Image Description: Skyward view of tall trees in a forest backlit by the sun, making the leaves look neon green.
The forest speaks with a thousand voices and none at all. Lives in a thousand souls and none at all. I walk through bark and branches, still living leaves caressed by my fingers as their dead brothers collapse beneath my steps. The trees whisper to one another high above my head.
I whisper back memories of you.
Pretending I don’t know exactly how many days it has been since I’d felt your hand in mine was easier here. Here, wooded limbs reach for me, their trunks standing in silent readiness for my embrace. I sink down at the foot of an oak.
Like you, it refuses to soften for my touch. If I sleep here instead of your arms, I’d wake with the same ache in my neck. I trace the lines of roots cleaving the ground and wonder if you are happier now.
The branches above me sway, splitting the sky into stained glass. I see a leaf let go of its home. It flies, leaving behind everything it knows for a moment of freedom.
As I watch, waiting for it to land, I think of you. Someday as I do, I’ll be able to smile.
Image Description: A painting by @freshsunberries of a young girl with fiery red hair sitting in a field of wildflowers, looking at a circus.
A short story written in response to an #ask submitted by @waldorkler. Thank you for the “gothic night circus” prompt! I hope you enjoy the story you inspired, and the art @freshsunberries created.
Jacqueline sits with her hands crossed in her lap. Only her forefinger moves, playing with one of the satin ribbons trailing across the folds of yellow muslin in her dress. Behind her, her mother pulls a brush down Jacqueline’s long, red waves of hair.
In front of her, there is a window. It frames a perfect view of their garden, hedges trained to stand like animals dancing with white narcissus around their feet, and prim rows of pear trees which Jacqueline is not allowed to climb. Beyond the green wall of beech trees marking the end of the estate’s lawn and the beginning of the meadow, there is a burst of color.
The circus blew in on the tail of winter’s last breath and perched at the edge of their land. Brightly colored tents sprouted overnight from the dry, hungry grass with food and game stalls clustering cheerily around their pegs. It was not there yesterday; it is there today and Jacqueline can just see the waving of an orange flag through the myriad branches.
“I would like to go, Mother,” she says.
Her mother’s brush strokes do not falter. The horsehair slips easily over her satiny curls. “A young lady must not be tempted by the frivolities of common folks,” her mother says. She ties a white ribbon around Jacqueline’s hair, pulling and twisting until it is choked into a smooth knot just above her shoulders. The ribbon is thick; it tickles Jacqueline’s neck.
Author’s Note: New Ending! I had a ton of fun revising the ending to this to grab more of Jacqueline’s transformation and desires. Am I using this revision as an excuse to put @freshsunberries’ art on your dashes again?
Author’s Note: Happy Valentine’s Day; have some HORROR. <3 <3 J
Image Description: A silhouette of a person in a hooded sweatshirt and ball cap, surrounded by white smoke.
Three.
Male, 16. Broad of shoulder and narrow of mind, shouting slurs at his friends as he thumps his chest. In every way, the opposite of my birth body. I tug the edges of my sleeves down to cover the strange hue of my skin and jerk my chin, forcing the baseball cap’s ragged brim lower to hide my forehead.
I watch him fake a football pass to his friend, his Varsity jacket flapping open against his chest as he throws air. I watched this summer, too, hidden in the shade on the other side of the chain link fence that surrounds the football field, as he flew through the coach’s drills. A body with speed and strength. A body that other people surrounded, touching easily and calling out to with warm, rounded tones.
At the front of the school, hundreds of kids are pouring into the building desperate to find someone to worship. He’s as good as any god.
I catch him beneath the bleachers. He stands a head taller than me, pulling himself even higher as he does chin-ups on the supports crisscrossing above our heads. My hands shake. The bag of weed I’d saved to buy flutters where it hangs between my pinky and ring. I’d flashed it at him, and he took the bait, following me under here with just a shout over his shoulder, “Gotta get my school supplies!”
I pull bills from my pocket, change for his hundred. A fifty falls. “Oops,” I whisper hoarsely. “Your money.”
“Damn!” He drops, crouching to catch the bill before the late summer wind snatches it away. “You want a pounding on your first day of school, weird ass?”
I reach out and brush a lock of hair back from his temple. Rage fills his eyes, looking up at me from where he kneels. I whisper, shhhhh. His lips spread back over perfect, white teeth made for clenching mouth guards. I grasp each side of his head and breathe deep, pulling his making out of him and into me. His jaw goes slack for an instant before it clenches tight in pain.
My muscles ripple, body awakening to new strength as my fingers dig deep gouges in his temples. “Oh,” I gasp. The change floods me. It is not so much pain as implosion. His body shivers as I unmake it and weave it piece by piece around my own.
It is finished. I struggle to quiet my shattered breathing, his shell a puddle around my feet. Unlike me, he never made a sound, too sure of his own strength. I tug at the collar of his Varsity jacket. The clothes slough off his remains like snakeskin. I slide them over the body I stole from him, rounding my shoulders to feel the jacket’s strength.
“You get the weed?” his friend Simeon, an eager boy in with our school’s mascot on his shirt, says as I walk into the sunshine. His hand is outstretched, wanting to touch me the moment I appear.
I run his tongue over his teeth, testing its tensile strength. The hardest part to steal is speech. I crack his neck instead of answering, brushing past Simeon.
“Shit, man, that was my allowance you took in. Gimme part of it.”
He follows me. The doors are just ahead—in this frame, I can walk through them a king. But Simeon’s hand is clutching my shoulder and twisting me around.
Touch is not always a pleasant thing after all. “Let go,” I growl.
Simeon coughs out a laugh, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Damn. What—that nasty bastard under there try to rip you off or something?”
Nasty bastard.
Two.
I left Simeon’s body beside the shell of the other, his head crooked at a right angle to lay on his friend’s husk. A present from the nasty bastard.
These hands tremble with adrenaline. I tuck them inside his jacket. I need a new form before Simeon is found laying on the stain the husk will dissolve into. They were seen together earlier. This body will be hunted.
Female. 17. Full lips confident in red stain. I watch her watch the body I’m in, white teeth scraping across her bottom lip. She’ll do.
This body’s hands are slick with sweat as the other girls close ranks around her. It is him they stare at, not me, I remind myself with a long exhale. “Need to talk to you.”
She plays with the ponytail hanging low over her right breast. “Mhmm.”
I fight the urge to curl his lip. In this body, I shouldn’t even have to ask. In my own, I would never have been allowed close enough to ask. I force his shoulders to shrug and walk past her, hidden hands in tight fists. There are others scattered between here and the bright hallways leading to first period. I can pick any, I tell myself over and over again. But her rejection burns. I chose him, but she refuses to. Hatred for this body and its wide, strong hands so perfect for twisting a friend’s neck coils inside me.
I hear the quick patter of footsteps. Her ponytail brushes against his jacket as she falls into skipping-step beside me. She looks up through thick lashes. “So let’s talk.”
A crooked smile leaks through my disguise. I knew I had chosen the right one. “Not here.”
I lead her toward the entrance behind the gym--locked usually, but on the first day of school they’re letting us in everywhere, afraid we won’t make it or afraid we won’t want to. We’re hit by the smell of fresh floor wax and ammonia. His shoes squeak and wail against the floor while her heels pass with just the tap tap of a hollow heartbeat.
“Where are we going?” she says with a nervous laugh, playing with her hair. She knows where it draws my eyes and watches, her tongue caught between her teeth.
I shove her back against the wall beneath the stairwell, her rushed exhale the only sound in the empty halls. Upstairs throbs with life, but down here it's just her. And me. Her lips part. I could kiss her in this body. A part of me wants to try, to see what it feels like even if its someone else’s lips I’m crushing against hers. I bare my teeth instead.
Her eyes widen as my fingers dig into her temples. “Caleb?”
I shrug. His skin is a second slower than the muscles beneath it, already sloughing off as my body rejects it in favor of hers. The change shows in my face first, only inches from hers. I feel my cheeks slacken, feel the skin around my eyes pulling itself down. She screams--I press my own mouth against hers and swallow the sound.
Her nails claw at me. She bites down, ripping at my lip. I stagger back, smearing my own blood across my own face. It hurts, but when I look at the back of my hand it is smudged with a mix of blood and lipstick. She runs--her heels slip on the floor. I grab her hair and winch her up high enough to catch her jaw as I backhand her. She slumps to the ground. Her cheek reddens, swelling. She does not move.
“Useless.” I mutter the word. I cannot start school with a bruised jaw and cracked nails. I claw at my own face in frustration.
A pencil clatters down the stairway, each fall off a step like a gunshot in the hall’s quiet. A girl in overalls and a cropped tie-dye shirt stands half a flight up, a wad of bubblegum hanging out of the side of her mouth. She clutches a watercolor paper pad and a teetering pile of pencils on top. “Sick,” she says with a smile. “Can I sketch you?”
Jeans several sizes too large sag off my hips as I turn to face her. I stand clothed but naked before her, a girl prostrate at my feet. I know what I look like. Skin translucent as her paper, eyes round and watery, joints swollen from the effort of holding together a half-formed body made to be hidden in another.
She shuffles through her pencils, picking one to tuck behind her ear and one to hold aloft in readiness.
¡Hi there! I've been reading our historys and I have to tell you that I love them, they make my day better. I would like to ask your permission to be able to translate them into Spanish, of course with their respective credits. Have a good day and I hope I can continue to enjoy our historys
Hello!
Thank you so much for this wonderful compliment, we’re so happy you are enjoying the stories!
Unfortunately, right now we ask that none of them be translated or copied over to other platforms.
Thank you so much for asking, and hope you’ll continue to follow along!
Michelle and Jenni
Image Description: Close up shot of a single fly agaric mushroom sprouting from the forest floor
I am five when my dream of dandelion fluff cracks open, and the Queen of the Fairies pulls herself up from one of the crevices.
“You are wrong,” she tells me.
I’m scared, because her crooked smile reveals teeth sharpened down to points, and I don’t know what wrong is, so I repeat the word. “Wrong.” She nods seriously, so I say it again. “Wrong.”
“The child you replaced is causing problems on our side,” she says, like I’m supposed to know how to fix it.
I look down, and the fuzzy grey unicorn pants my mom calls pink are caked with mud on the hems, and my feet are bare, and there is a single stem of a dandelion still remaining, but it has no feathery down left to wish on. The Queen of the Fairies grabs me, wrapping gnarled fingers around my arm, but I pull away.
When I wake up, there are white fingerprints pressed into the curve of my wrist. I rub at them; they fade to a dusty grey. It looks almost like a bruise.
She’s a frequent visitor after that. Sometimes, she does nothing but watch. Sometimes, she throws her wand of twisted thorns and breaks the dream entirely as it smashes into millions of sharp slivers. Always, I ask for a name to call her, but she gives me nothing but a scowl.
“You are wrong,” she tells me when I am eight, and nine, and now I agree. I have always been this way, fingers that smell like mud even after I scrub them clean again, again, again, until my mother tells me to stop. My limbs have lengthened to willowy sticks that catch on everything. Most people can’t look straight at me—their eyes slide to the dirt at my feet. I watch other children from a distance. When they smile, I mold my mouth around muscles that don’t quite understand how to move. When they cry, I blink and blink. Sometimes, my eyes almost feel wet.
When I’m thirteen, the Queen of the Fairies bares her fangs and growls at me. She is still nameless so I call her Titania, because I am in eighth grade studying Shakespearean comedy, and the tangled thorns on her head look enough like a crown that I think I’m being clever.
“You need to come back,” she orders, stomping down a path that has suddenly unfurled in front of us.
I follow her, because the tiny grey mushrooms that pop up in the cracks of the path sparkle brilliantly, and I want to know how they taste.
It doesn’t take long to get to the other girl, the other child, the other thing that sits against the rotten remains of a stump with her knees drawn towards her chest and a dead look in her eyes.
“She won’t budge,” Titania tells me. “We feed her,” she adds as an afterthought, and I nod—not because I understand, but because I don’t want her to growl at me again.
The other thing reaches a hand towards me and whispers, “Please,” so I step forward. She looks just like me, but she smells like soap and honey and a little bit of vanilla. She doesn’t smell like mud, so I hate her.
“I don’t know what to do about this,” Titania says. “I’ve tried everything.” She sniffs haughtily, and I know that if she had any wings at all beyond the skeletal bones of her spine, she might choose this moment to fly away from it all.
The other thing blinks, and I step even closer, watching her pupils dilate in fear. I lean forward until my nose brushes against hers, and she flinches back. Her breath smells like peppermint, and I hate her for that too, because mine does not. My mother has taken me to the dentist where I have been diagnosed with halitosis and prescribed toothpastes, and mouthwashes and rinses, and none of them cover the smell of dirt. “Stop moving,” I command. She stops because I am powerful here.
It is my dream.
I study her eyes like I study smiles. Her eyes are cameras, and I mimic, pupils dilating back and forth, each a lens on autofocus. “So that’s how they see color,” I murmur. I’ve been faking it a very long time, and when I blink, it’s a relief to see that the mushrooms at my feet are red and white. “I’ve got it now.”
“That doesn’t solve this,” Titania says, waving towards the girl.
“Human children like friends,” I say, like it's easy, like the fairies have a whole clump of children they’ve stolen from mothers and fathers, like friendship is so powerful it can cure a heartsick teenager sitting against a stump. “So get her one.” I bend down and pluck an orange mushroom from the dirt and swallow it, then shake myself awake again.
When I am sixteen, the Queen of the Fairies rips the ground out from under my feet, but I keep walking because now I’ve grown wings of moss, and even though I keep them wrapped against my back when I’m awake, it’s my dream, and so I’m allowed to fly.
“It’s time,” she insists, like she still holds power over me.
“Cool it, Mab,” I shoot back, because Titania no longer rolls off my tongue. I’m in highschool now and we’ve progressed to tragedy. “I’m not trading back.” I reach up and twist my long, unruly hair into a knot on top of my head like all the real girls do, snagging a rubberband from my wrist and tying it with practiced ease.
“I brought you into this world,” she says, crooking a spindly finger at me.
“Shoo,” I say.
Her face crumples in fear for just a moment, then she bursts apart into thousands of fluffy dandelion seeds, and I don’t make a single wish as I puff them all out of existence.
Image Description: Two hands crossing, just seen above the grey-green surface of the water.
I am tired of singing.
You have changed.
This is your fault, my silence. And so I will take your trash and fill it with my words, cramming full bottle after bottle that you have left castaway in my sea so that when they wash up on your beach and you open them perhaps it will be you that drowns.
In wonder, of course. I do not actually want to hurt you--I got that out of my system with Odysseus and his beautiful wooden boat.
Boats do not break the same way anymore. They are all too high; these ugly metal beasts rearing up out of the ocean like Poseidon’s buttcheeks. I cannot be bothered to sing to your boats these days.
Odysseus’s boat was different. A wooden boat creaks, sighing beautiful grinding noises that I cannot find under the water. Wood on wood on nails on wood, twisting against itself in constant agony to serve. Oh, how I loved his boat. I had to have it, and so I sang.
I have found another bottle. A few drips of something brown and fetid inside. I let the pelicans have it, dribbling it on the corner of a buoy. They squabble and I scribble. Scribble scribble. I wonder what you think the ocean is like. Shall I tell you?
Perhaps next time. It is hot today, and my scales itch.
A young boy tossed this one overboard. You learn to destroy early.
I thought about scribbling a picture of him being eaten by a whale and throwing my message in a bottle back inside his tiny floating room but he had already vacated his body. These great floating cities you call Carnival, with layer upon layer of rooms of you and at each balcony I cling to I find you empty.
Rooms full, people empty, stolen by the glowing people in the caves on the walls. I watch you slip away sometimes, meandering around your tiny room until you sit and the wall’s cave lights up to claim you back. It’s a slow unraveling, starting with the eyes and moving outward.
You are boring. I do not know why I bother with you.
I am laughing rich white bubbling sea foam because you know I am out here and you have it all so very wrong.
Mostly the hair.
Little destroyer boy was sucked up by a cave-person who looked like me on the bottom and me in the middle but fiery seaweed on top! I cannot imagine living with that much hair--and red! She is asking to be eaten. Or snagged in a net--jellyfish entangled in those fluttering, floating locks--bits of bracken and barnacles and then when she surfaced to sing to you--oh, I cannot write, it is too funny--the hair! I would not be able to see a thing, a reef’s weight of hair plastered to my face until I looked more putrid kraken than mermaid.
If your mermaid ever leaves her glowing cave, I will scrape her hair off for her. I have the most wonderful sharp shell. She will love the way the water feels as it runs over her skin, all of her skin.
