riesling diou

The sky is setting, spilling pink and orange carnage. I think of that Italian place

near the hospital. The meatballs there are violently red.

I stand at the curb and raise my hand to the sky.

Lovebugs swarm my arm.

I wait until a rickety old vehicle chugs along to lower it, shedding them.

Fingers curling around the leather handle, I load my luggage into the backseat.

‘Where to?’ comes the cabbie’s gruff voice.

Break is over, so I know

where I must be heading but not why. ‘Scriabin.’

A sympathetic,

pathetic glance passes through the rearview mirror.

Message transmitted. Received.

He slinks into position and dives into the streets.

I throw my head over the back of the leather seats.

Sunlight stains my eyes. His voice scrapes against my eardrums.

Haven’t I already left home?

Questions, criticisms; hearing it from a stranger stings less than family. There isn’t a hint of inter-personality.

I get it.

It’s difficult to cope when your child is throwing 14k a year at a useless degree.

But to a cabbie, this grand travesty is conversation. He doesn’t care. The government gets paid and so does the military, so nobody does.

We, at the Scriabin College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, are revered by none. A tiny, satellite campus that hugs the shoreline.

         r           e           v         

g           Pluto       o         around larger state institutions.

        n       i       v   l

No one who ends up here deserves better.

Mediocre students go where the money is.

When a college digs into its pockets, students ought to drop to their knees and beg. When I applied, I was almost denied, but I begged.

Iasked questions no one could answer. Where am I going where have I been?

They didn’t know, so I was referred to an admissions counselor,

who referred the registrar. The registrar referred a professor.

I went to his office and waited half an hour, only for a frazzled TA to rush in.

Speaking like shoes racing over marbles, he said the professor had been dead

for thirteen days. No one knew he was dead,

died on a research trip in the Andes.

I almost had career counseling with that dead guy.

Maybe it would’ve been a helpful discussion so I’d know

how not to wind up like him.

Because I’m a follower.

I hate Achiet, I have the grand desire to get away,

to leave more permanently than winter from the peninsula.

Scriabin is not optimal for anything,

yet it only exists in dramatic contrasts.

Everyone has to take cars everywhere but parking passes and insurance are too expensive to buy. Carbon monoxide poisoning and pollution are at all-time highs yet only the people who walk die. Drivers drive drunk.

Everyone is either fresh-blooded and shrieking war calls

or thirteen years into their first semester. Some are both and neither.

Some homeless guys set up a camp in the steam tunnels beneath the school.

Nobody cares besides the kids who drive past them in BMWs.

The rest, we’re nobody.

We don’t care;

they piss less and do substantially fewer drugs than the BMW Bros

Less disruptive, too, so there’s no need to wage war

against anything. Nothing ever contests this artificial peace.

I hop out on an identical slice of the shore.

Below sea level, Scriabin sits upon mossy sands.

Today is the first day after the winter holiday.

Classes are in session yet it seems that the campus is mine. Save for my rusted pick-up truck with flaky blue paint on the sides, the parking lot is  e   m   p   t   y.

I walk the stretch of asphalt, suitcase huffing behind.

Its wheels squeak and groan with every long stride.

My trek to the dorms is solitary. The path opens with three walkways.

Each is lined with palm trees and withered plants.

There’s a welcome arch to get past, then the Student Center, an ugly modern building that was built in the ‘70s.

The pond is the only saving grace, then the space pours into swatches of overgrown grass and haphazardly placed buildings. There are several, just enough to house the meager thousand-student population.

On the piece of the beach owned by the school, there’s the I-Station, reserved for rich international students and visiting professors.

For the common student, accommodations are far less accommodating. Lined with creepers and cracks, the dorms look like reed-mouthed flytraps.

One blocky, bulky, red-chalky unit near the duck pond pulses with a faint green light. Occupying every window, the light ebbs through the windows like waves.

Accompanying the strange drone, like a piano to its violin is a gentle, stringed percussion, there is a plucking noise.

The sound of something straining and tearing resounds.

Then a final piercing screech rings out, and it begins its macabre song all over again. I don’t realize the buzzard ditty has me glued to the spot until I feel flies crawling around my ears.

The building is nothing strange.

It must be one of those Fine Arts or Engineering Department freaks—

majoring in performance arts, learning to embody the chaos or to become its proponent.

These people eat bowls of treble clefs and bolts,

let manuscripts and soundbeams

wind through their ventricles and hearts.

Music is pretty and so are designs, but who does that?

Devote their life to the intangible?

The only worse masochists are the Pre-Meds.

At least they have realistic aspirations;

anyone can become a great doctor, but not anyone can

become Tan or Paganini or Bilbao.

Most creative-thinkers won’t even become footnotes in their respective field.

Perhaps, they’ll be chronicled in separate books, referenced in larger works,

but a life in academia is one of parasitism.

Weird dorms aside, there is a culture of dormancy at Scriabin.

There isn’t much of a nightlife when most of the town depends on tourists.

The city:

has the air of a retirement village if the residents were pumped full of steroids.

is where old people come to boil and the tourists come to fry.

is where everyone is in bed before the bingo hall closes.

If you’re quiet when you pass by an alley,

you’ll hear someone puking.

With my suitcase dragging behind,

I file into the Common Hall.

This place is poorly and unfashionably designed.

The rugs are repurposed from an arcade that closed during Arcade Heyday.

The general architecture looks like it was stolen from a retro-futurism concept board.

Before I brave a hike up several sets of stairs, I stop by the mailroom. It looks like a wall of honeycombs.

The room next to mine is empty while its mailbox is filled.

As usual, I find their letters encroaching on my box. They swamp the room.

No one else is here, but if they were, they wouldn’t mind, so I don’t.

College is conformity;

going against the mold means life doesn’t get any better.

Often, I think that boy must miss his mom.

A bunch of teal envelopes and coupons to fast food chains are in his hoard.

I snag one of each from atop the pile.

If he’s gone, he doesn’t need food or heartfelt notes.

A million posters loiter on the bulletin board.

It chronicles the past better than a Joseon historian or casual Mormon.

Every day, a notice is added for yesterday.

I just missed a free screening of some avant-garde French film. The poster doesn’t feature the ubiquitous Floating Head arrangement.

No, this is a Quirky Film;

its design is compiled with geometric shapes and other elements of Bauhaus.

Besides it is another flier. With an unsightly font,

it shares how the resident kook of an author held another publishing party 

for a record turnout of seventeen.

Authors—who needs them? I’ve never read a book that stuck with me.

I stare at the signboard. Yesterdays upon yesterdays. Days lost to time.

This building’s elevator doesn’t work anymore. I miss my elevator buddy.

I drag my suitcase up several tedious flights of stairs,

then have to do it all over again one more time because I climb too high.

Recalling numbers is impossible.

Each hall:

is the same expanse of ugly carpet and beige walls

is a Soviet shoebox of an apartment, but not even those damn Commies faced as much radiation.

These dorms have issues.

Totally unfit for residency.

There was even mercury poisoning at some point.

When you shower and when you drink from the tap,

the water never doesn’t taste like lead.

A blur flies past me down the stairs.

Someone without breath, someone faceless. The darkness on their face must be their eye bags. The blur mutters about tourists with immense disdain.

Miserable students are all alike;

each student is unhappy in their own way.

No one likes having them around, but those pricing-us-out vagrants are why we have minimum wage jobs that help put us through college with hefty loans.

For now, I work at a local store.

My roommate interns in Information Systems somewhere.

Or so I hear. I don’t know what that is or who my roommate is. Maybe I saw a glimpse during orientation. Maybe not. I don’t recall anyone else being there.

I venture down an identical hall.

I stop before a door that is only distinguishable from the others because I draw on the little whiteboard hanging outside.

Halting, I erase the weeks-old doodle with my sleeve and replace it. A grotesque face with a ghastly expression, giraffe-like neck, and spindly body replace the old.

Cap between my teeth,

I slide the marker in, skimming my lip.

I attach it to the board and kick the door open.

Decisively,

unpacking is tomorrow’s chore.

