Alexander Danner

Writer and Sound Designer

Alexander Danner is a freelance writer and narrative sound designer.As a writer he has worked across various media including audio drama podcasts, short stories, comics, and textbooks on the history and craft of comics and graphic novels.As a sound designer, he has contributed to hit audio dramas including Unwell: A Mid-Western Gothic Mystery and The Amelia Project, along with other innovative independent works.Alexander is co-founder of ThirdSight Media LLC, an independent audio drama podcast production studio. Through ThirdSight media, Alexander co-created ThirdSight's flagship audio project, Greater Boston.

Biography



Alexander Danner (he/him) is a writer working in various media, including prose fiction, comics, and audio drama. He is co-creator of the serial audio drama Greater Boston. He is a script writer on the audio adaptation of the classic indie comic series ElfQuest, by Wendy and Richard Pini.He is currently a sound designer on The Amelia Project. He was lead sound designer on What's the Frequency? and a frequent designer on Unwell: A Midwestern Gothic Mystery.He teaches creative writing at Emerson College, and has previously taught creative writing at The New Hampshire Institute of Art.

Alexander Danner

Sound design for storytelling since 2015.



Notable Audio Projects

Samples

Paradigm Shift: Restless Sleep:



Amelia Project - Shipwreck Sequence:



Amelia Project - Dream Interpretorium Sequence



Unwell - Diner Transformation Sequence:



Greater Boston - Abandoned Ghost Tunnel:

Alexander Danner

Writer of Many Things for Many Years


Audio Drama


Greater Boston - Audio Drama Podcast - Co-CreatorElfQuest - Official Audio Adaptation - ScriptwriterAdditional Audio Dramas - Guest Writer

Comics


Gingerbread Houses - Illustrated by Edward J. Grug IIIMore of Alexander's comics can be found online at TwentySevenLetters.com.

Textbooks

Character Design for Graphic Novels, by Steven Withrow and Alexander Danner

Character Design for Graphic Novels (2007, Focal Press)


Comics: A Global History, 1968 to the Present, by Dan Mazur and Alexander Danner

Comics: A Global History, 1968 to the Present (2014, Thames & Hudson)

Official logo for The Amelia Project, featuring a cocoa mug with an image of a phoenix rising from the steam.

A fiction podcast about people who want to fake their own deaths and the organization that helps them do it.Alexander provided guest sound design for one episode in Season 4, and formally joined the sound design team as of Season 5.

Episodes Designed by Alexander:49: Monsieur Rêve
64: Granville T. Woods
65: Jack
68: Marie Antoinette
71: The Wicked Bible
72: The Man with Many Tattoos
Victor Hugo's Table - Halloween Special
73: Will
79: Joan
80: The Children of Hamelin
82: Dudo and Lionheart
83: Tomoe Gozen

Logo tile for the Greater Boston podcast, featuring the title on red and white color bands in the style of The Red Line of the subway, imposed over an inverted image of the Boston skyline.

What if the subway were transformed into a city of its own?As co-creator of this award-winning full-production audio drama podcast, Alexander has sound designed more than two dozen full-length episodes, and equally as many mini-episodes.Greater Boston is a ThirdSight Media production.

Paradigm Shift: Restless Sleep


Cover art for Paradigm Shift vol 1, by Dirk Tiede. Features a woman in an alley, casting a shadow in the shape of a werewolf.

Restless Sleep is a short animation adapting a portion of the comic series Paradigm Shift, by Dirk Tiede. Alexander provided all sound design. Score by Dirk Tiede.

Unwell: A Midwestern Gothic Mystery


Podcast Logo for Unwell: A Midwestern Gothic Mystery, depicting an isolated shack beside an ominous leafless tree, in sepia tones.

A town of strange occurrences, otherworldly beings, and the out-of-place people who come together to form a family and face the past.

Official logo tile for What's the Frequency?. featuring a skull inside a transistor tube, on an orange background.

Alexander sound designed all full-length episodes of this award-winning experimental psychedelic noir audio drama.

Prism: Tales of Your City - New Orleans


The official logo for the Tales of Your City podcast, featuring text on a white background, accompanied by color bars representing LGBTQ pride.

As assistant sound designer, Alexander designed the dramatized portions of this episode of Tales of Your City, a companion podcast to the Netflix series Tales of the City. Lead sound design and mixing by Alexander Charles Adams.Note: contains dramatized content of a sexual nature.

The official logo for the Tales of Your City podcast, featuring text on a white background, accompanied by color bars representing LGBTQ pride.

Alexander sound designs interstitial animations to be embedded into imaginative short stories published on the Storiaverse mobile app, to create an immersive reading experience. For many stories, Alexander also performs casting and voice direction.Stories Alexander has worked on include: This House; Character Assassin; Arson & Fate; Super Rex; Rue Tiquetonne; Kelpie; and A.R.M.S. Masters.

ElfQuest - The Official Audio Adaptation


Logo image for ElfQuest: The Official Audio Adaptation.

ElfQuest is the longest-running independent fantasy graphic novel series in the USA, has appeared on the New York Times best-seller list, and has more than 20 million comics, graphic novels and other publications in print.Alexander was one of three writers tapped to adapt ElfQuest into a full production audio series. Produced for Realm by Dagaz Media in partnership with The Fantasy Network.

The Plutonian Expedition



1.

When love returned, I was unprepared for the discovery. Rediscovery. As we all were. I was a dog groomer’s assistant, and you were a dealer in obsolete cartography, and love was a novelty, a vestigial impulse, a forgotten thing, a relic. I was standing in my driveway, bending to retrieve the morning newspaper, when I announced this thing, this epiphany that had just burst from some primordial cognitive cupboard. “Yes,” I said aloud to myself, “I’m going to be in love.” “What are you thinking of?” my neighbor asked through the gap she had cut in the hedges, so startled by my proclamation that it disrupted her careful trimming procedures. “You know,” I said, waving my hands in wobbly circles, as though I could suggest the shapeless shape of it: “Love.”The gossip proliferated immediately. Faces peeked out from the windows of the houses across the street when I left for work. Pockets of children and their parents pointed and snickered as I drove past. “Are you feeling alright?” my boss asked when I arrived. “You’ve got sick time saved up. Take the day off if you need it.” I assured him that I felt fine, great in fact, never better. Nonetheless, he kept me on light duty for the whole of my shift. “What makes you think it’s love?” he asked later. “How would you even recognize it?” “I saw a show about it once,” I told him. “On the History channel.”When I returned home, a pod of teenagers scattered from my driveway, leaving behind a giant spray-painted heart on my garage door, with the word ROMANTIC scrawled across it. It offered a perfect image for the camera crews that arrived soon after. I hated to watch the news that night, to see my face and name hovering over the anchor’s shoulder. They paraded experts in to discuss my case—psychologists who diagnosed social neurosis, and physiologists who diagnosed hormonal imbalance, and even an ethnomusicologist who pointed to obscure allusions found in the ancient tribal hymns that accompanied the invention of the concept of zero. “We believe it used to happen,” she said, “this phenomenon of romantic pair-bondage. Of course, we’re much more civilized now.”When the television producers offered me an opportunity to state my case, I felt I had no choice but to take it. They interrupted Jeopardy and brought Johnny Carson back from the dead just to interview me, a bevy of hands thrusting him onto the stage, “skip the monologue” audibly whispered, or not really whispered at all, though they tried to create the impression. Johnny seemed confused, but he shrugged and got to work, headed for the desk, adjusted the height of his seat.“So tell me about this thing you’re feeling,” he said. “Love. What’s that like?”I tried my best to explain it. “It feels, uh … kind of flippy.”“Flippy?”“In my stomach. Or maybe my chest. Or both. Probably both.”“Okay, then. Flippy. And you’re sure that’s love?”“Uhh, I …”“It’s just, I’ve had elderly egg salad that made me feel a little flippy in my stomach, if you know what I mean.”“Yeah. No. Yeah. It’s not like that. I mean … it’s kind of like that. But different.”He asked me what I did for a living and how that had led me to find myself in a state of love. I told him I was an assistant dog groomer, because I was, as I mentioned earlier. “As to causal relationships, though, I don’t really know.”“Did you groom her dog?” he asked.“I assisted.”“And what kind of dog was it?”“A Doberman, maybe. Or possibly a dachshund.”“Those are very different dogs,” he pointed out.“I don’t know much about dogs,” I confessed. “I just wash them. Well … assist in washing them.”“But you met her when she brought her dog in.”“Oh, no. We’d already met by then, at her store. She sold me some obsolete cartography.”“Ah,” said Johnny. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”“Not really,” I said. “That’s sort of the point.”“You’re taking the wrong point, son,” said Johnny, and I allowed that that was probably true.“Tell me about the girl.”“She sells maps.”“So you said.”“She has red hair. And glasses.”“Freckles?”“Uh … yes? A few.”“Okay,” he said, “let’s hear about these maps.”I didn’t have them with me, but I could describe them very well. I began with the map of my house:

My house, before we moved there…before my parents renovated, before the old treehouse came tumbling to earth, with my small body riding it all the way down, to land beside the doghouse, having just missed crushing it with my own self. I awaited the panicked prodding of my father’s enervated hands. My father had not yet installed an observatory in the far reaches of the attic, had not yet installed his telescopes or astrolabes, had not yet gone off up the higher stairs, venturing into the deepest dark of the night sky.

“Now these telescopes are interesting to me,” said Johnny. “I had a fine collection, you know. Carl Sagan would come over, and we spent many evenings just enjoying the night sky.”

The solar system, when Pluto was still a planet…
weaving eccentrically into Neptune’s path, waving the arms it wished it had, calling “look at me, Neptune, Neptune, look at me—I’m a fish in the sea!” But Neptune knows a fish when it doesn’t see one, and it knows the difference between the waters of the ocean and the waters of metaphor. It continued along its prescribed path, loyal to the astronomer’s gaze, with no patience to spare for a nagging little rock that would soon be mercifully silenced by the exacting taxonomies of astroscience.

“I’m not sure Pluto was ever really a planet, even if we called it that,” said Johnny. “Sometimes we call a thing one thing, when it’s really another.”

Johnny Carson’s wedding venues…halls and receptions and guests still twirling on dance floors, and officiants proclaiming “till death do you part, or, you know, someone more interesting comes along.” Johnny kisses each of his wives, Jody, and Joanne, and Joanna, and Alexis, decades of bliss and the failures of bliss tracing a line from coast to coast and back again, from North Platte to New York to Beverly Hills, to Malibu, from divorce to divorce to divorce to deceased.

By this time, Johnny was looking eager to move on to the next guest, and out came Uri Geller, ready to explain everything, but Johnny wasn’t having that at all. “What are you even still doing here?” he demanded. “All these years, and all the people, and they send me you?” Uri grinned, and swayed, and placated, but Johnny still wasn’t having it, rising to storm off, muttering to himself now, “And where the hell is Ed?” Taking his exit, his leave, his return trip from the mortal coil, he stepped out from the desk, down from the stage, and back through the curtains, with Uri chasing after, “No, Johnny, wait. Johnny, look! Look, Johnny, I brought my spoons!”And there I was, alone with the camera, and no one to tell me what to talk about, so I said the only thing that came into my mind to say, which was “Maybe I was wrong,” because I really wasn’t sure of anything anymore, save that Pluto and my father and Johnny had all made some pretty bad choices, and look where it got them. And then the cameras clicked off, and my face disappeared from all the screens in all the homes.“Thank goodness,” said the viewers. “We can still catch the Daily Double.”

2.

I hated your dog the way a boy hates his father’s hand, how it tethers him to safety, how it binds him to home, how it disappears into a desert in the attic and never returns; which is to say, your dog died, and I thought I’d never see you again.By this time, love was a trending fashion. It started with the teenagers, always the first to try something new, something taboo, something dangerous. They wrote poetry, exchanged endearments and kisses, skulked by pairs into the mysterious dark of instant photo booths. They tattooed their bodies with the same graffiti they’d scrawled on my garage door. I’ve never been fashionable, so I told myself it was just as well that you’d vanished from my life, stopped visiting the shop, removed yourself from our mailing list, our call list, had sworn to me that you were done with dogs forever. I told myself it was just a phase, I told the neighbors I’d come to my senses, I told my boss I wanted a promotion. He pointed out that I still hadn’t learned much of anything about dogs, and fired me on the spot. For severance, he gave me two bags of kibble and an unclaimed Shih Tzu. I think it was a Shih Tzu; it may have been a Shar-Pei. Anyway, I took the dog home and named it Ed, and started looking for new work. I fed the dog, and read the listings, and walked the dog, and sent out resumes, and gave the dog the customarily mandated pats on the head, and read all my junk mail with the neurotic drive of a person seeking his place in the world.Most of the flyers were pushing varieties of love—craft-your-own, one-of-a-kind, personalized, traditional Western marriage, courtesy of Build-a-Bear Workshop; discomfiting adolescent Oedipal anxieties, a joint venture of Hallmark Greetings and Axe Body Spray; regrettable afternoon trysts, conveniently prepacked and flash-frozen, twenty-four to a case, buy them in bulk at Sam’s Club. I reminded myself that I wasn’t interested and took Ed for a walk. He was happy enough to get out, bounding up and down the sidewalk, winding his leash around my legs. We went to the playground, where I watched him try in vain to climb the slope of an old metal slide, never making it more than halfway before he came sliding back down. He tore circles in the sandbox, digging a moat around an abandoned sand castle. He hopped up into an infant swing and stared at me expectantly, so I pushed him, his tail whirling in joy. “That dog really loves you,” said a Russian au pair who’d been watching us while she pushed her human charge on the adjacent swing. And I thought she was right about that, and I thought I ought to show Ed some appreciation, so on our way home we stopped at the love store, and I bought him a box of candy in a heart-shaped box. I patted his head while he ate them, and the love was palpable. He was dead by morning, his little body stiff at the foot of my bed. So now I finally know something about dogs—you can’t feed them chocolate.If I could find you, I think we’d really have something to talk about now, two sad people with dead dogs. We could totally bond over that shared tragedy. But of course, I could never find the map store again—it only appears on maps that are no longer current after all, so the best my efforts could achieve was to bring me repeatedly to your most recent former location. Only serendipity can bring a shopper to the store itself, and serendipity rarely delivers the same treasure twice. I thought then, as I had thought many times before, of how grand it would be to find a store specializing in prescient cartography, and I thought of the maps I would buy from such an establishment:

Mercantile migration patternsThe location of your store tomorrow, where you will be waiting behind the counter, so relieved that I’ve found you. I would have a new map to add to your collection of the obsolete: the map of the world with you and me apart.

The yard behind our future houseDoghouses outline the run where our future pets will play, the dogs I will buy for you, a dozen dogs, two dozen dogs, and not the least chocolate chip to be found anywhere in our house.

Our solar system, post-colonizationEarth’s children claim their skies, spread throughout the planets, build settlements, biodomes, orbitals stations, teeming with humanity’s descendants, and our own among them.

At home, the marketing push was getting more aggressive. The phone rang several times a day, and I always answered, hoping for a response to one of my job applications, but it was always a telemarketer calling to introduce me to a new product, quiz me on my shopping habits, shame me for my romantic ineptitude. It would start off innocently enough, trying to sell me a newspaper subscription, or to convince me to have my chimney cleaned for the third time this year:“And may I inquire about your interest in particular sections of the newspaper, sir?”“Sure, I guess?”“Political news and commentary?”“I skim it.”“Financial news?”“Over my head.”“Science and Technology?”“When there’s something astronomical.”“Classifieds?”“Every day.”“So, you’re looking for love?”“No, a job.”“But you do read the personals?”“Nope, just the job postings.”“Are you sure you aren’t using your unemployment as a convenient cover to allow you to surreptitiously peruse the missed connections?”“Yes, I’m sure.”“Sir, you do know that it’s unethical to lie? What would your mother think?”And just as I’d get done with the newspaper guy, the chimney sweeps would start in. “Sir, I’m sure you understand that when you are laying your sweet lover’s supple body down before the fire after so tenderly removing his or her or their clothes, nothing would spoil the mood faster than a sudden expulsion of soot and sparks onto his or her or their bare and exquisite skin. Now, would you prefer that the cleaners come by in the morning or the afternoon?”It wasn’t until after my fifth chimney cleaning that things began to look up—I’d responded to an ad seeking an assistant spoon bender, and soon after found myself interviewing in the office of the master spoon bender himself. I didn’t have any experience in spoon bending, but I stressed my many years of assisting, not just as an assistant dog groomer, but also in my previous positions as an assistant snow globe assembler and an assistant street caricaturist. And handing spoons to a spoon bender isn’t so different from handing a grooming brush to a groomer. When Uri asked about my past experience in preflexing cutlery, I assured him that with a little training I was certain I could pick up the knack as fast as anyone. I got the job on a provisional basis, and spent the next week practicing at work and at home, gently wringing the necks of spoons, back and forth, over and over. I always went too far, leaving them so fragile that the heads fell off as soon as they were lifted from the tray, all of them collapsing into ones and zeroes before their time.On Monday, the master called me into his mystification rejuvenation sphere, which is what he called his rec room, so we could share a serious talk over a game of Donkey Kong Jr. He had a vintage console table, like you used to find in pizzerias in the ’80s. He didn’t give me pizza, though, or even quarters for the game, he just sat me down to tell me what’s what while he raced along the ropes to reach the big gorilla at the top. “I think we both know this isn’t working out,” he said as Junior leaped to snatch the key that would unlock his father’s cage.“I’ve been practicing real hard,” I said. “All day. All week. Even after work.”“I appreciate that,” he said, as the next level began, and Donkey Kong returned to captivity. “You’ve really applied yourself. But I think you’ve applied too much hand and not enough heart.”“I’m not sure I understand what that means,” I said, “but if you give me another week, I’m sure I’ll get it.”“If you don’t know what heart is, there’s not much hope for you,” said Uri. “There are some things people just have to do for themselves. I guess maybe I’m realizing that spoon bending is one of them. You should spend some time exploring the labyrinth of your inner being,” he said, handing me a complete set of his books by way of severance. I’d been employed only eight and a half days, so I guess it was pretty fair.

3.

The mathematics of celestial motion undermine every effort made by the lovelorn and unemployed. Gravitational attractions set us into orbit, into an ellipse of perpetual passing, always in sight, always saying goodbye. Every planet’s path is governed by the same math, once you plug in the variables. Newton demonstrated it differentially, and Leibniz integrally, and together they drew the infinite parabola of solitude. I suddenly remembered that I still owned a telescope. It had been an unwanted gift of childhood, a prize earned through irritation, as I’d wandered my father’s observatory, spying on charts and formulae, pleading for a glimpse through the lens of his precious equipment. “I can help with your observations!” I said. “Please don’t touch,” he said. “That’s very expensive,” he said.The next day he appeared downstairs with a long, thin box in hand. “Look!” he said. “I got you your own.” He placed it in my arms and guided me out toward the patio. “You can set it up in the backyard.” “But I don’t have an observatory,” I objected, with an eye toward the wreckage of my former treehouse. But he didn’t hear me, already back in the house, back on the stairs, back in the attic. I looked around for another place to claim for my own, but the only option was the doghouse, so that’s where I went. I shoved the box in ahead of me, then crawled through the arched entrance. I read the instructions by the Indiglo of my watch, and assembled the device as well as I could in the too-small space. From the start I abandoned the tripod, its height clearly too much for the low roof. Once the telescope was complete, the only way I could get the proper angle was to lie on my back with my head in the dirt, staring up through the lenses, not into the sky, which I could not raise my telescope high enough to see, but only into the window of my father’s office, where he spent his hours bent to the eyepiece, in appreciation of the sky. It took all night, but eventually he stood, stretched his back, and glanced downward from his perch. I saw him see me, and I saw him smile.I’d never disposed of the telescope, only packed it away into the basement where I could pretend it was lost forever. I found it easily. I cleaned all the parts, assembled them, adjusted the lenses. I brought it up to my roof to see who I could see. Mercury passed across my visual field, the swift-footed messenger, the bearer of news. So I went back to the papers, back to the classifieds, applying for every job that I could hope to qualify for, assistant beekeeper, assistant bookbinder, assistant astronaut, assistant sword-swallower. And while I was there, in the newspaper, in the classifieds, yes, I did allow my eyes to go wandering afield from the job postings, past the yard sale announcements, past the used car listings, and into the exotic wilds of the personals, carefully examining every ad for traces of you. The telephone rang.“So you admit it?” said the newspaper salesman when I answered.“Alright, fine, I admit it,” I said. “But don’t rub it in. This is difficult for me.”“Extend your subscription another six months, and I’ll never say another word.”“Make it a year. And while I have you, I’d like to place an ad of my own.”“In the Missed Connections?”“Yes, in the Missed Connections. Of course, in the Missed Connections.” If I couldn’t find you, then maybe I could help you to find me.