He lives in a cave, like your friends. But mine is better--mine gives life; he does not steal.
I think he may be a god! When I see him an important part of me surges out and clings to him, my unwilling offering carried away on the corner of his smile.
I am going to a ball tonight. I have not been to a ball since I learned what it is to feel need.
Need. Not a pleasant feeling. Twisty eels coiling around my heart, tickling it with electric tails until it races sideways instead of in and out.
Being unseen is what I am good at. Racing swift as a minnow through the great forests. Sinking silent as a stone into the night below. Flashing my tail in the surface’s light so in your eyes I am just another sunbeam shattering.
Never have I wished to be other than I am--except for at that ball.
Do you ever wish you could glow? That a thousand angler fish would sacrifice their lights to you, filling your crevasses with the lanterns of the deep until every time you move the sun itself filters through your skin--because that is what I wanted to be at the ball.
Glowing things are unsafe in the ocean. They either eat or are eaten.
Why do I bother with you? Why do I crook my arm around this buoy and slash letters on paper over and over again? You are not listening; you are not even there. These bottles rejoin the millions you have cast into my home, forcing our people to gag on your trash. You are not worth my words!
I swam by his cave last night. I pretended to pick cup corals for a picnic, filling my arms with their soft orange bodies. Their fingers swayed, drawing up puckerfish bumps along the skin of my arms. I could barely see to swim, so feeble was the moon’s reach through the sea.
Once I thought I saw two pale circles in the depths of his cave. No more than that.
The cup corals are delicious. You must never know that or you will come and steal them all from us.
You make a mockery of singing. So much noise fighting with your voices, trying to drown out their sounds with clanging and striking and everything all at once. It is like you. I never see your kind just drifting--even when you float on those strange rubbery rings, you have lotions and miniature caves you ripped from a wall somewhere clutched in your hands. And around, screaming and laughing and splashing, more and more and more of you.
Down here there are spaces of nothingness so vast it feels as if time has stopped. There is no sky; there is no deep—there is just the endless blue and the beat of my heart against my ear’s drum.
Drift with me. Leave the noise.
He did not speak, but this time I am certain I saw his eyes in the darkness.
Do you know how difficult it is to make dry paper to write these words to you? I peel back the printed papers you wrap everything in and lay them over the buoy until they dry. It looks like a spiny seahorse, drifting aimlessly with all its bits floating in the wind.
I make things from your trash. You destroy; we of nature create. Gathering floating, wispy bits, and peeling, gossamer-thin strands, I twist them together like seagrass, looping it around the necks of your bottles one after another after another until they trail after me for miles.
Then, I paint. Dragging the chain after me as I swim near the surface, looping and ducking through the strands. When I sink, I can look up and see the sun refracting off the spiral I made. It mimics the shine of an oyster’s belly.
It is only that though. Mockery made of trash. I am so lonely.
I will not visit his cave again, lest he think I am weak. He knows well the currents that lead from the reef out to our city. If he cannot even come part of the way, I will have nothing to do with him. What is a friend but someone to say hello to?
His cave is empty. I could not stand it--I had not been saying hello to him either--I swam from writing to you and reached his cave just before nightfall. There was nothing in it but a nest of kelp near the back, worn nearly to the stone floor in places. I ran my hands over walls he’d covered in crushed-shell sketches. Swooping lines crowned with hard angles and a simple, dark, circle at the top. Am I a fool for wishing he was sketching me?
I floated there, just inside his door, letting the water run in and out of my mouth as I breathed so that I could taste what was left of him.
My back is peeling. The scales creep upward now, my body’s attempt to protect my skin from the sun. I spend too much time up here, with no words to show for it.
None of you are reading these anyways. What is a handful of bottles full of song amongst so many millions?
My father held another ball. The weeverfish told me of it as I brushed his spine along the burns the sun left on my shoulders.
“You are far from home, little mermaid.” His voice was too smug; I gave his belly a squeeze and smiled as his big mouth gaped.
“The entire ocean is my home,” I said. His venom tickled as it spread across my reddened skin. I sighed as the water’s sting eased.
When I let go, he shuffled off quickly, burying his long belly in the shallow sands. I watched some of your feet dance in the water inches from where he waited, spines up. The waters were shallow and murky brown here, churned up by the ocean’s anger at your closeness. The ocean can never decide if she wants you or not.
I thought about wrapping my hand around your ankles and pulling you down, holding you underwater until that moment when you stilled, no longer fighting, and your eyes slipped open.
I wanted to be seen.
I swam home instead. I pressed webbed fingers against the sea glass window panes of my father’s castle. Inside, dolphins sang their strange music and my people danced--darting fast as minnows only to tangle arms and spin in a rush of trapped air. The water shimmered around their tails, making them look like they were laced with aequorea jellies.
I have not seen him in many tides.
I have not seen you, either, but that does not keep me from coming back here and filling another piece of your trash with the lyrics of my need.
I have waited many tides to have enough paper to write you this story.
I met him when my scales were barely past the crown of my hips. Even as a new weanling I loved wandering--swimming until my newly grown fins failed, finding the places no other merfolk cared to find. They marked sunken ships and busy trade routes on their limestone maps, desperate to keep track of places to scavenge your cast-offs for trade and profit.
I love the darker places, the ones that you barely dare to imagine. That is where I swam to that day, escaping my father’s lectures on racial tensions and the rights of saltwater merfolk for the purity of a trench’s silence. I swam out over the middle of it, arching my back as the cold water leached up and around me, sending shivers down my spine. I let myself curve into it, and sink.
Slowly—
wonderfully—
all light faded.
At first it was just a tease, a grey blush given to the all-encompassing blue. But as the crevasse walls reared up around me they suffocated the light. I held my hand before my face and watched as it faded to nothing.
I sank farther, only the cold sinking deeper into my bones letting me know I still fell. I have never been somewhere as quiet. It was like what I imagine death will be, a slow enveloping until there is nothing left of me but memories and wonder.
I remember wondering when it would become difficult to breathe. Then his hand wrapped around my wrist. It was like lightning--the way the storm bolt smashes against the ocean’s waves and lashes out, killing everything it touches. I jolted. I could not see the bubbles that escaped from my mouth, but when I gulped in a huge breath of water I tasted not a predator, but him. Bittersweet and sandy, what I later learned was the tang of his rotting seaweed bed.
“Do you want to die?” he whispered to me. It was like a shout in the silence surrounding us.
I did not know how to answer that. Everyone dies. I had never thought about whether I wanted to or not. “I am sinking,” I said.
He hauled me upward by my wrist, nearly pulling my arm out of its socket. The water thundered against my face and chest as his tail slammed it over and over, dragging us up. I hung limp, still wondering whether or not I wanted to be mortal.
I saw his fin first as the grey light dawned on our rise. Shrimp-eaten, or something like it--all these fine, lacy holes eating away at the black membrane stretched between his spines. My eyes ran up scales glistening and black that ran up past his stomach, trailing off just below his arms. He looked up, at the moon. I watched his jaw shift with each thrust of his tail. His skin was the color of sand at midnight. I could not see his eyes.
“Are you promising to save me?” I asked him.
He did not answer except for a shift in his grip, holding lower and tighter on my wrist. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist in my true answer to his question.
I am perched on a buoy. My tail wrapping through its rusting metal is the closest I will get to an embrace. I thought it a neat trick, to perch here and scribble to you as I sing and draw the city Carnival to its doom.
You think it is the wind—I see myriads of you clinging to bannisters, ignoring the calls of your cave friends as you lean into the wind—but that low, desperate keen is no ancient god. It is me!
Come! Come and see—I am waiting for you!
Come and see!
I am waiting!
I will dash your hull upon these rocks! It will tear itself apart with screams a thousand times as loud as Odysseus’s! And I will laugh, watching you cling to pieces of metal that drag you down—down—into an ocean cold and full of fury! You will look up to the sky and see only deep but there will be no hand stretching toward you, for I am—
Image Description: Seven white doors outlined in black in an all-white room.
“But I’m not ready.” My voice breaks the peaceful silence of our cottage.
My sister’s sure fingers falter in my hair. “No one ever is.”
“Will it hurt?” I ask, my voice small and reedy even to my own ears.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” she says mournfully. “Just be prepared for anything, Maude.”
She looks down as she says it, uncharacteristically reticent. Fiona is usually always assertive, confident, so this more than anything convinces me that it will, indeed, hurt.
It is the 24th day in the 24th cycle, and the celebration of my 24th year of life. One might find this to be a lucky coincidence, some kind of good fortune, but I know it is an ill omen. What if I don’t come back? It has happened before. No one likes to talk about the missing. No one likes to talk about anything to do with the event. We are simply told it is necessary, or else our crops will shrivel and die. Livestock will stop producing and we’ll have nothing to eat. Houses will catch fire and we’ll have nowhere to live. Our easy lives as we know them in Temperance Valley will cease to exist. Maybe that would even be a good thing.
All those who return look haunted by something. Their eyes are empty and they stand with a slight slouch, as if they could be blown away with one strong breeze. Loud noises startle them, conversations are stunted or nonexistent. Their walk is more of a shuffle, as if they no longer belong here and need to tread lightly.
And yet it is supposed to be a celebration, a coming of age ritual. The Society sponsors three days of feasts and dancing, culminating in the traditional toast of that year’s finest mead. Children look at those in their 24th cycle with wonder and excitement, tinged with jealousy like they can’t wait to participate. I was like that as a child too: naïve.
And then my best friend never woke up, and everything changed.
Fiona interrupts my morbid thoughts. “Do you want to wear the lavender or the teal?”
“What does it matter?”
Everything I own sits before me, and I am supposed to decide which color I should wear to my own funeral.
“You should always be careful how you present yourself, but especially today, Maude.” Fiona whispers the last part, as though imparting some important life advice and not simply discussing which of my few dresses I should wear for the event.
I scowl. “I could care less about the event, Fiona. I don’t understand why it’s treated with such reverence when it destroys the souls of all older than 24.”
She looked as though I had slapped her with my words. “Keep your opinions to yourself, Maude. Words can be dangerous.” Her look is pained, tinged with frustration -- perhaps from words still left unsaid. I feel uneasy under the glare, as though she is speaking in riddles and I am too slow to understand. “Do I look broken to you?” Fire is now back in her gaze, and she stands straight and tall, as far from broken as a person could be, nothing like the others who have returned.
“You know that isn’t fair, Fiona. Even you are not the same as you were before.”
Fiona squares her shoulders as if protecting herself from my accusation. “I grew up, Maude. And so will you.”
I curl in on myself, wanting the argument to end. It is a tired one, and Fiona always wins. “Why does the event get to decide when everyone should grow up? What is different about me today than yesterday?” I sound petulant again, and nothing like the adult I am meant to become today.
“Careful, Maude,” Fiona cautions. A bright, false smile appears on her face then, as she shakes herself free of whatever feeling had overcome her. “Just choose a color, it is almost time for sleep.” Her voice is soft again, all the fight stolen from her. She falls easily back into the caregiving role she has adopted since mother died.
“I don’t care, Fiona. You choose.” I plaster a smile on my face.
“I can’t, Maude. Every choice you make from here on out will have consequences that will affect you for the rest of your life.”
My neck tickles again with a sense of foreboding, like I’m still not hearing what my sister is really saying. Speaking of the event to upcoming inductees is forbidden in Temperance Valley, a strict punishment that typically ends in removal of the perpetrator’s tongue and death to the inductee. All we know is that it is steeped in death. Twenty-four-year-olds disappear, and when they return it is with death in their wake.
“You are trying to tell me that choosing lavender or teal will define the entirety of my future?” I smirk. I want to laugh off her gravity, and to believe that the words said are exactly the words she means. I take the color choice at face value. Imagine: lavender would cure all disease and teal would destroy the need for the event at all. Orange might even bring my parents back. I scoff.
“Maude, this is not a joke. I know you don’t understand yet, but I am trying to help you,” her face twists in pain with the words, her smile tight but her eyes full of warning.
“Fine, Fiona. Whatever. I want to wear the olive one. Joyce always said green brought out my eyes.”
A closed-off look passes over Fiona’s face, so quickly that it may have just been a trick of the shadow. She pulls out the olive-colored robe, and begins to evenly split my hair so she can plait it back. She starts to hum softly as she braids, reminding me so much of Mama that for a moment I can’t breathe. We have experienced so much loss, and I am not sure that we can handle any more.
I look at my reflection in the broken glass, the only thing we have left of Mama. I can’t see a difference in my appearance on this day, when everything is supposed to change. I still have the same straight nose, lightly freckled face, and dimpled chin. I don’t look older - or wiser. I want to remember my eyes full of curiosity, searching for truth. I want to remember my best friend Joyce, and how she shaped me into someone who questions everything. I want to remember how I feel before I come back a husk of who I am, if I come back at all.
//-//
I wake to a weird tingling sensation in my left forearm. I can’t feel my legs, and everything is cold. I have this strange sense of urgency that I need to move, that I am somehow too exposed. Mustering all my strength, I pick myself up from what appears to be an endless tiled floor that stretches in a long hallway as far as I can see, alternating black and white tiles like a game board. I can go in two directions, either forwards or backwards. Both look the same. I choose to go forward.
I try to keep track of the number of steps -- it might be important later if I need to back track. There are no distinguishing factors in the hallway, and I soon lose track. The walls on both sides are completely smooth, no signs of false or hidden doors, nothing at all.
“I bet it is some kind of underground initiation ritual. A cult thing.” Joyce loved the idea of cults since she learned of the group that buried themselves alive in an attempt to live forever. She is convinced that everyone who thinks differently in Temperance Valley is part of a cult, and I think she secretly wishes that she could join one.
“What would be the point of that, Joyce? Why would the land waste away if those in their 24th cycle weren’t initiated? And what about the people close to them dying shortly after?” I hate to bring her back to reality, but this is often the role I must play in our friendship.
“It’s just some kind of fear tactic,” she explains. “A way The Society lets us know that we can’t be screwing up anymore like when we were kids.” Her serious tone doesn’t match her face.
“That doesn’t explain the hollow look they all have when they come back.” I suddenly shudder, thinking of Erikson’s limp body dangling from the rafters of his barn.
“Maybe that has nothing to do with the ritual at all.”
“Something changes them while they’re asleep, Joyce,” I insist. “Something bad.” I want her to agree, to be cautious. Her own event is coming up, but she won’t listen or take it seriously, so sure she is going to be a part of something greater.
“That doesn’t explain why we’d celebrate it then, Maude! I’m sure you’re just overreacting, or paranoid or something.”
“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re scared,” I say, my voice teasing. Joyce is the bravest person I know.
“I’m not scared.” But her own voice shakes, belying the words.
I walk for what feels like hours, but there is no way to tell how much time has truly passed beyond the fact that I am now profusely sweating.
I come to a circular room. At first it is so different from the hallway that I had just spent so much time in, I can’t quite piece together what I am seeing. The room is completely smooth, the perfect circle. The floor is white, no longer alternating with black, and no longer tile but more stone-like. It smells sterile, like the astringent that Fiona uses to clean our own floor back home. It is silent, marked by the absence of the slight humming noise I had not been fully aware of in the hallway.
Before me are two doors: one is white and the other is black. Otherwise they look identical, made of the same stone as the floor. There are no handles or knobs, nothing really to even indicate that they are doors, except for the fact that they could be nothing else.
I approach the black one first, drawn to the stark opposition it provides with the floor. I lay my hand against it, and it feels slightly warm to the touch. I can hear no sound beyond it, nothing to indicate what might lie behind it. There is no give when I push, no signal that it has any intention of budging or opening in any discernible way.
So I approach the white one, hopeful that this one will prove more tractable. No such luck. It is identical to the black one, color aside, except that it is cool to the touch. There are no hinges, no marks on the floor that indicate it has opened in the past, no sign of wear on any of the edges. I back away, hopeful for some detail I may have missed. I continue backwards until I finally hit the stone behind me. There is no longer any escape to the hallway, or any indication that the hallway had even existed. I am trapped in the room with these two doors that are not doors.
I like to think of myself as a pretty rational girl. I enjoy finding answers to complex questions, I enjoy when things fall into place. I like a mystery for the same reason I like a math problem: there is either a right or wrong answer, always one culprit and one solution. These door-like structures provide me with no answer -- and furthermore, no way to come up with one.
I am also stubborn, but I know when I’ve been defeated -- as my newly-bruised body can attest. I sit down against the smooth stone wall opposite the doors that are not doors, and try to think of it as a riddle. I sit there for a long time, but unfortunately it would seem that I’m more logical than creative -- I come up blank. Left to my own devices I spiral, thinking about what it would be like to die in this freezing room of thirst or starvation, maybe hypothermia.
