scurried farther away along the sill. When he finally got her cornered, she slipped, fell to the ground, and landed on her back with a dull thud.
“Francine!” Steven bent over and scooped her off the ground. She was limp, she was barely breathing, and she was still looking at him with that hurt, pleading eye. He stared at her vacantly for a while—maybe a minute, maybe five. Then she started to drift off to sleep. That’s what made him finally come back to his senses. Still cradling her in his arms, he pushed his way out of his office and down the stairs. He ignored his screaming knees and made it to the ground floor at nearly the same pace he started. After he was out the front doors and on the sidewalk, he brought Francine up to his eye level.
“You made it,” he whispered. “And look: the sun’s about to rise.”
He carefully lowered himself down to the cement so they could enjoy it together. He wasn’t quite sure when she died, but she was gone by the time the dawn ended. He moved her cheek with his thumb, and her head fell limply back into his lap. Like a boy ashamed of breaking a vase, Steven hid her in his coat and took her back to his apartment. Out on the balcony, he fashioned her a grave in a pot with a hyacinth as a headstone.
Within the week, Spokes Zoo forced Steven into an early retirement. He could never show his face in zoology circles again, and he was too old to start a brand new career. Instead, he pinched his pennies, spread his dollars as thin as they would go, and looked after that hyacinth like it was his own daughter. It became one of the well-known eccentricities of the neighborhood, but he didn’t realize anyone thought it was that odd. If ever asked why he cared so much, he just said he was glad his hyacinths could see the sun rise.
First published in Twenty-two Twenty-eight on November 13, 2023.
As writers, we should be more conscious of people's ability to download our work for themselves. When we release free fiction (anything from a short story to a full novel), it's good to take the time and create an ePub file to go along with it.
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Giving people this ability to curate a library is going to help the artistic community. When we support the same features people expect from, say, Google Play Books (which ePubs can be imported to), it makes free fiction more sustainable and attractive to audiences.
For you fanfic writers who may be seeing this, the popular fanfic site AO3 automatically allows readers to download works as ePub files, so you just keep trucking.
When I was a kid, I loved hunting for spotted turtles. There was a swamp a half mile from my house, and every afternoon I’d run down to sift through the mud. If I ever found one, I’d scoop it up, bring it home, and ask my parents if we could keep it. They’d always say no. They told me that I wouldn’t like it if someone picked me up and carried me away from my house. Eventually I stopped bringing them home, but I still laughed and poked them with sticks to watch their orange spots as they moved.
Serenity lived in that swamp. The wind in my hair and the soil on my toes kept me grounded, kept me alive. There was a little bend in the creek feeding the swamp where a massive boulder sat among a mat of weeds and flowers; climbing that thing and tumbling back down was like magic to me. Nothing could burden me if I didn’t want it to.
But then I got older. I had schoolwork, social obligations, college prep. I didn’t have time to just go out and play. I became sullen and withdrawn, and by late high school, I stopped spending time with the other girls my age. Every weekend, I returned to my old swamp, slipped my shoes off, and painted. I told my peers that I was capturing the soul of the world, and I might have even believed it.
They were good paintings, though. After a few arguments with my parents, I decided to attend an art school in the city. It was good for me; it got me back out of my shell. I had interesting conversations with interesting people, and I got better at what I loved doing. But none of it sat right. I always felt like the city air was thinly coating my lungs, and my clothes held a slightly acrid smell that wouldn’t come out. When I’d go home for holidays, I’d find myself surprised at how many birds I heard. Every painting showed progress, and every semester I was told I was good at capturing the world around me. But the world around me didn’t seem real. I was in some sort of dream I was desperate to wake up from.
So I moved back home.
The sights and the sounds were the same as I remembered. The art stores and bookshops were all staffed by my old friends. I stretched a few canvases and bought a few paints, but I didn’t actually do any painting. Every morning I walked down the front steps of my childhood home, and every evening I walked back up. Even in such a small town, there were so many places I had never actually been. I found a cozy little cafe on Orchard Street. I must have driven past it every day in high school, and I just never stopped to look.
It took me a month to go back to my favorite swamp. It was quieter and stiller than I remembered, like watching a memory through frosted glass. I thought I’d get to relive those memories—catch some turtles like I used to—so I rolled up my sleeves, set my shoes by my car, and squatted by the bank of the creek. There weren’t any turtles in their old hiding spots, so I sat on a rock, waited, and watched.
The next few days were much the same, but on the fifth day, one crawled out of the weeds towards me. I scooped it up and held it to my face. It craned its neck to peer at me with a small orange eye. We stayed there for a moment, looking at each other in wonder.
“Let it go.”
A young man was approaching me—a college student home on break?
“I’m not going to hurt her,” I said.
The man sighed. “What you have there is a spotted turtle. We need to be careful with them.”
Then he told me that the spotted turtle is endangered, that I can help the conservation effort, that the swamp would be poisoned or dried soon. He left, and I looked down at the turtle in my hands. The turtle looked back at me, and he clawed languidly at my palm. I set him down carefully and fetched my paints from my car. Back on my rock, I laid my canvas board across my thighs, and I got to work.
This had to be a one-sitting painting. It felt like I’d never see a turtle here again. After a few hours, the painting was done. The background was painted in fervent, hasty strokes: grass bled together, trees were covered in cancerous shoots, and the water glistened black in the light of a pale yellow sun. In the foreground, there was a turtle. The smooth and firm strokes brought life to its hardy body, and it seemed the only real thing left in the degraded, decomposing scene.
I set the painting aside and leaned back, looking up at the sky. A lone white cloud passed behind the thin tree cover, blocking out the sun. I traced absent designs in the mud with my index finger, then remembered the student, then drew my hand back. A heavy weight pressed down on me, and I pulled my feet up from the mud and onto the rock.
Movement flickered in the corner of my eye. The turtle ambled towards my painting, peering curiously at the image of itself. Once I realized it meant to touch the paint, I snatched up the painting and held it over my head. The turtle stared at me. It let out four weak chirps, waiting for a response between each. No response came. We stared at each other for a moment, then it bowed its head and sulked back into the grass.
That was six months ago. I keep a closed terrarium in my room now, and I watch it for hours on end. The inspiration to paint never comes. The only painting I have to hang is that scene of the swamp. About once a month, when I’m really restless, I’ll go back. But now I walk in closed-toe shoes along the newly-installed boardwalks.
I'm sure most people reading this are familiar with the story of Narcissus and Echo. The general structure is that the handsome Narcissus wa
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