You Sold Me Maps of Places that Used to BeWell, I guess the places still are, but they aren’t what they were. Different people live there now. The walls have been moved, the yards relandscaped. Is that tree still there, the one I fell from, like in the old song, bough, cradle, and all?

And the next day:

You Loved Your DogAnd so did I, or anyway, I assisted as best I could. When I handed scissors to the groomer, I gave him the best scissors we had, the ones with the sharpest blades, and no rust spots at all, not even on the handle. He did his best work on your dog. I know because I watched carefully, even though I didn’t usually watch when other people’s dogs were on the table. I had a dog once too. Maybe twice. There was a doghouse in our yard, but I can’t recall what lived there. Did we have a dog? Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, “I think I love you.”

And the day after that:

Too Many People DisappearI don’t want you to be one of them. My house has an extra room, without any passages to far away lands. You could live there if you want. If you don’t already have a house, or if your house is too small, or if your house has too many portals to dark and alien terrain. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Bring a friend if you like. Or a lover, if you have one. Perhaps your lover needs an assistant. I could be your assistant lover, if you need one. I don’t mind being the assistant. I’m used to it.

And the next day:

My Dog Died TooI thought maybe we could talk about that. I didn’t have it very long, but I think I loved it. It’s all very confusing. How do you know when you love a dog? Is it love when you give it treats? Is it love when you give it pats on the head? I read once that dogs don’t really like pats on the head, that they find it bothersome and hostile, but we do it anyway because we think that’s what love is. So now I’m afraid I failed at loving my dog. Have you ever felt that way? I hope you have. No, that’s not what I mean. I just mean, I hope it’s something we can build a relationship from. Call me.

And the next day you did.“This has to stop,” you said, and I very nearly swooned.“I agree,” I said. “It’s too much, this constant circling, this eternal spiral of loneliness and longing. It’s time we finally found each other.”“No,” you said. “I mean you. You have to stop.”“But …”“You went on that show. You talked about me on television. You don’t know me. You barely even know what I look like. You said I have freckles. I don’t have freckles.”“But …”“My dog isn’t even dead, I just found a new groomer because I couldn’t go to your shop anymore. I wanted you to stop calling me. I wanted you to stop using your job and my dog as an excuse to call me. The dog’s fine. He’s right here. Listen, I’ll put him on the phone.”“Pant pant pant,” said the dog. “Pant pant ROOF.”“But …”“I know, yours really did die. I’m sorry that happened to you. I am. But it’s not my job to make you feel better about it. You’re just someone who bought some stuff at my store, and then I bought some stuff at your store, and that was it. That’s our relationship. And even that much is over. I don’t want you to call me, or talk about me on television, or send me messages in the newspaper, or ask heavenly bodies to spy on me on your behalf from their orbital vantage. I just want you to stop.”“Okay,” I said.

4.

Arithmetically speaking, I wasn’t any more alone than I had been to start, but arithmetic was providing little comfort. I counted the freckles you didn’t have, the glances that offered no affection, the dogs we would never name together, infinities spilling over infinities, an interminable occupation.Fortunately the journey to Pluto is unimaginably long and fully automated. The assistant does little but record his thoughts for posterity, should posterity care to remember that the astronaut had an assistant. Which is to say, the chief qualification I needed was expendability, which I possessed in abundance, and so I was offered the job. I sold my house, my car, most of my possessions, everything that I couldn’t fit into my two officially sanctioned SpaceX duffel bags, each emblazoned with a grinning photo of Elon Musk, the first flashing two enthusiastic thumbs up, the second offering a non-committal shrug. I paused in the driveway, with my Musks and my sense of adventure, waiting for the taxi, but secretly I still hoped you would turn up to dissuade me, to urge me to break my contract, come work beside you, learn to be an assistant merchant of obsolete cartography. “No,” I said aloud to myself. “I’m going to Pluto.” “What are you thinking of?” my neighbor asked through the gaps she had cut in the hedges. “You know,” I said, waving my hands in wobbly circles, as though I could suggest the erratic orbit of it: “Pluto.”The astronaut was an automaton, a mechanized construct capable of operating the ship and making repairs and charting our course, all without any input from me. I assisted only by giving answers to predetermined questions at predetermined stages of our journey, such as “how do you feel?” and “how do you feel now?” and occasionally by handing the robot a tool or a utensil, which it easily could have retrieved for itself, but it was programmed to provide me with opportunities to feel useful. The journey offered little diversion, save thinking about what to spend my time thinking about. Early on I decided to explore the labyrinth of my inner being, which turned out to be not so much a labyrinth as a rotunda, a single continuous hallway circumnavigating a familiar office with a familiar desk, and on the desk were all the equations I had never solved, having no one to teach me the essential calculus.“How do you feel?” asked the robot. “Hungry,” I said, helping myself to a space taco from the stores. “Interesting,” said the robot, noting down my response.“Why are you writing?” I asked. “Can’t you just record my responses?”“I can,” said the robot. “But studies show that humans respond more fully when they can see their interviewer taking notes. It helps them to feel their thoughts and opinions are valued.”“Do you have a name?”“Would you like me to?”“Yes.”“Alright then.”“What about ‘Ed?’” I suggested. The robot considered a moment before rejecting it.“I think I’d rather be Neil,” said the robot.“Okay. Neil. You’re Neil.”“Should I also name you?” asked Neil.“Do you want to name me?” I asked.“Do you want me to want to name you?” asked Neil.“Yes,” I admitted.“Well then you can be Ed,” said the robot. I sighed, but had to admit that it made sense.“How do you feel now, Ed?” asked Neil.“More hopeful,” I responded, “now that we have names. I never knew her name. She never knew mine. Maybe that was the problem. Names are important, don’t you think? They help people to connect, or not just people, but beings of any sort. It’s why we name animals or guitars. It’s why I wanted to name you and you wanted to name me. So we can form a connection, a bond, a familiarity of spirit. That’s essential on a voyage like ours, don’t you think? It’s only the two of us, you and me, out here on the longest journey ever undertaken, with only each other for company, for companionship, for camaraderie. Ed and Neil. Neil and Ed. We may die together out here. Have you thought about that? The both of us alone in the dark, and the last person either of us will ever see is each other. Isn’t that magnificent? Or, perhaps not magnificent, but certainly worth remarking upon.”“Interesting,” said Neil, noting down my response.“I want you to love me,” I told Neil.“Ed, could you please hand me that 3/4-inch ratcheting socket wrench?” Neil asked. I gave it to him.“Thank you,” he said, as he placed it down on the shelf beside him before returning to his notes.Time passed. Rather a lot of it. A lot of time to go on thinking about you. About myself. About how I misunderstood everything.“Can I ask you a question, Neil?”“There is precedent for it,” he replied.“If you loved someone, how would you show it?”Neil took out his pen and pad.“I proclaimed it publicly,” I said. “It was the first thing I did. I think that might have been my mistake.”“How do you feel about that?” asked Neil.“Embarrassed,” I said. “I made a fool of myself. I assumed love was reciprocal. An equation that balances. But I think I’m realizing that love isn’t a statement you make. I think maybe love is in the asking. Love is a question. A query. Or a series of queries. Love is the compulsion to know more about that one particular person.”“And how do you feel about that?”“I don’t know,” I said. “But I appreciate that you asked.”Eventually, we arrived at Pluto. The time had come to step out into alien territory. I put on my suit, the weighted boots, the heavy gloves, the domed helmet. Neil looked me over, checked the buckles and seals.“It’s pinching a little,” I told him, and he made adjustments.“Improved?”“Yeah, that’s better.”“You’re comfortable?”“Am I bundled up enough?”“It’s very cold on the surface. Layering is recommended.”“So you think I should put another sweater on?”“It’s no matter to me.”“Nah, I’ll be fine. Let’s just go.”Neil relented. We opened the door, and I followed him out into a dark and frozen landscape. The sun was a tiny speck in the far off, even in daytime. I immediately regretted not taking the extra sweater, though I would never have admitted that to Neil. There wasn’t much to see: some rocks, a lot of ice. In the distance, there appeared to be some light, so Neil led us off to see what there was to see. It turned out to be a house, a modest bungalow with a wide porch and a doghouse out back. I stopped, frozen, certain that it must be your house.You’re wrong, I thought.It made sense, how I could never find you, how you always seemed so far away. Intentionally far away. From me.But the doghouse.Of course there’s a doghouse. She has a dog.But not that doghouse.And now here I was, about to knock on your door.“Neil, wait,” I said. “We shouldn’t.”But then Neil was knocking on your door.And then Neil had knocked on your door.I was just standing there, waiting for the door to open, and for the light of your hall to cast you into silhouette before me.The door opened. I hid myself in the meager space of Neil’s shadow.The light silhouetted. I peeked out over Neil’s shoulder.The silhouette wasn’t yours.“Wow,” said my father’s silhouette.“I can’t believe you’re here,” said my father’s silhouette.“It’s an honor, sir,” said Neil.“You’re not who I was talking to,” said my father. To Neil.“I came across the solar system,” I said. “In a tiny rocket.”“Why didn’t you just come through the attic?” he asked. “It’s much faster.”“You never taught me how.”“Oh. Well. That was an oversight, I suppose.”“An oversight.”“Now that you’re here, you should come inside. Do you still like iced tea?”“Yes,” I said. “I’m very thirsty. It was a long flight.”As I stepped into the house, he shut the door, leaving Neil stranded on the porch.“Grab a seat on the couch,” said my father. “I’ll be right back.”“Will you really?” I asked, but he just gave me an uncomfortable look before exiting to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of tea, ice clinking cheerfully against the sides, and a beer for himself. “You could have offered me a beer,” I said. “I’m old enough now, you know.”“Right,” he said. “Habit,” he said. “And anyway, I thought you might prefer to start with something more hydrating. After a long flight and all. If you’d rather have a beer, I’ll go get you a beer,” he said. “I don’t mind. Do you want a beer?”I removed my helmet and placed it beside me on the sofa, then took a sip of my iced tea. It was delicious, exactly as I remembered it. He always made the best iced tea, brewed it for real, never just mixed powder into water like the other families did. I put the glass down and didn’t touch it again.“I’ll have the beer,” I said. He darted off to get it, returning with a bottle and a glass and a smile. “I brew it myself,” he said. “It’s an oatmeal stout, to go with the cold weather. I hope you like it.”He waited for me to taste it, so I did. It tasted of warmth and contentment.“It’s okay,” I said.“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.“I’ve missed you,” he said.“You probably don’t believe me,” he said, “but I’ve looked in on you. I’ll show you my new telescope, it’s an exceptional piece of equipment.”“I’m done with telescopes,” I said.He gulped down half his beer.“I saw you on Carson,” he said. “You seemed upset. Were you okay after that?”“I lost my job.”“What about that girl you liked. Did you work things out with her?”“I left the planet.”“Yeah. At least that was exciting, though, right? Space travel? You must be so proud.”“It pays the bills.”Dad nodded, and sipped his beer. He waited for me to say something. I didn’t say anything.“You probably have a lot of questions,” he said.“Not really.”“None?”I thought for a moment of all the questions I could ask. Why he left. Why he never came back. Whether he found whatever it was he was looking for. Whether it was worth it.Did he deserve my questions?“Is your mother well?” he asked.“Why did we have a doghouse?” I asked.“What?”“We never had a dog, did we?”“Ah … no. The doghouse was just there. From the previous owners. We never took it down.”“I wondered about that.”“I’m going to explain everything,” he said.I’d come such a long way, I decided I might as well give him the opportunity. But I wouldn’t ask him any more questions. Not one. I pinched my tongue between my teeth whenever I felt tempted. He had a lot to say regardless. So many stories, and apologies, and excuses, and explanations, and all of them for me.I guess he’d been waiting a long time for that.


                 X X X

First published in The Cantabrigian.

The Woman Who Could Smell the Future



…understood that she was a joke. A bland pun too weak to merit a groan. A mishap of science with slightly less merit than Silly Putty. If she were in a comic book, she’d be a fourth-rate guest star for a third-rate hero, the sort of heroine who gets killed off in a crassly commercial, multipart, company-wide crossover in order to generate a little bit of cheap shock and posthumous buzz.But she wasn’t a comic book heroine, not even a fourth rate one. She was just a girl, with a name (Jordan), and a job (copy writer), and a boyfriend (Mark), and a very small temporal distortion permanently lodged in her left nostril. It wasn’t especially useful. She certainly hadn’t figured out any way to make money from it. You can’t smell lottery numbers or prime stocks. Her power didn’t give her any athletic or artistic talent. You can’t literally “sniff out” crime, no matter what the popular metaphors tell you. In fact, here is a comprehensive list of the uses Jordan had found for her talent.

  1. She always had an umbrella when she was going to need one.

  2. She knew when her friends were planning surprise parties for her (she could smell the candles).

  3. She deftly avoided other people’s flatulence (not much satisfaction there, as she’d have already encountered the odor, hours earlier).

  4. She knew when buildings were going to catch fire.


This last, of course, seems pretty useful. And it was—over the course of her life, she had doused dozens of fires before they could threaten lives or property. She had even considered becoming a professional firefighter. But fire departments don’t want people who can predict fires. People who predict fires are usually able to do that only because they set the fires in the first place. After the third time she was investigated for arson, Jordan pretty much gave up trying to warn anyone about fires at all. Instead, she just bought herself a good fire extinguisher, showed up where she was needed, and slipped away before anyone could ask her any questions.
This had required her to learn a bit of lock-picking as well, but fortunately Jordan was good with her hands. She played a little piano, too.
So: those are the pertinent details that lead up to Jordan’s present situation, hiding in an empty room across from the office of a magazine editor, long after business hours, hoping to prevent a murder.Yes, she’d actually “sniffed out crime” for once—even she rolled her eyes at that realization.The editor’s name was Elliot Clark, and Jordan had been in his office twelve hours earlier interviewing for a freelance gig with the publishing house’s new magazine on container gardening. It was dull work, but Jordan had an opening in her schedule and was really hoping to put aside some money for a trip to Wisconsin (she’d always enjoyed both cold weather and cheese, so Wisconsin seemed something of a Shangri-La to her.). The interview was proceeding well—Jordan was personable and well qualified, so she had a better than fair chance at the job. Halfway through the interview, however, Jordan became distracted by an unmistakable odor; the acrid tang of gunpowder hung about the room, roughly twelve hours hence. She recognized the odor immediately—she’d been shot once herself, when she broke into a paper warehouse to put out a fire started by a faulty coffee pot. The night watchmen naturally felt awful once he found out that the intruder he’d shot had actually saved the warehouse—but then he was fired, and he didn’t worry so much about Jordan after that.Jordan was fortunate in that instance; the shot had only grazed her arm and the paper company had been only too happy to cover her medical expenses, in light of the major catastrophe she had averted.Still, it had been among the most frightening experiences of her life, and the associated scent had stayed with her ever since.So, now, here she was, hiding in a conference room, spying on her potential future employer, whom she still hoped was going to hire her to write three thousand words about stupid little potted herbs. For the moment, Clark was alone, which suggested the possibility of suicide rather than murder.But Clark didn’t look much like he was planning to kill himself—he was working at his computer, plugged into an iPod, bobbing his head to whatever tune he was listening to. He was obviously under deadline pressure, or he wouldn’t be at the office so late at night, but he didn’t much seem to mind being there either.Sure enough, after several minutes, another figure appeared. A woman in her mid-thirties, decidedly peeved in expression, and carrying—surprise—a modest handgun. At least now Jordan knew who was planning to shoot whom. That question had given her some worry; it would be humiliating to come to the aid of the wrong person, only to make the killer’s work that much easier.And so, with all pertinent mysteries resolved, it was officially time for the ridiculous part. Jordan sighed heavily and hefted her fire extinguisher (she had no real weapons, so she had decided to just stick with the equipment she already knew), and quietly waited for the woman to turn her back. She didn’t have to wait long—the woman was quite direct about her task, heading straight to Clark’s door and raising the gun. A short blast from the fire extinguisher was enough to distract her. As she began to turn, Jordan brought the extinguisher down on her head, hard enough to knock her out, though (she hoped) not hard enough to cause any permanent damage. The gun discharged once, as she had known it would have to, but the bullet passed harmlessly through a wall into the empty office next door, where it lodged in the side of another editor’s desk.Jordan kicked the gun away from the woman, across the hall, and into the conference room she’d been hiding in.Clark, finally on his feet by this point, was looking back and forth between Jordan and the shooter with some distress.“Do I know you?” he asked.“No,” said Jordan before making her exit.Back home, she deposited her shoes, coat, and fire extinguisher in the coat closet, as she did every evening. It was late, and Mark had already eaten. Now he was relaxing with glass of beer, something dark and malty that he had brewed himself. The basement was perpetually cluttered with bottles and vats of his ongoing projects. (If only she had such a practical skill!).“How was the interview?” he asked, putting the beer down on the coffee table.Jordan sighed as she dropped down beside him on the couch. “It went fine at first, but the guy seemed pretty distracted by the end,” said Jordan. “Honestly, I’m not sure he’ll even be that focused on filling the position.”“I’m sorry,” Mark said, winding his arms around her from the side, as he placed his chin on her shoulder. “But it really didn’t sound like an assignment you’d have enjoyed anyway. You can do better.”“Maybe,” she said. “I’d like to.”She sniffed, not really meaning to spy on the future, but there it was anyway: Blueberries. Blueberry pancakes several hours off. Breakfast. And a few days after that…dirt?Dirt and basil? Oregano?“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it went better than I thought.”After a moment, she stood and stretched. “Anyway, I think I’ll turn in early,” she said, leaving Mark to his beer.She wasn’t long in falling asleep, and in her sleep she dreamed that she could do better, that she was better. In her dream she could outrun bullets, or snatch them from the air. In her dream, Wisconsin was within her grasp, any time she wanted it; in her dream, she could fly.


                 X X X

First published in Bound Off: An Audio Literary Journal

After the Wedding



…Pygmalion never sculpted again. What point would there have been? He had already created his masterpiece, his ivory love, that enchanting homunculus who shared his bed. His hands were hers now. His caresses, his passion--all hers. To continue his craft would have been ungrateful, or worse, unfaithful. And so he packed away his chisels, and hammers, and files, into a wooden crate that he did not bother to lock, the lid still half open, casually abandoned to the corner of his workshop. He covered the windows, closed the door. He went home with his wife, and he stayed there.As for Galatea, what could she know of Pygmalion's sacrifice, when she herself had been the capstone to his career? She loved him of course--her love for him was carved into her beating heart with the same precision as the slenderness of her fingers, the slope of her thighs, the symmetry of her nose. But it is no easy thing to be wed to one's own creator; born and betrothed in an afternoon, Galatea spent the early months of her marriage in a fog of bewilderment. What must she expect of love? What offering was hers to make?When their first child was born, Pygmalion was amazed--that perfection could be his a second time, that perfection could be born of a carnal act, without measurement, or exactitude, or long years of lesser, malformed offspring. As he held his child, he measured her with his hands, and chided himself for it, then measured her again. Galatea, though, was troubled by the birth, certain that her own creation had been nothing of the sort. She was never so small, so pink. She remembered no warm dark womb, no contortion toward freedom, no first shock of air. She remembered only his lips upon hers, and then the paralyzing compulsion to be his, always.It was only natural that she would one day heft a hammer, determined to understand how a lover is born.She slipped away as she could, while he napped in the garden, or took wine with other men. The workshop awaited her. Pygmalion had never again taken her there, but he had made no secret of its location, its significance. The door fell open at her touch. The wooden crate, its lips still parted in anticipation, beckoned her to take up her husband's disused tools, then opened wide its maw. She worked as she imagined Pygmalion had worked, in a single-minded rage of creation, striving toward that improbable balance of desire and vanity that allows one to fall madly in love with a beauty of one's own deliberate devising.And what beauty did she devise? Only Pygmalion himself, over, and over, and over. She sculpted him not as we he was, but as she had been shaped to see him: larger than himself, younger, more beautiful than even he knew he could be. And each time she felt herself crushed by her own delight in seeing his face emerge once more.It wasn't until years later that Pygmalion stumbled into the workshop, wine-drunk friends in tow, boasting of his storied prowess, his goddess-given gift. And there he caught Galatea, belly large with a second child and chisel in hand, polishing the contours of a face utterly unrecognizable to the man who wore it. He was sickened by her secret art, by the figure's remarkable physique, by the rough stone with which she chose to work. He denounced the violence of its posture, the brutishness of its hands, the engorgement of its sex. As both husband and artist, he railed against her.She listened to his fierce pronouncements for as long as he made them. When he proclaimed that the fruits of her artistry contained no beauty, reflected no beauty, she applied her full strength to believing him. Her strength was not enough; she knew, however many times she placed chisel to stone, only one face would ever be found within. So, when finally Pygmalion had exhausted his arsenal of judgment, she cursed him once for a critic, then dashed the half-formed sculpture on the floor, resolving never to create another, and never to wander beyond the confines of her husband's arms
again. She offered no apology, but Pygmalion was appeased by the destruction.
Still he burned with an unendurable question: Whose hands had shaped the child that filled her womb?Pygmalion's love for his wife faltered.Her skin became mottled, numb white patches appearing along her arms and torso, a familiar sensation, as soothing as the long still meditations she took the garden, alone and silent. He too sat silently, watching her from doorways and windows, unable to abandon sight of her, yet unwilling to approach, mesmerized and repulsed in equal measure. She still loved him, could not rid herself of her love for him, etched as it was into the grain of her being. But she found solace in the loosening grip of his love for her.By the time the child was born, she had little warmth left to her, and she barely cried as the large stone was wrenched from her loins. Pygmalion threw the ugly rock to the floor in disgust, but on striking the ground it cracked open, revealing a live boy nestled inside. The boy's pink skin was no proof in Pygmalion's eyes; he heard the harsh sounding of a chisel in the child's every cry, and he could not love what was not his.Pygmalion awoke the next morning to find Galatea rigid in the bed beside him, the mewling child suckling vainly at her ivory breast. She had become unmade.He said nothing to the children of this tragedy, told them nothing of how they had become motherless, of how he had forfeited a woman for want of a masterpiece. For the rest of his days, Pygmalion moved her dutifully from bed, to kitchen, to hearth, as the hour of the day demanded, in perfect imitation of life, preserving the shadow that remained of his greatest achievement, his final creation, his only love.