More than anything I want the black door to open, just to see what might be producing the warmth that I felt through the door. That’s my only clue. And as soon as I think it, it happens. The door retracts into the floor, providing a continuation of the white and black alternating tile hallway. None of it makes any sense, but after the door to the last hallway disappeared, I am not taking any chances with this one and gather myself up, hurrying through. As soon as I cross the threshold, the door slams back into place behind me.
With nowhere else to go, I continue down the endless hallway.
Joyce could be even more stubborn than I am. “You have to choose, Maude: him or me.”
“Why are you being like this, Joyce? He’s cute, and he’s nice to me.” I know I sound pathetic, but it is true. A boy had never asked me out before, and now Joyce is being impossible.
“Him or me.” The set of her brow told me I wouldn’t get off easily.
“Joyce, I don’t want to choose. You know how I hate choices.”
Her eyebrows furrow and she looks down, her foot tapping uncertainly behind her. “I thought I meant more than that to you.” I knew she was just trying to make me feel guilty, that she wasn’t as sad as she was trying to appear, but it worked.
“Joyce, of course you do. I would always choose you.”
I come to a room that is square-shaped. As you might guess, it is smooth on all edges, white stone all around. This one has no doors, but in its center sit two chairs: one white, the other black, and they are otherwise identical. They seem to be made of wood, though from my distance at the threshold of the hallway, it is difficult to tell. I am hesitant to move, knowing that as soon as I step through, I will be locked in this room with nothing but the two chairs.
But I have no other options, so I reluctantly take a step forward. I feel the brush of air from the sealing of the door without turning around. This room is warmer than the other, a comfortable temperature. With nothing else to do, I approach the two chairs. Again, I approach the black one first. It seems sturdy. I am overcome by this irrational desire to smash the chair against the smooth walls, and would have followed through if the chair would budge from where it was rooted to the ground. There is no temperature difference on touch, and overall absolutely nothing remarkable about the chair other than its existence in this strange room.
I decide to look over the white chair. This, too, has no discernible temperature difference or any remarkable features. After careful consideration, I find the tiniest crack along the upper back rest of the white chair. I tend to cherish broken things, and so this chair speaks to me despite the infinitesimal nature of the crack. As soon as I sit in the chair, a hidden door opens into another endless black and white tiled hallway.
I am getting quite tired of this seemingly pointless endeavor, but there is no one and nothing to whom I may express my complaint. Crossing the threshold, I am barred from the square room, and have no choice but to continue walking the length of the hall.
“Fiona, take care of her.” The words are whispered, fighting Death’s grip.
“Of course, Mama. Always.” Fiona grabs her hand, tears running down her face.
Mama died looking as if she’d just drifted asleep. She had tried her best to take care of us after Father died, but the pressure put a lot of strain on her and it showed in the lines of her face.
Fiona helped her take on most of the responsibilities -- running the farm, selling milk and eggs at the market -- she never complained, just picked up the slack as if it were the most natural thing to do. We were never hungry -- The Society always made sure everyone had enough to survive -- and by the time Mama got sick, Fiona had already been doing everything. She arranged the burial rites, organized the town goodbyes, and even made sure Mama looked her best before she was interred.
Fiona is the strongest person I know, always so decisive, never hesitating. I envy her all the time.
At this point I have come to expect the same from the next room. The same white stone and a choice presented in white and black.
What I do not expect is to see Joyce and Fiona. And a knife with a black and white hilt sitting on an unassuming stool between the two of them. Fear and understanding fill both sets of eyes. I don’t know what to say.
“You’re missing,” I say aloud. “This isn’t real.”
Not my most eloquent.
“I miss you too, Maude.” The same dimples, the same voice. I can’t believe it’s her. After all this time missing her, she’s now within spitting distance. But it still doesn’t make sense. Why is she here with Fiona?
“I told you choices were important. They are what led us all here,” said Fiona, always assertive, always calm.
“Oh, you know that’s not true, Fiona. Whatever she had chosen, she still would have ended up right here.”
Black and white were Joyce and Fiona.
“You can’t possibly know that,” Fiona argues. “What would have been the point?” Fiona turns toward Joyce, but her voice is tired, as if they have already been going back and forth for a while.
“It’s all a game. The choices make you feel like you have control, but in the end, someone still has to die.” Joyce speaks of death so matter-of-factly, that I think for a moment that I must have misheard her.
“Excuse me, but would one of you like to explain what you’re talking about?” Joyce seems to be her usual smug self, perfectly healthy. Nothing has inhibited her from coming back, she isn’t dead. I suppose this should be a relief, but the alternative is that she left me behind.
“Oh, Modpod,” Joyce coos. I can’t help but flinch at the nickname, a name I haven’t heard in two very long years. And her tone is all wrong, mocking almost instead of tender. “Don’t be angry,” she continues. “I really did miss you terribly.” Even after all the time that has passed, she can still read me like a book, and my face flushes in shame.
“You left! You left me behind without a goodbye. You were just gone!” I should be relieved, I should be hugging her, but I realize now that I’m angry because I can’t forgive her.
“It wasn’t a choice, Maude. I would never have willingly left you behind. But there was no going back, not after what I had done. I guess it caught up to me in the end anyway.” She looked down, her foot tapping behind her. This new meekness is so incongruous with the Joyce I knew that I don’t quite know how to respond.
Thankfully, Fiona speaks for me. “You could have made up for it, like I did. You know that, Joyce. I went back, and I atoned.” Fiona looks at her, trying her best to soothe her the way she always cares for me.
Joyce whips her head around so that her black hair fans in front of her face, cringing away from Fiona, wild like a tornado. “You went back because you had something to go back for!” she snaps. “Someone who still needed you. I chose my mother, knowing my father was more important for our survival,” she admits, the energy behind her eyes now dimming suddenly with the confession. “And her death just killed him anyway.”
Joyce lifts a trembling hand to her eyes. Her voice softens as she wipes at unshed tears. “I had no one to go back to, and I couldn’t go back to an empty house filled with the ghosts of my family.” Joyce’s voice breaks on the word “family,” and her shoulders droop slightly with the weight of all she has said.
“You could have gone back for Maude, just like I did.” Fiona turns back to me.
“You went back because you could care for her. You could find forgiveness in saving her. I couldn’t save anyone, and so I stayed. In the end, they got three deaths for the price of one with me,” she laughed in a dead way, without amusement.
“At least you chose correctly,” Fiona snaps. Her eyes fill with tears and I start to reach out to her, hesitant. I cannot offer comfort the way she always has for me. “I chose Father, and look how that turned out.” She closed her eyes and turned away.
I swallow and let my hand fall back to my side. “Um, hello? Still standing here,” I cough, to try and clear the lump in my throat. “What do you mean you ‘chose’ Father?” Nothing they are saying is making any sense.
“Oh, sweetie. Isn’t it obvious at this point? You have to kill one of us.” Joyce is awfully glib for someone who had just delivered a death sentence.
My mouth falls open, and I almost laugh. She can’t possibly be serious. “Kill one of you? Why would I do that?”
“You have to, Maude. Like I told you again and again: choices are everything. You have to choose, or we all die.” As Fiona says it, the wall behind Joyce and her moves a fraction closer, a hushed scraping across the ground.
“The walls will close in and squish us, Modpod. There’s no way out but for you to pick up that knife and choose.” Joyce picks up the knife with the black handle from the small stool, and stretches it out in offering.
“This makes no sense. Why would we all be killed off? This is supposed to be a coming of age ritual?” The walls closing in are starting to make it difficult to breathe.
Joyce remains where she is, not stepping closer with the knife, but also refusing to lower her arm. “What ages someone faster than them taking the life of another? Besides, how else would the size of Temperance Valley be controlled?”
“What?” I ask, watching Fiona’s face darken.
“Sure. Haven’t you guys figured it out? Each cycle, all those in their 24th cycle disappear for 24 hours. When they come back, someone close to them is dead or dies shortly after. Mother, father, sister, brother, grandparent, babysitter, neighbor. Everyone knows it is the aftermath of the event. What no one talks about is that it is a choice.”
Is she trying to say that Fiona chose to kill Father? I try and laugh, but I’m struggling to even breathe.
“Your Mama fell and hit her head,” I point out the obvious, looking to Fiona for confirmation. She remains silent. “Your Father died from the grief of losing you both,” I continue, the words spilling quickly from my lips. “My Father died of the Cold Cough, Joyce. You were there at his deathbed when he finished coughing up the blood. Same as Mama. Of course Fiona didn’t kill him. Right, Fiona?”
But Fiona isn’t listening. She is looking at Joyce as if she had just been stabbed. The walls move another fraction closer on all sides.
“Why?” Fiona chokes out. “Why do they make us choose?”
“It’s the best form of population control. It’s all about balance. Everyone in their 24th cycle kills the same number of people that are born. In some cases, even more. Temperance Valley never gets overpopulated: there is always a balance.”
“How could you possibly know this?” I’m not sure if I ask this or if Fiona does.
“I found a room full of names written on a wall. One side is the list of every person ever born in Temperance Valley for the last 24 cycles. On the other side is a list of choices. There is a balance between the two. The number 394 is circled half a dozen times. It’s probably the maximum population size of the village.” Everyone goes silent at the same time.
The walls move again.
“How did you stay? How are you still here?” Fiona doesn’t seem to see the walls, or the room at all. She gazes off into the distance, a million miles away.
Joyce shrugs, equally unconcerned. “I just never woke up.”
The walls are about an arm’s length away on each side now, and we have all moved closer together without noticing.
“You don’t get the choice to not wake up,” Fiona says, her voice full of accusatory scorn. She suddenly seems to snap back to reality, taking another step closer to us. The walls brush against us now.
“Of course you do. Everything’s a choice,” Joyce mocks. “So, Maude, what’s it going to be? Who do you choose?”
“I can’t. I won’t.” I reach out to them and grab their hands. We press as tightly together as we can, and the walls press ever closer.
“Not choosing is a choice.”
Emily Jane is an aspiring author by night masquerading as a biotech research associate by day. When she is not writing, she enjoys reading and adventuring with her furry creature sidekicks. More of her writing can be found at emilyjaneestabrook.com.
Image Description: A white head bust with black writing noting regions of the left brain.
I’m only five minutes into my break when I hear the alarm. Code 3... Code 3... All Sector 7 personnel to report to the auditorium. I scowl, because I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to finish my coffee now, and I need at least three cups to make it through the night. I tuck my slice reader into its sleeve and lock up my pack in my designated cubby before tossing the coffee and putting the mug into the cycler.
The night shift is actually our full time shift, so there are a lot of people scurrying down the halls toward the centre of Leclair Institute. It’s the day shift that’s light. By day, this building operates as a learning institution, bringing in kids for history upgrades and tours, all above board. Night is when the real work begins.
I follow the crowd, but I don’t hurry because I’m still on my break. And anyway, a Code 3 is nothing new. Batch transfer. It happens every week or so, give or take a couple days, depending on the cultural calendar. I’m not sure why it can’t be done in the daytime. Why the secrecy. But then again, I wasn’t born here, so I wouldn’t understand. So I’m told.
I see a tall man up ahead with dark brown skin, a good head taller than everyone else. He’s wearing the blue coat that the uppers wear, but a bright orange collar is sticking out above it, a show of individuality. He too is walking slowly, but I expect it’s because he’s already been briefed. “Jeremiah!” I call out, rushing to catch up to him.
We used to be friends before he got upped.
“Samuel,” he says in a low rumble, and he breaks into a smile. He gives me a dap, then looks around. “Still working over in Upgrades?” he asks quietly.
He must know this. “Yeah. Still putting in my time.” Three years at this place, and I’m still doing backups and equipment upgrades. Sure, I like to take things out of the box like the next guy, but part of me itches to see what goes on behind the locked doors.
Jeremiah looks around again. We’re the only ones left in the hallway. Satisfied, he leads me to a door just before the auditorium, scanning his ID bracelet to bring us through. I’m shocked to see that it’s an observation room.
The door closes behind us with a snick.
“What do you know about Code 3s?” Jeremiah asks lightly, as if he hasn’t just ushered me into a Sector 8 room. He leans against the door, crossing his arms, making the muscles strain against the lab coat. I feel a pang of longing, but shutter it out. No use thinking about how things could be.
I consider his question. “Quarter life upload…. for the data migration?” I can’t tell if he’s quizzing me, or if there’s something more I should know. I’m not the one with clearance, bea.
“Yeah. You know how we used to joke about how the fleet was always so sleepy?” His smile is big, but there’s a weird look in his eyes, like he can’t wait to tell me what he wants to say, but he’s holding back. Jeremiah was always the storyteller.
I give him a huff of a laugh, because we were friends. “Yeah, bea. Like they were drugged or something.” He gives me a long look and I feel my heart start pounding. “Wait... that’s not true, right?”
“You should see your face!” he cries, holding his stomach, bent over. He lets out the most musical laugh, the deep tones turning up at the end. I don’t see how this is funny, but I want more time in this room, so I play along.
“You’re an asshole,” I say, which makes him double over in laughter again. Through the windows of the observation room I can see the buses arrive. They always bring them in through the charter doors, so no one from outside can tell who’s there. We don’t have access to the bays in Sector 7. I’m told you don’t get to work with the fleet until at least Sector 9.
Finally, Jeremiah settles. “I missed you, Samuel.” He rests a large hand on my shoulder, then lets it fall. “The crew in Sector 8 take themselves way too seriously. No one laughs with me there.” He sees me watching the fleet. “Honestly? I still don’t know what happens, bea. I only get to see the data. But they seem okay, right?”
We both watch as the bus doors open. Dozens of yads, the under 25s, file out. The story is that this is consensual. Children are scanned just before their fifth birthday, after the first phase of rapid brain growth. Then again, before age 25, after the pruning phase and frontal lobe development. It is said the goal is to scan for abnormalities in order to prevent the onset of mental illnesses, and to study the effects and treatment of Adverse Childhood Events (ACEs). But I’ve heard other stories, too.
The fleet mostly seem to be moving along without incident, and I think, maybe there’s nothing to this after all, when I see commotion near the middle bus. There’s a girl. Woman, I guess. She’s flailing her arms out at the Sector 9s who have come to escort her off the bus. She’s a small thing, maybe five feet tall, her dark brown hair fans over her face as she fights them. She looks like she knows what she’s doing. Shit.
Jeremiah frowns now, obviously worried that I’m witnessing this and he brought me here. Sigh. I reach into my back pocket, and then quickly press a thumb in the crevice behind his right ear. He makes a startled sound and falls to the ground like a stone. I make a show of fussing over him in case there’s a camera in the room, but then I figure everyone should be in the auditorium by now, so I move quickly to the two-way glass. The girl is being carried inside through a side door, likely to keep her away from the other yads. No use stirring up a frenzy. The others are being led like sheep into a pen, some yawning, others walking slow like they are sleepwalking. It’s unsettling.
I turn back to Jeremiah. I wish it didn’t have to be him. I would have gladly taken out Igor in Archives if I could stand being close enough to him to have made a pass. I slip Jeremiah’s ID bracelet off his wrist. There’s no way to get the coat off him now that he’s two hundred pounds of dead weight. They’ll find him eventually, or he’ll wake up with a nasty hangover. Either way, I’ll be gone by then. Still, I chance one brush of my thumb against his temple, and I whisper, “Good knowing you, bea.”
I slip out of the room, closing the door behind me. I can hear the pep talk over the loudspeaker. The briefing has begun and it’s going to be obvious that I’m late. Still, I need to put in an appearance if I’m going to pull this off. I skulk into the auditorium, and lean against the door frame. Our Sector 10 exec, Piers Laurens, stands on the stage. He acknowledges my tardiness with a look, and I do my best to look scolded. His skin is that tan colour that white people seem to get after long periods in the sun, and his hair is white blond. He wears standard exec apparel - monochrome grey, loafers, wire rimmed glasses, but it’s his presence that sets him apart from the others.
“This is the final fleet of the year, and as you know, Data Migration will be syncing at the end of this cycle. We must all do our part to ensure a smooth transfer. One small error can quickly turn into a huge threat to our nation’s safety and well-being. But you all have what it takes to make your nation proud. I believe in you!”
Somehow, he manages to get cheers from the grunts. Maybe there’s something defective in me, but all I see behind his words are lies. Piers nods to the crowd, welcoming our Sector 7 Supervisor, Richard. I feel a shiver as Piers passes a few yards away from me. All the execs here are AI. They like to be close to their data. It’s not always easy to tell at first glance - they mostly look like people, except for the calculating look in their eyes. You need to know the signs. On principle, I try to avoid them.