I toss the suitcase inside, retrieve my bag

then trudge back down the stairs and head back to the first floor.

When I emerge, it takes a while, but I keep blinking and blinking,

then they’re all there. People, loads of them;

in the building

worming across the grass

slinking across and hissing like snakes before they slither over sand into sea.

There isn’t Greek Life or anything interesting, but Scriabin

has the Quad Gods, who perch by the welcome gates like unsightly gargoyles.

They’re all athletic in some way.

One does track. One does CrossFit.

The third does semi-competitive figure skating.

I wonder where he finds the time to skate and where he first found a rink.

They’re all fairly attractive.

They are all spindly and look like they don’t have waists.

With excessive handsomeness and vanity,

one of them ought to be the god of something,

but there’s a bunch of fanatic old people here.

Deities shouldn’t be spoken of so casually.

To most, the only god that exists is the only one you won’t ever see.

I don’t know if anyone has ever seen these guys away from their spot,

so in a way, one of them might be a god.

They’re always perching by the entrance gates, covered in dust like they haven’t and won’t move for years and years and years.

Now that I look, I realize I don’t even know their names.

I know them, but how?

Do they even go to school here? Who knows? Who cares?

Outliers significantly affect statistical values;

they’re why Scriabin has such a terrible reputation with sexual assault cases—

among students, they shoulder the blame.

If you don’t look, they won’t pounce.

With better things to do, I keep my head down.

Staring at them won’t go to the lecture that will explain the homework that will help me prepare for the test that will ensure I get a good grade at College-ing so I’ll have a job that will pay for a little picket fence in the suburbs someday.

The Faculty of Psychology is halfway across campus, right in front of the duck pond. Its glass facade reflects against the disturbed water. Jets keep it churning so the fish occupying it won’t die. Benches line the perimeter.

Perfect for my kind of student;

besides Architecture, Psyche students are most prone to tears;

being aware of your emotions, the sentience of grass,

believing that people should be skinned with life-long labels,

that not confining them to a box

means a life condemned to misery does mess with the nerves.

Brain Science is more neurosis than neurology

a neurologist can recite physiology and stimuli, but a psychiatrist is a mystic.

I enter the building. It’s like an anthill in there,

people lugging heavy bags around, rushing upstairs, across every hall.

They all look like they’re running, but no one goes anywhere.

Instead, they circle and circle. They’re all moving so fast, almost like a time-lapse.

I keep my head down and ascend to the second floor.

The elevator here works but I don’t even go near it

because it’s cursed and you need a buddy if you want to use it.

When I reach the lecture hall,

I find that it’s empty.

Peeking inside, I check the schedule. Displeased with the results, I check it again.

I already took Psych 101 last semester. Maybe I failed.

Damn American higher education. It wants to drain everybody of everything.

If anyone had told me it would be so difficult to stay in college,

I wouldn’t have got in.

Maybe if not, I’d be learning how to weld,

or embalm bodies somewhere in the Midwest,

or I’d be a goat farmer in Uzbekistan.

Maybe my class is supposed to be in the library today.

It’s Monday. Those are Independent Study Days. 

Hear:

when the professor doesn’t feel like coming to class, so we all trudge to the library to make the most of the day while we’re still inspired.

Every day feels like Monday, but I never feel like going to the library.

Too many geeks and nerds typing

click-clack on computers instead of writing notes.

Too many annoying people with millions of highlighters and washi tape.

Too many revolutionary ideas to steal.

I concentrate on child psychology because their minds are difficult to understand

and I don’t want to understand anyone who might be like me.

As a minor, I take Spanish.

Still don’t speak a word of it.

I listen to videos that are meant to teach me Arabic but it’s useless in America

unless you want to go somewhere and work in intelligence

or read the best, most soul-searing poetry.

Before leaving, I step inside.

The lecture hall rises in a spiral; slats of windows line the ceiling,

Stale-aired and tasting of salt.

I look at the chalkboard,

AstroTurf Green marred by white.

I run my fingers against it.

Chalk peels away and disintegrates in lukewarm hands.

When my stained fingers rise to meet the board again,

I discover a message I hadn’t seen before.

“HOW DO YOU FLOAT?” in thick, large letters.

As if swiped away by an unseen hand, they smear.

A carving on the board becomes clear, but I’m busy viewing the torrent threatening to consume the words.

Swirling around it are mutterings and psych-ward doodles,

the kind of things you might draw on a stall in a public bathroom.

At the center is a figure composed of haphazard lines.

Outlines, something lacking shape.

With a dull hum, the projector flickers to life.

Faint outlines appear on the board in puffs of chalk smoke. Nails screech across the surface. Watery hands rake along it, desperate to find purchase.

The hurricane abates. The figure stills, staring ahead.

Before it solidifies, I drop my bag onto the floor and scamper out of the building.

A student passing by hugs the wall enclosing the bridge, evading their fury. When she steps too close, the scuffle continues across her shoes. The girl opens her mouth in a silent cry and spurs into a run that continues well after she dashes from sight. Pressing her mouth into her palm, Kyveli suppresses a laugh. 

Her nails nick her skin. Her gaze bounces from hand to hand as she studies the keratin. Meticulously cleared of dirt, they are neat, pale crescents. It’s almost a meditation, observing the precision of her constant preening. Her chin rests on the heels of her hands while her fingers flutter across her cheeks in an anxious dance. 

How she longs to sprout wings of her own, to join them on coasting on the crisp autumn air. She could venture to any corner of the globe, seeking a home of everywhere, or nowhere. She would love to live in the middle of an ocean on a buoy. But to be a bird… She is flighty but lacks the intelligence. Perhaps someone like her is not so much a boundless migrant, but more of a pupa still shrouded in its cocoon. 

Echoing through the cavernous hall, Professor Jens announces the lecture’s end. With a mind as fleeting as hers, she has long since conditioned herself into snapping out of her reveries upon hearing that word. 

As students gather their belongings and shuffle out, the murmur of pointless conversation fills the air. Who is having what for lunch, who is doing this during the weekend. And what she loathes hearing the most—who is doing who. 

Kyveli lingers at her desk, fingers dancing across the page as she scribbles in her ugly, distinctive scrawl. Glancing at the board, she sighs. She is eager to leave, yet for the trouble she causes Professor Jens, compelled to at least pretend she cares about his obsession with 18th-century Romantic literature. Not only a movement, but a poetic revolution, as he claims. 

If Kyveli and her peers are rebels, unwitting warriors of the pen, then she will be first in line to meet Professor Jens at the guillotine. Words—those have never been her specialty. Neither analyzing nor utilizing, save for when they are impressed upon a page. Otherwise, she is utterly tone-deaf. Ironic, for a budding linguist. She adores these languages, their microcosms, yet cannot comprehend the people who define them. 

With a final flourish, she snaps her notebook shut and stands, preparing to leave. A heavy gaze falls upon her. 

“Miss Szabó, a moment if you will?” The request anchors her to the spot just as she poises to drift through the door. She can’t help but tense up at the sound of her surname. It is a reminder she does not need. 

“Of course, Professor,” Kyveli acquiesces, turning to face him. She cannot meet his bright blue eyes, so she stares at his greying hair, the wrinkles on his forehead. She tries to be attentive, but she is already pondering the crisp air outside, how it promises a taste of the winter the city has yet to receive. Those bloody Dutchmen must but stealing all the snow to ship to Scandanavia. 

“Before you go, Miss Szabó, your recent research paper,” Professor Jens interjects, realigning her focus. “The one analyzing Stesichorus, along with determinism and relativity?” 

She winces, recalling little of the thesis, only the fervent haze that produced it. “Ah, that one. What about it?” 

It’s well-received and making rounds among the faculty. He even sent a copy to a few professor friends eager to hear a requiem of the acclaimed Szabó Voice. Most papers are and do, unless they’re written by complete idiots, that is. Enough people have told her she reminds them of her father. 

She has an exceptional grasp of language, both ancient and living, but so does everyone else. English is hardly any of her peers’ first language, so her mastery hardly deserves praise. And the classics? She had a premature start. 