                 X X X


First published in Bound Off: An Audio Literary Journal

The Fog Museum



The sign posted to the door read, “Drive Slowly: Hazardous Conditions,” which was true as far as it went. Had Benny driven her car into the museum, hazards could not have failed to present themselves, most obviously her own car barreling across the lobby to smash through the Lucite donation box at the center of the room before destroying the glass door to the exhibit itself, and potentially the attending security guard who stood beside it. Obviously, Benny wasn’t driving her car. She had come up the stairs and into the museum on foot, as anyone would. So the sign was just dumb.“That sign is really dumb,” she said out loud to the security guard, whose name was Carlos. It said so on his embroidered name tag.“Yeah,” said Carlos. “I know. You think I don’t know how dumb that sign is? I stand right here next to it every day. All day. I know how dumb the sign is.”“Well. Good,” said Benny. “I’m glad you’ve been paying attention.” She dropped a tenner into the Lucite box.The door to the exhibit hall was closed. This was necessary to keep the exhibit itself contained. Benny wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find inside the museum, but she certainly hadn’t expected anything so literal. An art collection, perhaps. Or a historical display. She’d assumed that “Fog” was the name of the founder, one Arturo Q. Fog, or Melinda Rockefeller Van Fog, or even just John Fog. But no, The Fog Museum was a purely descriptive name. A few wisps of the roiling mist snaked out through the crack beneath the glass door. The lobby floor was slightly hazy.“Thank you for your donation,” said Carlos. “Generosity like yours makes all the difference for institutions like ours.”“I’ll be right back,” said Benny, then she retreated to the restroom.Peeing is an essential first step to exploring any museum. Benny knew the disappointment of reaching the most captivating exhibit, only to have the experience undercut by an agony of the bladder. It had happened to her while walking the length of the Apollo rocket at Kennedy Spaceport, forcing her to break the viewing into two legs. She’d had the mystique of Elvis Presley’s gallstones ruined by her bodily needs in White River Junction, in a museum so tiny she could still have seen the exhibits from the toilet, if she’d left the door open. In Columbus, Ohio, she’d gotten so completely lost that by the time she’d found the International Drainage Hall of Fame, she’d barely glanced at the black and white photos of old men on display before hurrying off to find a restroom. Now she knew: “Always tinkle before you tour.” That was Benny’s motto.She also took the opportunity to check her phone. No messages, but she sent out a quick tweet to her friends and followers of her travel adventures.   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       Checking out @fogmuseum. Seems a little sketchy. Anyone else been here? #traveltips
Her phone pinged, signaling a new message Tweeted at her.   The Fog Museum (@fogmuseum) is now following you on Twitter!Great. A few more messages followed, nothing useful—friends telling her to be careful if it seemed weird, followers looking forward to her report on a new attraction. It didn’t seem that anyone in her circle knew anything about it. She stuffed her phone back in her bag, finished her business, and returned to the lobby.“Feeling better?” Carlos asked.“Always tinkle before you tour,” she said. “That’s my motto.”“Wow,” said Carlos. “That’s a terrible motto.”“Anyway,” she continued, “your Twitter person sure is eager.”“She’s just a kid. I think she’s somebody’s niece.”“How big is the exhibit?”“Smaller than it feels. Stick to the walls if you get nervous.”“I’m not the nervous sort.”“So you’ll be going in sometime soon?”“Yeah,” she said.“Shall I open the door?”“Go for it.”Carlos reached over to grab the handle.“You’re sure you’re ready?”“Come on, dude, just open it.”“Dude? Who says dude anymore?”“Fine, Carlos, please let me into the damn exhibit.”He opened the door and gave a small bow, ushering her in. The wall of fog against the door fell immediately, poured to the floor and spread out, engulfing Benny’s sandals. She wiggled her toes, wondering how far into the hall she would have to go before she lost sight of her purple nail polish. She snapped a pic of Carlos holding the door for her, #snarkybutcute.“The display’s getting away,” said Carlos. “I need to close the door.”She stepped inside and Carlos closed the door behind her. She was tempted to wait there while the fog refilled the space that had emptied, but she imagined Carlos laughing at her for looking petrified. At that thought, she pushed directly into the fog, no skirting the walls. She could still see into the lobby when she looked back, five feet in, but the triumphant grin she brandished for Carlos’ benefit was wasted; his back stayed to the room, completely disinterested.Her phone pinged, three times in succession.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Welcome, and enjoy your tour!
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You are now in Radiation Fog Hall. Don’t worry—it’s not radioactive!
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Radiation Fog is formed by ground-level humidity cooling as heat radiates from the Earth at day’s end.
She debated silencing her phone. She didn’t need some digital tour guide to explain fog to her. The appeal here was experience, not education. But as she moved further in, her view of the lobby faded quickly. It wouldn’t take much to lose all frame of reference. A connection to the outside world might be nice, she decided. She set it to vibrate, stuffed it back into her purse, and continued walking. There was nothing particular to walk toward, so far as she could tell, just a soft grey expanse that she trusted would reveal something sooner or later. At the very least, she would hit the wall on the opposite side before long.Or not.After ten minutes, she had encountered nothing. No displays, no walls, no other people. There wasn’t even much sound, save for the clopping of her own flip-flops on the floor, which was muted and echo-less, despite the seemingly cavernous space. She reached her arms out to her sides; if she was passing anything, she didn’t want to miss it. It was oppressive, not even knowing how large a space she was in. It could be the size of a football stadium, or just a hallway. And why was there no echo? Were the walls really that far away?“Hello?” she called out, but no response came from the space around her. Her purse buzzed against her hip. She sighed and took her phone back out.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Hello!
“Yeah, hi!” she called back. “That’s not at all creepy, by the way!”She began to worry that she might be walking in circles, and as soon as she thought it, she realized that of course she was. She’d read all about it, how blindfolded people move in spirals, never in straight lines. She should have thought of it right away, but whatever, it was a problem easily fixed. She pulled up the app store on her phone, downloaded a free compass app, et voila: Navigation! She was currently facing northeast, so she turned to face true north, and struck off again. She had no special reason for choosing north, but it had worked for the magi, so why not?Two minutes later, she felt something crunch beneath her feet. She bent to examine it, using her phone to light the ground. She was surprised to find she was standing on black asphalt, which was littered with translucent pebbles. Glass, most likely. Safety glass. She stood up and took just two more steps before she found the wrecked car. It was a Civic, just like the car she’d been living out of the past few years, though this one was a couple models older. The entire front end was caved in by some collision, and the windshield was shattered outward. Benny took a step closer. A deflated airbag, spotted with long-dried blood, dangled from the steering column. She took a photo, #YIKES.Her phone buzzed.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Radiation Fog is a particular hazard for night drivers—remember, when visibility drops, SLOW DOWN!
“Sorry I stepped on the glass,” said Benny. “I didn’t see it.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 No worries! All exhibits are fully interactive. Please touch, interact, and explore.
Benny reached out and opened the driver’s side door, then bent to look inside. There was a dirty travel mug in the cup holder and some old CDs scattered across the back seat. She popped the trunk, then headed around the back. The trunk was mostly empty, except for a couple of toppled grocery bags, their contents splayed across the trunk. The produce had long since collapsed into moldy puddles, but there was a box of peanut butter chocolate chip granola bars, still unexpired, if not exactly fresh. “Is it okay if I take these?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Take whatever you think you’ll need on your journey!
She continued north for an hour, an hour and a half, two hours, with little to see, save for an old mayonnaise jar abandoned on the ground, filled will a dark yellow liquid that could only be one thing, #doubleYIKES. Apparently the restrooms in here were really hard to find. Obviously. “Who’s got the terrible motto now, Carlos?” This made a great update for her followers—the photo earned her a succession of grossed-out responses and retweets.After another hour of walking, she sat down on the floor and unwrapped a granola bar. It was ten minutes to five. What would they do if she was still in here at closing time, whenever that was? Would they vacuum out all the fog to reveal the exits? She plugged her phone into a portable charge stick she’d brought with her, thankful that she’d had the foresight to drop that into her bag before leaving her car.“Okay, I give,” she said around a mouthful of food. “Am I actually getting anywhere?”A reply came immediately:   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Of course! You’re getting further north! Mostly nobody thinks to bring a compass. #alwaysbeprepared
“Is that the right way to go?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Depends. Are you looking for something specific?
“Not really. But I haven’t found an exhibit in hours. Can you point to the next one?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Of course! Head NNE. It’s kind of a hike, but you’ve been making awesome time.
“Sweet. It’d better be good, though.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 It totally is! Anyway, gotta go. Dinner at 5:30, and Dad flips if I’m not there on the dot.
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 See you tomorrow!
“Tomorrow?” Benny repeated, confused. “Tomorrow?!”   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       They’ve locked me in @fogmuseum. I wouldn’t even mind, but I haven’t seen anything since the jar of pee.
She ignored the barrage of pings on her phone, various messages of concern and outrage. It was good to give her audience some suspense. She’d probably have a couple dozen new followers by morning. Instead she focussed on her snack, wishing she’d brought a bottle of water, but oh well. She’d find a water fountain or something deeper in.It was another forty-five minutes before she began to see a glimmer of something ahead. There were faint lights, floating halos in the air—regularly spaced, like lampposts, which was exactly what they turned out to be. They stood above a row of gas pumps, alongside a pair of small buildings, the station office and a small travel center hung with signage for restrooms and vending machines. A pair of cars were parked outside the travel center, old ones, an early model Caravan and that kind of station wagon with the fake wood panelling on the sides. There was even an eighteen-wheeler parked over by the diesel pumps. Nothing moved. This stillness unnerved Benny more than any of the previous emptiness she’d encountered. Serial killers don’t haunt empty plains. They haunt isolated gas stations. She pulled her key chain from her purse, her tiny keyring-can of pepper spray held at the ready.Benny’s first stop was the travel center—she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity for indoor plumbing—but she entered tentatively, peeking through a window before testing the door. The building was small, just the two bathrooms and a lobby with vending machines, a plaque on a podium at the center of the room, and a wall map of Connecticut highways, dated 1993, too old to be much help even if she were in Connecticut. She called into both bathrooms before entering, and checked for feet under the divider walls. Nothing and nobody. The bathrooms were surprisingly cleanish for a run-down rest stop, and the vending machines were well stocked. From the first, she bought a packet of Nutter Butters, a lemon pie, and some beef jerky. Not the most appetizing meal, but as close to balanced as she could manage. From the second, she bought two bottles of water, stuffed one in her purse, and twisted the top off the second to drink while she read the plaque:Night driving through heavy fog is especially hazardous. Smart motorists, including even professional cross-country truck drivers, will take the first opportunity to safely exit the highway and wait out limited visibility conditions. Man-made oases like this late 20th century roadside rest stop offer travelers much needed comfort and refreshment.She snapped a bunch of pics to post later, then moved on to the station office. The door opened into a tiny space with a small desk, chair, and cash register. There was a mini-fridge under the desk— filled to capacity with frozen burritos—and a tiny microwave in the corner. Benny settled herself at the desk to heat and eat a beef and bean supreme. Back outside, the two cars offered nothing of interest, save another mayonnaise jar in the station wagon, empty this time, thankfully. Her next stop was the truck, which she had saved for last precisely because it seemed most promising. Truckers spent days at a time in their rigs, so they treated them like little mobile houses. She might find more food, some useful electronics, even a bed to spend the night in. It was still early for sleeping, but with her only guide gone for the evening, it seemed best to stay put until morning.The truck was reasonably clean—no one had used it as their home away from home in years. From inside the cab, the fog seemed even more impenetrable for the sharp contrast between seeing and not seeing created by the windshield. The truck’s electronics were useless—all nineties-era stuff, including a four-inch black and white cathode ray television that plugged into the lighter for power, but picked up nothing on its silly little antenna. The CB likewise seemed to work, but no one responded to her calls. Another little fridge offered several Jolt soda bottles, which she saved for morning, when she’d be glad for the caffeine.She spent the next hour on her phone, responding to students in an online class she was teaching, answering questions about money management software and online services. After that she logged into her banking, where she saw that she’d received payment for an article she’d sold on roadside museums and novelty attractions. It was a nice little lump that she didn’t actually need right now, so she moved it into savings. Finally, she plugged her stick charger into the dashboard lighter and turned her phone off. She locked the doors, then climbed into the rear compartment, where a thin mattress with a scruffy blanket and pillow waited. She pulled the curtains of the sleeping compartment closed, tucked herself down, and began the process of willing herself to sleep—something she’d become very good at while sleeping in odd places at odd times. As she drifted off, she almost—almost—allowed herself to feel a moment of worry over the strange circumstances she found herself in. But then she was asleep, and all worries abated.* * *

In the morning, she woke to a rising rumble that shook through the entire truck. She wasn’t even sure if it was the noise or the motion that had woken her. Her first thought was of thunder, until the sound was followed by the distinct slap of shoes hitting asphalt—someone had just opened the rear door of the trailer, then jumped out. There had been people back there all night, just feet from where she’d slept.Benny turned on her phone, although at five in the morning, it was unlikely anyone was on the other end yet. She dashed off a tweet that she was “off to meet the neighbors,” then slipped through the curtains into the driver’s seat. There was nothing to see through the windows, and the mirror was little help—there was movement at the back of the truck, but the fog obscured any details.Armed with her pepper spray, she opened the door and lowered herself to the ground as quietly as she could. She moved along the side of the truck slowly, hoping to get a look at her neighbors before they saw her. She could hear them chewing something crunchy, an oddly reassuring sound, immediately familiar: the sounds of breakfast cereal. There were two people, a man and a woman, seated in folding lawn chairs, eating out of bowls. The man spotted her first:“Dude!” he called, barely intelligible around his mouthful of cereal, giving her a friendly wave with his spoon.The woman looked up, and immediately smiled: “Hey. Hey! You want some Froot Loops? We’ve got plenty!”These people were no threat, she decided. The couple were old, forties at least, and dressed in period costume, with ripped jeans and flannel over t-shirts—the guy’s was a band shirt, with some kind of screaming claymation pig. The back of the trailer was outfitted as a makeshift apartment, with a mattress and a chest of drawers, and posters on the walls. The front was something else entirely, with a full drum kit, a keyboard, and an electric guitar on a stand by the wall. It looked like a stage.“Can you play?” asked the man, who introduced himself as Mikey. “Jennifer’s got drums, and I play keyboards, but we haven’t found anyone for lead guitar yet.”Benny shook her head.“That’s too bad. You can still hang with us if you want,” said Mikey. “We’ve got Froot Loops to last forever.”“What about vocals?” asked Jennifer. “We need a front man even more than guitar.”“I’m the front man!” said Mikey.“You can’t sing, Mikey.”“Can too.”“Nuh uh. You sound like you got a goat biting your ass when you sing.”“Yeah, well you just watch me burn the charts, then tell me I can’t sing.”“It was good to have a bed for the night,” Benny said. “But I think I need to keep moving.”Benny excused herself to use the restroom, while the two “musicians” bickered over vocals. When she returned to the truck, Jennifer and Mikey told her what they could about the surrounding area, mostly the locations of several more abandoned cars. They also mentioned a directory, northwest of the rest stop, with indicators pointing to other parts of the museum. Due north was the upslope fog exhibit. They’d gone that way once, years ago, but found it impassible; it was a mountain with icy crevices that funneled fog down from the peak. To the west was the Advection Fog exhibit. That one they couldn’t explain—they’d never dared go near it, for fear of what “Advection” might be.“It sounds nuclear,” said Mikey in awed tones.Benny Googled it. “It means there’s probably a lake there,” she reported, to dumbfounded stares.“Once you leave, there’s no finding your way back,” said Jennifer.“I’ll just set a GPS marker,” said Benny, and did so. “Why don’t you come with me?” she encouraged. “Maybe we can get you out of here, and back into the real world.”“Nah, we’re good,” said Mikey. “Cereal in the morning, rockin’ out at night. Total freedom, you know?”Benny took a selfie with them, #stuckinthe90s, then struck out for the directory, to see if it offered any more information. She reached it after only half an hour, finding a tall, rectangular structure with a plaque sporting the museum logo on one side. On the next side was a history of the museum, founded in nineteen-whatever by Dr. John Jacob something or other, blah blah blah. Nothing useful. The third side sported arrows pointing to the next exhibits, exactly as Jennifer had described them, Upslope to the north and Advection to the East. Nothing new there, but confirmation was appreciated.On the fourth side hung the prize—a rack of informational brochures, with the same boring history, naturally, but more importantly: a map. She could see that she had traveled nearly the entire way through the Radiation Fog exhibit, and was near the boundaries of both the Upslope and Advection exhibits. Beyond Upslope was Evaporation, after which the map indicated an exit. Likewise, Advection was followed by Ice Fog, which also offered an exit. But for all her walking, she was still closer to the entrance than she was to either of the other exits. It made more sense to go back than to go forward.Her phone vibrated.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Good morning, Benicia! Did you enjoy the ’90s rest stop preservation exhibit?
“Sure, it worked out. Met a couple of grunge rockers. Have a nice dinner with your folks?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Yes! Ever do roll-your-own sushi?
“No, but it sounds fun.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You should try it! But you gotta get tobiko. My dad always forgets the tobiko, but it’s no fun without it.
“That’s the roe, right? The little orange fish sprinkles?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Yah! They don’t taste like much, but they make the rice look happy!
“Once I get out of here, I’ll make roll-your-own sushi a priority.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 My dad says knowing how to cook for yourself is the first step to independence.
“What’s the second?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Job security.
“Hmm. I guess that depends on what you’re looking for independence from.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 I see you made it to the directory. Have you picked a direction?
“I’ve ruled out the north. Climbing a mountain in sandals seems like a bad idea. Turning back the way I came would be quickest. So that’s tempting.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Yeah, I guess. That makes sense.
“But not that tempting. I’m headed East.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Ohhhh, you’re heading for the lake! I love the lake!
“The ice field on the other side sounds rough, but I see there’s a gift shop before the polar wasteland. I’m hoping I can get boots and a coat.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Absolutely! Our gift shops offer a wide selection of Fog Museum logo Ts and outerwear.
“Done deal.”She folded the brochure and stuffed it in her purse, then set out for Advection Lake. Beneath her feet, asphalt gradually gave way to gravel, followed by dirt, then grass, until after two hours, she found her toes squelching into mud. In the fog, she’d very nearly stepped into the lake before she saw it. The water was cold, but rippled slightly, moved by a steady current of air above it. She rolled up the cuffs of her jeans so she could wade a little without getting her clothes wet. She turned south to reach a dock the map showed on the water’s edge. She could follow the lakeshore, which meant she could stow her compass and relax while she enjoyed the chill of the water on her feet.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You’re on the shore of Advection Lake! Advection Fog is formed by warm air blowing over cold bodies of water.
When Benny reached the docks, she found exactly what she expected—a touristy rental stand beside a half-dozen moored rowboats. The attendant was asleep in his chair, head lolled back, breathing wetly through the gaping maw in the middle of a scruffy grey beard, a tattered Harlequin romance lying open on his chest.“Excuse me,” she said, but the man didn’t budge.“Hello,” she said louder, and knocked hard on the low wooden counter. Still nothing.“Hey!” she shouted. “I need a boat!”He finally grunted and lifted his head, looking groggily at Benny.“How much?” she asked, as she dug in her purse for some cash.“For a boat? Just a sawbuck. Includes life vests and paddles.”She passed him the bill, and he passed back two oars and two vests.“I just need the one,” she said, pushing the extra vest back at him.“The other’s for your fella,” he said.“Haven’t got a ‘fella,’ thanks.”“Your boyfriend, I mean.”“Yeah, I wasn’t confused by the vocabulary.”“How’re you gonna row the boat?” he asked.“With these,” she said, and waggled her arms at him, before grabbing the oars off the counter and tromping off.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Snrk!
“Oh you liked that, did you?” She was warming to the museum’s Twitter girl, she decided.The lake was much larger than Benny anticipated. She rowed for hours, ignoring the occasional buzzing in her purse. Eventually, she saw a lighted beacon in the distance, and made for it. The light was atop an iron signpost that stood straight up from the water. She pulled at it, and found that it was sunk immovably into the lakebed, however far down that might be. She unclipped the shoulder strap from her purse, looped it around the sign and through one of the oarlocks, and then clipped the ends together. Her makeshift mooring held solidly enough, so long as the water stayed as calm as it had been thus far.She stowed the oars in the bottom of the boat before eating more vending machine loot. She removed the life vest, opting to use it as a pillow rather than a life preserver. The boat was unlikely to topple while she was lying down, with her weight relatively low and stable. The air was much colder now, and she regretted the light blouse she’d worn into the museum. But navigating was the biggest issue. She had kept the boat facing due east the entire time, but a southerly wind had pushed the boat perpendicular to her rowing. She had no way of knowing how far she had gone or how far she had left to go. She could be ten feet from the shore right now. Or ten miles. She might not ever get there, she realized. The sign she had moored to warned of the dangers advection fog posed to sailors; how ships would drift aimlessly, crash into unseen rocks, drowning sailors by the hundreds only meters from shore.Her telephone rang. Not the brief buzz of a Twitter notification, but the prolonged pulse of an incoming call. Of course—it was the fifteenth of the month.“Hi Dad,” she said into the phone.“Hey, you’re still alive! Do I hear water?”“What? Oh, uh, yeah. I’m in a boat. A rowboat.”“Oh, a rowboat! You know the one about Pete and Re-Pete, right?”Yes, I know the one about Pete and…”“They went out in a boat…”“I know, and Pete fell out…”“So who was left?”“Dad…”“No, I wasn’t even there, Pete told me about it later. But you know who was there?”Benny sighed, and gave in.“Re-Pete.”“So Pete and Re-Pete went out in a boat. Pete fell out. Who was left?”“Ha ha, Dad, yeah, that’s a good one.”“Seriously, though, you’re wearing a life jacket, right?”“Of course!” she said, hastily putting it back on to undo the lie.“It’s a little late to be out on the water isn’t? It’ll be dark soon.”“Yeah, I’m about to pack it in. Make camp for the night.”“Oh, that sounds nice. I’m glad you’re not sleeping in the car.”“Not tonight.”“You know, you don’t have to sleep in your car any night. Your bed’s here waiting for you.”“I know that, Dad.”“Do you need some money?“Nah, I just got paid for a couple of articles—I’ll be in beer and pizza for a month.”“I’m already logged into Paypal.”“No, really, I’m good.”“I’m already sending it.”“Alright, a few extra bucks couldn’t hurt. Thank you.”“Maybe get you into a hotel for a few nights.”“Listen, Dad, I should go. I kinda need both hands to row.”“Going in circles, are you?”“This whole time, Dad, yeah. Ha ha.”“Okay, honey, I love you. Have a good night.”“I love you too.”She sat in silence for a while, feeling the boat sway beneath her. All around, there was nothing to see save the light atop the signpost.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 DADS. #amiright
“Dads. Totally.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Anyway, I gotta get home. Try not to capsize in your sleep, okay?
“Promise. Hey, give your dad a hug for me, okay?”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Yeah. I can do that. See you tomorrow.
Benny looked briefly at her navigation app, confirming that the GPS marker for the rest stop was still there. She could still return to that fixed point and go back the easy way. She was tempted. She was also tempted to delete the marker, to take that option away from herself entirely, leaving no way out but forward. She turned the phone off for the night, making no decision yet. She didn’t even tweet her aquatic bedroom—that could wait for morning too. She returned the life vest to the floor of the boat and lay down to sleep.***