Richard calls for a round of applause. I clap politely, scanning the crowd for Jeremiah’s partner, Maurice. He’s the only person who’s likely to notice something is amiss when Jeremiah doesn’t show up at his post, and I’m going to need a little time. Eventually, I spot him, sitting in a chair against the wall. Perfect. I wait as Richard drones on, and when he dismisses us, I beeline for Maurice.
“Maurice, hi,” I say before he has a chance to get up. “Can you help me? It’s Jeremiah. I don’t think he’s doing so good.”A look of frustration flashes across his face, before it slips into blandness. He would be good looking if he smiled. Actually, now that I look at him, he has similar facial features to mine - light tan skin, dark eyebrows, curly hair. There’s a height difference, but that won’t likely matter. He takes his time answering me, so I study his expression deeper, seeing if I can copy his mannerisms.
“Fine,” he huffs. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t exactly know. We were walking together and he got a pain in his side. He went into the observation room and I heard a thump. I can’t get in there, because… you know.” Maurice eyes my ranking on my breast pocket. “It’s just… we used to be friends. I thought maybe you could check on him? Make sure he’s okay without involving the uppers?”
This time, Maurice considers more readily, likely thinking about what it will cost me and Jeremiah to owe him a favour. Machinations are high as you get closer to the upper levels, and knowledge is currency. Grunts like me in Sector 7 like to think they know what’s going on. They gossip like mothers at a beauty tournament. But sometimes they land on real clues about how things are in the ranks above.
Like who is most likely to take a bribe.
The slice watch on his wrist tells me he will take my request, but it will cost me. “I have some credits saved up,” I blurt out. “You can have them.” Maurice gives me a pitying look, then nods.
“I accept. I hope Jeremiah is worth it to you.”
It’s easy to lead him down the hall to the observation room now that we’ve made the deal. I step back while he opens the door, rushing to check Jeremiah’s vitals. I quickly dispatch Maurice with a second sleeper dose. I’m able to get his coat off and ID bracelet and put them on. Then, grabbing the other one from my pocket, I return Jeremiah’s. Hopefully this will mean he won’t get in trouble for what I’ve done. They’ll still scan his mind for treason, but nothing he did would warrant expulsion. But I can’t think of that anymore. I need to find the girl.
Working in Upgrades has its advantages. I’ve already been to the Surveillance Room. I scan his ID bracelet and pass through the back door that leads to the server room. I move down the aisles that will avoid the workstations and slowly approach the Surveillance Room on the other side. There’s a large window in the wall that shows a couple Sector 8s monitoring dozens of screens: each displaying four observation rooms. Right now the Sector 9s are setting up the yads in beds, attaching probes to their temples and wrists, and ECG leads to their chests. There’s a complex terminal next to each bed that displays both their vitals and file transfer readings. I scan the screens for what I’m looking for: the girl from the bus. She’s fighting the restraints they try to put on her. There’s still time.
I creep into the Surveillance Room, but the coat snags into the latch on the door frame and tears. The Sector 8s turn at the noise. The first turns back, ignoring me, and I think I’ve succeeded as passing as Maurice. Then I see the female’s eyes narrow in scrutiny. No time for diplomacy. I move swiftly, using my elbow to knock her unconscious in one swift blow. The other one rises in surprise, and reaches for his signal on his belt. I kick him in the jaw with a roundhouse and he drops to the floor.
Three years of grunt work, and it still comes back to me. My body sings from the exertion. I move to the screen that shows the girl. She’s in 49C. Cross Wing. Now that I have her location, I call it in. I ping my location to Dispatch, and enter the destination of the target. Dispatch assures me the sleeper will be activated. I have been told there are allies in the building, but they will not break cover. None of us do until we hear the call.
I grab the signals from the unconscious. No need to alert security. My slice reader beeps. Dispatch has sent me the map within Sector 8 and 9 of the Institute. I follow the directions, through the back door, into the inner hallway that spans out toward the observation rooms like dendrites to the lungs. There are several Sector 8 workers here, acting as runners for the Sector 9s who call out for extra probes, wires, or coffee.
Cross Wing is located straight ahead, through the glass atrium that is surrounded by meeting rooms, offices, and the canteen. Hanging high above is a large screen that runs a ticker meter with real time stats: a countdown until transfer completion, speed, workload, and percentage of abnormalities. The last one shows 21.2% and is decreasing incrementally.
So it’s true. They really are trying to weed out the difference.
As I reach the atrium, I see the Sector 10s. Two AIs, sitting in a room that looks to be lined with additional servers, palms up, wires sticking out of their forearms that run up and into the machines.. It’s disconcerting to see them so obviously out in the open. But they must be Quality Assurance, monitoring the transfer, ensuring abnormalities are extracted. I wonder if they themselves are the ones who pull them out.
“Hey! What are you doing over there?” a voice calls behind me. I turn slowly, hoping that I won’t have to make a scene. People have turned to look at me. If I stand here long enough people are going to realize I’m not really a Sector 8. Or worse, who I actually am.
“You’re supposed to be here with me!” barks a Sector 9 supervisor. She’s a little shorter than me, skin a shade darker than mine, with medium long hair that hangs just past her shoulders. She gives me a look of contempt and walks away. I hang my head in embarrassment, and follow her across the atrium to the Cross Wing. Everyone turns back to their conversations. When we are out of earshot she whispers, “Took you long enough.”
I ignore the jab.
“You’ll need to move quickly. The girl may have been given extra sedatives if she was resisting. But you just need to remove the IV and she should wake.” We walk down the hall. Other Sector 8s pass us and nod to my companion. “Once we get in there, you’ll need to knock me out. Overpower me. The others will need to believe it. Then you can take the girl. Give her my jacket. Dispatch has a vehicle waiting for you in the delivery bay.”
We are nearly at 49C. She looks at me briefly. “What’s your name?”
“Samuel.”
“Min,” she says. “Be swift, Samuel. I’m sorry I will not remember you.”
As we arrive at the room, she places a small wafer on her tongue, nods to me, then scans the lock with her wrist. I follow her into the room, and see the girl, strapped to the bed. There are only two Sector 9s in here. Min she looks back at me with confusion. “Excuse me, Sector 8. What is the meaning of ---”
I don’t let her finish. I strike her on the temple and she falls at my feet, but by then I have jumped over her body in time to strike the one to my left in the throat and the one to my right with a left uppercut. I take out my last sedatives and put one on each of them, including Min, because she’s not on my side anymore.
Finally, I get to the girl. Her ID bracelet says her name is Elise Ng. Seeing her up close, sedated, makes her seem so small. This is what the nation fears? I make quick work of the tubes and probes. I know there won’t be much time once the transfer is disrupted. I just hope I’m not too late. She groans, and stirs in the bed. Then she starts pushing her body up against the restraints. Muscle memory. I wonder how many times she’s been locked up like this.
Her eyes open. Black. Hard. But there is fear, too.
“Elise,” I say in a soft voice. “I’m here to get you out.”
Her eyes follow me as I start removing the restraints. She watches me with cautious eyes. Reading me. Deciphering what kind of threat I am. “You’re one of them,” she says finally. Her voice is hoarse. I shouldn’t be surprised she recognizes me. This must be why they want her here.
“AI,” I say, nodding.
“Why are you helping me?” She tilts her head to the side. No emotion in her expression.
“Because we’re not all the same. And I don’t want you to be, either.”
She nods, and I must have passed some kind of test because she helps me set the scene. We remove Ming’s jacket and put her in the bed, hoping the room will look normal at first glance. I push the Sector 9s away from the bed toward the door, so they will be out of view from the surveillance cameras. The others are going to wake soon and I don’t want them to know where I’ve gone.
I brief Elise about where we will go. Explain to her about how she must act once we leave this room. We don't have far to go to get to the stairwell, but anything out of the ordinary will be noticed. Then I give her my slice reader. “Follow the GPS. It will take you to the transport. We’ll go together, but if anything happens, I need you to leave me.”
“Why?”
“This world is not for you, Elise. If you get caught, they’ll take away everything that makes you different. And everything I’ve worked for will be for nothing.”
Elise leads us out of the door and does not look back as I follow her out. She plays the part well, holding her head up, chin out, like a snooty Sector 9. I would laugh if we weren’t in such a dangerous position. It makes me wonder how she’s managed out there around all the brainwashed.
Just as we reach the stairwell, I hear an alarm. Transfer error…. transfer error. Everyone in the hall starts to shout, each checking on their room to make sure they haven’t made a mistake. I chance a look and see the Sector 10 execs in the atrium are up and barking orders. I think one of them sees me, but then we are through the door and running down the stairwell.
With the alarms going, we only have a few minutes before all hell breaks loose. Although we run, Elise’s movements are unsteady. I need to buy us some time. I lean in and say, “Basement exit. That's where you’ll find the delivery bay.” I point to my slice. “They have your location. They’ll know it’s you. Go.”
She looks up at me with pleading eyes but seems to know I won’t follow. Then she goes. I wait on the platform. There are footsteps above me now. Slow. Calculated.
Then he is at the staircase above me. Piers.
“I thought I detected something in you,” he says. Then he jumps and lands on the platform next to me. I block his first round of punches, and sweep his feet from under him, stomping on his chest. He grabs my foot, and twists, pitching me into the stairs. My face smacks into the corner and I feel a gush below my nose. I roll just in time to block another strike. I kick my legs into his chest and he slams into the wall. He stumbles enough for me to get back on the platform in time to block his kick. He is methodical in his approach. Technical.
But he is fed by the minds of the controlled and I am free. And unpredictable.
“You would betray your own kind?” he spits out, after I land a roundhouse to his jaw.
“We’re not the same,” I spit back.
“Really? What do you think they will do to the girl once they have her? Do you think they will just let her live free?”
I have no answer. I have to believe they will.
“Better than to erase her.” I jab him in the eyes, and slam his head against the wall. Then I throw him down the stairs for good measure. He grabs at his face, moaning. Our eyes are our most sensitive organs. It’s a low blow for an AI. But what can I say? Unpredictable.
By the time I reach the basement door, the transport is gone.
I have no comms. My cover is blown. They are coming for me. But I am free.
As I climb up the ramp of the loading dock, I hear a running engine. A security vehicle.
The door opens and Elise’s worried face emerges. I climb in beside her and we speed away. She grabs my hand and digs her head into my arm.
I don’t know where people go when they leave here, so I can’t offer any assurances.
I look out at the horizon at the rising sun, thinking about how many sunrises have come before, but two are never the same.
Nurse by day, writer by… any available moment? Lately, Monique spends her time entertaining a child with a big imagination. She lives in Guelph, Ontario, Canada. You can find her where the trees are, or online @moniquewrites on Instagram and @imagine_truth on Twitter.
An alarm clock and potted plant sit behind a notebook titled “Your Design Here.”
“Today is a special day folks!”
The chatter silenced in the room when the man in the white suit appeared on stage. He began to write the date on the chalkboard. 12-12-2424. That was tomorrow. At least, it was tomorrow when Sofia had gone to sleep. She wasn’t sure how she got into the auditorium, but it seemed neither did any of the other people in the room. Most were in pajamas, an indication that they were pulled from slumber. The person next to her, however, had not been sleeping. Instead he held a bottle in his hand. Tequila from the smell.
“Today is an event called The Divine Cosmic Synergy.” Sofia thought his voice was somewhere between professor and a game show host. Both knew more than they were letting on but wouldn’t tell you until the last minute.
He was drawing the planets in a vertical line, the details too perfect for something he had only spent twenty seconds doing. “Today the planets align!”
To Sofia’s surprise, the guy next to her in his drunken stupor, stood up and bellowed, “Hey, man! I thought that was impossible!”
So there were two things that should be impossible happening in this room.
“Ah, yes. That is what you are led to believe. However, the universe, or whatever spiritual deity you believe in, has decided that humanity needs a reset!”
Sofia had grown up with strict Catholic parents, which also meant she had a firm knowledge in the biblical stories that children were taught. One of them was called Noah’s Ark. The people had stopped believing in God, so he told a man and his family to build a giant ark and take two of every creature on it. God then flooded the world for 40 days, and when it was over, God pressed the reset button. He also promised, however, that he would never destroy humanity again.
Either God didn’t exist or God was a liar.
Sofia suddenly felt something plop into her lap from thin air. Similarly, everyone else also had tablets that had spawned into their laps.
“Today is the 12th day of the 12th month of the year 2424 and you are all 24 years old. A very special phenomenon for those of you who have turned 24.”
He waved his hand over the chalkboard and it smoothly transitioned into a tablet, mirroring the screen on their tablets. “Please listen carefully.
The instructions are as follows:
You have 24 hours to view the world’s history for any point in time that you deem humanity is beyond saving.
You must note down all instances that you find horrific. By the last hour, you will have chosen one and will return to the auditorium to provide evidence for your claim.
You will each be assigned a guide. Their lives are not affected by this Reset, therefore their opinions and answers to your questions are all objective. They will also be able to take you forward into each change that you may want to create and let you preview the outcome.
If at any point you wish to take yourself out of the running, you may inform your guide and you will be returned to the auditorium to await the remaining hours.
You may now begin.”
As the people at the ends of the row started to disappear, Sofia browsed through the tablet. It was organized by centuries, but there was a search bar that led her to a list of specific events. There was even a button that sent her to a page of potential Reset options. She typed in random events, and those showed up as well. She made a note to herself that she wasn’t contained to just the events listed on the tablet.
“Ambitious.” There was no telling how long her guide had been sitting next to her before she noticed.
Sofia looked over at the woman beside her. She had on a long hooded black cloak that was a nice contrast to the green that was her hair. Beneath the cloak, she wore a grey tunic with brown trousers. She had a belt around her waist that held a sword on her side. Sofia wished that she had paid more attention to the guides that had appeared to the other people, wondering why any of them might need a sword.
“Where would you like to start?” She spoke again, her voice a melodic lilt that sounded like she should have been in an opera.
“I had a question first. Are there fixed points in history that will happen regardless of where I choose to reset humanity? What does reset actually even mean? The instructions aren’t exactly clear about that.”
Sofia watched the woman smile. With teeth this time, making it difficult to tell if she was grinning or smirking. ‘Why don’t we pick a point and try it out? You have a time limit. You don’t have a limit on how many possibilities you get to watch.”
With a quick glance of the timer that still showed about twenty three and a half hours, Sofia picked the simplest solution she could think of. “Can we erase Hitler out of existence? Is that considered a reset? Or can we just make sure he doesn’t get a chance to kill anyone?”
There was no answer, but the moment the last word came out of her mouth, she was standing, tablet in hand, in the middle of the sidewalk. The tablet indicated 2020, USA. On the window of a restaurant in front of her, she could see a newspaper article.
For years, slaves have fled Europe to come to the United States to seek refuge. Among them was one Adolf Hitler, a man who would be known to start a revolution against the place that had saved his life. Claiming more persecution here as a refugee than in Germany as a slave, riots were led in the name of freedom against the people of America. No clear assasination attempt on the President had been proven, but as members of the Secret Service are being hunted down, it won’t be long before the most powerful man in America is next.
Sofia gasped. “This wasn’t what I meant.”
The woman, whose name Sofia realized still didn’t know, merely smiled again. “I did as you asked. I erased the Hitler you knew from existence and put him in different circumstances.”
“He’s still killing people!”
The woman sighed. “I do not have the power to erase someone completely. That is for the ones in charge. I’m just a lackey. I can tell you, however, that unless you get creative, you will more or less continue to get the same results.”
Sofia ignored her and continued to scroll through the list of possibilities. She looked again at the instructions. An idea began to formulate in her head. She highlighted everything she thought might make a difference and began testing out her theory.
At the end of the 23rd hour, she was blipped back into the auditorium, in the middle of her most recent reset. She waited until every other person had stated their case. There weren't many, as they had nearly all come to the same conclusion. There was nothing they could do to change humanity. Evil existed, and if one didn’t take over, another would. History may change, but the circumstances would remain the same.
When it came to Sofia’s turn, she stood up, hopeful that she had a solution that worked.
“I agree with everything that has been said so far. We cannot erase evil or take out people who have done these things. Something else will always take their place. But I tried something after I realized that nothing was going to change. In each event I visited, I had typed in a specific circumstance. Instead of trying to take away what might have been the cause, I added in a person who could potentially change the outcome.”
Before she could continue, someone else shouted out. It was the guy who had been drunk sitting next to her, sans bottle. “That’s not that hard of a solution. I just said I did the same thing!”