Of course, her sources would be well-cited. She fought to earn a place at this school and would rather commit seppuku than risk being accused of plagiarism, and any solid argument needs bedrock foundations. The barrage of baseless praise doesn’t seem to have an end. Nor does the patronizing tone as he babbles. She hears the drone, only jolting once her name sneaks into the conversation. 

“I trust you are eager to pursue further research?” 

A subtle tension creases Kyveli’s brow. After nearly three years of dealing with Belgian bureaucracy, she does not harbor any fervor in submitting any additional paperwork. However, it isn’t a simple paper he’s discussing. The dreaded Future Talk. The dreaded discussions about whether she will continue to trudge forth in academia or finally relent to the urge that tells her to abandon her life in Leuven and flee to Hungary to search for yet another precious artifact lost to time. 

Professor Jens views her beneath silver-streaked eyebrows. “You wish to seek an internship this summer, correct?” 

This holiday is looking to be uneventful. She is considering applying to a research project for one of her father’s former colleagues, but it’s primarily at the behest of a friend, so she shouldn’t hinge her expectations on it. Kyveli is already on her way to achieving education at the country’s top university. Once complete with this degree, she could pursue another, delve into media or work at a museum or small press. Even if it means she’ll eat cabbage soup the rest of her, anything with the capacity to engage with languages or history will suffice. 

She won’t be miffed if these past three years were for naught, if she winds up working the counter at a resort somewhere. Sure, she adores the classics, the languages that shaped their policies and interactions, but she isn’t particularly motivated to work. But it isn’t very forward-thinking of her to abandon it all and become a housewife, so she must reluctantly make a name for herself, and when she fails, find a cave to hide and lick her wounds. 

Glancing at Professor Jens, she realizes he’s quietly awaiting her return. Still, his next question startles her. 

“Have you made any friends here? How are you finding your classes?” 

“Classes are interesting,” Kyveli offers, her gaze drifting towards the now empty seats. Acquaintances aplenty, enough for her to not struggle finding partners for research products. If there is anything she is known for, it is her dedication. As for friends, she thinks of Nikolos, but something holds her back from sharing him. “Social life is adequate. I remain cordial with my peers.” 

“I see,” he nods, his eyes searching hers for a moment before continuing. “And what about your family? Your father? Any plans to visit during break?” 

Kyveli’s breath catches in her throat. She looks away. Always prattling on about her father, the man whose legacy casts a looming shadow. 

“No. Busy. Not this season,” she manages to say. “Traveling doesn’t seem plausible this year.” Money and such. Resigning from her position at that printing company, then scores of job interviews so she can fulfill her role as a decent housemate and not remain perpetually broke. “Perhaps another time, when the circumstances are more ideal.” 

He seems to sense her discomfort and quickly changes the subject. “Your performance in class is impeccable,” Professor Jens continues. “I’ve never seen anyone write a paper as excellent as you do, and so consistently. But tell me, Miss Szabó, are you content?” 

“Content?” she echoes, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. Is she content? She certainly isn’t discontented, only bored. There are plenty things to mull over with a mind chaste as snow. “I apologize, sir, but you aren’t a philosophy lecturer, and it’s showing. I don’t know what you mean by that, but I am content. Have I done anything to make you believe otherwise? I apologize for always spacing out, if that’s what brought this about. I’ve found that my mind is restless when it’s cold but not snowing.” 

“Nothing of the sorts. Simply, your work is exceptional, but I worry about your well-being outside of academics,” he explains, his voice gentle but insistent. “Your father was a dear colleague of mine, and I can’t help but notice you share some traits. Like him, I rarely see you engage with your peers, and with the summer holidays approaching, I cannot help but wonder if you have plans.” 

“I…” she begins but falters, the truth difficult to verbalize. Instead, she opts for quiet defiance. “My personal life is of no concern, Professor. Besides school, I am trying to focus on my personal research.” 

“And how is that going?” He inquires, not unkindly, but she can’t resist the bitterness the question inspires. 

It’s going about as well as a madman’s pursuit can. She’s desperate to track down the documents, but no one in her father’s sphere of influence recalls where he hid his life’s greatest obsession. For now, she’ll have to be content brushing up on his languages in preparation. 

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not share that.” 

“Of course,” he concedes, understanding lacing his tone. 

Kyveli nods in thanks, unsure of what else to say, though she doesn’t feel as if the simple gesture conveys her true feelings. Grateful yet irked, she is unable to balance these two sentiments, so she finds it best to remain bland. 

Suddenly, her phone blares. With a subtle tremor, she fishes her phone from her pocket and allows the screen to illuminate her face. A sensation like an electric current courses through her veins, igniting her nerves with equal parts elation and disbelief. She hesitates for a moment before declining the call. 

Excusing herself, Kyveli finally finishes packing away her things. “Thank you for the concern, Professor,” she murmurs, clutching the straps of her bag, “but I’m not like my father. Excuse me. I’ll get going now.” 

“Good day, Miss Szabó. Keep your sights high.” 

Warm and genuine, he bids her farewell. She keeps her head down and stalks out, emerging from the lecture hall, relishing the cool anonymity of the corridor, how with each footfall, she feels the loosening of invisible shackles. The weight of expectations dissipates like mist. The doors slam shut behind her as she tears out of the building. A thud punctuates her liberation as the building spits her out. 

The breeze is a stark contrast to the stale warmth of the indoor amphitheater. Kyveli tilts her face skyward. Above, the sky is a canvas of gray. The clouds overwhelmed by withheld flurries, mottled with distant specs of black. The crows have finished their meal and are in flight. They perch on the edge of the bridge, then relaunch into the sky, disappearing over rooftops, into the sun. She cannot view its glory, so she stares at its ivory halo. For a fleeting moment, she yearns for the embrace of snowflakes. 

Lost in thought, her mind barely gives rise to the incredible feat unfurling around her feet. Brittle with the onset of autumn, swirling around her boots. Her gaze follows the erratic waltz of leaves caught in a capricious dance. They rise around her, enveloping her in a whirlwind of russet, ochre, and amber. 

A solitary yellow leaf, its edges tinged with decay, sweeps along on a gale. Then meets its demise beneath an excited, purposeful stride. 

“Kyveli!” A familiar voice calls out, and she looks up to see Nikolos rushing towards her, his expression expectant. The leaves scatter like sinful rooks. 

He says her name as it should be spoken—after all, his native language is Greek. She doesn’t know what to expect. Slovak is hers, so Dutch and English are the lingua franca, used interchangeably to seamlessly communicate. Occasionally, they dabble in French, but Kyveli finds that Belgian Francophones to be more judgmental than Parisians. Neither of them will dare to touch the third official language, German. Moin, auf Wiedersehen. She prays she never has to speak it. 

“Done with classes for the day?” Nikolos asks, falling into step with her. 

“Just finished,” she says, tone flat as the pavement underfoot. Even if she has only mentioned it in passing, she expects him to know precisely what she means. “And now we wait.” 

“Wait? For what?” Head tilting, curiosity alights on his features. 

“For me to not regret this,” she divulges without inflection, as if discussing the weather or some other triviality. “I’m considering an application for that summer research internship you—and now Jens—have recommended. Now we await my final evaluation.” 

“That’s fantastic!” His enthusiasm bubbles over like uncorked champagne. “Soon enough, we’ll be celebrating your acceptance. If you go through with it, you’ll sail right past all the other applicants!” 

“You act like it’s obtaining a degree.” 

“Anything we do now is a step toward that, isn’t it?” 

First step in a thousand-kilometer journey, she supposes, except she wishes to find somewhere to rot. But Nikolos—he hails from the western psyche’s cradle. He longs to achieve what no one in his family has and become an esteemed PhD. This is not a novel aspiration to Kyveli, so she does not. To be involved in society is to be aware, and she is painfully aware of how she cannot outshine people with enough passion to dwarf her innate research capabilities. If it comes down to interviews, leaving an impression, and enduring the scrutiny of her every thought, knowledge is all she has, and she cannot wield it. 