In the morning, she neither deleted the marker, nor turned around. As disconcerting as the museum was, the lake was the first true obstacle she had faced. Was she really going to be put off her path so easily? She was not. She downed some ibuprofen from the bottle in her purse, then unmoored and set the oars back in their oarlocks. With arms aching miserably from the previous night’s efforts, and still a good twenty minutes out from feeling the relief of her painkillers, she resumed rowing. After an hour, she realized that the sign had likely marked the halfway point. There was no way she could have done the full length of the lake in one go, so it was good she had stopped. But the realization renewed her determination—she only had to do again what she had already done once. Easy.Well, not “easy.” But “achievable” at least. It took several hours, and another dose of painkillers, but she got there, feeling the boat slide onto the sand before she had seen any hint that land was before her. With her jeans still rolled up, she stepped out of the boat into the water—an icy shock immediately cramped her feet—and dragged the boat the rest of the way up through the mud. She left her life vest in the boat with the oars.The cold was much worse on shore. She didn’t think she was quite into ice fog territory, but there was snow on the ground, and thin crusts of ice extending out onto the lake surface. It wasn’t so cold that it would kill her—at least not quickly—but frostbitten toes were a very real possibility. She started back north along the shore at the quickest pace she could maintain, arms wrapped tightly around her body, trying to ignore the snow that invaded her sandals with every step. The pain of the cold passed quickly enough—by the time half an hour had passed, she no longer felt anything in her feet at all.“Well,” she said, unsteadily, through chattering teeth, “I have officially made a mistake.” Her phone immediately buzzed.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Don’t give up now! You’re just minutes from commemorative keepsake ornaments and a convenient snack bar!
“I’d love a hot coffee.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 We have @Starbucks!
“Of course you do.”   Starbucks Coffee @Starbucks
       @VagaBondGirl90 Starbucks is proud to sponsor @fogmuseum and other fine educational and cultural institutions!
   Starbucks Coffee @Starbucks
       @VagaBondGirl90 Use this e-coupon for a free small hot coffee, only at @fogmuseum! http://ow.ly/KZxIY
Benny kept pushing. She could see something above her—had been seeing it for a while, gradually coming clearer. A blip of light high up in the sky. It was a lighthouse. If not for the wind blowing her southward, she’d have rowed right to it. So, she had a beacon to follow, but of course it wasn’t as close as it seemed. It was another twenty minutes before she felt the ground beneath the snow change from frozen mud to pavement, which led eventually to the building’s entrance. Which was locked, of course. The lighthouse itself was off limits, a historical piece to be seen, but not entered. The gift shop sat beside it, well-lit and welcoming. Benny walked the extra fifteen feet to the revolving glass door.The wonderful rush of warmth quickly became unpleasant as the burning sensation of skin thawing settled into her feet and fingers. Her first stop was the restroom, where she ran her digits under cool water to help them acclimate to normal temperatures. From there, she went straight to the Starbuck’s kiosk for a venti skim toffee-nut latte. At the snack bar, she bought a cheeseburger and fries from a bored teen in a Fog Museum polo shirt. It was the first hot meal Benny had eaten since the microwave burrito two nights earlier. She was halfway through her meal when her phone pinged.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Can I ask you a question?
“Sure.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Are you homeless?
“I’m…nomadic.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 What’s the difference?
“Choice.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Your dad sounded worried about you on the phone last night.
“Yeah, that’s how dads sound.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 How do you deal with that?
Benny sighed. She had an answer, of course, but not one she especially liked. “Sometimes you just have to let them worry.”After her meal, Benny pulled out her map. The first, most important point to note was that the map was not to scale. The lake had taken much longer to cross than its dimensions on paper suggested it should have. The ice fog exhibit might be similarly underrepresented. It wasn’t enough to buy a sweatshirt—she needed equipment for a good, long hike in the cold. At the gift shop she procured a heavy coat, gloves, socks and boots, leggings, a hat, and even a pair of snowshoes. She hated to drop so much of her money on gear she was only going to need once, but this wasn’t the time for frugality. And anyway, her dad had plonked an extra $300 into her bank account overnight. She took her purchases to the ladies’ room and put everything on, two pairs of thick socks, a fur-lined hood over a wool hat, goggles, and a scarf wrapped several layers around her face. When she was fully transformed, she snapped a photo of herself in the mirror.   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       I’m ready to slay a f*ing dragon! #GearedUp!
She felt powerful and protected, and also actually, honestly terrified. Like that first day when she’d packed her things into her trunk, and driven off into America.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Dragons aren’t real, silly! Watch out for polar bears, though. #notkidding
Right. She waved goodbye to the barista and the shop clerk and the burger girl. None of them waved back. She returned to the damp cold of the lake shore, checked her compass and started off for the antarctic base camp. The cold came on quickly. The temperatures near the water had been merely freezing; as she moved further west, she found a whole new world of cold. She was glad for the snowshoes. She couldn’t tell how deep the snow went, but sinking would have slowed her down regardless. Not that she could run, exactly, with the broad paddles strapped to her feet, but at least she wasn’t struggling to pluck her feet from the snow with every step.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You are now in Ice Fog Expanse—our least-visited region! Ice fog is made of frozen vapor. You are literally breathing ice!
“That’s not as exciting as you think.”Benny kept moving, pausing as rarely as possible. She knew slowing down was bad. Stopping would be lethal. She felt the cold despite her many layers of protection. Her legs, where she wore the thinnest layers, felt chilled clear through. She occasionally slapped at her thighs to encourage circulation. It didn’t help, but it was satisfying to know that she could still feel the pain and the tingling warmth that spidered out from it. She walked for hours. She couldn’t drink anything—her water had frozen solid, an obvious problem that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t anticipated. She had slipped a strip of beef jerky down into her bra to thaw—the shock of it against her skin had been almost enough to send her into seizures right then, but it was the only way she could soften it enough to eat. The past few days had done absolutely nothing to diminish her lifelong dislike for beef jerky, but she needed the calories, and the calories helped.She should have stayed the night in the gift shop, then started fresh in the morning. Maybe claimed her free small coffee. She was about to say as much to her Twitter followers, but her attention was stolen by the sound of quacking. Or not quacking exactly, but kind of like that. Some weirdly throaty bird noise that bore no resemblance to song. She soon found herself in the midst of their swarming mass, and grinned as they meandered around her legs, bumping against her, disinterested in her passing. She thought to try petting them, but didn’t dare take off her glove. Instead, she snapped a photo, straight down, capturing her own knees in their midst.   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       Probably going to die. But look: #Penguins!
   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       If you don’t hear from me again, feel free to put that last tweet on my tombstone.
Her post was followed by a string of responses questioning her senses. She knew she deserved it. Why had she been in such a hurry? She couldn’t even have offered an excuse that made sense. If she said she was just eager to be out of this place, feeling trapped or lost or frightened, anyone could have understood that. But none of that was true. Oh, there were moments of it, sure, but she’d just rowed herself across an entire lake, and was caught up in the spirit of being awesome. She’d done that! And now she wanted to slay a fucking dragon! Or a polar bear. Or whatever. And she’d run off into the cold to do that too. More hours passed. She was frozen and exhausted and almost certainly going to die. Of being frozen. In a museum. For real. She felt herself drifting toward sleep, even as she kept moving. Her tweet about penguins might actually end up on her tombstone, she realized. That was kind of a consolation; she’d always hoped that her dying comment would be something bravely flippant.Her mulling over her epitaph had been running through her mind for several minutes before she realized she wasn’t walking anymore. Wasn’t standing up. She was lying flat on her face in the snow, and couldn’t recall how long ago she’d fallen there. She couldn’t feel her face, or anything else, save an insistent thrum against her thigh, coming at regular intervals, over and over. It was that vibration that had broken her reverie, woken her from her lethal sleep. Automatically, she reached into coat pocket and pulled out the phone, and there was a string of tweets:   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Hey, get up!
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Wake up!
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Benicia, wake up!
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Please wake up!!!
And so on for twenty, thirty tweets. The intern hadn’t stopped buzzing her until she’d gotten through.“I’m up,” said Benny.And she pulled herself up.And she started walking.Again.She made it to the base camp. Numb and hobbling. But she made it.The camp was little more than a trailer surrounded by additional gear and storage. There was a light in the window. She hoped whoever lived there was welcoming. And alive. Unable to lift her arms, she knocked on the door with her shoulder, banging clumsily. This prompted an immediate startled clatter from inside. That was fair, she supposed—they probably didn’t receive visitors very often. When the door finally opened, it revealed an old woman with scraggly gray hair tied into a clump behind her head. She was wrapped in a thick, brown, cigarette-pocked robe that looked almost as old as the woman, worn over a tank top and pink boxer shorts.Benny didn’t say anything. She couldn’t move her jaw.“If you’re coming in,” the woman barked, “come in fast and shut the damn door behind you.”Benny tried to do as she was told, but couldn’t manage the steps. The woman eventually took pity, and hefted Benny up the steps by her armpits, like she was picking up a toddler.Inside, she helped Benny strip off her layers to give the trailer’s warmth direct access to her skin. Her body tingled with the sensation of a thousand bee stings as it reacclimated to room temperature.“Thank you,” said Benny, once she had warmed enough to speak again. “It’s such a relief to get out of the cold.”“Better get used to that,” said the woman. “We’ve got a lot of it.”The woman took a seat in an undersized desk chair by the computer, ignoring Benny entirely for a good half hour, while Benny revived and casually looked around the room. The trailer itself was a well-organized disaster—piles of unwashed dishes and discarded containers confined to the kitchen area, mounds of clothes circling the single bed. Books and papers demarcated the woman’s workspace, a desk sporting an old PC and dot-matrix printer, among other technical paraphernalia, various scanners and what looked like an old-fashioned GPS monitor. The whole space reeked of cigarettes, and indeed, the woman was lighting one now.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Are you okay?
   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       @Fogmuseum I am now. I owe you one.
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You really scared me.
   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       @Fogmuseum I really scared myself.
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 It’s my fault. I didn’t warn you how bad it would be.
       I was too excited. I didn’t think anything could stop you.
   Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
       @Fogmuseum Hey, no. I took my own risks. And I made it. It was close, but here I am.
“There’s water in the fridge,” said the woman, after some time had passed. “And a bag of pork rinds on the counter, if you’re hungry.”Benny looked longingly at the bowl of fresh fruit that sat beside the pork rinds, but helped herself only to what had been offered. No sense testing the bounds of the woman’s hospitality.“Well, let me tell you a little about what we do here, while you’re still getting warmed up.”Benny nodded agreeably and crunched a pork rind.“I’m Dr. Denise Fülnkholme, director of simul-Antarctic research. As I’m sure you know, we’ve been studying native simul-Antarctic fauna in their natural habitat of the simul-Antarctic tundra since the museum was founded in 1972. I’ve been here since the beginning, originally as chief research assistant under the founding director, Dr. Bill Wurlitzer-Evans, god rest his miserable soul, taking over as director myself after the unfortunate simul-orca incident in 1989.” She paused to take a drag on her cigarette. “We’ve improved safety protocols tremendously since then. Let me just throw that out there, dispel some of the concerns you very reasonably must have about such things. No more simul-orca incidents for us.”Benny swallowed her pork rind.“Uh…it’s nice to meet you Dr. Fülnkholme,” said Benny. “I’m Benny.”“So why don’t you start by telling me about your education.”“Uh…sure,” said Benny. “I dual-majored in Business and Communications.”“No scientific background?”“I watch a lot of Discovery channel. Speaking, of I was told there are polar bears.”“That’s right.”“But you just said this is the antarctic. There are no polar bears in the antarctic. The word literally means ‘no bears.’”“Not the antarctic. The simul-antarctic. The “simul-” is key.”“Okay, sure.”“Tell me more about your communications experience.”“I’ve published some personal finance pieces, but mostly I’m interested in travel writing.”“Well, I have to tell you, I’m conflicted. I’m reluctant to hire someone without a scientific background, but the truth is, there just aren’t many applicants, and it sounds like you could take the grant writing and external communications off my hands. I think a three-month probationary employment might be worth a go.”“So that’s three months of hanging out in an Antarctic base camp, playing with penguins?”“We don’t play with the penguins,” said the scientist, before letting a small smile escape. “We conduct interactive studies.”“Room and board included?”“You’d live here. Supplies are provided.”“Can I get direct deposit?”Dr. Fülnkholme looked confused, but Benny’s phone chimed almost immediately.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 I can set that up!
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You should do it!
“Three months?” Benny repeated.“Probationary.”

She thought about it for a moment. Short term contract, and a chance to develop her skills in grant writing and wilderness survival?“Done deal,” said Benny, and shook Dr. Fülnkholme’s hand.* * *“I do wish I’d gotten to see a polar bear,” she lamented, after the three months had come to an end.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Don’t go! You still could!
“I’m very happy with your work,” said Dr. Fülnkholme. “I’ve decided to offer you the full 30-year contract. You just need to sign.”“Thirty years! That is an awfully long commitment.”“You don’t get to be the best in your field by spreading yourself thin.”“Don’t get me wrong, Dr. Fülnkholme, I’ve had a blast working here. But it’s time for me to head west. There’s an exit out that way.”“You won’t make it on your own.”“Maybe I won’t. I’ve got a map, though, and I’d really like to try.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 The penguins will miss you, Benny.
“The penguins will get by.”Benny set out with her map, gear, and snowshoes, as well as a fleece-lined pair of pants. She was better prepared for this outing than her previous, but the cold was no less brutal, the fog no less blinding. She followed her compass due west. Three hours’ travel brought her to the first exhibit she’d seen since leaving the research station—an abandoned sleeping bag, unrolled on the ground, with no other signs of life. It looked very old, decades old. She snapped a photo, #RIP.Her phone buzzed.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You could still go back. It’s not too late to take the contract.
“I’ve already got what I needed out of this. It’s time for the next thing.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You found another job already?
“I’ve had other jobs all along.”   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 My dad says you have to be realistic. He says you don’t need to be in love with your job.
“I’m not in love with my job. I don’t teach classes in personal finance for jollies. I’m not even that crazy about travel writing. But it keeps me traveling, you know? It’s the option I can live with.”It was another half hour before Benny began to hear the sound of breathing behind her. A sort of snuffing, heavy and low, as of something large. A crunching trudge accompanied it, the sounds of feet in snow, feet much larger than Benny’s.“I’m almost there,” she said eventually. It wasn’t a question.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 The exit is just ahead, if that’s really what you want.
And indeed, there appeared to be a hovering pink bit in the haze ahead—it would soon reconcile itself into a glowing “exit” sign. Just a few feet further.“My mind’s made up.”She could hear the steps growing louder, the breath growing louder. Something was coming close behind her. She wasn’t going to run. Running would be a mistake. Instead, she pulled her keys from her purse.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 You owe me one. Remember?
“Sure,” said Benny. “You can still talk to me, you know. You know how to reach me.” The thing behind her was grunting now as it snuffled in the snow. Was it tracking her, lifting her scent from the ice she had disturbed? It was too close. She turned to look, and saw nothing. No, almost nothing; there was a single blemish on the otherwise perfect blankness of the fog, a dark spot hovering in the air, moving up and down, searching. She snapped a photo, but even that one feature disappeared in the flash, leaving only a soft white image of nothing, #polarbearinasnowstorm. The animal grunted again in response to the flash, and she held out her pepper spray, ready to take the only desperate action available to her.   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 I’m not supposed to. I’m just supposed to be the museum. I get in trouble when I break character.
She heard more grunts, but farther off—another bear in another place. A more protracted guttural roar followed. The dark spot of the closer bear’s nose jumped to attention at the sound—it vacillated between the prey it had been stalking and the call of its own kind. Benny hoped it was mating season. She had wanted to see a polar bear, but just the nose was plenty, she decided now. She was gripping the pepper spray too tightly—a fine mist escaped the can, blending invisibly into the fog.“So don’t break character,” said Benny. “Just follow me from your own account.”The more distant bear called again, and this time the one before her made no attempt to resist. The nose darted away, followed by the quieting sounds of the bear’s bulk barreling across the snow. She let out her breath and released her grip on the pepper spray. On her next breath, her throat stung slightly, as the residue of pepper spray wafted back in her direction. Her eyes as well. She turned away from it, back to her path. There was the light, just a short distance ahead. It was right in front of her.Benicia Deluca @VagaBondGirl90
Now exiting @fogmuseum—highly recommended! (But bring your serious walking shoes.)
   The Fog Museum @fogmuseum
       @VagaBondGirl90 Thank you! And don’t forget to rate us on Yelp!
Benny pulled the door open and stepped out of the fog.The lobby was exactly as she remembered it, though she was coming to it from a different angle through an unmarked and opaque door. She also saw Carlos, still standing at attention.“Hey, Tinkles!” he shouted to her from his post. “You’re letting the exhibit out! Shut the door! ”After stomping the snow from her boots she made straight for the restroom, across the lobby, pausing only to flip Carlos the bird and a smile. Then she exited the museum and circled around the building to the parking lot, where her car still waited. She hoped the battery would start after three months of disuse, but if not, that was solvable. Nothing to worry about. She popped the trunk, began stripping off layers—coat, scarf, sweater, boots—until she felt the summer heat bleeding up into her bare feet from the asphalt.Her phone buzzed. She had a new follower on Twitter. She smiled, and followed back. Then she silenced the phone and put it away.