“My solution isn’t to pick one event to change the rest. My solution is for every event to have an added factor. I changed one event by adding in a person who would help make an event better. Instead of creating new timelines, I continued to add humans that would help in different parts of history. Humanity isn’t beyond saving. It doesn’t need a reset. It just needs some help.”
There was only a second of silence before Sofia found herself, once again, in a large, dimly lit room. Her guide, once again, was standing next to her. This time, there was no question as to what kind of smile she was giving Sofia.
“I’m Rhea.” She led Sofia down the long hallway. Each step illuminated the room more.
There were hundreds of statues lined up throughout the room. She was sure that they were either duplicates or the originals of what could be found on Earth. On the ceiling was something that was akin to the Sistine Chapel, except where the cherubs were flat paintings, here they were 3D models. In the center of the walkway was a globe hovering over the ground. She placed a hand on it and spun it before going forward. When she got to the front, there was a throne. It was much more simple than what she had expected from such a grand room. There was a red velvet cushion and backing against the black marbled chair. Beside it, there was a small matching table and on top of it an inlaid black pearl crown.
The man in the suit walked in behind them. His suit a stark contrast to the dark of the throne room.
“The universe needed a new ruler, and you, my dear, met all the criteria.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow, looking at both Rhea and the man. “How?”
Rhea took her by the elbow and led her to the throne. As Sofia sat, Rhea held the crown in her hands. “The previous ruler got tired of humanity. So the first chance he got, he created a competition. The winner ended up being you.”
“But why?”
The man walked beside Rhea, his face bearing a similarity to hers. “Many others thought the same as you and came to the same conclusions. Yet you were the only one who believed all of humanity needed change, not just one portion of it. Whether or not you will make the correct decisions in the future, the universe decided that at least you will always make the one closest to your heart. That is all humanity can ask of any divine despot.”
As the crown settled on to her head, she saw the world globe in the center of the room glow with thousands of tiny lights. The rest of her earthly compatriots will have returned after a day in the heavens, remembering not only the events that had transpired, but with the knowledge that they held more power on earth than any other human that had come before them.
Stella Kearns is an aspiring writer looking for blanks pages to fill. Her creativity comes from her free spirited lifestyle taking every day as inspiration to edit a new chapter.
We are halfway through our week featuring guest writers! This has been a blast to read all the different takes on the prompt.
Many thanks to all of the different writers who volunteered to share their words on our blog!
Love,
Jenni and Michelle
Image Description: Two figures, seen in silhouette from far away, walking towards a cliff's edge while holding hands.
Delilah Sanz was powered by pure spite. She didn’t come naturally this way, but had developed an efficiency of energization after countless slights too numerous and frustrating to name without explicit swear word.
One such slight stood in front of her, slack-jawed. He had the look of a dog sniffing a treat, tongue only barely not lolling out of his stupid mouth as he watched her hyperventilate. Delilah sucked in each breath hard, held it for only a moment, and blew it out loud enough that she sounded like she’d just run cross-country. She didn’t explain. She wasn’t about to give Jeremiah Last Name Unimportant any edge over her.
She kept at it, urging the dizzy feeling into her body, hoping for the floaty space of too much oxygen or carbon dioxide or whatever it was that happened when you breathed too much. Her eyes flicked to the large digital clock on the floor between the four of them, eleven fifty-eight blazing from the small black box. One-hundred and twenty seconds until midnight, minus whatever seconds the digital display wasn’t showing her. Why they wouldn’t have a clock that showed the seconds felt comfortingly stupidly familiar, and like one more reason she was going to get through this or else.
Or else what, she didn’t know. She’d haunt Master Richard’s for sure. The scarecrow of a man stood against the far wall, attention on the ceiling in his frumpy grey suit and untucked shirt, paying absolutely no mind to the three graduate students in front of him, each about to cease to exist. He’d made it out. He’d succeeded, somehow. It was just a Tuesday for him. The prick.
The dizziness hit Delilah from below, a surge up her body, inexplicably from the gut, and she wobbled for the wall. Red manicured nails found it, palm flat to the cool stone of the arcana dungeon—not its official name but apt enough. Her vision was tunneling, which was perfect, so she pressed her forehead against the gross wall, mussing her carefully straightened bangs but whatever. She kept drawing in breaths as rapidly as she could.
She’d heard it was easier to disappear like this.
Something about the moment you stopped existing leaves you on the verge of passing out, which was a bad way to go into it. The wisdom went: being close to passing out undid the passing out. Whatever. She wasn’t an arcane specialist. It sounded legit, and she’d heard it from a half a dozen apprentices, and she needed every advantage she could get. She didn’t pretend to understand why; she’d just spent the last year gobbling up any piece of advice or stray snatch of wisdom she could catch or coerce from the twenty-five and up crowd around the academy—which was slim pickings.
Once the clock struck, there were only three options available, no matter discipline or schooling, no matter aspiration or dream, no matter if you wanted anything to do with the arcane or not: Come back without magic, come back with way magic, or don’t come back at all.
While most people cowered and fretted and just hoped to make it through, Delilah demanded that she not just make it, but excel. She would not pass out. She would not vomit. She would not disappear forever. She would triumph. She had to. She was never going to be allowed to flourish here otherwise, and if Jeremiah Last Name Unimportant made it and she didn't, she was going to have to walk off into the sea—if she wasn't already dead.
She twisted to look at the clock, a fifty-nine glaring from the black rectangle of fate. The motion made her head spin, and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed.
There was the little problem of no one knowing what caused a win, but she couldn’t let that deter her. Across numerous accounts of what it was to not exist, Delilah could pinpoint no clear course of action to spur on re-existing. There were books and shows and dramatizations available to rent on numerous streaming platforms. They were all bs, made by people who’d—not died at least—but lost their chance at magic and just needed something else to do. She’d read at least three books before abandoning that course of research. They were losers’ best guesses about what they’d done wrong. But they didn’t know. No one knew. It was a waste of time. She could trust no one but her own determination.
In the name of flourishing, she'd done her hair, a high ponytail that was both stylish and functional. She'd put on a sports bra, tank-top, a tee-shirt, her favorite pair of stretch jeans, a puffer jacket, and a pair of hiking boots explicitly bought for the occasion—she'd even had the forethought to break them in. No matter the terrain, she was ready. Dress for the job you want, and in this case, that job was not dead, but also amazingly powerful.
She was going to exist again in twenty-four hours, and then she'd walk into the councilor's office—kick the door in—and tell him he was going to make her an apprentice. She was tired of being an assistant to his assistant while he mentored and tutored and made apprentice every undeniably mediocre former classmate of hers who she knew—knew—was perfectly middle of the road skill-wise. Six of them hadn't even made it back. Not that she was counting, but that was a terrible track record.
“Are you alright?” A soft voice asked, startling her hyperventilating inner rant.
She turned, eyes landing on Angel Burgos’ ashen face only two inches away, looking doubly stricken—at her own terror and the terror of seeing Delilah presumably choke to death on air in front of her.
Delilah got no more than a glimpse of Angel’s shocked face. The clock shrilled three chirps, an absolutely obnoxious noise to signify the end of her existence as the numbers flipped over to double zeros.
Delilah’s swimming head was replaced, no longer barely connected and bordering on liftoff, but a thousand pounds of pressure crushing into her neck. The breath she was pulling in stopped mid-inhale, and she silently screamed at herself not to panic as the sensation of suffocation squeezed her lungs. The wall beneath her hand dissolved, a solidity holding her up no longer there, and she surged, not forward, but down as the room melted into impossible darkness.
Angel was gone. Jeremiah was gone. Even useless Master Richard’s faded as she slipped out of existence.
A scream threatened to rip out of her. She'd been warned about that too. It would draw them to her. She held it in, like she held it in every day of her life, plummeting with nothing but the sensation of motion, gravity affecting her but offering no visual cues in the pitch she existed in. She couldn't even tell if she was tumbling or if the strangeness of the drop was disorientating her senses enough to think she was tumbling, ponytail smacking frantically against cheeks then neck then skull.
The darkness broke like a torrential downpour with no clouds as warning, vacuum to freezing water, and she sputtered as ice slid into her lungs. How water could pass where air wouldn't was beyond her as her lungs sucked in burning cold.
Elation fought with mortal terror, because the darkness was gone, which meant this was the second leg, but she was drowning. Her enthusiasm struggled and then asphyxiated as her hands clawed for purchase on water that was thick enough to feel viscous, like she’d teleported into the middle of Jell-O that was trying to kill her. Her world was tinted yellow, which was a truly unappealing color to drown in. She refused to die in a bawdy joke about swimming pools.
Her stomach, lungs, throat, eyes, and mind were on fire as she reached, a buzzing starting up, and she couldn't tell in her controlled panic if it was her dying brain or something yet to enter visual range. She was hard-pressed to choose a preference.
Delilah exploded out of the soup, dragging in a choking breath of actual air after what might have been years or only seconds without. She wiped frantically at her coated face, trying to get eyes on her surroundings and regretting the puffer coat choice as she found herself standing on pavement, squinting under the glare of bright light. Her hands came away empty, goo-free, not even wet. Her boots were firmly on asphalt that stretched forever in every direction.
The buzzing was louder now, and Delilah ripped off her coat, holding it in a fisted hand and moving in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound amongst the endless blue sky that was somehow sunlit and blinding, without a sun visible anywhere.
The swarm was close when her eyes finally picked it out of the brightness—too close—a clump of dark making an enthusiastic flight for her, only a dozen yards away. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to aim for, only the direction of the mass and everywhere else.
She stayed still a moment, sucking in a few more greedy breaths, and then she ran at the mass. She screamed, even though she’d been told screaming was bad. They were already coming for her, so what the hell did it matter? The things were undulating and angry, blacks and reds making themselves visible in the central clump but no real details beyond the certainty that it was dangerous.
At the last moment, she wrapped her puffer around her face, the only defense she could think of as thousands of tiny bodies pegged into her, each one the bruising force of a paint gun pellet. She stumbled, but she didn’t stop, screams smothered by fabric as her world exploded into pain. Her boots kept slamming down on pavement, and after an eternity of welts, the crunch of otherworldly insects underfoot turned into the soft smooshing of grass.
She ripped the coat off her face, breathing ragged, surrounded by trees that stretched up into the sky forever. A quick glance at her limbs, and she was without welt or puncture, though the heat of every impact lingered like a nightmare she couldn’t shake.
She walked.
She trudged.
No direction different from any other, so she simply moved. Time lost meaning, days and nights cycling too fast, too frequently, and then sometimes not at all, stuck in a limbo of pre-dawn as monstrosities rustled in the gloom.
She tried to see one of these beasts only once.
Hidden behind a large trunk, she'd held her breath and leaned slowly out. What her eyes landed on defied description, a thing of teeth and claws and hate, vibrating in such a way that nausea bloomed in her throat and the mere thought of it later brought fresh tears to her eyes. If she drew the attention of one of those, she would die. There was no questioning that.
She moved with care from then on.
Her mouth was sand, her stomach, acid, her limbs weak with fatigue and malnutrition, quivering with a consistency that was concerning. She hadn't slept, and though the time that would elapse in the real world was only a day, time was endless and meaningless here. But she walked—one foot down, and then another, focusing only on the rhythm.
Surely this was near completion. Surely no one else could survive this. But these thoughts were useless because hope had no place here. There was only space for relentless ambition.
About half of everyone who went in—and everyone went in—returned. Returned was a purposeful word. Not triumphed or overcame. Most merely came back, husks of their former selves. The self they'd planned out before being sucked into this nowhere, withered. In this place, they drowned, they suffocated, they were eaten, or they were smashed against the rocks. She’d talked to one person who swore they’d been picked apart by things like birds if birds had teeth like sharks.
When they failed and woke, if they woke, they were diminished. They crawled back into their lives, no longer fitting, and wrapped distractions around the bitter regret of knowing they would never have magic.
But this was the only place that Delilah refused to be diminished. This was the only place that she controlled because the only one that mattered here was her and her actions. Other's dreaded this, but Delilah had lived for this. She'd spent twenty-four years watching everyone around her steal all the oxygen and all the space. This was her chance to claw it back for herself.
Low branches snagged on her cheeks, and she walked.
Twisting roots tripped her feet, and she walked.
Something shook the world around her—forcing her to hide behind a tree and wait for it to pass—and then she walked.
A soft, distraught cry drifted to her on the tepid breeze.
She stopped.
It was unlike the wretched sounds in the forest so far, not something large and dragging to hide from and not something small, frantic, and skittering to veer away from.
It was human.
It was female.
It was so sad.
She walked, making her way slowly toward the sound, jacket—her only line of defense in this hostile world—balled up in one hand. She saw the form, sitting with back against one of a million identical trees in this eternal forest, shoulders shaking, arms wrapped tight around her middle.
“Angel?” Delilah called softly.
Angel got to her feet, notably unsteady, teetering and then catching herself on a grey trunk.
“Get away from me!” Angel screamed, the clear path of skin visible from eyes to chin, meaning she'd been sobbing her dirty face partially clean. Her hair was strikingly like a mass of Brillo pads tied together with strings and ran through a garbage disposal. Delilah probably didn't look much better, but at least she couldn't see herself.
“It’s me! Like, actually me, not horrible-place-monster me. Assuming that’s a thing,” Delilah said, moving closer. She had her hands at waist height, like Angel was a small woodland creature she meant to approach and hopefully scoop up before she bounded away. “You can’t just sit here crying. Something’s going to show up and eat you.”
Angel took half a step back, but then stopped, a limpness to her limbs and motion that implied she’d had enough of this fun getaway they were both on.
“I can’t,” she said in a husky tone, eyes getting wet. “This is too much. It’s been so long.”
Delilah bit back the automatic response that tried to vomit out of her mouth from years of being venomous—something about Angel being useless, or if she couldn’t take it, not to cry about it and waste everyone’s time. Something scathing and dismissive before turning and walking away. But Angel’s face right before the clock struck midnight, marking their twenty-fourth birthday and their mandatory entry into this wretched test, flashed in her mind.
"Give me your hand," Delilah said, going for gentle but sounding demanding. The fact that she was holding her hand out impatiently probably didn't help. This was as soft as she got.
“What?” Angel said, doe eyes blinking slowly.
“We’re gonna run,” Delilah said, taking the three steps between them and grabbing her hand. Angel hadn’t gotten a manicure before this momentous day, her nails chewed to unpolished stubs, but her hands were calloused and strong, and she’d made it this far. “Ready?”
Angel swallowed hard, dragging her free hand over her face in an attempt to remove tears, but really she just smeared the dirt badly all over, and nodded. “Will running help?”
“Come with me and find out,” Delilah said, squeezing her hand.
“Okay,” Angel whispered.
They ran.
Delilah didn’t look back, and Angel didn’t drag behind. They held onto each other, fingers grasping—harder when something massive loomed in their peripherals, more lightly when they needed a break. Delilah didn’t know how long they traveled like this, stopping only when their lungs couldn’t take the strain.
They didn't speak unless they were resting. And when they rested, they whispered about the fate of Jeremiah Last Name Unimportant and complained about Master Richard’s, and compared all the ways they’d prepared for this horrible day. Angel had practiced in hot and cold. Angel had studied arcane books about the plants and animals possible here. Angel had walked barefoot over concrete and forest floors and learned how to start a fire. Angel had tried just as hard as Delilah, though in entirely different ways—ways she hadn’t interpreted as become a total bitch to everyone around her to survive.
Neither spoke about their actual lives or dreams, neither willing to admit there was a chance they’d never get to live them.
After an indeterminate but way too long stretch of eternity, the ceaseless trees ahead ceased, as suddenly as the falling and the water and the monster wasps. Light filtered through breaks in the branches, until they found themselves on a ledge overlooking a vast, fog-filled chasm. They peered down into forever, bright white rather than the black of the first test, difficult to look directly at as the shifting nothing made their eyes blur.
Delilah looked at Angel, and Angel looked back at Delilah. They hadn't spoken more than three sentences to one another before appearing in this hell space—despite sitting in the same classes for six years, listening to the same lectures, practicing in the same labs, and having the same birthday. But now, a silent understanding blossomed, bright and new, hot with its certainty and delicate in its vulnerability.
They backed up a few paces, hands still clasped firmly, and took a running leap.
Delilah’s eyes opened on the floor of the arcana dungeon. She sat up, expecting some new horror, another unnecessarily vicious test of will or wit or whatever it was that needed testing to prove she could handle the magic that could be coursing through her veins. But the dungeon walls didn’t melt into acid, and Master Richard’s didn’t grow claws and try to eat her—he was asleep in his chair.