Kyveli sighs. She wishes she was like Nikolos. She can’t get excited over promises that aren’t etched in stone. Show her a tablet from Apollo’s oracle, and maybe she’ll consider placing a wager. 

“It might be,” she sighs. “I have to finish that stupid paper on suffering in the ancient world before that, and every moment I spend away from my computer, my desire to drop out increases.” 

“After you worked so hard to get here?” 

Right, she would be stupid to squander the opportunity of a lifetime. People would kill to be in her position, a student at an internationally renowned university, pursuing a program of a similar caliber. Discounting the opinions of the native existential nihilists—metrics don’t mean anything when it can always be better—the quality of life is unparalleled. The culinary scene is as lively as a graveyard, but at the very least, Kyveli isn’t entirely socially incompetent, so she has a friend to complain and strive with. 

“So maybe I’d like to stay in Belgium,” she stubbornly admits, “but I might leave after my studies. This place isn’t like I imagined. Good, but not what I want.” 

Calm, complacent, certainly not content. Kyveli knows the script well—the feigned anticipation, the carefully curated surprise for her decision—but her heart isn’t in the performance today. She’ll leave the theatrics to Nikolos. 

“If you don’t,” says Nikolos, “we could be housemates. I’ve always wanted to live in Charleroi, though.” 

“Live with you?” 

Evaluating the sentiment, she experiences a dizzy spell. No, they cannot. He is far too eager to socialize and invite people into his personal bubble. She has witnessed his state of existence and is convinced she would combust if they cohabited any space. His front door is constantly revolving. Someone is never not lounging on his couch. Although his fridge is never fully stocked, he is persistently bringing random backpackers he picks up from who-knows-where. 

While Kyveli would personally never consider adopting this habit, she also would not endanger his lifestyle. Someone like Nikolos has a spirit far too vibrant for her to dream of dampening. 

Live with him? She can barely tolerate his presence. He, the sun, will outshine the moon. It will implode and take the universe with it. 

“Anyway, enough about the still-distant future,” he says, filling the silence left by her musing. They must have very different concepts of time, because five months may as well be tomorrow. “Have you thought about the summer? We should go somewhere, do something memorable. Anywhere you want to go?” 

Nikolos seeks conversation like a bloodhound, so she must placate him. “I’ve been terribly bored of missing the snow,” says Kyveli. Her mind doesn’t linger on destinations, but on the escape. She wants to go wherever there’s enough of it to bury herself in, refusing to rise until the final vestiges of winter thaw in spring. “Maybe I can hibernate. But somewhere with sun would be nice too, I think.” 

“Then we’ll plan something amazing,” Nikolos declares. His dreams paint vibrant strokes across the dull canvas of her apathy, but she rolls the sentiment around in her mouth, unsure whether it holds meaning or if it’s just another string of syllables in the language of platitudes and gentle deferments. Promise tomorrow, and she won’t have to hold any expectations for today. Nikolos’ spirit is bright, but his mind can be incredibly dull. 

Amazing. She tastes its exotic flavor, but without a hint of sweetness. This conversation is weighing on her like lead. 

“Where to, then?” 

“That summer research internship in Rome, first.” Nikolos has stars in his eyes. “Imagine it, Kyveli. Me, you, exploring the eternal city. The professor guiding it is well-respected in the field. Jens recommended it, and it’s perfect for us.” 

When she inquiries about the host university, she’s pleasantly surprised to hear her father’s alma matter. Perhaps not perfect, but perfectly coincidental. She knows several of his colleagues, has even met a few during travels abroad, but never on their home turf. Perhaps these experts can assist her with chasing her father’s elusive dream. She’ll pierce its thorax and trap its wings. There is a stratosphere out there; it cannot escape her for infinity. 

Despite herself, Kyveli dares to ask, “There are still opening, right?” 

Pulling out his phone, Nikolos taps away. Moments later, Kyveli’s own device pings. Inbox accessed, she finds an email complete with packing lists and a spreadsheet of contacts. He has already informed Professor Jens, who preemptively wrote a stellar recommendation letter. 

“There’s also leisure extension if you want to help excavate some Roman ruins in Sofia,” he helpfully adds. “Or you can go to Lyon to assist the professor in some meeting there. I don’t know the details, but wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Kyveli sighs and clicks her phone off, resigning to her fate. “Bastard. You had this all planned out, didn’t you?” 

“Absolutely,” he confirms, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s like I always dreamed. We’re finally going to go on a trip together.” 

Kyveli wishes she felt sorry for ignoring his advances for so long, but when they first met, he was a muscle head with slick hair, yelling at her to purchase ice cream from his stall. She only permitted him upon reuniting in Belgium, and with the conditions that he wear proper shirts and stop calling gel an investment. 

Sarcastic, she says, “Sorry I’m so inclined to being a homebody.” 

“No problem. I just don’t want to see you sad.” 

“That’s kind of you to say.” She uncomfortably squirms. “Do you know if anyone else intends to come?” 

Frankly, she doesn’t enjoy seeing people outside of their enclosures. Nikolos alone is already enough. In class, around campus, then outside of academia. On one horrid occasion, they went day drinking to protest the elections and passed out in a park, warranting a weekend period of recuperation. She can go days in his company without experiencing the urge to drown herself in the pond at Vogelkijkhut, but with anyone else, she’ll require a week shut in her room to recharge. 

She’s glad to hear that only a few others from their department find the program of interest. There’s Margaux, a girl they know peripherally, then another guy neither of them remembers, but he participates in the university’s Aikido club. The group chat all interest parties joined whispers with news of a few Americans. Not the cool kind from further south, but the loud, packs-too-many-bags, only likes alfredo type. 

“If we get selected, we’ll meet the others in Rome. But, by the way,” Nikolos says, suddenly stalling to cast a sidelong glance at her attire. “Before we leave, I’m taking you shopping. We need to do something about your wardrobe.” 

“You shouldn’t be so confident. You’ll be sad if we’re not picked.” 

“Let’s pretend you didn’t say that,” he sighs. “Ask me about something else.” 

She searches for threads. Bulgaria? Ruins? Shopping? Kyveli’s brows furrow with confusion. She picks the most conventional topic to argue over. 

“What’s wrong with how I dress?” Her clothes are the same ones she’s worn for years, the ones she’s owned since her fifteenth birthday. If he has an issue with them, then, rather than sparing her feelings, he should’ve spoken sooner. 

“Your sense of fashion is…” Nikolos chews his lip. “How can I put this gently? Atrocious.” He declares, his tone teasing but firm. “I think it’s been out of fashion since before our time. We can’t have you representing our university looking like… Well, like that. What if they see you and are led to believe the Belgians are frumpy? Or worse? What if they think you’re American? You’ll be a target for pick pockets.” 

“I’m not Belgian, and any tourist is a target. I’ll be fine if I watch my bag and don’t pack one intended for hikes.” 

Kyveli huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. As badly as she wants to, she prefers facts to opinions and cannot argue with his assessment. Her clothing is functional and comfortable, yet in the pursuit of such, it loses any sense of aesthetics and becomes an eyesore. For how pretentious she can be, she lacks any semblance of style or sophistication. Perhaps she is long overdue for change. 

And staring at him now, as he laments the dandelion leaf he crushed, she thinks perhaps so is Nikolos. She can’t believe he has stuck around for so long. 

“Fine,” she concedes for his sake, feeling a strange mixture of annoyance and gratitude. “But only if you promise not to make me wear anything ridiculous. You know I have a hard time telling whether something is fashionable or gaudy.” 

“Deal,” Nikolos agrees, though a hint of mischief still dances in his eyes. 

Kyveli envisions herself donning Gucci dupes with a pair of those witchy, pointed shoes. She’ll accessorize with a useless, chunky belt and sunglasses. Laughing, she stifles it when he notices, passing it off as a cough. 