                 X X X


First published in Rivet: The Journal of Writing that Risks, March 2019.
Available in print in the anthology Museum Piece.

The Fathers of Dead Children



Images of the dead are a form of gravity. We are pulled inexorably into orbit, spiraling down along the curves of space, clicking "next" and then "next" and then "next." T-minus six months and the boy slaps one hand into a cake shaped like a rocket. Our orbit degrades, the well of gravitation drags us down. T-minus two weeks and the boy dances naked through a sprinkler. We burn in his atmosphere. T-minus twelve hours and the boy is in his father's arms, each grinning like he's won the world. The longer we look, the more the boy collapses in on himself, the more inescapable he becomes. He is a black hole; we never knew him, never will know him, will only ever know his crushing force.And because we can't resist the photographs, inevitably the fathers of dead children come. They don't come for the dead boy's father, of course. He is now one among a plurality of solitude, a fraternity of nuclear shadows. In joining them he is cut free to sink wholly into the singularity of his son. No, the fathers of dead children come for us, the ones still in orbit, still clinging desperately to our own tiny satellites. We hear them before we see them; the fathers' molecules emit a deep gut-tumbling thrum that hovers on the brink of nausea, vibrating at the frequency of unspoken recrimination. For themselves. For their wives and lovers, the mothers of their dead children. For the children themselves. For you.Resonance is achieved--our bellies turn over as our bodies hum in response.We stand from whatever we've been doing--leave our families at dinner or in front of the television
or in cars by the side of the road--and coalesce in the streets. We accuse each other. We bury our guilt. We wait to meet the fathers.
They step out from newspapers and televisions, seep from the whispers of our neighbors' voices.
They shiver in the streets with their naked hands thrust into their pockets, grimace-grinning to prove how they aren't cold, or sad, or broken; they've only forgotten their jackets, just like we have. We initiate the masculine rituals of condolence: a sharp punch in the arm, each of us in turn, or brutish hugs, palms slapped mercilessly against the back, warming one shoulder at a time, distributing cancer-black bruises, our only ward against grief. Buck up, pal, we say. Buck up.
They are in a better place now, we say, because it is better to lie beneath dirt than in the arms of
your father.
Time heals all wounds, we say, because we are each of us a salamander, and children are our tails.The fathers of dead children smile at us. You know the smile, the one that turns eyes into wrong-ended magnets, the polarities repulsing, contact impossible. Their gaze pushes ours to the ground. The force bends our backs. We apologize, or express our condolences, the distinction too fine to discern with only our human eyes.It's okay, the fathers say. It's not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. We don't even know you. They grant absolution with a one-handed squeeze of the shoulder. Buck up, pal, they say. Buck up. But they give us no bruises.They return with us to our lives. In the bars, they drunkenly brandish their fists at the empty stools beside us; you'll never know, they howl, and we welcome their admonitions as prophecy. In our homes, they pull all the drawings from the refrigerator, hide them in the crisper underneath the softening tomatoes. They snap every crayon in two. They flick carrots from our dinner plates, sending them one by one to shrivel beneath the television.They hide themselves away to sleep. Each father seeks his own private burrow, wriggling into any fissure small enough to hold him. In the microwave oven, curled around a bowl of noodles. In a sock drawer, only the tip of a nose protruding from between the argyles. We pretend not to see them. We ignore the bulges beneath the rugs, the toes poking out from behind the couch. We let them rest. We leave casseroles on the table, congratulate ourselves if we find only crumbs in the morning.They rise from sleep long before us, escaping into the haze of dawn--or else stay cocooned long after, only emerging after we have risen and dressed and eaten our meals, and left them to stew in their noontime torpor--or else they rise automatically, wander out into the world without bothering to wake at all. We find their discarded skins; like reptiles, they molt in the night, sheaths of photographs peeling from their bodies.Some of them visit our children. These are the brave ones, the ones whose hearts still beat, whose blood still flows--atrium, ventricle, lungs (pause for oxygenation--so easy to forget!), atrium, ventricle, body--and so they can bear to see the tiny faces and tiny hands that drive others of their kind into cupboards and crawlspaces. They watch the children, come near to them. Some even speak!The father whose daughter fell from a window teaches young artists the mathematics of perspective, horizon lines, vanishing points.The father whose daughter ate peanuts turns up in the school cafeteria, declares it pizza day, even though it isn't Friday. No flash-frozen rectangles for these students; he rolls the dough by hand, shreds the cheese by hand. The sauce simmers three hours before it touches the crust. His secret ingredient is cinnamon.The father whose sons died on the highway appears at the library, gathers the children, changes all the songs. The wheels on the bus go all the way from Portland to Portland, and straight on to London, Moscow, Tokyo. A full load of children cross the sea, round and round, round and round, round and round. They come home that night with their pockets stuffed with exotic candies, the wrappers printed in languages none of us can read.Such extraordinary men! Such gifts to impart! The fathers of the living are humbled. We are boorish creatures, dull-witted and neglectful, aloof and asinine. We poison our children with our every absent-minded gesture, every distracted glance. How could we not? After the fathers of the dead pack up their pencils, and books, and spices, our children return home to our weary arms, our mumbled stories, our leftover casseroles. We fill them up with frozen waffles and television, then push them off to their beds, and are buoyed by the gift of their absence.That night, the fathers of the living gather in all the back yards. We leave our families in their houses, with the doors closed, the windows sealed tight. We wade through the photographs left in the wake of the fathers' passing, the sea of children's faces that wash across our lawns, into the gutters. We take up rakes, gather all those faces into piles, great hills of anonymous memories. One by one, we each strike a single match, set fire to our vicarious grief, release a perfect toxic belch into the air. We breath deeply, chastened and gratified by the damage done. Atrium. Ventricle. Lungs.Pause.The fathers of dead children fall back like a tide released from the moon's tether, not truly gone, only obscured by the horizon. Our molecules disentangle. Our vibrations subside. The fathers of the still living find themselves alone again among our children and the mothers of our children. Somehow the children still orbit our quieted bodies, spinning ellipses in space around us. We are afraid to touch them.We are desperate to touch them.


                 X X X


First published in Event: Poetry and Prose, April 2015

Jenny is Killing Turtles Again



She’s got her system down: a fly on a string, to lure a snapper to snap; a sharp carving knife to sever an extended neck. Simple. Safer than other methods. She’s lost toes to other methods. She’s lost fingers. Snappers have wickedly sharp beaks. No one knows that better than she does. There are safer ways, of course. A heavy enough rock lobbed from a distance can shatter a carapace. Shatter a spine. You don’t have to get close enough to lose digits. But that way is cruel. Jenny doesn’t like cruelty.
She doesn’t like killing turtles, either. But it has to be done.
There are two turtles today, which is the right number of turtles. They’re near the pond, behind the house where Jenny lives with her grandmother. Where Jenny’s parents used to live. It is a place where turtles rarely go anymore. A place the turtles have learned to avoid. The coincidence of finding them here heartens Jenny. It is as if they have been guided here. By something inside them. Guided to Jenny’s fly on a string. To Jenny’s knife.She kills them easily. Two quick swipes are all she needs. One for each turtle. She’s good at killing turtles now.Once the turtles’ heads have been safely removed from their bodies, Jenny settles into the messier task of opening their shells and peering inside. She doesn’t dwell on the details of this process. She tries not to see the bones or the fluids. She doesn’t vomit. She hasn’t vomited in a long time. But she could. She still could, if she allowed herself to look too closely. Only one fact bears significance: once the turtles have been laid open, their shells pried apart to reveal all they contain, it is clear that there are no ghosts trapped inside.Jenny curses, then reprimands herself for the slip in her language. Jenny doesn’t talk like that. She’s a good girl. But she’d been so sure. She is used to disappointment, used to the empty shells, but these two had seemed so perfect, so precisely right. But no. She’ll still be killing turtles tomorrow. For today, all she has to show for her efforts is another pot of turtle meat. Her grandmother will be pleased at least. Gran loves turtle meat.With her armload of turtle carcass, Jenny pads back to the house. She steps her bare feet into the basin of water beside the door, rinsing the blood from between her toes. She leaves the meat in a strainer over the sink, where her grandmother will clean and carve it. Later, she’ll clean the shells and bones herself. She can sell them to a man who turns them into “genuine replica native art,” which he in turn sells to tourists and curiosity collectors. For now, she scrubs her hands and forearms under the faucet, then climbs the stairs to her bedroom.It is the same bedroom she slept in a year ago, though so much else had changed. One year ago, Jenny was only twelve years old. Her parents were still alive. In those days, she spent most of her time out in the woods behind her house, and that hasn’t changed really. It used to be fun, though. Back before she hunted turtles. Before she started carrying her knife and her fly on a string.And, of course, one year ago, her bedroom had not been haunted by the ghosts of strangers. There are seven now, muttering to themselves, shuffling about among her clothes and knickknacks. They play with her toys. They wear her socks. Very few of Jenny’s possessions are actually Jenny’s anymore. The room has become a boarding house for ghosts, and Jenny is less an inhabitant than a caretaker.Two of the ghosts have learned to be small, have taken up residence in her old dollhouse. They like to sit together on the little wooden couch, staring at the little wooden television with its painted-on image of a young man kissing a young woman. Mostly the ghosts ignore Jenny. They aren’t her ghosts. They’re other peoples’ ghosts, and they resent that their own children have not hunted turtles on their behalf. Their own children have sacrificed neither toes nor fingers, have not learned how sharp a turtle’s beak can be. Jenny knows. The ghosts keep their gratitude to themselves. Just as Jenny keeps her own gratitude to herself. But she knows this too: it is only because of the ghosts that no one will ever take Jenny away from her house or make her live with some other family. Who could stand to take in a girl with so many foundling spirits bound to her? Adopting such a menagerie of haunts would be unbearable.Tonight one of the ghosts has wound up Jenny’s music boxes. There are twelve of them, all built by her father in his basement workshop. Papa had been a watchmaker by trade, but music boxes weren’t so different. Each played a dainty tune, well suited to sweet little girls, like he thought his daughter ought to be. Sometimes Jenny winds one up, if only to pretend. The ghost, however, has wound all twelve boxes, creating an unbearable discordance of syrupy tinklings. He is trying to dance to the various tunes, but only manages to twitch un-rhythmically, his elbows banging against the walls. Jenny won’t watch these weak gesticulations. She changes her clothes quickly, then exits, stepping quietly back down the stairs.Water is running in the kitchen now—Gran is washing the turtle meat. Jenny knows she ought to help her grandmother in the kitchen. Her daily hunt usually saves her from this chore, but her daily hunt usually involves two or three hours of searching before she finds a turtle. The search is the part of the hunt that Jenny enjoys—walking down by the river, beating bushes, stomping through mud. There are deer to be spied on, trees to be climbed. On a good day Jenny doesn’t find any turtles at all, and just spends her daylight hours stalking through the trees. Finding those two turtles right outside has robbed her of her escape. Really, she ought to go back out, continue her hunt, since her first kills offered no reward. But she won’t kill more than two in one day. That’s the limit she has given herself. Her gift to the turtles and her conscience alike.Jenny walks into the kitchen just in time to see Gran slurp down a scrap of turtle meat. Gran always remembers to cook Jenny’s meals, but often forgets to cook her own. Or simply prefers them uncooked. Jenny hasn’t asked.“Anna,” Jenny’s grandmother calls out. “Anna, come help me in the kitchen.”Anna is Jenny’s mother. Anna is dead.Of course, so is Jenny’s grandmother. Death has not cured the senility of Gran’s old age. Lost limbs are easily re-imagined in their proper place. Cancers simply forgotten. But senility is a trap—Gran must first remember that she is dead, and no longer subject to living ailments before she can reclaim her wits. Senility is a forgetting disease, and the fact of her own death is lost to her. She doesn’t remember the failure of her heart three years ago. She doesn’t remember the turtle that snatched her soul and swallowed it down. She doesn’t remember the butcher’s knife that Anna used to free her.Believing herself to be alive does have advantages. Gran hasn’t forgotten how to eat. She hasn’t forgotten how to clean the meat from a turtle’s bones, or how to cook it into a nourishing soup. She hasn’t forgotten that she loves her granddaughter. When she sees Jenny, she smiles.“Mama’s not here, Gran,” says Jenny.“Oh, she’s out? Did she go to buy salt?“No, Gran. Do we need salt?”“Can’t make soup without salt.”Jenny checks the salt box, and yes, it’s empty. She doesn’t particularly like going into town. People don’t like her there. They don’t like how she lives alone. They don’t like what she does to the turtles for miles around. But she doesn’t dislike going to town either. She prefers it to watching her grandmother suck on strips of raw meat. And there are never any turtles in town; she can leave her knife at home. She pulls an old pair of tennis sneakers from the hall closet and slips them onto her bare feet.It isn’t far—an hour’s walk along a paved road. She can easily get there and back before dinnertime. If she were in a hurry, she could take her father’s car, as she has done in the past, during the deep cold of winter and the high heat of summer. The townspeople don’t like to see an underage girl driving a car, of course, so she always parks at the edge of town and walks the last little way. But today is cool and she’s in no hurry. She prefers to walk, just like her mother used to do.Jenny often walked with Anna on her trips to town. Papa always offered them a ride, but Anna declined, preferring the slow and quiet hike. It was their opportunity to talk together, mother and daughter, away from the rest of the family. Talk about school, about the changing world, about what it felt like to fall in love.It was on one of these walks that Anna first explained about the turtles, how they swallow ghosts, how the ghosts long to be freed. Jenny was only seven the first time this was explained to her, but she listened attentively. She had seen turtles behind her own house, had seen how swiftly they could snatch a dragonfly from the air. She instinctively understood that they were not to be trusted, not to be taken lightly.She was ten when Gran died, out by the pond, the worst place a person could die. She had seen Gran’s ghost waft up from the corpse, begin to coalesce into human shape, but there were turtles nearby, as there always were in those days. Just as quick as Jenny could blink, Gran had been snapped up and swallowed.Jenny had cried out for her mother, but Anna wasn’t home, she was in town with Papa. Jenny knew the turtle needed to be killed, needed to be opened up so Gran could climb back out. But she had never before done such a thing, had no idea of the process, and no weapon to use. She thought about running for a kitchen knife or for her father’s woodcutting axe, but she was terrified to leave the spot, terrified that the turtle would slip away while she wasn’t watching, carry her Gran off into the pond and never return. So she sat in that spot, staring at that turtle, keeping it in sight until her parents came home three hours later. Anna had come out the back door after finding the house empty, taken one look at Jenny, the turtle, and her own mother’s body lying in the weeds, and immediately understood. Without a word she went back to the house for her knife.
Jenny paid careful attention to the extraction that followed, and learned her lesson well.
Although she still enjoys the walk to town, Jenny finds her own thoughts a poor substitute for her mother’s voice. And walking so far in real shoes makes her more aware of her missing toes; the imbalance of her foot against the insole of her shoe is somehow harder to ignore than the feeling of grass passing through the gaps when her feet are bare. Still, the trip will be worthwhile; it is early, and she comes to town so rarely. She can afford to dally today. There is no need to go straight to the grocery. She hesitates, considering where she might go. She sees the pet store, but she is no longer permitted through that door. The shop owner doesn’t believe in ghosts, and so he despises Jenny, believes she should not be permitted near animals of any sort. She misses them, misses the company of creatures she isn’t obliged to kill. But that’s not something she can explain to the shopkeeper.Next, she considers the doll shop. Jenny has already lost interest in dolls herself, but thinking of the tiny ghosts in her room, she decides to pay the store a visit. She has bought them gifts in the past, and they enjoyed them, even if they haven’t acknowledged Jenny herself. Instead, they pretend that they have just returned from shopping, pretend they have selected their own new furnishings. They debate whether the upholstery matches the carpeting, whether they ought to have purchased service for twelve instead of eight, whether they gave the deliveryman an appropriate tip.The shop is small, the shelves densely packed with everything a young girl could want in hand-carved miniature home goods. From basic tables and chairs to kitchen appliances, to linens, to lights and electronics. There is a tiny working radio, but it is too expensive. She considers a tiny bassinet, but rejects it quickly—she does not want to encourage the little ghosts to pretend they have a child. It would upset Jenny to watch such a thing. She rejects blenders, brooms, and lawnmowers. She will not trick them into pointless labor.When she sees a plump armchair with a lever to make it recline, she is reminded of Papa, of his evening relaxation, with his feet up and a book in hand. Jenny takes the chair from the shelf, hoping the little man will enjoy it as much as her father had enjoyed his own. For the little woman, she settles on a claw-footed bathtub. They deserve these small luxuries, the two little people. Jenny is sure of it. Lastly, she looks for something to adorn the bare walls. She chooses a miniature set of paintings by a woman artist from years ago, five tiny images of flowers and bones, soft and lovely.She takes her intended purchases to the counter and hands them to the shopkeeper. He wraps each piece in tissue paper before placing them gently into a paper bag. She reaches into her pocket, but the shopkeeper won’t take her money. He gives her a sad smile and waves the money away. Being an orphan has its advantages too.It’s time for Jenny to finish her chores. She slips into the grocery quietly, not looking at the teenaged cashier, but she knows he’s seen her. She knows this boy. He’s a little older than she is, a grade ahead of her back when she still went to school. They used to be friends, she and he. One year ago. Before he was old enough to have a job. Before she was old enough to live alone. They used to eat their lunches together at school. They used to sneak into the movie theater to watch the R-rated movies when their parents thought they were safely asleep in their own houses. They used to kiss each other in the dark and giggle beneath the flickering projector. One year ago.She used to borrow his bicycle when they had plans, so she wouldn’t be gone from her house longer than necessary, and so she wouldn’t be walking alone on an unlit and isolated road. She would take it home after school and hide it in the woods by her house, where it waited for her ’til night. As she slipped out her window and down the tree, she’d anticipate the coming ride as much as the forbidden movie, the illicit kisses. She loved whizzing along with no one to know where she was or what she was doing, pedaling with all her might, carefully swerving around the nocturnal creatures whose eyes flashed light from her single headlamp back to her.She has no bike now. Her parents never bought her one, and it’s an extravagance she can’t afford. She has electricity to pay for, oil, and gasoline for the car.And groceries, of course. She quickly selects the items she needs without lingering over them. A pound of salt goes into her cart. A box of English tea. Some carrots and potatoes and beets—Jenny loves the solidity of roots, would make her whole meal of them if Gran would let her. A bottle of cider vinegar and two of cooking oil. Lastly, a bar of chocolate for herself and a small package of crystallized ginger for Gran. She doesn’t usually purchase treats, but today she feels indulgent. She has probably purchased too much—her bags will be heavy on her long walk. But she doesn’t mind. Her arms are strong.Jenny brings her items to the register, where the boy she used to kiss silently takes her money. She hands the bills to him with her left hand, the one missing two knuckles of the ring finger and one of the pinky, but he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t indulge her with recoil or gasp, even though she holds her hand out longer than necessary, willing his eyes to leave hers and find instead her bitten hand. He opens his mouth and almost says her name, but then doesn’t, and Jenny is glad. She has nothing to say to him. She cannot be his friend anymore. It crosses her mind to go to his house, to steal his bike. To make it hers. She won’t do that of course. It’s only a hatchling of a thought, and she crushes it down even as it’s just emerging. She leaves the store without looking back to see if the boy is watching her go. She won’t allow herself to know.