Delilah whipped her head down, a small, hiccupped breath at the sight of Angel lying right beside her, still holding her hand.
Angel’s eyelids fluttered before opening. She sat up slowly, expression dazed, all of the gross and grime of their extended stay in the perpetual forest gone. She turned toward Master Richard’s, and then to Delilah, the same shocked understanding filtering into her expression as had made its way onto Delilah’s face.
They squeezed their still clasped hands and smiled.
About the Author
K Van Dam is a writer who arts things. An artist who writes things. But make it goth. For more, check out her site or follow her on Twitter.
Image description: An empty industrial hallway dimly lit by a row of fluorescent fixtures
Katherine was going to change the world. Ambassador to foreign nations. Head of the CIA. First female United States president. The sky was the limit. Or so she believed.
Her stilettos click-clicked on the industrial tile of the compound hallway. She clutched a data pad against her suit jacket, matte rose lips curving into a professional-yet-friendly smile as she passed other agents. She activated the retinal scanner to the double-walled steel entrance into Observation Room C.
The hydraulic doors hissed shut behind her. Katherine’s footsteps echoed almost obscenely in the silence. The observation room had once been a hangar for aircraft. Now, hundreds of gurneys were lined up in neat rows under the towering steel beams. The quiet breathing of subjects rose and fell in waves of white noise. Other junior agents glided among the rows like corporeal wraiths, tapping data pads and adjusting the straps of equipment bags across their chests.
She moved to the first cot in the first row. Rested her data pad on her forearm, tapped to open the spreadsheet. Subject C4-E719. Topeka, Kansas. Katherine scanned the readout by the young man’s head.
Fiscal leanings: conservative.
Environmental concerns: progressive.
Social justice beliefs: mixed.
She entered aggregate data in the appropriate columns, then reached to click on “Social justice beliefs,” careful to no more than glance at the young man’s olive-skinned face and dark curls. A subset of data unfurled across the screen.
Racism index: 7.5
Prison reform: against
Same sex marriage: for
Transgender rights: undecided
Katherine made notes. Across the observation room, cloth rustled and metal scraped against metal. A murmur. A data pad flashed bright green.
An anesthetic resistant subject.
Katherine made it there first, stilettos tapping a woodpecker’s rhythm across the concrete. A young woman thrashed on her cot. Blonde and dressed in matching gray sweats, her crop top read “Stop Staring At My Dick.” She moaned something incomprehensible.
“Shhhh…” Katherine plunged a hand into her equipment bag, watching Sweatshirt’s eyes dart under painted lids.
“Ainsley?” The woman’s eyelids fluttered open.
“Hush,” Katherine whispered, fingers drifting over the bag’s inside pockets. “You’re just having a dream.”
Sweatshirt blinked at her, gaze unfocused. “Wwwwas innNeverland.”
“I know you were.” Katherine drew out a plastic syringe, fumbled the cap off under the edge of the cot. “Want to go back? I can send you.”
Sweatshirt blinked. “I told…told Ainsley. Yesterday. Adulting is b-bullshit.” Her words were slurred, fuzzy. “Wanted to…be a kid ‘gain. Then I did. Went…went to Neverland.”
“Yes, you did,” Katherine murmured. Keeping her gaze on the woman, she felt along the IV tube to the port and slid the needle in.
Sweatshirt blinked up at the ceiling, eyes beginning to focus. She propped herself on an elbow. “Where am I?”
“Nowhere. This is just a dream.” Katherine depressed the plunger.
Sweatshirt started to speak again, something that began like “Ainsley,” but the word drifted away as the drug hit her system. She slumped back onto the cot, messy blonde ponytail splaying across the pillow. Katherine’s heart thundered.
They should really have more agents monitoring in here.
This woman wouldn’t be the last to show an abnormal resistance to the standard anesthetic. But stats had predicted the percentage of resistant subjects would be small enough that the agency needn’t spend the money to pre-load alternate drugs into every gurney’s monitoring system. Resistant subjects could be dosed on an as-needed basis by junior agents collecting data.
Katherine’s manicured nails twitched toward the young woman’s forehead. To brush a strand of hair away? Her hand retracted, a spider curling in on itself. She reached up to pat the cornsilk blonde bun atop her own head. Aside from the sweatshirt, this girl could be her. Would be, if Katherine had been born a year later.
This was Project 24. A twenty-four-hour study of every twenty-four-year-old in the United States. The most ambitious operation Katherine had been a part of in her time at the agency. Subjects had been collected without explanation or warning, transported to a series of facilities around the country and outlying islands. They’d be returned to their beds with no memory of the event. Just an unexplained gap in their timelines. A lost day.
Informed consent had been standard practice in scientific research for over a century. But the agency tended to operate outside of standard practice.
The hiss of the pneumatic doors breached the newly fragile silence. Katherine may have startled, if she was the nervous type. Which she was not.
Senior Agent Abrams crossed the floor in her direction. Dressed as always in a perfectly tailored suit, designer heels, no-nonsense flat-ironed bob, eyeliner winged sharp enough to cut you open. Katherine may not have been the nervous type, but she wasn’t above being impressed by power. Agent Abrams oozed it.
At her heels trailed Agent Colfer, as forgettable a middle-aged man as you could ask for.
“Miss Lewis,” Abrams snapped by way of greeting. “Data, please.”
Katherine held out her data pad. Abrams snatched it, scanned, and frowned. “You’ve only completed one?”
“I’ve just begun, ma’am. I was required to attend preliminary training with Captain O’Keefe this morning.” Katherine had worked hard to clip the soft edges of her Missouri accent, but chose to retain the genteel Southern manners. They charmed hardened superiors, made her seem more approachable. Trustworthy. Less threatening.
Abrams made an irritated noise and thrust the data pad back into Katherine’s hands. “Preliminary training!” she spat. “The next time O’Keefe wants to waste resources, call me. You’ve done nothing but exemplary work since you began here. Any idiot would see that a fifteen-minute briefing would suffice for you. You’d have been well on your way to the next observation room by now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The flicker of pride tasted slightly bitter on Katherine’s tongue.
Abrams pinned her with a sharp gaze. “Now, if you encounter any anomalies, I want you to contact me immediately.”
Katherine hesitated. During training, O’Keefe had mentioned the possibility of outliers. But she hadn’t been satisfied with his explanation.
“You don’t mean anesthetic resistant subjects, I presume? I just dosed this one.”
It was still a vague explanation. Katherine decided against pushing further.
“Will do, ma’am.”
“Keep up this level of work, Miss Lewis, and you’ll go far in the agency.” A corner of Abrams’ mouth twitched up in something resembling a smile. “You remind me of myself at your age.”
The phone in the senior agent’s suit pocket buzzed. She snatched it up and held it to her ear with an abrupt, “What?” Her organ-puncturing heels snapped away toward the rear exit.
Agent Colfer gave Katherine a fatherly smile. “Don’t forget to mark this one as resistant.” He tapped a blunt finger on the gurney’s screen and strode after Abrams.
Katherine watched their retreating backs for a moment. She should have been basking in the affirmation Abrams just gave her. But she only felt a vague sense of unease.
Just keep your head down, she told herself. Do your job. Advance. You can’t change the world if you’re not in a position of influence.
She swiped the “stats” menu down from the corner of Sweatshirt’s screen.
Anesthetic Resistant Subject. Set dosage alerts: every 2 hours.
Is this how Katherine imagined her life would be? As an awkward kid dreaming big dreams behind a 70’s-era public school desk in a one-horse town in the Ozarks? When she’d received a full academic scholarship to an Ivy League college, she hadn’t looked back. Ambition took the place of friends and lovers for a time. Then the agency recruited her. Her lack of social connections, no doubt, was just as attractive as her resume.
Next gurney. Subject C4-F528. Springfield, Illinois.
The agency’s job offer seemed like a natural progression, a payoff for hard work. Even if the duties of the position were a little vague. But Katherine never believed the U.S. government’s activities were all transparent. She wasn’t that naive. Things sometimes happened behind the scenes for the good of the public at large. That’s all this was, she told herself. Objective research. Science. Katherine could get behind science.
Fiscal leanings: moderate.
Environmental concerns: progressive.
Social justice beliefs: progressive.
The agency was supposedly nonpartisan. Unaffiliated, exempt from political or private influence. But with the upcoming presidential election and the nature of the information being mapped from subjects’ minds, Katherine doubted this was entirely true. Organizations with a stake in the election would likely pay well for this type of data.
Katherine tapped her spreadsheet. Gazed back at the blonde woman in the ridiculous sweatshirt. A sour feeling turned her stomach.
That could have been me.
She shut her eyes and looked away.
Two hours and two hundred subjects later, Katherine discovered an anomaly.
Subject C4-N8429. Detroit, Michigan. Round face, dark brown skin, kinky hair done up in two buns. Gold hoop in her left nostril. Denim jacket over a multicolored tee printed with the words “Disabled Rights are Human Rights.” The data pad screen glowed red, reading nothing more than “Subject Anomalous.”
Katherine’s hand twitched toward the phone in her bag. She’d been given a direct order to call Agent Abrams right away. But she paused. Considered the senior agent’s evasive answers.
What do they want with these anomalies?
That sour feeling roiled in her gut again. Her hand went to the gurney’s screen instead of her phone.
She tried scanning the subject data. Access denied.
She tried the functions menu. Access denied.
She tried overriding with the administrative code she’d sweet-talked out of the guy in the tech department. Please place iris near retinal scanner.
Katherine cursed softly. Taking a deep breath, she peered out of the corner of her eye toward the other junior agents. They were all on opposite sides of the room. She slid to the left to block Human Rights Tee’s face from the nearest security camera. Her manicured fingers gently tilted the woman’s head toward her and away from the far wall. Then she pulled the IV tube.
Katherine lifted a silent cell phone to her ear and waited. The fast-metabolizing anesthetic didn’t take long to wear off. Human Rights’ eyelids opened a few minutes later.
“Don’t move,” Katherine murmured right away. “Don’t speak. Just listen.”
The woman’s pupils dilated with fear, but thankfully, she remained still. Her eyes darted from Katherine to the endless rows of gurneys surrounding them.
“You’re in a government facility in Nevada. You and many other young adults were selected for a study.” She declined to tell Human Rights the scope of it. She thought it would alarm her, more than it had already. “Now listen very carefully. You aren’t supposed to know you’re here. You’re supposed to be under anesthesia. I woke you up.”
Human Rights stared at Katherine with huge brown eyes, chest heaving shallow, panicked breaths.
“I’m going to ask you some questions. When you answer, speak in a whisper. There are other agents in the room who don’t know you’re awake.” She leveled her gaze at the frightened woman. “Does the government have any reason to be suspicious of you?”
Human Rights was silent for so long Katherine wondered if the anesthetic hadn’t entirely worn off. She opened her mouth to repeat herself when the woman spoke.
“Who’s on the phone? Who’s listening?” Her voice was hushed, breathy with fear.
“No one.” Katherine adjusted the phone, letting the woman see the blank screen. “I’m doing this so anyone watching won’t be suspicious.”
Human Rights’ eyes narrowed. Katherine waited.
“I…I work for a civil rights group in Detroit.” The woman’s words were choked. “In college, I helped organize some marches, some protests. I wrote a couple essays…about voter suppression…criticizing US democracy as exclusionary…but just for class! I never published them on a blog, or…”
“Did you think about it, though?” Katherine pressed. “Have you been thinking about it?”
Human Rights said nothing. But her lips thinned in a way that said everything.
Katherine’s jaw tightened.
“They know,” she said. “They can predict it. You’re going to be a leader. You’re going to influence people.” Cold certainty settled over her. She knew what would happen if she called Agent Abrams. The rest of the twenty-four-year-olds would go home tonight. This woman, and any other “anomalies,” would not.
“I’ve got to get you out of here.”
Human Rights’ eyes narrowed to slits. “And why should I trust you, white girl?”
Katherine blinked at her. “My name is Katherine.”
Human Rights pursed her lips. “Like I said.”
Katherine adjusted her silent phone and shrugged. “Looks like I’m your only option. Unless you want me to hook your IV back up and let the senior agents do whatever they’re going to do to you.”
The woman’s eyes widened again. She made as if to turn her head.
“’Don’t. Move,” Katherine hissed. “There are security cameras on all four walls. I am blocking only one.”
Human Rights closed her eyes and swore. Then swore again. “Fine.” Her voice was tight. “Do you have a plan?”
“Can you make yourself vomit?”
The woman’s eyes snapped open. “Excuse me?”
“Can you make—”
“No, I heard you the first time. And the answer is ‘no.’ ”
Katherine sighed through her nose. “I’m going to lean down and act like I’m looking for something. When I do, pretend to heave.”
Human Rights’ brows drew together, but she nodded. Katherine pocketed her phone, set her bag down, and bent her head level with the edge of the cot. She stuck two practiced fingers down her throat. The remains of a protein shake, sautéed egg whites and spinach splashed over the concrete floor.
“Oh. My. God,” Human Rights breathed.
Katherine wiped the corners of her mouth and straightened, pulling her phone out again. “I was a bulimic in high school,” she murmured in explanation.
“Of course you were.”
Katherine had never felt more like a walking cliche. Small-town working-class white girl with insecurity issues dreams of changing the world to prove she can change herself.
She pretended to punch a three digit extension.
“This is Agent Lewis,” Katherine said, loud enough to be heard across the room. Several junior agents glanced in her direction. “I have a subject with an adverse reaction to the anesthetic. I’m going to wheel her down for you to examine.” She paused as if waiting for a response. “And please have a crew sent to Observation Room C to disinfect.”
Katherine kept the phone by her ear. “Close your eyes,” she whispered to Human Rights. “Act unconscious.” The woman hesitated, but obliged. Katherine pocketed the phone and grasped the handle of the gurney.
“Whurr you tekeng meh?” Human Rights slurred through immobile lips. It was impressive ventriloquism. Almost enough to distract Katherine from the fact that she hadn’t thought through a plan beyond this.
“Hush,” she whispered. She could probably slip the girl through the labyrinthine basement service wings and out the loading dock. But then what? Even if she stashed the gurney somewhere and made it back before anyone grew suspicious, she’d been seen wheeling a subject out of an observation room. An anomalous subject who’d soon be offline. Not to mention all the security cameras.
Her palms started to sweat. She hadn’t thought this through. This was a stupid idea, Katherine. Stupid stupid stupid.
The pneumatic doors hissed open, then her stilettos were tapping down the corridor. The gurney’s casters whirred an ominous hiss. Katherine tried to smile at a pair of passing agents who surveyed Human Rights without a word.
The medical unit was at the end of the hall and to the left. Katherine took a right.
A service elevator stood at the end of a short annex. Katherine activated the retinal scanner and pushed the gurney into the car as the wide maroon doors slid open. Human Rights hopped down as soon as they closed.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded. It was strange to see her upright, kinetic. She was shorter than Katherine expected.
“Through the basement level to the loading docks. They made us run evacuation drills through there as new recruits. In case of terrorist attacks and such.” She wondered if the escape route was too obvious. She wondered how much time they had before someone started looking for them.
The elevator car groaned to a halt. The phone in Katherine’s pocket buzzed. She slipped it out.
Ext. 302: Abrams
She silenced the phone just as Human Rights smashed the button to keep the elevator doors closed. Katherine looked to her in surprise.
“You said this is a government facility in Nevada?” The woman’s eyes were narrow, angry. “You planning to just throw me out the loading dock into the middle of nowhere?”
“No,” Katherine protested. She hadn’t really thought this part through, either. “Transport trucks come and go all the time. We can hide you in one of those.”
Human Rights scoffed. “And what about the rest of those people up there? You just gonna leave them?”
“They’re all being sent home tonight.” It was a lie and Human Rights knew it.
“Bullshit.” The woman braced her hands on her hips. “If I’m not safe, they aren’t either.”
Katherine’s phone vibrated again. Ext. 302: Abrams. They were out of time. She began to panic.
“I swear, the vast majority are going home tonight. There’s no way—”
“Get me to the server,” Human Rights ordered.
“What?” Katherine’s skin crawled with anxiety.
The woman gestured at the gurney, the IV bag, the red screen announcing: Subject Anomalous. “These are all hooked up to a network, right? I can hack it. Turn all the drips off. Wake everybody up.”
Katherine’s breath caught. There were sixty five thousand anesthetized subjects in this compound alone. If they all woke up at once, the study would be compromised, the facility would be compromised—the entire agency would be exposed. Mass chaos. No wonder they feared what this woman was capable of.