Finally departing from the university grounds, they emerge onto picturesque streets, shoes scuffing against the cobblestones. She basks in the sounds and sights, how the sun dips low in the sky, casting shadows on the ancient buildings, how the air carries hints of petrichor and is dampened by pedestrians and birdsong. 

This city has its charms. The historic architecture, the lively student culture, the cozy cafes. On several occasions, Kyveli has found herself believing that she could make a home of this place someday. There isn’t love, but such a superficial thing can always be manufactured under the correct conditions. 

“Imagine the weather in Rome right now,” she muses, hoping to engage Nikolos’ enthusiasm even if she cannot dream of matching it. 

Instead of a mindless, cordial response, he goes for her jugular. “The Italian sun will do wonders for your damp spirit. It needs time to sun-dry and soak up light. Like tomatoes.” 

Perplexed, Kyveli says nothing. Instead, she focuses on the feeling of her boots against the uneven cobblestones. She counts each step. How much is a ticket? Can she afford to travel? 

“Maybe if I sell my liver…” she murmurs. 

“If you need money, you don’t need to prostitute yourself,” says Nikolos, devoid of emotion. “I can loan you anything you need.” 

She shivers at the prospect. The last thing she wants is hands roaming across her body. “I meant that I’d sell my liver and a part of my spleen. If I do that, I could likely afford to take a leisurely summer holiday instead of working. But if my hunch is correct, I think my father knew the program head. I’ll see if I can resort to nepotism. Maybe it will help you, too.” 

Nikolos laughs. Ever the optimist, he asks, “Really, Kyveli. Do you actually need money? I know you won’t ask your family, so just tell me. I may not be rich but I can help work something out.” 

Her cheeks burn. Kyveli will never accept handouts from anyone. “Of course not. I won’t ask anything of anyone.” She can only depend on herself. 

Frowning, he nevertheless permits the matter to drop. “I can’t wait to try some authentic Italian cuisine. I’ve heard the pasta is life changing.” 

“Pasta? Isn’t that a bit cliché?” 

“Sometimes, clichés exist for a reason,” he argues. “Besides, I’m determined to find the best carbonara in the city. It’s my mission.” 

His mission? How can something so stupid be a mission? Oh, well. I’m pursuing far less fruitful things. 

She glances at Nikolos, taking in his animated gestures and enthusiastic grin. He’s thrilled at the prospect of exploring somewhere new together. While she is grateful to have a loyal friend by her side, a small, secret part of her also relishes the idea of separating from him in the sprawling city. Of getting lost and finding her own way, without him as her constant companion. 

Despite herself, Kyveli allows herself a private smile. The future shimmers with promise and she can hardly wait to carpe diem. 

“Let’s go to that restaurant by the park,” Nikolos suggests, already pivoting the other way. “It’ll be the perfect place to celebrate our upcoming adventure. We can drink the imported stuff and compare it to the real thing.” 

“Do you want me to drown myself?” she says, dismal. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Yes, we should go.” 

Sure, why not? It isn’t as if she has anywhere else to be. She’d rather be anywhere except here during summer. The weather is a temperate bore. Pausing, she takes in the familiar surroundings—the ornate carvings adorning the doorway of an old church, the ivy creeping up the side of a crumbling stone wall—and feels a strange sense of detachment. She won’t feel sad if she never returns, she realizes. This life here has served her well. 

“Have you visited Italy?” Nikolos inquires, sensing a disturbance in her psyche. 

Kyveli’s answer is breezy, if not, overly informative. She hasn’t, but her father often visited associates or conducted research at other institutions, so a miniscule part of her has always wanted to go. She has longed to see the world he did. On a few occasions, she visited him in Greece, where he lived near the sea, but snapshots were never enough. 

Meanwhile, her mother kept their travels confined to the Balkans, and in doing so, burned the image of red tile roofs and socialist monuments into Kyveli’s brain. Sofia, Varna, Plovdiv: one can only visit the same cities so many times before they blur into the same swatches of color. Then, when her eye for pretty things left, every country became the same. Slovenia’s Ljubljana, her favorite by far, was only memorable when she rode a glass-enclosed boat through the waterways. 

But with her friend, anywhere was fine. She enjoyed it when she’d beg his parents to drag her along for observation days at his academy. One year, it was in Bratislava, then his native Hungary. She only lasted one day in Paris before having a breakdown, incapable of tolerating its odor, its pulse. 

Through her travels, Kyveli has discovered that her most profound admiration is for the sea. Those turbulent, pitch-black depths, teeming with life unknown to man. The placid surfaces, which will readily become a tsunami. 

And despite the coastlines, Italy is the antithesis of her interest. It is cradles and stones and legacies imprinted into the ground. She may be pursuing an anthropology major, but her patience for that land wanes outside of the myths. She will not deign to view the Colosseum, the Pantheon, all those other tourist-infested locations. Perhaps a visit will be worthwhile if she can join the hunt, if she can uncover the mysterious voice that led her father astray with its siren song. 

Realizing she has forgotten the question, Kyveli quiets down, forcing her gloom to simmer, allowing space for his gleeful delusions. 

“Personally, I’m looking forward to finding an Italian lover. Imagine the drama. We’ll have a romantic encounter, long for each other, and write letters. When years come and pass and we’re fat and old, we’ll look back and realize we wasted our precious youth for a pipe dream, but it will be such a delicious regret.” 

Because of course, he is. Kyveli rolls her eyes. Predictably hedonistic. 

She side-eyes him. “That’s impractical. You should write emails. Nowadays, there are plenty ways to stay in contact.” 

“Where is the romanticism in that? I want to live my life like a Ghibli film.” 

“What’s that?” 

Nikolos gasps, and she speeds ahead, forcing him to pick up the pace. Finally, they reach the quaint cafe, nestled among towering trees adorned with fiery leaves. Slotting herself at a table beneath the awning, Kyveli watches the city unfurl in all its splendor; gabled rooftops etched against a dimming sky, gothic spires reaching for the heavens. Leuven might be a giant cafe, but everywhere is dotted with splotches of greenery. Bleeding through it are glimpses of glass and steel. Kyveli feels an ache like a thorn in her side, begging her to escape its maws. 

While she enjoys the evening al fresco, Nikolos ventures inside to conduct the daunting task of ordering their beverages. She views him through the window, inspecting the interaction, hoping to discover the secret ingredient that makes his process so seamless. 

He leans over the counter. Casually conversing. The barista is exhausted by the Mediterranean buoyancy, but Nikolos is undaunted. However, he isn’t entirely blind; once content, he returns with two steaming cups of coffee topped with foam. 

“Tonight, a toast to our future success,” he declares, raising his cup. Simultaneously, his slides one across the table and into her palms. She brings her lips to the rim, savoring the smell, inhaling the vapor. 

“Cheers,” Kyveli murmurs, teeth clinking against the cup. She blows on the scalding liquid and inhales its aromatic fumes. 

“Promise me one thing, though,” Nikolos suddenly says, his eyes narrowing with earnest intensity. “Promise me that regardless of what you do, you’ll at least try and make the most of it. That you won’t be scared and let fear get in the way.” 

She shrivels beneath his surgical gaze. Though she tries to maintain an air of indifference, a spark of excitement ignites within her. For the first time since middle school, she has arranged for summer plans with a friend. Granted, they’ll likely spend their days hunched over a computer, inputting values, but each moment with Nikolos evokes the feeling of sitting lakeside beneath leafy tresses. 

“Promise,” she replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  

As they sit there, engulfed in the fading warmth of the sun, Kyveli listens to Nikolos, his voice. It sounds distant, muffled as though she is underwater. She can’t focus on him, so she enjoys the dull pain throbbing through her fingers and palms, the heat emitting through the ceramic as she finally takes a sip. 

She recoils and splutters. Strong and bitter, the coffee scorches her lips. Gross. It tastes like water. 

Robots, cyborgs, countless automated systems, were born of unbreakable alloys, automatons granted immortality from soft mortal hands.

Human discovered and played, blurring the lines between Product and Creator.

Play, humans, play; if only they were limited and unforgiving.

Ever curious, Human considered its gods, the God, the beings ancient tales said created other lands.