Jenny brings her items to the register, where the boy she used to kiss silently takes her money. She hands the bills to him with her left hand, the one missing two knuckles of the ring finger and one of the pinky, but he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t indulge her with recoil or gasp, even though she holds her hand out longer than necessary, willing his eyes to leave hers and find instead her bitten hand. He opens his mouth and almost says her name, but then doesn’t, and Jenny is glad. She has nothing to say to him. She cannot be his friend anymore. It crosses her mind to go to his house, to steal his bike. To make it hers. She won’t do that of course. It’s only a hatchling of a thought, and she crushes it down even as it’s just emerging. She leaves the store without looking back to see if the boy is watching her go. She won’t allow herself to know.She carries her packages all the way back home again without once stopping to rest.
When Jenny arrives, Gran is out in the garden, tending the tomatoes, turning soil, pulling weeds. Jenny slips quietly into the house. The turtle meat has been moved to the icebox to keep until Gran is ready to cook it. A pot of water sits on the stovetop, waiting to be turned into soup. Jenny puts away the groceries, refills the saltbox, stashes the sweets in the pantry to save for after dinner. Then she heads back up to her bedroom with the gifts she’s brought for the inhabitants of her dollhouse.
The room is quieter now, the music boxes having wound down, the dancing ghost now hiding in Jenny’s closet, sitting on the floor, trying on all of Jenny’s shoes, one after the other. He pays no attention to proper pairing; on his left foot he is wearing a scuffed Mary Jane that hasn’t fit Jenny in years. He is in the process of removing a brown leather sandal from his right, in favor of a paisley rain boot. He grins, pleased with his selection.The ghost of a young woman lies on the bed, asleep, Jenny’s old stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. She turns over abruptly, disturbed by Jenny’s entrance, and her hair falls down over her face, eliciting a loud sniff. She buries her face deeper into the pillow, trying to shut out the waning sunlight.The other three ghosts sit in the corner, muttering to each other. When Jenny enters, they briefly fall silent, look at her suspiciously, then resume their hushed conversation, voices now even lower. They are plotting against her, she knows. She suspects they were powerful men in life, which is why they resent her more than the others. Owing their freedom to a child galls them. But their plots are always frivolous-they have plotted to hide Jenny’s bar of soap. To spread strawberry jam on the insoles of her slippers.Jenny ignores them, turning her attentions to the dollhouse, already beginning to remove her new accessories from the bag as she glances from room to room, seeking out her diminutive tenants. She finds them in the master bedroom. The two little ghosts are having sex. Making love. There is no shyness in them. They lie atop the covers, fully exposed, oblivious to the missing front wall of their home. Jenny is mesmerized, can’t help but watch them. The woman lies on her back, knees raised, eyes closed. There is a brief flurry of motion, and suddenly the woman is atop the man, arching her back, grinning and shaking. The grin is infectious, Jenny can’t help smiling with the woman, smiling down on her and her partner, but the pair is slowing now, relaxing into each other, collapsing onto the sheets, no longer grinning, just content and quiet. They are soon asleep. Jenny alone is left smiling, though she isn’t sure why. She isn’t sure why she suddenly wants to cry either, as all the warmth of a moment ago leaves her, and she’s left grinning at nothing, foolish and alone.She quickly distributes the gifts she has brought. She doesn’t linger over the task, just slips them into the house quietly, so as not to disturb the now sleeping couple. The tub goes into the upstairs bathroom. The recliner goes into the living room, near the television and the bookcases. The artwork she leaves on the kitchen table. She will let the ghosts decide for themselves where to hang the paintings.When she turns away from the dollhouse, she finds the sleeping young woman is no longer sleeping. She is sitting up, looking directly at Jenny.“You’re here again,” the ghost says.“I’m always here,” says Jenny. “I live here.”“You should knock before you come in,” the ghost says. “Don’t you know about manners?”“No,” says Jenny. “I don’t.”She leaves the ghost in her bed, leaves her bedroom, and returns downstairs to the kitchen.Gran is washing her hands at the sink, done with her gardening. She has brought some onions from the garden to add to the soup she’s making for dinner. She slices the tops and bottoms from the onions, then cuts them in half before removing the bitter skins which she will toss into the compost bin later. As she is about to turn back to her cutting board, she is delighted to spy Jenny by the pantry, watching her cook.“Oh, Jenny, there you are,” she calls. “Have you seen your mother? I need her to go to the store for salt.”“I’ve just been, Gran. We’re all stocked up and I refilled the box.”Gran lifts the lid of the saltbox to peer inside. “Oh, so you did! Such a good girl.”And Jenny is a good girl. She spends the whole rest of the evening helping her grandmother in the kitchen. Chopping onions. Slicing carrots. Stirring the soup. They’re both quiet as they work. Jenny doesn’t need to talk. But it’s better to be near a ghost who remembers her. A ghost who knows her name.Over dinner, Jenny tells of her trip into town. About stopping in the doll shop, about the clever toys she has seen. She tells Gran about the little working radio, and how she plans to save up to buy it. That is a lie, but it’s a lie that pleases her grandmother. She loves to hear about the odd little things the world has to offer, even if she’ll never see them herself. The soup is delicious, but Gran never raises her spoon to her lips, just stirs it around and around. She’s had her fill of turtle already, before the meat ever went into the pot. That’s fine too. They can pretend together. When they have finished, Jenny puts the soup from Gran’s bowl into the fridge with the rest of the leftovers.“I brought you a present, Gran,” Jenny says after the dishes have all been washed and put away. She goes to the cabinet and takes out the ginger candy she purchased at the grocery.“You didn’t!” Gran says, so pleased to be thought of.“It’s just some candy, but I thought you’d like it.”Gran takes the package with a great smile. “Oh, ginger!” she says. “That’s my favorite! How did you know?”“I’ve always known, Gran. I just haven’t seen any in a long time.”Gran opens the package carefully, prying the cellophane ring from the container’s rim. The lid pops off easily, and she removes a small piece and places it on her tongue. She closes her eyes, savors the sharp, sweet bite.“It’s been years,” she says softly. “The last time I had ginger… when was it?”“I think it was your birthday, Gran,” Jenny says, thinking back.“No, it wasn’t then. It was licorice on my birthday. And brittle toffee the birthday before that.”“I guess I can’t remember. I don’t see it very often.”“It wasn’t so long ago, though, I’m certain. It was another day, not my birthday. I was out walking. Oh, it was a beautiful day! I was out back, walking, and I went down to the turtle pond. We both did, we took a walk. There was a lovely breeze, and the air smelled so fresh, so we didn’t want to be inside. It was so cool down by the pond. And I lay down in the grass…”Jenny has erred. She sees that now.“Jenny? Why would I do that? Why would I lie down in the grass?”“It was a nice day, Gran. You just wanted to have a nap outside. That’s all.”“No, that can’t be right. It can’t be right. I’m an old woman. I can’t lie down on the ground. I wouldn’t be able to get up again.”“But you did, Gran. See, you must have. Here you are!”“No. I didn’t, did I?” Gran’s mind has never been so clear. “I died.”Jenny is silent. The package of ginger falls to the table-not from her grandmother’s hand, but through it. It passes palm and fingers as if nothing were there at all, spilling the golden candy across the table.“Jenny, you were there. Tell me. Did I die that day?”“Yes, Gran.”“Where’s your mother?”“She’s out. She’s not home.”“Oh, Jenny. I remember… I remember a man. A thief.” The bite Gran has already swallowed tumbles out from inside her. It strikes the chair beneath her and bounces to the floor.“I know, Gran.”“He killed them.”“I know.”“Oh, my poor Anna!”“I know!”“And he tried to hurt me, before he realized I was already dead. But he didn’t hurt you. Thank god, you stayed asleep…”“I wasn’t asleep.”“You never came out of your room…”“I wasn’t in my room.”“Thank God you’re okay.”“I wasn’t home. I was out. I snuck out after dinner. I went into town, to a movie.”“But Anna… oh, my Anna…”“I snuck out to see a boy.”“My poor little baby girl…”“I should have been here to see them die. Should have been here to catch the turtles that took them. But instead I was out kissing a boy. ““Turtles?”“They were gone by the time I got back.”“I don’t remember turtles…”“I never saw them, and now I can’t find them. I don’t know where they went.” And now Jenny is crying, as she hasn’t done in months.“Jenny, I don’t remember any turtles. They were inside. They died in the house. There couldn’t have been any turtles.”“There must have been! There must have been turtles. Or else where are they? Where else would they have gone? Why would they leave me here?”“Sometimes they do, Jenny,” Gran says. “Sometimes they just do. Not everyone can stay.”“They wouldn’t just go,” says Jenny, but Gran isn’t listening now, just crying, they’re both crying. It is Gran who stops crying first, not because she has cried herself out, but because she has cried herself to sleep, right there at the table, sitting upright in her chair. Jenny lets her sleep a few moments, long enough to dry her own tears, long enough to settle herself back into the present. Then she sweeps the ginger from the table back into its tub. She cleans the chewed bit from the floor, returns it to the tub as well, then stashes all of it back in the cabinet. She lightly touches her grandmother’s shoulder, rousing her. Gran opens her eyes and she smiles at her granddaughter.
“Oh, I dozed off at the table again, didn’t I? Such a foolish old woman.”
“Why don’t you to go bed, Gran?”“Is your mother home yet?”Jenny doesn’t want to answer. But, of course, she must.“Not yet, Gran. She’ll be home late.”“I suppose I can’t wait up the way I used to. She’s a grown woman, after all. I shouldn’t worry so.”“She understands. She knows you love her. But you should sleep.”“Well, would you ask her to wake me when she gets in? Only so I’ll know she’s here. I’ll sleep better if I know she’s home.”“I’ll ask her, Gran. I promise.”“Such a good girl. Have a good night then. Don’t stay up too late.”“I won’t.”Jenny watches her grandmother slowly head off toward bed, waits for her to pass out of sight. Then she removes the package of candy from the cabinet and slips out the back door. Down past the garden, across the grass, all the way to the turtle pond. She tosses the candy into the water, all of it, every little piece. She won’t buy any more, won’t bring any more into the house.She won’t make that mistake again.


                 X X X


First published in Fantasy Scroll Magazine, April 2015.

Aneurysm



“It’s a new party game,” said Norma, as she pushed a small cart into the living room. A white sheet draped over the top hid the cart’s burden—something boxy, no larger than a microwave oven. The guests all turned to watch as the little mystery was wheeled into the room, squeaking slightly, leaving a visible groove in the carpet. Norma stopped and stood; she made no move to uncover her secret, only smiled at the seven faces around her. Every guest had a fresh drink in hand and a hot hors d’oeuvre on a toothpick. Music played loudly enough to keep the room cheerful, but not so loud as to hinder conversation. And now she had piqued everyone’s curiosity by wheeling out this odd little cart. Norma was an excellent hostess.“And it’s called ‘Death Match?’” one of the guests asked—a florist with the unfortunate name of Melvin.“That sounds awfully violent,” said another.Sid said nothing, just watched quietly as the other guests responded to Norma’s little show. Her entrance wasn’t a huge spectacle—not like in the old days of birds and smoke. She just enhanced the presentation a bit with her dashes of secrecy and drama. Norma still had a sense of staging, Sid had to give her that. She appreciated the way a hint of anticipation can make any event even more memorable than it might have been. Sid already knew what was under the sheet. Norma had warned him of what she had planned because she knew how much he would hate it. He had tried to dissuade her, of course, but she insisted on proceeding, just as she insisted that he be there as always. They’d been divorced for three years, but he still couldn’t bring himself to say “no” to her. He never could: that’s why he was thirty-eight years old and on his third career. His second career had lasted exactly as long as his marriage, and had been entirely her idea. He missed it almost as much as he missed her.“Oh, it’s not violent,” Norma was saying now. “Well, a little violent, sort of. You’ll feel a little pinch, but it’s nothing to get worked up over.”The truth was, Sid adored Norma, he really did. He adored Norma, and he adored her parties, and he adored her taste in music, and her hors d’oeuvres, and all the witty conversationalists she routinely assembled for her Saturday night gatherings. And even though the romance between them had ended long ago, he still loved being in her life and having her in his.But he loathed party games. Really and truly.Oh, he liked games in general. He wasn’t opposed to fun and frivolity. He’d participated in a murder mystery party once, and thought that was just splendid; he’d even played the role of the villain without complaint. If she had brought out boxes of Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit, he’d have been all for it. But “party game” invariably meant some sort of getting-to-know-you game. Truth or Dare. I Never. Packing your desert island luggage. The sorts of games that had only two outcomes—either they stayed entirely superficial (boring) or they probed into deeply intimate information (humiliating). Knowing that Melvin’s three favorite CDs included David Hasslehoff’s greatest hits didn’t make Sid feel like he really knew Melvin any better. Neither did knowing that Melvin had once had sex with his cousin’s boyfriend’s sister in a glass elevator. But Sid had learned both these facts about Melvin at a previous gathering.
And as much as Sid hated these games, Norma loved them. So here he was, getting ready to play again.
“So,” Norma taunted, “isn’t anyone going to guess?”“Stop teasing,” said Vince, Norma’s latest boyfriend. “Let us see what you’ve got under there. It’s no fun staring at a bed sheet.” Vince was a banker with no appreciation for showmanship. Living with Norma meant living in suspense. Always and forever. Sid suspected Vince wouldn’t be around much longer.Sid, of course, was perfectly happy to keep staring at the bed sheet, absently thumbing the thin slip of paper in his pocket. He had no interest in playing the game, but he very much enjoyed seeing an audience toyed with. He enjoyed the show. So he was disappointed when Norma gave in easily, rather than drawing out the suspense. “You’re such a poop, Vince,” she said as she did what he asked, taking the corners of the sheet between her fingers. At least she still put a flourish into the process, whipping the sheet dramatically from the cart and snapping it over her head, nearly overturning a vase of tulips on top of the TV.The audience let out a satisfactory gasp.They all recognized the machine, of course. They’d seen it on television and in movies. They’d seen it in doctor’s offices and pharmacies. Some of them had even used one. But still, it was strange to see it sitting on a rolling cart in their friend’s living room.“Is that what I think it is?” Melvin asked, refusing to believe what was already obvious.“That depends,” said Norma. “Do you think it’s a machine of death?”“Yes?”“Then yes, it’s exactly what you think it is.” She grinned devilishly in her satisfaction at having so befuddled her guests.“You paid for that?” Vince appeared horrified at the very concept, his eyes bugging out like an old cartoon.“Well, I certainly didn’t steal it.”
“But those must go for thousands of dollars!”
“I have a friend in the company. He let me buy it at cost.”“That still couldn’t have been cheap…”“Oh, Vince,” she said, cutting off the line of conversation, “stop being dull. Don’t you realize how much fun we’re going to have? It’ll be worth it, I promise!”With that, she began unwinding the power cord that hung from the back of the machine, pulling it out toward a free outlet near the TV. Once it was plugged in, she flipped the switch to turn it on. A small fan revved up to full speed. The internal workings clicked and popped as a fresh needle was loaded. A little red light turned into a little green light.The machine was ready to dispense party time fun and pithy little visions of the future. Norma giggled her delight.“So you’re just going to give us our death readings?” asked the same woman who had questioned the game’s name earlier. Lottie. That was her name—Sid had only met her once before, but he was sure her name was Lottie. “I’ve already done that.”“Well, don’t tell what your reading was yet. That comes later. Getting the reading is just the first part; the real game is guessing whose death is whose. Can you guess how I’m going to die? Can I guess you you’re going to die? That’s the game. That’s Death Match. Isn’t that a gas?”“I love it,” said Melvin.“Yeah, okay,” said Lottie. “I’d do that.”“I’m not playing,” said Marie. Like Sid, Marie was a restaurant critic, though this provided precious little common ground. For instance, Sid held that Norma served consistently excellent hors d’oeuvres at her cocktail parties, and even better food at her dinner parties. She made everything from scratch, never once served frozen wieners or potato puffs. He had shopped with her; she knew quality, knew her ingredients, paired the right cheeses with the right fruits with the right wines. He offered input where he could, but he wasn’t actually needed. He found no fault at all. Whereas he had more than once overheard Marie belittling Norma’s culinary talents to other guests. The cheeses were to sharp, the fruits overripe, the wines improperly poured. She had even once tried to include Sid in her conspiratorial condescension. Sid and Marie hadn’t spoken much since then.Tonight, though, Marie’s was precisely the reaction Sid was hoping for. If enough people objected to the machine’s morbid prognostications, then Norma would have to give up and the evening could pass without a party game. This one time at least.
“You know there’s nothing to be afraid of, Marie,” Vince said. “These machines are so cryptic, they don’t really mean anything.”
“Well, they sort of do,” said Jorge, Norma’s oldest friend from her college days. “But only in hindsight. By then, who cares?”“No, I know,” said Marie. “It’s not that. I just don’t like needles.”
“Oh, please,” Vince chided. “I can’t stand when people say that. You realize nobody actually likes needles, right?”
“Well, yes, of course…”“And you don’t want people to think you’re antisocial, do you?”“I’m not anti…”“I’m not playing either,” broke in Bettany, the last of the evening’s guests, and a new face in the group. According to Norma, Bettany was a professional mountain climber; Sid had no idea how she’d fallen in with this crowd of devout indoorsmen.Vince sighed ostentatiously. “And what’s your excuse?”“Well, mostly I’d just like for everyone to think I’m antisocial. I can’t help it—it’s my natural response to juvenile peer pressure. You know how it is, high school flashbacks and all.”Sid stifled a chuckle; it seemed Bettany didn’t like Vince any more than Sid did.“Marie, you don’t have to play,” Norma said. “But if you do decide to play, I promise, you won’t even see the needle. It’s hidden away inside the machine. You just put your finger in, and it feels like barely more than a mosquito bite. And that’s it. But you don’t have to play, really.”Marie sighed. Norma meant it when she said Marie didn’t have to play. Marie knew it. And Sid knew it, and everyone else knew it. But still, nobody liked to disappoint Norma. It broke her heart when her guests didn’t like her games.“How about this,” Marie said finally. “I’ll play if Sid plays.”Sid snorted. Oh, it was a clever tactic on Marie’s part: it put the onus of disappointing Norma on Sid instead of Marie. And she knew how Sid felt about party games, too. She knew he’d be hard-pressed to resist an opportunity to derail his least favorite pastime. Clever tactic or not, though, it was a bad play this time.“Sid’s playing,” Norma said with a triumphant grin. “He already promised.”Marie gave Sid a desperate look.
“It’s true,” he said. “She cornered me last week and twisted my arm. What could I do?”
“You could have said ‘no.’”If only.“Sorry,” he said. “I have weak arms.”And with that, all resistance died, and everyone agreed to play.
“I’ll go first,” said Melvin as he popped out of his chair and approached the machine. With no hesitation at all, he stuck his finger into the machine’s orifice, punched the button, and gave a little laugh when the needle stuck him—“It kind of tickles”—then waited as the machine processed his blood and loaded a new needle. It spat out a slip of paper just like an ATM receipt.
“You can read your own if you want,” Norma instructed, “but don’t tell anyone else what it says. Then fold it in half and drop it in the hat.”
Somehow Sid hadn’t noticed the hat. It was on a second shelf on the cart, underneath the machine. It was a black felt top hat, a perfect gimmick for a game like this. But Sid recognized it immediately—it had once been his own. It was just a straight hat with no hidden pockets or secret compartments, but still, it gave him a pang of nostalgia for their time on the stage. He hadn’t known she still had it. But he was glad. It was encouraging, in a way. He put one hand in his pocket, touched the paper he had hidden there.
Melvin dropped his death into the hat.Vince went next, making a show of what a good sport he was, and how not afraid of needles he was, but winced visibly when the needle stuck him. Sid rolled his eyes for Bettany’s benefit, and she stuck out her tongue in agreement.Marie was third, eager to have the unpleasantness done with. She closed her eyes and inserted her finger into the machine. The color left her face when she pushed the button, and for a moment Sid thought she might faint. But she stayed upright as she hurriedly tossed her death into the hat and returned to the couch, where she sat sucking the injured finger.Sid went next. The needle really did fell like a mosquito bite, though he wouldn’t have said it tickled. When the machine spat out his death, he didn’t bother to read it; he already knew how he was going to die. He had all the documentation. He’d seen the MRI. He folded his death in half and dropped the slip of paper into the hat.“Thank you,” said Norma.“No,” he replied. “Thank you.”She looked at him quizzically, but he said nothing else. Just put his hands in his pockets and returned to the other side of the room.The remaining partygoers all took their turns, until there were eight folded slips of paper in the hat. Norma was delighted and favored everyone with a big smile.“Okay,” she said. “Here are the rules:”1. One death will be drawn from the hat at a time.2. We’ll all debate whose death we think it is and why.3. Debate ends once everyone has officially cast a vote.4. Players earn one point for each correct vote. No points for guessing your own.5. No death’s owner will be revealed until all deaths have been voted on.“Is everyone clear? Any questions?” There were no questions. So she reached into the hat and drew the first death.“Oh, good, we’re off to an interesting start! The first death is: LANDSLIDE.”“That’s easy,” Melvin chirped without hesitation. “It’s Bettany. Mountain climbers get killed in avalanches all the time.”“Not all the time. And besides, it was ‘landslide,’ not ‘avalanche.’”“Same thing.”“No they’re not,” Jorge said. “Avalanches are snow and ice. Landslides require, obviously, land. That means dirt and rock.”“So then it’s probably you,” said Vince, gesturing in Jorge’s direction.“How do you figure?”“You do construction. Construction means excavation, and excavation leads to landslides.”Jorge frowned. “I’m not a construction worker.”“Aren’t you?”“I’m an architect, Vince. I design buildings. I don’t build them myself. I work in an office. I even wear a tie sometimes, if that helps your mental image.”Vince held Jorge’s gaze, but said nothing.“But don’t you ever inspect a construction site,” Lottie asked. “Or go to watch something you designed getting built? How can you resist?”Vince finally shrugged and looked back at the rest of the group, though Sid caught his petulant eye-roll.“Okay, I do visit sites sometimes,” Jorge said, returning to the game. “But that’s not where I work.”“But the risk is there,” said Marie. “More than on a mountain top, anyway.”“Sure, I guess.”“Any other theories?” Norma asked after debate dropped for a few moments. “Okay, then it’s time to lodge your votes.”Vince, Bettany, and Marie voted for Jorge. Jorge, Melvin, Lottie, and Norma voted for Bettany. Sid voted for Vince.“You were supposed to argue your theory before the voting,” Norma scolded.“I don’t have a theory,” Sid replied. “I just think it’d be funny.”“Ha,” said Vince flatly. Norma scowled at Sid, but he just shrugged—“I’m playing your game, aren’t I? What do you want?”“Okay,” she said as she reached into the hat again, “our next death is: HUNTING ACCIDENT.”“Oh, that one’s Lottie,” Sid said without hesitation.“But I’m a vegetarian!”“So?”“So I wouldn’t go hunting in the first place!”“Which is precisely why it would be so satisfyingly ironic.”Jorge raised an eyebrow at Sid. “So, what you’re saying is that the less likely it is that a person will die in a particular way, then the more likely it is that that’s precisely how they’ll die?”“Well, not so much ‘more likely’ as ‘more entertaining.’”“That sounds about right to me,” said Bettany. “Put my vote down for Lottie.”“Hey!”“Seriously, though,” Marie asked, “Does anyone here hunt?”All heads shook in the negative. “I went once when I was a kid,” said Jorge. “But I hated it.”“Then it’s obvious,” said Melvin. “Bettany spends the most time out in the wild. She’s the one most likely to get shot accidentally.”“You already voted for me to get killed in a landslide! I can’t die twice.”“No, but I can vote for you twice. One of them has to be right.”“You can do that,” said Norma. “But we all get to make fun of you for being wishy-washy. Agreed?”“Agreed,” said Melvin. “So long as I get my points, I’m happy.”“I’m voting for Vince,” said Marie. “He’s the person most likely to have to do something stupid to appease a rich client.”“I’ll buy that,” said Jorge.Norma took count of votes again, with two votes going to Lottie, two to Bettany, and four to Vince, including Norma’s own. “Actually,” she said with a wink to Melvin, “I think Bettany is more likely. But I already gave her ‘landslide,’ and I