Katherine swallowed and closed her eyes. Tried to think of a different way out. A way to sneak this woman onto a transport truck, a reasonable explanation to give Agent Abrams when it was done. Anything to salvage the house of cards that was her life falling apart around her. She could think of none.
Is this how she imagined her life would be? Katherine wanted to change the world. It had been her dream as long as she could remember. She thought about those rows of gurneys, the still figures lying atop them in the observation room upstairs. One of thousands just like it across the country.
Maybe changing the world didn’t look like she’d thought it would. Maybe it looked more like this woman standing across from her in a denim jacket and human rights tee shirt.
Katherine inhaled a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do it.”
Human Rights relaxed, and smiled.
With a release of the door lock, the elevator rattled open to reveal a dim subterranean corridor. Katherine’s phone buzzed. She silenced it without checking the caller ID.
“Follow me.”
There was no use putting Human Rights back on the gurney, and she didn’t know how she’d explain the woman’s presence to anyone who stopped them. She just hoped the agency hadn’t put out alerts for them yet.
Thankfully, the handful of maintenance workers and service staff they passed just nodded polite greetings. Katherine led Human Rights through a series of halls, past the restricted entrance to the server’s data center, to a small office. The sound of an oscillating fan drifted from the open door, the green flannel shirt of the room’s lone occupant just visible behind a huge desktop monitor.
Katherine paused just beyond the threshold and plunged her hand into her equipment bag. “Let me do the talking,” she hissed. Human Rights nodded. Then Katherine stepped through the doorway, one hand loosely fisted by her side, and beamed her best smile.
“Hey, Maddox.”
The twenty-something yanked the headphones out of his ears, cheeks flushing pink. “H-hey, Kat!”
She felt slightly guilty, as she always did, for taking advantage of his crush on her. He was a nice enough guy. But it was wiser to keep the on-site tech officer a pining ally instead of a failed dating partner.
She glanced toward the desk normally occupied by a bored security guard. “Where’s Tom?”
Maddox grinned unabashedly at her. “Lunch break.”
Katherine sent up silent thanks to whatever gods were listening.
The tech officer’s smile faltered as he spotted Human Rights. “Who’s this?”
“Oh,” Katherine said. “I’m training a new recruit. Maddox, this is—” Subject C4-N8429? She’d never asked the woman’s name.
“Celeste.” Human Rights stepped toward the desk and offered a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Maddox rose from his seat. “Nice to meet—” His greeting cut off with a startled choke as Katherine plunged a syringe of anesthetic into his neck.
“Sorry about this,” she told him, easing his slumping form back into his desk chair.
Human Rights—Celeste—gave a low whistle. “That was cold, Katherine.”
Katherine frowned as she rolled Maddox away from the desk. “How else was I supposed to get you access to the server?”
“Ask him nicely, maybe?” Celeste smirked. “Don’t get me wrong. It was still badass.” She bent over the desk, fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Katherine paced to the door and back. Her phone vibrated again. Ext. 302: Abrams.
Katherine silenced her phone and jammed it back in her bag. “I have an admin code. Would that help?”
Celeste turned to her with a withering glare. “You think?” She tapped a few keys. “Enter it.”
Katherine rushed to the desk and typed in the code she’d wheedled out of Maddox a few months back. Lines of binary unfurled across the screen. Celeste moved back to the keyboard and tapped furiously. Scowled. Tapped some more. Katherine paced to the door and peered down the hall.
“Can you hurry up?”
“God, you are not helping!” The flurry of clicks accelerated, faltered, then stopped. A heartbeat of silence. “It’s done.”
Katherine met Celeste’s eye as emergency lights began to flash. Alarms whined an ear-splitting crescendo.
Katherine kicked her stilettos into a corner. “Let’s go.”
Barefoot, she led Celeste back down the maze of corridors at a jog. Maintenance staff poured out of every door, shouting directions, securing entrances and exits. No one paid Katherine and Celeste the slightest attention.
They skidded around a corner, and Katherine spotted the access stairs to the loading dock. She released a breath. They were going to make it.
“Miss Lewis!” A sharp voice from the other end of the corridor.
Katherine turned slowly, heart crashing against her ribs. Emergency lights blinked bright and dark over the cold, motionless form of Agent Abrams. Beside her, two security guards leveled pistols in their direction.
Katherine’s life collapsed in on itself like a dying star. Every dream, every hope, every shed tear, every drop of sweat, every sleepless night condensed to this moment. This decision.
“I am giving you a direct order.” Abrams’ voice was brittle, significant. “Surrender the subject and turn yourself in.”
Celeste tensed, edging backward.
“Miss Lewis,” Abrams said. “You do not want to do this.”
A thought, clear and distinct, cut through the fog of panic. Oh, but I really do.
Katherine reached for Celeste, as resolute as she’d ever been. “Run,” she whispered.
And they did.
About the Author
Rowan feels deeply guilty that she didn’t complete this challenge, posed in a seminar on writing by favorite author Maggie Stiefvater, sooner. It seems she was too busy geeking out over Stiefvater novels. Many thanks to the tribe of writers who made this story possible!
Read more at rowanmarci.com
According to Maggie Stiefvater, if you give a chaos of authors a single, extremely specific prompt, each author will still create their own unique story. We decided to test Stiefvater and gathered seven authors to write short stories off the [extremely specific and absolutely horrible to make not-cliche but we love you anyways Liege Stief] prompt Stiefvater created: "All 24 year-olds on earth disappear for a period of 24 hours."
This week is the results. One story, published to this blog, every 24 hours.
Will Stiefvater be proven true? Even more importantly, what on EARTH happened to the 24 year-olds?
If you want to join, @ us with your own original fiction based off this prompt! We’d love to read.
Image Description: A painting by @freshsunberries of a young girl with fiery red hair sitting in a field of wildflowers, looking at a circus.
A short story written in response to an #ask submitted by @waldorkler. Thank you for the “gothic night circus” prompt! I hope you enjoy the story you inspired, and the art @freshsunberries created.
Jacqueline sits with her hands crossed in her lap. Only her forefinger moves, playing with one of the satin ribbons trailing across the folds of yellow muslin in her dress. Behind her, her mother pulls a brush down Jacqueline’s long, red waves of hair.
In front of her, there is a window. It frames a perfect view of their garden, hedges trained to stand like animals dancing with white narcissus around their feet, and prim rows of pear trees which Jacqueline is not allowed to climb. Beyond the green wall of beech trees marking the end of the estate’s lawn and the beginning of the meadow, there is a burst of color.
The circus blew in on the tail of winter’s last breath and perched at the edge of their land. Brightly colored tents sprouted overnight from the dry, hungry grass with food and game stalls clustering cheerily around their pegs. It was not there yesterday; it is there today and Jacqueline can just see the waving of an orange flag through the myriad branches.
“I would like to go, Mother,” she says.
Her mother’s brush strokes do not falter. The horsehair slips easily over her satiny curls. “A young lady must not be tempted by the frivolities of common folks,” her mother says. She ties a white ribbon around Jacqueline’s hair, pulling and twisting until it is choked into a smooth knot just above her shoulders. The ribbon is thick; it tickles Jacqueline’s neck.
Jacqueline picks at the ribbon. “But you allow them to stay on our land.”
In the window’s reflection, her mother’s eyes are a dark, emerald green. Her cheeks are smooth, kept unlined by force. She does not smile or frown, she merely looks. “It is a boon for the villagers.” She looks back at Jacqueline’s hair then, her chin raising appreciatively. Her dress smooths itself as she stands, falling easily into place around her. “We will speak no more of this. You have lessons in an hour.”
Jacqueline stands in boots that pinch at her heels and curtsies. Her mother turns. Jacqueline looks out the window. The flag is waving in the breeze, tied by someone’s hand at the perfect place to catch her eye. Her tutor comes to her. Jacqueline sits in a wood and iron desk facing away from the window. She recites the Greek third declensions for the word night. She can hear the tutor’s knuckles tapping on the folds of her dress, counting off the noun endings. And behind it, a mere whisper, she can hear the snapping of the flag in the wind.
The next day she is buttering a slice of bread with practiced, even strokes and imagining the bread is her hair and the knife is the brush and suddenly she has ripped a hole in the bread’s soft surface. On the other side of the dining room, her mother sips her tea. “A young lady must watch her consumption,” she says. She does not raise an eyebrow or frown, but her teacup tings against the saucer as Jacqueline scoops another pat of butter to lay over the first.
“To your room,” her mother says. Her voice is firm.
Jacqueline cursties, leaving the twice-buttered bread on her china plate. She walks up the wide, red carpet staircase to her room. The door is open, the bedspread pulled tight, the desk with a neat pile of papers to be written on in perfect lines of curling script. Jacqueline sits at the desk. Transcribe the Persephone myth from Greek to English, her tutor’s note reads. She picks up the pen.
I would eat the pips as well, she writes.
The sun is bright; the garden is green; the circus a brilliant rainbow. Jacqueline skips on the balls of her feet as she runs down the hall, through a door, and down the twisting, narrow servant’s stair.
A servant presses herself against the wall. Her eyes are wide with an unspoken a young lady must. Jacqueline runs past, faster now, uncaring of the noise. She bursts through the door into the kitchen garden. The plants brush against her skirt; the crisp air smells of rosemary and lavender. She bends as she runs and breaks off a single early lavender bloom, tucking it in her bosom. A young lady must look presentable at all times. She spreads her arms and runs. Her fingers trail over the prickly hedges.
Slowing as she reaches the beeches, Jacqueline pauses with one hand on their smooth bark. Jacqueline stands at the brink of an ocean of grass. It stirs in the breeze, brown patched with green shoots and at the other shore--magic. Her fingers curl into themselves. She pulls the ribbon from her hair and hangs it on a branch, running her fingers through her hair over and over again until it lies wild around her face.
Then she begins to walk. The grass whispers to itself. She whispers back a slow string of hopes for what she’ll find inside the particolored tents. Jacqueline walks close enough to where she can see the people but not their faces. There are not many. It is too early for wild things to admit they are wild. She watches as a couple with bare heads and no jackets carry large bundles of rope into one tent. Another man--his shoulders as wide as an elephant’s--stretches, then leans against a wagon and lights a cigar.
A boy dressed in grey, with hair the same color and skin as pale as ashes emerges from a smaller tent, set back behind the main cluster. She notices him because he is still. The others shift, walk, carry, talk. He simply stands, facing the manor behind her. Jacqueline tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. A woman in a dress barely long enough to cover the curve of her hips walks between him and Jacqueline.
There is a road paved with gravel that leads from the manor to the fairgrounds. One of the pages that lived in the servant’s quarters, runs down it. He skids at the roped-off entrance, throwing his arms about and ducking his head. He moves like a chicken, his head jerking and bobbing and stretching to see around the woman with her palm out asking him for money before being allowed to enter. Jacqueline sits, trusting the grass to hide her secret.
The circus woman shakes her head. The page ducks his once, twice, then turns back toward the manor. He does not run. He looks behind him and walks with his shoulders tucked in, already bracing himself for the lashing of failure. Jacqueline bites her lip, but she cannot go back. Not yet.
The sun falls and the moon rises, drawing up night’s curtain and setting the circus free. People sway back and forth between red-dyed tents. Torches dance above their heads dim as fireflies. Jacqueline’s dress is creased and smeared with dirt. Behind her, every window in the manor gleams with light, demanding her return. In front of her, the circus tents’ entrances look like toothless mouths.
Jacqueline is ready to be eaten.
The woman at the entrance has eyes as yellow as a snake’s. She is dressed in black leggings that cling to the curves of her hips and a white top hat with a wide, broad brim. Jacqueline places her spring of lavender in the woman’s open palm. It is wilted from her body’s heat. The woman’s fingers close around it. Her smile opens. Jacqueline walks into the circus.
Music comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, begging her to dance. Jacqueline’s hands float beside her. Her lips are parted, her eyes wide. The torches are not the fireflies; the people are. Their words smolder with temptations--come, eat! Come, see! Come, and we will hack you in two and walk through your center and I will sing for you as you die!
Jacqueline watches a woman with midnight skin leap off a pole and fall. Her fingers flutter, loose feathers at the end of softly held arms. The ground is a black hole beneath the spotlight. A man tied to a rope swings to her, a blur of green and white, his hands wrapping around her wrists and snatching her from the devil. They fly together.
The darkness spasms with applause.
Jacqueline leaves the tent; wanders farther back. The shadows deepen. Eyes burn more brightly. A man smiles at her with pointed teeth pressing against his bottom lip. Jacqueline reaches her hand out as if to touch them, but he is gone. There is only a mirror, twisting her face beyond recognition.
A young girl with her black hair spiked into curving horns brushes against Jacqueline’s skirt. “Candy for a penny,” she sings, spinning below her platter of offerings. “It tastes of air and melts on your tongue.”
“I do not have a penny,” Jacqueline says, not recognizing her own voice. She smiles at the girl. “Your hair is beautiful.”
The girl ducks into the shadows. “Yours is not,” she says.
Jacqueline looks at herself in the mirror. Her unbound hair surrounds her reflection, making her face seem small and fragile. She begins to gather it back. A hand holding a white ribbon blocks her view of herself. Jacqueline turns, her hair falling from her hands.
It is the grey boy. This close he is nearly a man, taller than Jacqueline by a handspan. His face is thin and solemn, his lips awkwardly full against his narrow jaw. The shifting flames draw no color on his skin. He stands very still, his hand outstretched between them, her ribbon laying across it. “My lady,” he says.
She stares at his mouth. The rest of him is so still she cannot quite make herself believe he spoke. “I am no lady,” she whispers.
He does not answer her, but his palm tilts and the ribbon slips into the dust between their feet.
“Your mother is looking for you,” he says, and again, his voice is more an echo than a voice.
Jacqueline turns away. The path between the tents beckons, asking her to come away. Somewhere the little girl waits with penny candy and devil’s hair. Somewhere a tent is full of magic. Somewhere: a place she has not yet found. “I am not ready to go home.”
He stands beside her. Her chin is at his shoulder-height. His hands are bare and only a few inches away from hers. She folds hers in front of her waist, hiding their spasm. She sets them free again, flinching only slightly as her skin brushes his. “My name is… Jackie,” she says.
One finger traces a line down the back of her hand. “Jackie,” he whispers.
She has not been called Jackie since she was allowed to climb trees and suddenly she is smiling at him. He smiles back. It is the first time she’s seen him move like a boy moves. Her heart flutters; she presses her lips together.
His eyes fall to her lips.
She takes a step back, then begins to run. She is running because no one here will tell her not to. A man blows an arc of fire over her path. She is running because she does not know his name yet, and she is afraid of learning it. The path twists, winding through canvas lean-tos with women hunched over crystal balls and spreading sword-bearing cards. She is running so she will have a reason for the way her heart races that has nothing to with the curve of a smile.
But he is running beside her, and then his fingers touch her wrist, and he says, “Here.” They turn as one; he pulls open a hidden flap. They step inside--her first, him following.
The dream closes around them. Pinpricks of light decorate the tent’s ceiling like stars. It is silent. Jacqueline traces the outline of the big dipper, losing him in the darkness beside her. Then a light blazes from the floor. A woman hangs in midair, her waist bent over the silver curve of the moon. Her hair trails down, white as snow. Impossibly long, it pools on the ground beneath her. She feels the boy step forward; sees his profile glowing with silver light.
Somewhere in the darkness, a man begins to sing in a voice like thunder. The woman’s back arches. Her leg presses up; twists around the moon’s spine. She slips down, hanging by her ankle. Her eyes are closed, her hands move slowly through the air as if she were swimming. Her hair dances with her, shimmering in the beam of light.
A second woman walks out from the darkness. She moves effortlessly as she winds the moon dancer’s hair around her arm, then her waist. She jumps, throwing her legs out. The hair tightens around her waist, catching her just before she hits the ground. The moon dancer begins to sing. Her voice blends with the man’s as the second woman twists, drawing herself up into the sky.
“Would you like to dance?” the boy says, and it is only then that Jacqueline realizes she has walked forward. The beam of light is at the edge of her shoes. The boy is behind her, in darkness. She does not answer him, fear holding her back.
His breath on her skin as he whispers in her ear, “Dance with me, Jackie.”
A young lady must not--but here, she is not young, or a lady. Her skin burns. She turns to face him. The air in the tent is cool; his fingers winding through hers are cooler still. She is the one out of place here, with her red hair and yellow dress. He is soft as starlight, fading into the dream. She touches his shoulder, then the skin of his jaw. “What is your name?”