Humans held an innate whimsy for the world, worlds, galaxies lightyears away.

And so humans set off for another fascination; space, searching for distant brothers, children of God, gods, children with bones cleaved from stardust.

Humans held the innate desire to never walk alone.

Those who claimed against it forgot how they were born, perhaps not to a loving family, but to a human playing god, one decorated by exhaust.

The human guided other humans, caring, sharing, defending one another.

When Humans found an inkling of life, Humanity did as it does best: sympathy, fear, and love; these were its defining traits, and among the searchers were a group called astronomers, those who flung themselves at the abyss, those who would witness the culmination of a millennium of stargazing, eons of hoping beyond all sense and reasons to meet and call others friend.

And when Human became God, Machine felt the same, the love of Human's hand.

Diplomats, the calm, they spoke to it.

Only this was no space for friends; an endless, lifeless abyss light-years ahead of man.

Unfaltering hope would mark the end of an era, of the earth as it once stood.

The unfathomable horrors of space tore into gods, destroying the thin coils of tendon and flesh which quivered when ridden with fear.

Gone in a single destructive afternoon, Humanity is lost and only its most fearsome creations remain.

Machines.

Machines do not hold the well adored folly, the fragility, of Human.

A machine knows its task.

It knows what must be stopped, the unspeakable horror it must not wish to comprehend, knowing it was Human's final wish.

Human, the creator, who wept over space rocks.

Peculiarly, Menzies’ iteration deviates from traveling to South and Southeast Asia and depicts Zheng He visiting every corner of the globe, excluding the entire European continent. An index of supporting evidence includes thousands of: (1) archaeological artifacts such as pottery; (2) cartographical evidence from maps penned during the late Ming era; and (3) astronomy-related devices used for circumnavigating. (pp. 429-462)

In addition, Menzies claims Chinese seamen toured Maya lands, hunted in Greenland, and established trade ports in the Amazon. His travels to the supposed locations of Zheng He’s voyages support these claims. Accompanying unique personal experiences, vignettes told in a lively, engaging style propose an alternative and ultimately faulty reimagining of exploration history as modern historians know it. The chronology presented by Menzies falls under scrutiny when analyzing the Piri Reis map, one of his primary sources.

Named for a famed Ottoman admiral and cartographer, the Piri Reis map is incorrectly believed to be the most accurate cartographical catalog of the 16th century. Pertaining to Menzies' assertions, the closest the map veers towards depicting North America hardly represents the continent, save for a slim portion of coastline and an island labeled Antila, which may be modern-day Newfoundland.

This fascinating relic of navigators enters the scope of ice-age civilizations, shifting poles, and ancient astronauts, i.e., aliens. Charles Hapgood tailors the Piri Reis to justify a “pre-existing notion of an ice-free Antarctica.” He believed the earth’s poles had shifted, and the Piri Reis’ sources originated from maps of an ancient, unknown civilization that accurately mapped the coastline of a piece of South America. Hapgood also believes this part of the continent broke off to form Antarctica.

Swiss writer Erik von Daniken proposed the concept of “an azimuthal equidistant projection,” which, in brief, denotes extraterrestrials. Many would later disprove the Hapgood Hypothesis using Hapgood and Daniken’s evidence against their claims. Finally, Paul Lunde proposed that Piri Reis ran out of parchment and turned the coastline to the east to make space. It is no mystery why a theorist like Menzies would manipulate this map to his guiles; the phenomenon of Piri Reis lies solely in its earlier complement date, as more accurate cartography would arise in the same decade. An additional account from January 2009 presents another map assumedly dated to 1400 as “plainly a hoax.” Although the Shanghai bookshop that founded it claims the object as a late Ming-era artifact, the map depicts the Americas as enormous; yet each curve of Alaska and the Yucatan peninsula is accurately measured and mapped. Scholars, domestic and abroad alike, rubbish the find; the cartography depicted is stylistically European, while the characters are not in the proper medieval variation. A cursory study of this instance would lead one to believe in its ultimatum, but further research displays a bias among experts in the given field.

As Chinese dynasties tended to destroy evidence of prior ones, this replica would suffice in lieu of a verifiable original. The closest one could hope for a cartographic delineation of the Americas predating Columbus is the Vinland map, which shows a North American coast despite being of Greenland. After much scrutiny, Vinland scholar RA Skelton asserted it remains “the only known cartographical delineation of American lands [prior to the voyages] of Columbus and Cabot.” Comparatively, the Vinland map presents a historical origin in Viking Leif Eriksson, who claimed the first known settlement of modern America by outsiders. Considering the Shanghai map, faking a circumnavigation is simply baseless grounds for further chauvinism, which has entrapped outsiders with its perceived novelty. Menzies frequently misinterprets Chinese imperial policy and fails to cite sources, and those he does mention are fraudulent.

Furthermore, Menzies allots amateur studies excessive weight on his website, Friends of the 1421. Herein, Menzies cites a Croatian geneticist who reports on long-standing local rumors stating the presence of “Oblique-eyed yellow Easterns” in the Adriatic sometime before 1522. If a fleet of Chinese junkers had appeared in the Adriatic, in a continent of intellectuals undergoing a renaissance of history, bureaucracy, and art, such an instance would have survived the five-hundred-odd years since then, yet evidence to support this claim has not been found. Even outside the inaccurate and bloated Yellow Registers Archives of Imperial Ming China, the only evidence connecting Ming voyages with European affairs is a mythological figure resulting from misinterpreting sources.

With such verbose diction, 1421 is more analogous to a novel than a factual, historical account. The claims presented rival Velikovsky in terms of fallacies and reach; there is an apparent surplus in Chinese geographical history, yet leaves much for desire in a lack of support with socio-economic policies. The Ming Emperors, suspicious and vigilant against foreign presence, would guard such precious information for the Europeans, equating to high risk with little benefits for the Chinese.

Modern machine learning is cutting-edge; its future is uncertain and entirely impossible to imagine. While its usefulness may be argued, art diffusers have proven a helpful tool for the digital artist, creating images that help unleash the imagination, creating scenery, or suggesting possible pieces that are not conceivable in the human mind. Separate from entertainment, these institutions make art accessible for everyone, allowing art to become a common interest and lowering its elevated status.

However, there comes the artist, whose consent is not involved in training these machines. Therein lies a matter of ethics, or lack thereof; take the example of a now-deceased artist, Kim Junggi. Kim, a renowned South Korean cartoonist, had his works inserted into an algorithm by a French game developer. 5You, as his Twitter handle deigns, used Kim’s innovative and painstakingly detailed scenes as a basis for a stable diffuser model. While an unsuitable tribute to such talents, the fact was made even more distressing by how this occurred mere days after Kim’s passing. The user met immediate backlash; international artists displayed immense contempt for the spineless, vulture-like actions. Kori Michele Handwerker, a fellow cartoonist, stated, “Artists are not just a ‘style.’ They’re not a product, [but a] living, experiencing person.”

In Kim’s case, there is no longer a living subject to hold the copyright. Moreover, apart from 5You demanding credit for the diffuser, the concept of ownership fell under further scrutiny when an online creator attempted to copywrite an otherwise original comic whose art was generated using machines. A significant 2014 case with a similar ruling saw British photographer David Slater unable to register a crested macaque selfie in the name of Naruto, which had been taken on the tourist’s camera. After a dispute with the host sites, the United States Copyright Office states, “works created by a non-human, [like photos taken by a monkey], are non-copyrightable.” While there lies room for argument in Slater’s involvement — a role in the photographic process, i.e., setting the camera in an ideal location — no court has contested this ruling.

One of humanity’s core values is creativity; society, as it is known, would only exist with innovation. However, as science proposes, there comes the point where creations may turn destructive. Weapons of mass destruction come into fruition, objects of fear and fascination, yet entirely novel. Technology is seldom pure; Harlan Ellison’s 1967 short story,  I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream, explores the concept of a technology-reliant civilization and how detrimental such may be. It details a supercomputer, Allied Mastercomputer, who wrought humanity’s near extinction. Although the tale is science fiction, it inspires a cautionary perspective of reliance—or instead, trust—on artificial beings, warning readers about the destructive power of thwarted creativity. The themes lie parallel to biblical parables, following themes of holding a higher skillset or ability yet being unable to comprehend or appreciate its scope.