After HUNTING ACCIDENT came TAINTED BEEF. Debate was brief and the votes divided evenly between Sid and Marie, the two restaurant critics. After TAINTED BEEF came DRUNK DRIVER. This was followed by an awkward silence as everyone avoided looking at Jorge, except for Vince, who said, “Well, obviously that’s Jorge.” Norma gave Vince her most lethal scowl, but Jorge just shrugged.“You can vote for me if you want to. I don’t care. I’m sober. I’ve been sober for three years, and I don’t even own a car. I promise you, that’s not how I die. Besides, it says ‘DRUNK DRIVER’ not ‘DRUNK DRIVING. Whoever it is is the victim, not the culprit.”Ultimately, three votes went to Jorge, three to Marie, and two to Vince.After DRUNK DRIVER came RADIATION.“But we all live so close together,” said Lottie, “if there’s some sort of nuclear accident, shouldn’t we all die of radiation?”“Maybe it doesn’t happen for a long time,” Melvin suggested. “Maybe only the last of us is still alive when the meltdown happens.”“Or someone could go on vacation to someplace that has a reactor,” Norma offered.Jorge disagreed. “There’s no reactor, there’s no bomb. It’s nothing nuclear at all. The machine’s just being coy. There’s always radiation. Solar radiation, electromagnetic radiation, microwaves, radio waves, whatever. A lot of them cause cancer. That’s the death here. It’s just cancer.”“So then it’s Bettany,” said Melvin. “She spends the most time outside, so she probably gets skin cancer.”“Geez, you sure are eager to kill me off, aren’t you?”“It’s not my fault you lead a conspicuously dangerous life.”“I don’t see how any of us is more likely to die of cancer than the others,” said Jorge. “I say we each just vote for the person on our left, and then we all get an equal number of votes.”“In that case, I say we all vote for Jorge,” said Sid.“Seconded,” said Bettany.So everyone voted for Jorge. Including Jorge, just to be a good sport.“You should be careful, Sid,” Norma said. “You almost seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”“Maybe just this once,” he said. And he actually sort of was. Just this once.Norma reached into the hat once more and pulled out the next death.She unfolded the paper and read it.She opened her mouth, but said nothing.“Norma, what’s wrong?” Vince asked.“What does it say?” asked Melvin.She looked up again. She looked at Sid. She pressed her lips tightly together, in a look that most of the guests would confuse for worry, but Sid knew it was pure irritation.“It says ‘PARTY GAME MISHAP.’”Everyone was silent.Then, Lottie: “I don’t get it.”Melvin: “It means someone could die right now. Playing this game.”Marie: “How?”Melvin: “I don’t think I want to know.”Lottie: “Right now?”Jorge: “But that doesn’t even make sense.”Vince: “It never makes sense.”Melvin: “Maybe the machine electrocutes one of us…”Lottie: “I don’t want anyone to die.”Bettany: “Whose is it?Melvin: “Or maybe…I don’t know. It could be anything!Jorge: “I know the machine likes to be vague and cryptic.”Bettany: “It’s Sid, isn’t it?”Lottie: “I don’t want to see it happen.”Vince: “Nobody’s going to die.”Jorge: “But they always at least sound lethal. What’s lethal about a party game mishap? That’s not cryptic. That’s the machine actively thumbing its nose at us.”Melvin: “The machine can do what it wants. I’m done.”Bettany: “It must be Sid. He hates these games.”Lottie: “I don’t want to play anymore.”And finally, Norma: “I think the game is over.”She folded up the slip of paper and dropped it back in the hat. The hat went back onto its shelf under the machine. The machine was turned off. And unplugged.All through this process, Norma never took her eyes off of Sid.She understood what he’d done of course. That was obvious. And it was a stupidly simple trick, just a bit of palming. The only challenge was forging the death prediction—fortunately, she had warned him about the game days beforehand. She’d be kicking herself for paying him that kindness for a long time, he suspected. But she wouldn’t tell the others. She wouldn’t reveal what he’d done or how he’d done it. She’d been a magician’s assistant for too many years, at least until she broke up the act and they’d both retired. But she still knew the code. She still believed in the code.Sid’s real death was safely hidden in his pocket. When he arrived home, he would take it out and read the single word printed there. But it held no surprises, just confirmed what he already knew.He could die that very night.Or he could live another ten yearsYou never could tell with these sorts of things.But he’d never have to play another stupid party game for as long as he lived. However brief that might be.



                 X X X

"Aneurysm" was first published in Machine of Death: Stories About People Who Know How They Will Die (2010), edited by Ryan North, Matthew Bennardo, and David Malki !, according to a concept initially devised by North.

Serving Suggestions



They ate the youngest child not long after his ninth birthday. The boy didn’t mind—he was a wheel of cheese, after all, and had achieved his peak flavor. He wanted to be eaten. It’s what he was for. Better, certainly, than going to mold.His sister was a wine bottle, three years his elder, the sturdy middle child who held the family together throughout all their tribulations. She was born with a tapered neck, and a flat bottom, and striking cobalt glass. Tragically, her color didn’t last—by her twelfth year, she had faded to a common green, pale and yellowed like autumn grass. But she didn't mind. Not really.That was the year of the baby’s eating; He had come into the world soft, held together only by the wax he was born with. Now he was firm and ripe; with a sharp knife, the proud parents peeled back his waxy skin to reveal the milky flesh beneath, one small section at a time. The sister stood support for them all, never worried for herself; born without a cork, she held nothing back from those who needed her, always ready to fill an empty cup.When the family swallowed the final bites of their beloved cheese, the wine bottle offered the toast in his honor, weeping out a sweet and grassy mead to best complement the salty sharpness of her brother’s farewell.The eldest child was the disappointment of the family. He was born a man, with nothing of himself to give. His parents loved him as best they could, saw what value they could in him as the only means to perpetuating the family—the cheese wheel was gone, after all, and a bottle begets no bottles. But the man resolved to disappoint his parents still further; he had no intention to marry, no desire for heirs.He leaned on his sister more than anyone, so that the parents worried for them both. In time he became a baker, and his parents were satisfied—they saw how hard he worked to complement his siblings, to offer the world something as worthy as they. Only the sister saw the reproach in his work--they had served the youngest on cheap crackers!--While now he turned out the perfect baguette, the proper pairing to wine and cheese...too late...too late...too late.


                 X X X


First published in Story Etc.
(Read by Felix Trench, directed by Eleanor Rushton)
June, 2018 (Audio begins at 17:40)

The Glacier's Stone, The Mammoth's Ivory



Martina breathed in and smiled. The air carried a lingering hint of saltiness, proof that the ocean wasn't far off. They had left the tent flap slightly unzipped the previous night to let in the breeze, trusting the sleeping bag to keep them warm. And anyway, even Alaska didn't get that cold in August, so long as you weren't too far north. She'd been awake for a half hour, enjoying the coolness of the air, the quiet of the campground, the warmth of Tolly in the sleeping bag beside her. A perfect morning.Valdez was a small city made famous by a great disaster, but that was long in the past. There was a college, a handful of restaurants, and not much else. It was still the terminus of the oil pipeline, and it still earned its primary living in the employ of Exxon, but you'd hardly know it to look around. It was overshadowed by better things—mountains rising on three sides of the city, the ocean abutting the fourth. Most of the year, the only way in or out was by boat or propeller plane—the latter being how Martina and her small group had arrived two days prior. They'd bussed it up from Washington, through Canada to Anchorage, where they'd boarded an aircraft so tiny that you didn't even need to pass through airport security to get to it. If not for the safety ensured by their shared cause of death, it would have been terrifying.Fortunately, such fears had been allayed some decades earlier. It had been three weeks past Martina's sixteenth birthday when her envelope arrived from The Hall of Records. The envelope was plain and yellow, printed with only her name and address, but she knew what she'd find inside: The last mystery of her life, the answer to the most terrifying of questions. She didn't even close the mailbox before she tore the envelope apart to see the document inside.In those days, when most people learned the details of their inevitable deaths, the cause was still likely to be "cancer" or "automobile accident" or "heart attack." Unsurprising, understandable deaths. Some causes had always been a little slippery, open to interpretation, the occasional "water" or "poisoning." But Martina's meant nothing. Less than nothing. "The end," it said on the official notification form, beneath her name and date of birth. That was all. "Martina Gutierrez: The end."The end of what? A rope? A sharp stick? She had no idea what to make of it. Until she found out: Martina wasn't the first, although she was one of the first. The first of The Last.Camille Montrand was number one, born seven weeks before Martina. Martina wasn't even number two; seventeen others came after Camille before she arrived in the world. They were in the tens of thousands by the time Tolly was born, and she was only three years younger. Child after child after child, and it became obvious. It wasn't "the end," they realized. It was "The End." Of the world. Of the human race. Of everything. No dates, no details. The "experts" set about making predictions the old-fashioned way. The actuaries broke out their actuarial tables, looked at birth rates, and death rates, and average life expectancies. And they settled on 116 years from Camille's birth until the end of the world. We marked it on our calendars. We began to plan for it as best we could, without even knowing what it would be. Nuclear war?Environmental disaster? Tolly once said she was betting on simultaneous worldwide spontaneous human combustion. Here and then poof. Just like that.Beside her in the tent, Tolly snuffled in her sleep, a quick burst of exhaled air tickling Martina's ear. Outside, there were sounds of movement: hushed voices, a struck match, pouring water. She'd lounged long enough. It was time to move. Martina rolled onto her side, coming face-to-face with Tolly. Or, face to hair anyway, as brown curls completely obscured Tolly's face, as they always did when she'd forgotten to tie her hair back before bed. When they had first started out on their travels, some twenty years ago now, Tolly had always kept her hair short like Martina's. It was more practical, easier to keep clean in campground facilities. Easier to wash with river water, when that was all that was available. Lately, she had let it grow out, and the curls were a surprise; Tolly hadn't had curls in her youth. Martina loved them, would pull the curls one by one, to watch them spring back. Now, though she just pushed Tolly's hair aside and kissed her forehead, softly."Hey, time to get up."Tolly opened one eye and gave Martina a brief scowl. "The sun needs a snooze button," she said, closing her eye again, against the invading light."Snoozing? I'm forty-six years old—I only have seventy years left to see all the things there are left to see. There's no time for snoozing."
"Same seventy years as me. Same as Camille. Same as Josh and Saul, and everyone else."
"Everyone who'll make it all the way to the end."Tolly opened her eyes fully. "Half of all the babies born this year," she said."What?""We crossed a threshold. That's what they said on the radio. Half of all babies born this year will make it all the way to The End. They'll all be exactly seventy years old.""Come on," said Martina. "I hear the boys setting up breakfast. We should get moving. We've got a glacier to climb today." She gave Tolly a soft 'good morning' kiss, grinned, and shot out the tent flap to prepare for their trek."Right," said Tolly, alone in the tent. "The glacier." She winced when she sat up, her muscles tight from another night sleeping on the cold, hard ground."The boys" were Josh and Saul, twin brothers in their early thirties, more than a decade the women's juniors. At first, Martina had been reluctant to take them on as traveling companions; they were naturally paunchy, not the most athletic looking pair. There was a lot of ground to cover in this world, and Martina intended to go everywhere, see everything.When she suggested a biking tour of the east coast for their first joint adventure, she'd expected the prospect to scare them off, but they'd agreed readily, and turned out to be much hardier than they looked, Josh especially. The boys had kept pace admirably, and so they'd all been traveling as a unit for the past three years. Their mission was to find the special place where they would spend the final moments of history—just the right spot for watching humanity disappear.That was why Martina and Tolly had gone out on the road. They met in a camping supply store where Tolly worked, nineteen and bored, earning her way through college. Martina was twenty-two and dead-set on hitting the road. It took weeks for her to pick out all the supplies she needed. It shouldn't have taken that long—but Tolly was there, helping her to choose each item: her sleeping bag, her propane stove, her tent. Tolly smiled whenever she saw Martina walk in the door. And somehow, by the time Martina left, Tolly was sitting right next to her in her secondhand SUV. The same one they abandoned in Utah two years later, taking only as much of their gear as they could carry on their backs, as they'd done ever since.Stepping out of the tent, Martina found Saul standing over the fire pit, with a tin coffee pot heating on the grill. "Marty, you want some coffee?" he asked, though he was already laying out mugs for each of them."Please. Where's Josh?""He went into town to pick up a new jacket. He got the fire going for us before he left, though, so coffee's just about ready.""What happened to his jacket?"
Saul scowled. "He tore it trying to climb that tree this morning. He got up early, just so he could hike back to it before I woke up."
Martina remembered exactly which tree—Josh had been eager to climb it the previous night, but the sun was already setting, and Saul had persuaded them of the importance of getting camp set up before they lost the light."He should have waited for us," said Martina. "I'd have liked to see how high he made it."Saul didn't look up, focused on doling out sugar into the waiting mugs. "Well, anyway, he'll meet us there."Saul was just pouring the coffee when Tolly finally emerged from the tent in loose jeans and her old Purple Pie Man t-shirt. Martina smiled; Tolly loved that shirt, but she had no idea who the Purple Pie Man was. When Martina had tried to explain, tried to tell her about Strawberry Shortcake and Raspberry Tart, and Purple Pie Man's role in their adventures, Tolly had covered her ears. "I don't want to know!" she cried. "You'll spoil his mystique!" Tolly pulled on her hoodie, leaving just the Pie Man's eyes peeking out over the zipper. She arched backwards, and then forwards again, reached for her toes. She hung there for a moment, arms drooped, slowly exhaling as she waited for the muscles of her back to begin loosening. Then she yawned and snatched a cup of coffee ahead of the others."I vote that our next destination should have actual beds," she said after she'd taken her first sip."I know," said Saul with a roll of his eyes. "But good luck convincing Josh that we need to take a breather.""We can rest here for a couple of days if you want,' offered Martina. 'I'm sure Josh can occupy
himself.'
"A couple of days," Tolly began—she and Saul exchanged a look of...what? Exasperation? "Yeah, great. A couple of days."* * *The glacier guide office was a wooden shack. The inside was decorated with maps of the local nature spots, trails, campgrounds, and of course the glacier itself. Mixed in were posters advertising various outdoor adventures, helicopter tours, the usual things. They were a few minutes early and the office was empty, no sign of the guide they'd contracted save for a half-finished bottle of Mountain Dew on a small card table.A little television in the back flashed the news. The camera was aimed at a hospital entrance. According to the disembodies voice of the anchor, somewhere inside that building, Camille Montrand's daughter was suckling her firstborn child."This is news?" asked Martina."Sure," said Tolly. "The Last are becoming grandparents. It's kind of amazing."As the camera panned, it picked up a group of people circling in a cordoned off area. They carried signs: END your own world! one sign said. Take the EARTH: I'll be with GOD, said another."I don't understand what they're protesting," said Tolly."Us," said Saul. "They think it's our fault. They want us to be the bad guys.""How can people be so stupid?" Martina wondered aloud."They're jealous," said Saul."Of what?" asked Tolly. "What do they think we have that they don't?"
"Purpose," said Martina, without any hesitation. She picked up a remote from the desk in front of her, and switched off the television.
"The world is still full of people who'll live short lives and die badly," said Saul. "We aren't any help. We walk around with all our pompous names for ourselves. 'Enders.' 'The Last.''"Bye-Bye Babies," said Tolly. "That's what they call themselves now. The kids, I mean.""But what the hell, right?" Martina cut in. "We're humanity's final hurrah, aren't we? Is it so bad for us to want a little bit of pomp?"Josh showed up a few minutes later, wearing a bright orange nylon jacket that swished when he swung his arms, which he did with great relish as he walked. He was accompanied by a woman the others didn't know—a young Indian woman who introduced herself as Amolika, visiting from Florida.
"Her friends wouldn't go up the glacier with her," Josh explained, "so I invited her along with us."
"We take turns picking vacation spots each summer," Amolika said, "and this year was my turn. They're kind of mad at me."
"That jacket looks ridiculous," said Saul.Josh just smiled and ignored the comment. "I bought you a sandwich. Roast beef, horseradish, cheddar." He tossed Saul the hoagie, wrapped in wax paper. He followed with similar packages for the others. "Tolly, tuna salad with lettuce. And for Marty, turkey, bacon, and mayo, no tomatoes. I thought we might enjoy something fresher than trail mix and jerky."Tolly grinned as she stowed her sandwich. "Josh, you really didn't have to, but I'm so glad you did.""It's my pleasure to serve," he said, with an affected bow of his head.
The glacier guide came bouncing in through the back door, hair tied up in a ponytail, grinning, and lugging a heavy duffle bag. She gave a wave and a quick "hey," grabbed her soda and took a large gulp. She couldn't have been more than nineteen years old.
"God, I hate this shit," she declared, wiping the sticky drink from her mouth. "Why the hell do I keep buying it?" She pitched the bottle into the trash and turned to the waiting group."So!" she said, "my name is Lake Winnipeg, and yes, I've forgiven my parents for that. You can call me Lake or you can call me Winnie, but don't call me Peg. We've got a short drive and a long walk ahead of us, but before the day is done, you're all gonna see the world from the top of Worthington Glacier. So: are you psyched?""Hell yeah!" cheered Josh, which earned him a playful shoulder bump from Amolika."Well, let's go then!" said Winnie. She threw a high-five at Josh, shouldered the duffle bag, and led the way out of the shack.Martina caught Tolly's eyes—Tolly looked skeptical, but Martina was excited. "Okay, so the guide's a little...boisterous. But, this is going to be fun, I promise."They climbed into the van while Winnie loaded her bag into the back. She slammed down the rear hatch, slung herself into to the driver's seat, and pulled out, grinning."Okay, so once we get there, it'll be about a five-hour hike to the top and back again. There are toilets at the base and nobody likes to pee on a glacier, so make sure you go before we start out. We'll take a lunch break at the top—you all remembered to pack your lunches, right?""She's so young, Marty," Tolly whispered into Martina's ear."So what?""Do we really trust this little girl to take us glacier climbing?""Who else would do it? Old people don't lead glacier hikes, Tolly.""Maybe that's because old people don't belong on glaciers.""Good thing we're not old."Tolly fell quiet, and they just listened to the chatter of the group around them. Saul asked about the histories of the various landmarks Winnie pointed out to the group. Josh and Amolika took turns pointing out striking features of the landscape to each other.Winnie pointed to a playground as they drove past. "You see that slide over there, the tall one? I was walking around down here a couple of winters ago and caught my foot on a pipe. When I dug around it a little, I realized it was the handle bar at the very top of the slide. That's how deep the snow gets in winter.""If we'd decided to make a kid," said Tolly, softly, "she'd probably have been the same age as this girl.""Why are you thinking about that now?""When should I think about it?""You agreed. Tolly, you said it yourself. How could we make a kid knowing—knowing—that its life was going to be cut short no matter what we did?""Cut short...at ninety years old. Whose idea of short is that?"* * *