The boy pulls her hand from his face, covering it with his as he begins to spin them into a dance. Their steps trace the edges of the moon’s light, the women slowly aligning above them. He leads the dance, pressing her into the light. It blinds her; he spins them into darkness. “My name is Aidoneus,” he says into the soft weight of her hair.
She cannot see. Her eyes are open but the light is gone. The singer’s voice fades. Aidoneus pulls her closer, against his chest. He is hard, and broad, so different from the rounded lines of her mother’s bosom and suddenly Jacqueline is falling. She clings to him, afraid of the darkness outside and the rising heat inside.
The dance shifts; his hands, his arms release her. She could stumble back, but she twists her hands around his waist and lifts her chin. Only his lips press against hers, as hungry as the darkness swallowing her whole. They are cold. She is afraid to pull back, afraid to fall alone. She begins to shiver. Jacqueline opens her eyes, but where Aidoneous’s face should be, there is only night.
“Jackie,” a voice whispers. It is her own.
Something snaps. The tent floods with light. The ground is dirt; the stands are crooked and empty. The moon hangs from the ceiling, a rusting wood and metal hammock. Music plays tinny and off-key from a battered gramophone just off-stage. She is alone.
Jacqueline pushes through the tent flap into a morning as grey as the boy. She stands outside one tent of many, its walls pinned down by rusted pegs. Towards the faltering dawn, among stalls weighted with refuse instead of food, is a ring of policemen in dark blue uniforms. A performer walks between them with tired, bloodshot eyes. Her hair is shorn; a ratty silver wig wraps around and around her neck like a scarf.
The men shift, like a river parting around an ageless boulder. There, now--her mother. Her back is straight but her face is riven with all the wanton creases of a frown. She speaks with a man in a striped suit, her hands twisting tightly into the hidden pockets in her dress. It is the same dress she wore yesterday.
Jacqueline steps forward and curtsies. Her mother stares at her. Her hand clenches at her side once before unfolding smoothly across the curve of her full skirt. “What has happened to your hair?” she says. Her voice shakes.
Jacqueline looks down, but the strands falling across her shoulders are red still, not grey. Her hem is brushed with dirt; her skin prickling with the morning chill. She feels a twist in her heart. There is nothing about her to prove his kiss. She presses her lips together.
“A young lady must—“
“My hair is beautiful as it is,” she says to her mother. In front of her, her mother’s mouth pulls straight. Behind her, the music stops. Jacqueline bends and picks up a sprig of lavender, crushed beneath a dozen feet. She tucks it behind her ear, tangling the stem into one of her unkempt curls. Petals already browning with wilt fall, dusting the neckline of her dress. Jacqueline picks one up, places it on the tip of her tongue, and smiles.
Hello, I’m standing over the table with the IT’S BEEN A GOOD YEAR sign and wilted-looking mistletoe and splayed out rectangle stickers. There’s a black Sharpie gripped between my white-joint fingers, my palms are starting to sweat, and there’s you, leaning against the reception desk with a drink in your hands.
Hello, I’m nervous, I swear I can remember my name, I just don’t know if it’s a name that people associate with happy, or talkative, or friendly, or if it’s a name that people associate with office bitch.
Hello, I’m Rachel #3 because this office is huge and made up of millennials whose parents named them Rachel, or Jessica, or Amanda. (There are actually four Rachels here, but Rachel #4 never shows up to these sorts of things.)
Hello, I’m sorry I’m still standing here.
Hello, I’m anxiety, the kind that you take a blue pill for every single day, the kind that eats up passion like pandas eat up bamboo. Did you know pandas eat 40 pounds of that stuff every day? My seven-year-old told me that. I wish I had a blue pill right now.
Hello I’m overwhelmed, because I also have a six-year-old, and sometimes the two of them yell so loud I forget my own name. What a convenient excuse that would be right now. Do you care? Probably not. Sometimes I see you sitting across from me in the cubicle with the eight Marvel Funkos and I wave but you never say more than Hey, how’s life? and I never say more than Well, I’m living, and then we both laugh a little and sit back down at our desks.
Hello I’m lonely like the color green, not bright leprechaun green, but velvety-moss green. If you mixed me like oil paint then I’d be blue-cobalt-and-a-smudge-of-yellow-ochre green. Sometimes you can find me wandering the woods, cradling five imperfect river stones in one palm, other hand gripped tightly around a stick larger than the six-year-old who gave it to me. Sometimes I’m looking at the sky when a little whisper escapes my wind-chapped lips. It sounds like fuck, it’s beautiful out here. Mostly, I’m here sitting at my desk wearing green socks.
Hello I’m waiting to see if you smile with your teeth or just your lips when you look over at this table, and I’m waiting to see if I smile back or if I just pretend like I don’t see you. Once, I leaned over your cubicle and noticed the shiny, silver scar that lay across the knuckle of your pointer finger. I asked you what happened and you teeth-smiled and said it was a broken glass. I wished it were something more dangerous.
Hello I’m still waiting but you don’t look over at the table at all, just move further into the crowd and say Hey, how’s life, to Rachel #not-me.
Image Description: A boy adrift in deep water on a makeshift raft at sunset.
There is a boy in the middle of the ocean. Thousands of boys run in and out of the ocean at the edges, playing tag with her grabby salt-spray fingers. Those boys are filled with laughter and bologna sandwiches and clinging sand. They have mothers who will miss them if they sink and fathers who will snatch them up when the ocean plays too rough. Seagulls swoop around them, melding screams and caws into a cacophony of joy.
There is no sound where the boy in the middle floats. He is splayed over his raft, a mannequin with hair crusted to his forehead and bleached to the color of dry bones. The raft is not a raft but a door. Once, this door closed the boy’s world off into a ship’s cabin the size of a wardrobe. He is the type of boy who enjoyed living hidden in a rat’s nest of a cabin, clothes hanging off his chair and turning it into a mountain to be scaled, the cot a dangerous jungle where bits of bread and cans of beans are stolen and hidden and nibbled on late at night.
He is the type of boy who beat on the window of the car every time his father passed the docks, shouting to be let out. Sometimes his father did, bumping up onto the sandy knoll beside the road with a warning, “Ten minutes! Not a moment more!” as the boy threw himself out of the car and ran to the crest of the dune to watch the ocean shine.
He can watch forever now, drifting farther and farther from where the ship and his father sink.
The boy with the dry bone hair moves, dipping his fingers into the ocean. Her touch creeps cool across the red skin of his wrist, a stinging kiss. It will be worse when he pulls it out, the jealous sun stripping the water back to nothing but salt pulling tight at fragile, burning skin.
The boy does not think of this.
He thinks of dancing. The raft sways beneath him, rising and falling like the ocean is breathing. On the ship he stood on his father’s shoes as men holding violins played. His father and he moved in a slow half-dance, half-hug. The boy wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning into him, laughing as he felt the shifting of his father’s stomach. Now, it is the ocean that dances with him, pressing the boy up into the sky.
The boy has seen nothing but sky for days. Sky above and sky below. He wonders if the ocean’s dance will end the way his father’s did when he let go as the sirens sang and they all strolled to their cabins, waiting for the storm to smash the ship to pieces. The boy’s fingernails dig into the wood, cracked when the water smashed against it. He worries at the scar with his thumb. A splinter lodges beneath his nail. He hears the sound of his father’s shout, mixed with the smashing glass of their balcony door. Then he was thrown into the sea, without mother or father to save him.
He misses his father, but he cannot help smiling at the beauty of the ocean around him. His lip splits again. He licks it, tasting blood and salt. Everything about his mouth is difficult--lips too tight with salt and chap; tongue dry and clinging to the roof of his mouth--so he hides it, pressing his smile against the blistered skin of the back of his hand.
The boy rolls onto his stomach, a painstaking move. Even in his tiny cabin he was more free than here, hemmed in on all sides by the vastness of the ocean. The act ages him, forcing him to roll as a man does--carefully, watching over each body part in a balancing act--instead of the chaotic tumbling of a child. Here, on his stomach, he can see the ocean. On his back the sun’s glare forces his eyes closed until night falls and blends everything into one terrifying darkness. But with his chin pressed into his cabin door, the sun sparkles on the ocean’s waves like pixie dust.
“I can fly,” the boy says, but when he stretches out and touches a golden fleck it breaks apart, and he is still trapped. The ocean rocks him; he closes his eyes and sleeps.
A boy cannot know the ending of his story until he is past it.
The ocean, though, has been past this ending a thousand times. She holds her boy, content to dance with the child while they wait for the end. He sleeps, and she remembers the patter of his feet in her waves. She almost caught him then, rumbling up from the deep to wrap around his waist and drag him down into her arms. His father was quick, pulling the boy up with a shout. The boy did not shout--he sputtered, spitting and scrubbing until his mouth was free. Then he pushed out of his father’s arms and dove back into hers. The noise of his laughter as she splashed against him again had sounded like gulls crying, promising to forgive her over and over again as they learned to love one another.
The day his father took him back from her the boy stood, feet sinking into the sand as she tickled his toes, ignoring the busyness of the people packing up behind him. His father called--the boy ran into her, soaking shoes made for streets and sand. He ran until he fell, the salt of his tears mixing with her own.
His father had stood beyond her reach, face red with anger at the way the boy clung to her. She tumbled against the boy’s back, trying to soothe him-- but it was his father’s promise of a journey on a ship, straight across her center, that had cast the ocean and her boy back up into joy and laughter again. She smoothed her surface, the shining gold of sunset on her waves as walked away a beauty that pierced all the way to her center.
The ocean had waited, knowing her boy would come to her. Thousands of ships scurried across her unnoticed. Tides passed, rushing in and out until one brought with it his ship. He stood at the bow, straining forward, wind whipping his sun-kissed hair as he crowed with wonder. She crowed with him, straining to reach him the way she could on the beach. But the ship thrust her away. Only her spray reached him, clinging to his skin as he stretched toward her.
The boy disappeared, hidden from her in the belly of the ship. The ocean wept, desperate for his touch. The wind saw her tears and bent to help. They worked, her fueling them both until the skies darkened with the wind’s moans and her waves arched, stretching up toward him, clawing at the boat to reach her boy.
The boat shuddered and broke before her passion. She raced through it, searching for him. There were hundreds of boys, but only one didn’t run from her. She found him in a room far too small for their love and drew him out, spinning around and around in wonder as the wind cried at last, at last, at last.
The ocean sighs. She whispers a lullaby to her boy, swirling his raft in a gentle circle as he sleeps. Someday, his grip on the raft will loosen, and she will swallow him whole. She waits, she whispers, and she watches.
Image Description: Two people, only their arms seen. One barely touching the skin of the other’s wrist, centered in the light of a rainbow.
Losing myself was a quicker process than I thought.
Last summer at the pool I wore a suit as red as a bitten strawberry. You had your dark curls and white sunglasses; you walked past and our shoulders bumped. I stumbled. You gave me a slippery-slope smile and a shrug.
I rubbed my shoulder and watched you walk away, a book tucked into the crook of my arm. When I pulled my hand back, a golden flake glimmered in the center of my palm. I brushed it off. It landed on a mother’s beach towel, sticking to the gooey stains from her toddler’s hands.
I sat on the edge of the grass, pretending to read. You dove into the deep end, swimming halfway across the pool before coming up in a burst of inheld breath and laughter.
I worked at the library that summer, shuffling on my knees to file books about growing papayas and losing weight after menopause. A boy asked me where to find a book by Hemingway, sliding a folded Summer Reading list into the pocket of his jeans. His skin was the same dark tan as yours. I rocked back on my heels. When I stood, he was shorter than me. I led him to the American Classics end-cap shelf and glanced at the sliding glass doors, wondering if you had books to read as well.
The boy took the book on his list off the shelf; I handed him a book from mine. The Last Journey of Alabaster Crain, a book with pirates and sea monsters that took two hundred words to say what Hemingway said in two. A single golden speck, no larger than the flecks of green inside the boy’s brown eyes, marked the curling Y in the book’s title from where I’d picked it up.
“You’ll like this one,” I said. He smiled nervously at me and bobbed his head, shoving it beneath the book he had to read for school.
At the end of my shift, I found The Last Journey of Alabaster Crain on the research librarian’s desk, left behind to be reshelved.
I tucked it beneath my arm. The sun sucker-punched me with summer as I walked through the staff door with the book I was stealing. I took the long way home. My bangs were slicked to my forehead with sweat and humidity by the time I reached the pool. I trickled my fingers over the chain link fence, trying to stand straight, shoulders back, tall and strong and carefully casual like I walked this way every day--but you weren’t there.
I sat beneath an old oak tree, Alabaster lying on my knees. I picked up the golden fleck between two fingernails. In the shade of the tree its golden hue faded to almost bronze. On my tongue it burst with the tangy spice of fresh ginger.
It wasn’t until summer was trampled beneath the tires of a yellow school bus that I saw you again. First day of school, our lockers assigned side-by-side, as if someone was laughing at me. I knew you at once; you knew me when your friend shoved you and you stumbled back into my open locker door. It hit me in the ear. You said sorry this time, that same smile slipping around the side of my locker and your breath warm and minty, Winterfresh gum crushed between your teeth.
A piece of me, just under the curve of skin where my ear kisses my neck, dislodged at your gaze. Your friend called; you winked at me; it fell, joining last year’s broken pencil and crumpled college-ruled paper already cluttering the bottom of my locker. I shifted the paper to cover it.
Was it the red shirt I wore that you remembered, or the way my mouth twisted in pain?
The weeks rushed by, measured in due dates and the number of times you trapped your thumb between your middle fingers when you said “Hey.” Once, your elbow caught your water bottle, tipping it off where you’d sat it on the bottom shelf of your locker. It fell; I lunged for it and caught your hand instead. The bottle cracked, spraying water over two pairs of tennis shoes. Your palm was warm.
You learned my name. You learned my next class; once, you walked me to it, then ran to yours. The sound of your sneakers thumping, loose laces snapping like whips made me bite my lip. We were both late that day--you because your class was three halls over and you’d never make it in time, me because I stood outside the door until I couldn’t hear your footsteps any longer. When I opened the door, I left behind a handle coated with gold.
Thirteen pieces of myself later, you asked me to sneak out during lunch period. You drove; I played with the air vent. Neither of us had money, so instead of eating we tangled hands then lips, your body reaching across the console to press against mine. My stomach growled. You sat back. The corner of your smile shone with my gold. I dug for a granola bar in my bookbag instead of reaching for you.
The next day I held my breath as I closed my locker. You were throwing textbooks into yours. I said your name; you laughed. I couldn’t tell if it was at me or the math textbook crashing off your shelf back into your hands.
“Hey,” you said. Your curls, longer than in the summer, fell forward to hide your face.
I told myself I imagined the laugh and waited for you to turn so I could see if I was still stuck to the crease of your smile. You raised your hand in surrender or goodbye, then closed it over the combination lock hanging from your locker door. You took too long clicking through each rotation, long enough that I knew that hey meant something else entirely. The hall was full, people I knew and people I’d never seen before, all walking past us.
Wanting you to follow me, I joined them. Cracks spiderwebbed from tile to tile across the floor. I swerved to avoid a cluster of girls in matching pink tennis shoes, each pair nearly touching the one to either side. My grey shoes were streaked with brown; it had rained that morning, my walk to the bus stop mired with mud.
Footsteps pounded, the beat of a runner forcing its way through the cacophony of hundreds of people flirting, gossiping, rehearsing lines. I twisted sideways to start our dance before you could slam into my shoulder again. But it was just a boy, a duffel bag slamming against his legs and a basketball clutched to his chest as he passed me.
The warning bell rang. The crush thinned. I could see a trail of myself leading back to where we’d stood side-by-side, each of my footprints red-gold instead of mud-brown even beneath the fluorescent lights. The line was unbroken, leading from me to us. It only scattered where you waited for me to leave before you turned and walked away.
I closed my eyes and imagined that before you left you crouched in front of your locker, your eyes caught by something beautiful. Almost kneeling, you wrapped the shard in your palm’s cradle. I imagined you looking up, seeing me. Imagined your palm fitting perfectly around the slope of my cheek, pressing into place my heart’s lost piece.
I bent down, reaching for my own footprints. A flake stuck to my finger, like a golden grain of sand. I pressed it to my tongue, expecting a burst of ginger. It tasted of warm mint.
The second bell rang. I walked back down an empty hall. My lock opened easily, 20-14-59. I emptied my locker, filling my bag book by book. Golden pieces cascaded from my hands until the air smelled the way your breath did when you kissed me.
In the bottom of my locker lay the last book, the library’s barcode homesick for the space on the shelf where it belonged. I closed the door, turned the lock.