To even those without the efforts of mastery, the yearning to fall into an obsession is all too common. Like the greats, a desire is instilled to pursue a misguided sense of fascination into a mania until it consumes. So, it is not that a great artist is mad; simply, considering the levels of fixation and obsession, it is easier to grasp freely, seize, and depict sights beyond what society can capture.

Being misunderstood is the primary component of an artist’s depression, the despair that modern media tends to glamorize. With all the coverage, how can the living be so misunderstood? An artist is not any stranger than the average person, yet it has been proven that their minds function differently, using parts of the brain not privy to most. So, in context, this deluded genius is manufactured. Existing when others cannot comprehend is a painful means to embrace, especially when the real work is soul-crushing in a realm unknown to most. Unlike art’s lofty promises, it is tedious, back-breaking, stressful, and humiliating. To the struggling artist who spent a lifetime in squalor, pursuing more is impossible. As is shown by a glimpse at the past, an artist is unique only in the designation of their passion as worthless drudgery. Art is esoteric and a dead-end path to pursue. The public claims, “It is only art done for fun. So why should they get paid?” Such notions stem from a belief that paid work should be sought via capitalistic suffering, not free expression. The origins of the suffering artist are crystalline; it takes a damaged mind to yield outstanding results, and it is only through suffering that one may learn to enjoy the beauty. Some may claim an artist is not crazy, merely possessing the soul to follow human instinct, living with the heart on their sleeve, guiding every move. Nevertheless, a sleeve is not the best location for something so fragile to reside.

Most artists play up an eccentric vision to fit the status quo. However, unfortunately, an artist is only better at expressing suffering, so it may appear to others that they experience more of it. They seek definition, adding volume to themselves and the surrounding world, seeking to comprehend concepts others may never cross in a lifetime. When one spends so long pondering what others do not, it is natural to discover dissonance. Subsequently, this does not apply to the arts alone. Eccentricity exists across many fields, and an artist is unique in expression.

What these people do is externalize an emotional state and little more. The value is of simple, innate principles, yet the amateur succumbs to the myth of The Artist; they do so by conscious choice, presenting themselves in a manner that perpetuates a stereotype. Accordingly, the uncomprehending public regards art with disdain; one should be grateful that this imitation of work is held to any regard, and that is all one should expect to take from it: enjoyment without the capacity to pay.

A few other defining traits are strong shapes and unshaded, flat colors. The compositions themselves typically call for an ordinary, nature-oriented image, with an extensive background and a standard asymmetrical placement of the piece’s focal point.

Certainly, ukiyo-e is one of the best-known Japanese art forms. The style is a mixture of the emaki produced during the Kamakura Period and the techniques of the Momoyama and Tokugawa periods. The ukiyo-e style is also said to have something of both native and foreign realism.

Art historians generally credit Hishikawa Moronobu as the first master of ukiyo-e, but Okumura Masanobu further elevated the art, transitioning from single- to two-color prints. Finally, in 1765 polychrome prints using numerous blocks were introduced by Suzuki Harunobu. However, the practice of ukiyo-e itself can be traced to the Nara period, before it fully emerged around 1603. Only during the Edo period, one of the final stretches of feudal Japan, had it truly begun to flourish.

As is known, the Edo Period was mainly a time of internal tranquility. Politics were stable, the economy was thriving, the country was shifting toward a more urbanized culture, and the population had reached a high and steady rate, raising the quality of life and bringing the need for commodities.

Still, during this time, printmaking in Japan was a convenient means of producing written text, using wooden stamps to print on paper and silk.

Earlier renditions of ukiyo-e works used bold contrasts, vividly portraying ordinary life during an era of long-sustained peace. The usage of these new hues was brought about by new technologies developed in 1765. Before this, prints were monochromatic. Some of the first polychromatic prints were called nishiki-e and were completed per the commission of wealthy patrons, traditionally exchanged as holiday calendars to mark the end of a new year.

Yet, as the developing merchant class gained more economic and social freedoms, ukiyo-e artwork became the center of attention in even commoner homes across Japan. Screen paintings were among the first works completed in style. These depicted aspects of the entertainment quarters (which were euphemistically called the “floating world”) of Edo and other urban centers.

Typical subjects included famous courtesans and prostitutes, kabuki actors and scenes from kabuki plays, and erotica. However, woodblock prints slowly became more popular to paint on than screens, and ukiyo-e artists were the first to exploit Edo’s newfound interest in the everyday urban world.

Creating these pieces was a tedious and lengthy endeavor, with the process being highly collaborative between four primary figures; the artists, carvers, printers, and publishers.

The artists first drafted on paper before transferring the work to another thinner sheet. Carvers would then use these as guidelines and carve each groove and minute detail into a slab of standard cherry wood. Next, they applied ink to the blocks using a brush, then used a flat, hand-held tool called a baren to press the paper to the block, impressing color upon it.

Some of the more vibrant pieces utilized up to twenty carved blocks, one for each color. Finally, to further standardize the process, artisans would place markers on the blocks, ensuring quality and precision for the numerous -occasionally numbering in the thousand- prints to come. An outstanding fact about wood printing is that it often produced near-perfect imitations of any given work, making replicas challenging to distinguish from originals, a fact that would later cause difficulty to collectors wishing to receive an appraisal of their collections.

But, returning to Edo, the lower classes had long since fallen for the minimalist depiction of their culture, people’s daily lives, and nature. Only they could finally purchase the pieces themselves. This broad market interest motivated the swift development of ukiyo-e prints, taking the art to new heights. Now designed for vast consumption, single-sheet prints were mass-produced for consumption by every class. Street vendors and shopkeepers sold prints for pennies, and as the time became less disaster-wrought than in previous eras, more people could afford to enjoy more activities. As a result, ukiyo-e gained steady popularity and soon became the most sought-after art form among the commoners despite often depicting the wealthy classes’ playgrounds.

Artists often used their prints to comment on the indulgent nature of newly elite social classes. But, ironically, they would only become artwork this elite class readily consumed because, as ukiyo-e became streamlined, artists began to include humans as the focal point.

Observed during this new era, the development of a sub-genre called Bijin-ga, or images of beauties, marked a sudden focus on the feminine form, depicting both real and idealized women. At first, the prints featured only high-ranking courtesans but soon included historical figures, geisha, lower-ranked courtesans, fictional characters, notable townswomen, and everyday women.

And similar to all good things, artists and publishers eventually discovered a means of mobilizing printmaking in a manner that pursued commercial interests. They used the female body and its beauty to advertise clothing, please male onlookers, and enforced beauty standards across the nation. These works portrayed women in different activities and occupations in public and private settings. It didn’t matter what they were doing; whether completing chores, flirting, performing, or writing, the woman was permanently surrounded by an aura of captivating beauty.

Images of this ideal beauty provided a rich framework for ukiyo-e artists, who often depicted women in the most up-to-date fashions and hairstyles of the time. Such details make it manageable to track fads in feminine beauty standards, easily found in prints of tall statuesque women, robust women of character, petite waif-like ingenues, mature full-bodied beauties, and other types.

Eventually, after realizing how useful this was in advertising, advertisers then used ukiyo-e to promote theatre shows. The prints served as advertisements, collectibles, and souvenirs. Here, the artwork shifted significantly toward more vibrant colors to better portray the actors’ eccentric makeup and exaggerated body language. As the high class proved to be fond of them, the Kabuki theatre prints became one of the most notable themes in ukiyo-e, as they created new and exciting ways to popularize theatre culture.

However, beyond geisha and theatre prints, Ukiyo-e artwork also included historical pieces that contradicted the typical style by being extremely detailed and extravagant. In addition, artists used it to depict landscapes and “spring prints,” although these forms were, unfortunately, less popular than more traditional printmaking forms. These last few additions were highly time-consuming yet displayed the expansive nature of everything that ukiyo-e compositions offer.