They left the van in a parking lot and used the portable toilets before crossing the stony lead-up to the glacier itself. It was closer than it seemed; from a distance, it looked as if an enormous wave had broken across the mountains, only to freeze as it sloshed over the nearer side. In truth it was moving in the opposite direction, slowly receding as the years passed.When they reached the first protruding tongues of ice, Winnie handed out equipment from the duffle bag. Each person received a set of crampons, metal frames studded with sharp metal prongs to strap to the bottoms of their shoes, giving them better purchase on the ice. Once they had all attached the crampons, they each received an ice pick as well."We won't be doing any real climbing today," Winnie told them, "but the ice does get a little steeper in places, and the pick can be a big help. When those picks are stuck in the ice, they could hold a Mack truck up by a vertical line, so don't worry about putting your weight on them. Just watch out for the ankles of the guy in front of you when you sink it in."Martina slipped the strap over her wrist before testing its heft. It felt good. It felt like a certainty in her hand; a single simple swing, and she could hold on to anything. They started up the slope. It took her a little while to get the hang of walking with crampons. Here at the bottom, where there were still stony patches, it was difficult. The prongs slipped off rock, and it was easy to twist an ankle. Once they reached the ice it was easier; the crampons bit in, and walking almost felt natural."So, are you guys Enders?" Winnie asked as they hiked. They nodded, a little uncomfortably, except for Josh who chirped 'Sure are!' as he held out a hand to Amolika, to help her up a particularly steep slope."Not me," said Amolika. "I'm a suicide."That brought Winnie to a halt, a moment of panic stopping her constant banter, but Amolika waved off Winnie's concern. "Not today, though, I promise! It's not depression or anything like that. I just don't want to see The End. I don't want to be here for it. I want to know that after I die, there will still be a world here, even if only for a little while. So when it looks like we're getting close...""I gotcha," Winnie said, looking much relieved.The others were slower to find their ease again, save Josh who likely already knew. It was unusual to find a...a not-Ender within their group.There was no good name for them, for everyone else, who wouldn't be there at the final moment. All the people who still get "diabetes" and "brain tumor" and "drowning" and "house fire." Like Tolly's little cousin, Nell, who's going to die of "multiple strokes." Or Martina's own baby brother, her little Roberto, whom she hadn't spoken to in years, who might have already been dead, cut short by his inevitable "porch collapse."Martina had no name for them, but she had a word. She called them 'strangers.' She called them "The people we can't let ourselves love."They all stuck together, The Last, The Enders, The Bye-Bye Babies. They clustered, isolated themselves with glaciers, and houseboats, and deserts. Together in the wilderness, where nothing of the temporary world could touch them. So long as they stayed with each other, and only each other, they would never have to outlive anyone they cared about, ever.For Josh to invite one of those others in was...crass. What was he thinking?"What about the rest of you?" asked Winnie. "Shopping for the right place to check out from?""How could you tell?" asked Saul."I already did my shopping. That's how I ended up here. I'm from Ohio, but from when I was little, my folks used summer vacations to take me around, show me different places. And I'll tell you, this is my place. I know it. Just wait till we get to the top. You'll see." Martina quickened her pace. She believed, as she always did, that just over this rise, just past this turn, would be the best bit yet. And she was never disappointed."Oh, hang on a minute, this is important," said Winnie. She waited until the group had gathered around her before continuing. "You see that mound of snow over there?" she said, indicating a modest pile a few feet ahead of them. "That's the most dangerous thing up here, 'cause you have no idea what's under there. The glacier is constantly changing shape, fissures open and close every day. When the snow crusts over, it can end up sitting right on top of a huge fissure, like a pile of leaves over a pit trap. And even though the fall won't kill any of us, it would still suck to be the guy who spends 70 years paralyzed, or in a coma, or suspended in an inescapable state of living death, frozen inside a block of ice. Right? Right. So the rule is, never step on the snow. Only the ice. Everyone clear on that?"They nodded gravely, now eyeing the mound with suspicion as they cautiously stepped around it.Josh, bringing up the rear, paused next to the mound Winnie had indicated. A crevasse hundreds of feet deep could be lurking there, waiting to capture any passing tourist, only to close up around them on the next sunny day. Josh slowly poked one toe of his hiking boot into the mound, careful to keep all his weight firmly balanced on his other foot. At first, he only made a small divot in the mound, but he continued digging, pushing more and more of the snow aside. There was nothing underneath, just a solid floor of ice, firm and safe."Cut that out!" Saul yelled from further ahead. Josh rolled his eyes, but he walked carefully. The snow mounds became more frequent as they proceeded further up the glacier."I don't think it's possible to actually be suspended in a state of living death inside a block of ice," said Tolly as they passed yet another potential ice trap. "I think you'd just be dead."Martina smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Wizard," she said.After a while, they reached a narrow crease in the ice, carved by a tiny, but quick-flowing rivulet of water. "If you're thirsty, this is a good spot to fill your water bottles." Winnie didn't bother with a bottle, just stooped down to dip her mouth into the stream. She invited the others to do the same. "This water's been frozen here for thousands of years. Every time the sun comes out, the top layer of the glacier sloughs off, exposing a new layer of ice, even older than the one before it."Martina got down to her knees, dipping her lips right into the water, as Winnie had done. It was cold, so cold. "Guaranteed pollution-free," Winnie said with a smile. "You know why?""Of course," said Saul. "Because it's been under ice since before there was a civilization to pollute it.""That's right! No human has ever touched it.""Until today," Tolly said, frowning.
Martina took another long swallow.
"Try it, Tolly. I bet we could be happy drinking nothing but this for the rest of our lives.""Who are you kidding? You know I could never give up coffee." But she bent down too, cupped her hand and lifted the water to her lips.
Martina took Tolly's hand as they continued walking. It was still damp and cold from holding the water, but Martina rubbed her fingers, warming them.
"Why are there all these little holes full of water?" Saul asked, noticing the pockmarked surface of the ice.
"Reach in," said Winnie. "See what you find."
Saul did, and was surprised to find a small object at the bottom of the tiny cylinder of water. "A pebble?""The Glacier isn't just ice. As it moved along, it scooped up dirt and rocks and all sorts of things that got frozen inside. As the glacier recedes, they come to the surface again. But rocks absorb heat way better than ice, and once they get warm, they start melting the ice under them. That makes all these holes, each with a rock at the bottom.""So they'll just keep slowly falling into the ice, forever?""Nah, just until dark. Overnight, the water'll refreeze and the rocks'll be trapped just like they were. They won't see the sun again for years. And when they do, it'll only be for the one day, just like today."Saul examined the stone in his hand; it was smooth and dark, almost black. He couldn't identify it; he knew pretty much nothing about stones. But he kept it, slipping it into his pocket.Josh gave his brother's shoulder a squeeze as he walked past.
They reached the summit after two hours of trekking. It wasn't the hardest climb any of them had ever done, but walking on ice was tiring, so they were all glad to stop for lunch. Everything else around them looked miles away; they could just make out the parking lot where they'd started, hundreds of feet below, off in the distance.
"I thought Uluru would be a fun place to consider,' said Josh between bites of his sandwich. 'Top of a huge flat rock in the middle of the outback. Get right up to the edge and watch out over the whole desert... That'd be nice. You can't get up there anymore, though. It's reserved for the aborigines."
They all sat in a row, facing the same direction, into the wind, to keep their hair out of their faces while they ate.
"Or the lip of a volcano. In Hawaii maybe. We've been to Hawaii, but we didn't see the volcanoes. I'd like to get back there, maybe take a helicopter tour.""How about a boat?" said Saul."Just a little boat, a houseboat maybe. Out on the water, nothing
around but the fish and the quiet. I could learn to use a sextant. Do any of you know how to use a sextant?" No one did. "I've always wondered about that," Saul ended, a little dreamily.
"I'm not going out on a boat," said Josh. "It's just not happening.""Don't tell me you get seasick," Amolika teased, brushing a crumb of bread from his cheek."Something like that.""You guys finish your lunches," said Winnie. "I think I see something interesting a little way over. I'll check it out, and if it is what I think it is, I'll take you over there."Martina chewed a handful of trail mix, pretzels and m&ms mingling in her mouth. When Tolly leaned against her, she put her arm around Tolly's shoulder. She kissed Tolly's hair."I like it here," she said. "This could be our place.""It's cold, Marty.""It's a good cold.""What if it happens in winter? What if it happens when there're six feet of snow on the ground, and that's just down in town, not at the top of a mountain. We wouldn't even be able to get up here.""It's so beautiful.""If beauty was all that mattered, I'd love it as much as you do."Martina squeezed Tolly tighter, and they waited for the guide to return.* * *

Winnie visibly relaxed when they finally stepped off the glacier and into the parking lot, but still said nothing to them as they climbed back into the van. They reached the touring office without incident or conversation. Saul tried offering Winnie a fifty-dollar apology, but she wouldn't even acknowledge it.She unceremoniously kicked them to the curb, closed up the van, and disappeared into the office, locking the door behind her."My friends texted," said Amolika to the others. "There's a party. You're all welcome if you want to come.""Thank you," said Tolly with an exhausted sigh. "But I think I've had my fun for the day. Maybe we'll see you tomorrow." Martina shrugged and put an arm around Tolly's waist. Tolly didn't lean into her, didn't extend a reciprocal arm."Give us a call if you want to get breakfast," Tolly added.Josh looked at Saul, his eyebrow raised. "Not me," said Saul. "I'm counting myself in with the old folks. You go, though. Have fun. We'll see you in the morning."Josh shrugged and turned to go.They all watched together, Martina, and Tolly, and Saul. Saul smiled when he saw Amolika take Josh's hand."Totem Inn?" Martina asked when it was just the three of them again. It was a tourist restaurant, attached to a hotel and decked out like a hunting lodge with the requisite flagstone fireplace and stuffed carcass décor. But the food was good and it was near their camp, so it had become their default dining when they were too hungry or tired to scout out someplace new. Tolly and Saul nodded their assent."I could go for some biscuits and gravy," said Saul."Didn't you eat that yesterday?" Tolly asked, teasing."Sure did. And I'll eat it again tomorrow. There aren't many places in the north where you can get a decent southern breakfast, so I intend to take full advantage while I can. And even if I have a heart attack, it's not like it'll kill me."There was no levity in his tone. They walked down the street."Hey, it's Camille," Saul commented as they entered the restaurant.Martina started at the strangeness of running into Camille so far from the safety of her little house in Vermont, but quickly realized Saul was pointing to the television over the bar. The television crews had followed Camille's daughter home, to get the cooing grandmother's reaction. And there she was on the screen, offering the cameraman a blueberry muffin and a glass of lemonade. The whole family was there: Camille and her Last husband, and their four Enders. And the proud new mommy with her own little Bye-Bye Baby. Tolly grinned when we saw him: "He's a sweet little thing, isn't he?"Martina could see Camille's final day already, as she sat there in a too-firm armchair, surrounded by her children, and her newborn grandchild, and blueberry muffins, knitted blankets, and shelves of knickknacks. Her children did all the talking, gave the interviewer a tour of the house, lovingly described each piece of furniture they passed. "I like that curio," said Tolly, as the camera panned.Martina turned away from the TV, to peer instead into the glass case of the souvenir kiosk in the lobby. It was mostly jewelry and figurines, supposedly all locally carved. "Look at this pen," she said, calling Saul and Tolly over. "It's made of mammoth ivory." The pen was brown and grained, almost like
polished wood. It was thick, with a gold clip, the kind of pen you save for special occasions that never come.
"That's really tacky," said Saul."I think it's kind of wonderful," Martina responded. "It's a remnant of something that lived here thousands of years ago. A mammoth. A real, literal mammoth. Part of it is still here, where any of us can touch it.""I can't believe you're thinking of buying such a touristy souvenir.""Shut up! What's your souvenir? A rock?""My rock didn't cost ninety bucks.""If you want it, get it," Tolly broke in. "It's pretty.""What would I do with it?""I'll buy you a notebook. You can keep a journal.""For what? Who's gonna read it?""Whoever comes next. Whatever new species evolves and comes here to sift through our remnants thousands of years from now.""That's right," said Saul. "Whatever species comes along to make keepsake pens from our fossilized bones.""Stop it," said Tolly. "You're being a jerk."Saul opened his mouth to retort, but didn't; he swallowed whatever he had been about to say. "You're right. Look, I'm going to the bathroom to wash up. By the time I get back, I'll be a nicer person again. I promise."Martina stared at the pen, still debating. "He's probably right. It's a stupid thing to buy. I'd probably just lose it anyway.""If you don't buy it, I'm going to buy it for you," said Tolly. "Either way, it ends up in your pocket."Even as Martina began to protest, Tolly's wallet appeared in her hand, drawn like gunfighter's revolver. Moments later, then pen was in her hand, a heavy and awkward and beautiful thing. She knew she would never use it.A hostess appeared to show them to a table, where they each sat beside an empty chair."You really loved it up there," said Tolly."I did. But you hated it.""I didn't. Really, I didn't. I'm just tired.""We can stop for a while. We can take a break.""What's a while?"'I don't know. You tell me. How long do you need? A week? A month? We can hole up somewhere, just make camp and sit tight until you're ready to move on.'"Oh, Marty. A month? I want a year. Or two years. Or five years. I'd like to sleep under a solid roof. I'd like to own a couch. I'd like to spend some time sitting on it."Martina said nothing. A couch? Where would she keep a couch? What would she do with something so big?"It's just...I thought we'd have found our place by now. I didn't expect to still be searching after twenty years.""What are we supposed to do? Just stop? Stand still? We're living the last life anyone will ever live. What are we going to do with seventy years spent standing in one place? Work in an office? Take up knitting?""Do you remember the hotel we stayed at in Anchorage? The one night we were there. The sheets were clean. In the shower, there were those little soaps. The little bottles of shampoo.""Yeah, it was comfortable. But...""No, not that. I'm talking about the little bottles of shampoo. Someone made, those, Marty. In a factory. Someone wrote the copy for their labels. Someone filled them with shampoo, and screwed on the caps. Someone in that hotel went up and down the floors, into each room, putting a little bottle of shampoo on a little shelf in every shower. Those little things...people still do them.""It's absurd.""It makes them happy. It makes them feel like life goes on.""But it doesn't. Tolly, life doesn't go on."Tolly looked away, back to the television, and Martina couldn't help doing the same. There was Camille, still sitting in her chair, occasionally nodding or shrugging, but saying nothing. She quietly traced the pattern of her chair's upholstery with the tip of her finger."You've never asked me where I want to be," said Tolly."Of course I have. I always ask you!""You always ask me about whatever place we're in at the moment. 'Is this the place, Tolly? Could we die here?'""And you always say 'No.'""But you've never asked me if I have my own idea. My own picture in my mind of where we are or what The End looks like for us. You've never asked."Martina stopped, wracked her brain, trying to think of a moment, any moment, that proved Tolly wrong. But there was nothing."Tell me," she said, finally.Tolly began:"We wake up in a bed. An enormous bed. It's spring, and the curtain is pulled back so the sun can wake us. Gently, filtered through the azaleas that grow outside the window, softening the light. The blanket is pushed to the bottom of the bed, covering just our feet and ankles. You're awake first, but you stay there, your arm around me, waiting for me. When I finally wake up, I nestle into you, and you hold me tighter."I get out of bed first. I'm in the kitchen, making the coffee. It's a well-used kitchen. The stovetop is stained from all the meals we've cooked together, side-by-side, cracking the eggs, dicing the onions. But not this morning. On this morning, we just need coffee, nothing else. I pour boiling water into the carafe, stir in the grinds. You come in just as I'm setting the plunger on top."You're still sleepy, rubbing your eyes. Your hair is matted down on one side, standing straight out on the other. You're in your striped pajama shorts and my old Purple Pie Man t-shirt. I'm going to give you that shirt someday. But not until after you've promised you'll never tell me who he is. Not until you've forgotten who he is yourself."And you're old. So old. Your hair is pure white, and you have even more wrinkles than I do. Twice as many wrinkles. I count them at night, every wrinkle another year that I've spent loving you. You walk so slowly."You put your arms around me and kiss me good morning. You've just brushed your teeth and you still taste like toothpaste. But so do I, so it's okay. When the coffee is ready, we each pick out our favorite mug from the cabinet. They're chipped from years of use. They've both had their handles glued back on, over and again. And we fill them up."We take the coffee out to the porch. We have a table out there, covered in ceramic tiles. A mosaic of all the places we've ever seen. There are so many, we can't even remember them all. Some days, we look at the table, pick out scenes, and just tell stories. Made up stories of the adventures we think we might have had, if only we were still young enough to remember.
"But today we don't tell stories. Today, you hold my hand, and you tell me you love me. And I tell you I love you too. Then we sit quietly and we sip our coffee.
"And the world ends."Just like that."Martina bit her lip. She waited. But Tolly was done."That's what you want for us?" she finally asked."It is.""Then we can do that. I would do that with you."'I know you would. But I know...I know you'd hate it.'"Maybe I wouldn't," Martina said.And she meant it.But neither of them believed her.


                 X X X


First published in The Girl at the End of the World, Vol. 1, 2014.
"The Glacier's Stone, The Mammoth's Ivory" was written within the Machine of Death world concept before being revised to function as a standalone work (revisions based, in part, on generous feedback from Matthew Bennardo).