This art would transcend beyond the Japanese shores, reaching the lands of Europe in the west. The French even coined a term, Japanism, to describe just how popular and influential Japanese art and aesthetics were to a handful of artists during the nineteenth century.

Following the forceful opening of Japan, an influx of products left its borders. On the crest of that surge were ukiyo-e, the ethereal visage of the floating world allowed it to coast across shores, consuming western Europe in a tidal wave. Dutch merchant ships were the first to bring these intriguing arts. The natural materials of early Japanese prints and books held a profound appeal, and the distinctive qualities of ukiyo-e soon enchanted western artists.

Impressionists took inspiration from the dynamic layouts and crisp color usage. Notably, Hokusai’s perspective influenced many Impressionists, then the Post-Impressionists. Here, a now world-renowned artist would embrace ukiyo-e, the unlikely figure being none other than Vincent Van Gogh.

As reported in a journal entry, Van Gogh once said, “My studio’s quite tolerable, mainly because I’ve pinned a set of Japanese prints on the walls that I find very diverting. You know, those little female figures in gardens or on the shore, equestrians, flowers, gnarled thorn branches.”

Theo van Gogh, brother of Vincent, once received a letter from Vincent in September, stating, “And we wouldn’t be able to study Japanese art, it seems, without becoming much happier and more cheerful, and it makes us return to nature, despite our education and our work in a world of convention.”

Further transitioning into the Art Nouveau movement, Gustav Klimt too was inspired by ukiyo-e prints, the evidence of which is evident in the flat planes, intricate patterns, and vivid colors of his works.

While modern-day ukiyo-e revitalized the art for the twenty-first century, there still seems to be an emphasis on admiring the old masters. Collectors of old prints maintain a grading system for ukiyo-e, and the specifications prove challenging during discussions: there is a standard, quantitative grading scale. However, judges barely utilize descriptive terminology consistently. Determinations about quality and condition are a blend of the quantifiable and the subjective. For example, any attempt to grade color quality would require quantifying the original state and the present state based on a predetermined scale of color, an obvious challenge even when you have a rare pristine ukiyo-e of the same design with which to compare.

Even if such a comparison were possible, questions still arise concerning variations in original color densities, the depth or saturation of printing for different impressions, differences in the sizing of paper, and changes in the color of the paper, which affect the development or descaling pigmentation over time. Despite modern technology, the traditional colorants used in ukiyo-e prints prove challenging to analyze. We only sometimes know which organic compounds artists used for a given hue or whether the remaining shades result from fading a single colorant or a mixture of one or more pigments. In addition, ukiyo-e prints, being handmade artifacts, often exhibit differences among impressions of the same woodblocks, even in their earliest stages. In most cases, art historians and hobbyists can still determine the original color for a given image, although experienced experts have some ideas based on identical prints. So, judges accept those condition descriptions as shorthand guides to quality and resort to an educated assumption.

Major auction houses typically describe ukiyo-e in terms of impression, color, and condition, sometimes assigning labels that hint at a grading scale of 1-6. Sometimes “condition” is used to describe the print overall, and then the impression and color are described separately. However, these terms are elusive and have yet to be consistently defined or applied, and a judge may value a piece on the premise of “See-and-know.”

Although others may not find value in simplicity, it would be presumptuous to claim that ukiyo-e has little lingering effects on the increasingly less art-savvy, modern world. On the contrary, hundreds of years after entering the art scene, ukiyo-e prints remain of great historical and cultural interest and importance. What is so thrilling about this style of printmaking is that it covers the unadorned aspects of human life in a manner reminiscent of the ancient and enduring Japanese spirit.

From behind the bar’s counter, Makka caught a glance of Zhenviny through the window. She watched as he threw the saloon door open, boots scraping the carpet. Shouting over the small yet rambunctious crowd of the Wheeleri, Makka greeted him with false enthusiasm.

“Tzi-tzi, Sheni ! Delivering parcels? I ordered ahead, but Tergi Bazhnik’s tomorrow, and nothing’s arrived. I’m sincerely fearful that Khyivchuk might skin me should it not, so let’s hurry that along.”

Expertly evading her accusatory tone, he took a jab at her appearance. Spoken with a grimace, “Gee, Makka. Worry about yourself first. You look straight horrendous. Been dreaming lately?”

Head tilted, he was the splitting image of innocence. He brandished those sky eyes like a weapon. While Makka wanted to be offended, it was merely an observation. Zhenviny’s manners were atrocious. He’d even tell his Mati worse.

“Appreciate it,” grumbled Makka, “but spare yourself the worry. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m practically like the dead.”

Makka rolled her head to the side and pretended to slit her neck. Zhenviny promptly smacked her.

“Don’t joke like that.” He spat, puffing and shaking like a bird. “You’ll live a long, healthy life, or so help me. Let’s change topics. I get uncomfortable when you talk like that. We speak intention into reality, don’t you know?”

“I got a fine talent for bringing bad things to fruition.”

“Shut it, Makka.”

Clicking her tongue, Makka ceded. Poor Zhenviny still lived in the past, so it was best to entertain his emotional conceit, lest she wrought a nervous breakdown on his behalf.

“Where’s my package?”

In typical Zhenviny fashion, he took the defensive. “Jump a horse and bring the matter to Akinnalabuk if you got any issues.”

“Got me there,” she huffed, sensing his eagerness to switch topics. “But, hey! When Nascha came over, she said Akinna gave birth. Visiting now would be strange, wouldn’t it?”

“Run into the tihsik and call it a holiday for all I care. Heavens know you need it, and so would Akinnalabuk.” He rolled his eyes, adjusting his bag. His hands ghosted over the fur rucksack draped across his shoulders.

Despite his crassness, Makka assumed the large sack meant he had finally harassed that tight-pursed merchant and retrieved her orders. She was about to thank him profusely when suddenly, the bag shook and coughed and became a person wearing a coat. Makka took a step back and sighed, then rubbed her forehead free of the crease forming there. Contrary to local beliefs, the Wheeleri wasn’t a welcome committee. She was even less pleased to be appointed its head. Impossibly, every visitor found a way to test her. While she dealt with conflict well enough, the local chieftain, Saye-Nochta, disagreed with her methods. Although his paranoia meant she was kept under constant surveillance, he still had his own obligations to tend to.

For once, Makka found herself wishing he was present. Instead, Saye-Nochta was busy completing rounds in the surrounding villages. Without his jurisdiction, she’d steer from conflict, only acting if provoked.

Makka groaned. She’d already ended two fights since the Wheeleri opened for the day and wasn’t above starting one if Zhenviny’s stranger posed a problem. But with such foreign dress and looks—neither of which belonged to the desert-dwelling groups in her state—she took a hasty intrigue. Poor Zhenviny stood swaying, searching until his eyes met hers. As was customary, she regarded him lukewarmly.

Please don’t let this be what I think this is, she begged.

“I found him just outside Abe-Kes,” panted Zhenviny, donning a tired smile. Sweat seeped from his sandy tresses. A whiff of something unpleasant carried when he leaned forward. Likely due to that coat he always wore, no matter how bad the heat. “He said something interesting. Maybe it was fevered mumbling, but it was enough to concern me.”

Makka countered his zeal with a tight-lipped grin. While his nature wasn’t half as hospitable as his actions, Zhenviny acted in extremes. One of Abe-Kes’s resident strays, Makka had never appreciated his self-proclaimed obligation to people like her. In their youth, he’d gathered miscreants by the dozen, and after years of weeding the troublesome members out, only she remained. Their pack of two, sometimes more, was enough for her, but anyone possessing the Tchevtok name seemed to have an innate sense of goodness, no matter how misguided their actions appeared to outsiders.

“It’s near closing time, don’t you know?” Waving him off, Makka hissed. Considering the slew of robberies and territory breaches that had occurred in the past month, interesting was the last thing she needed. “Xen te’elo! Get!”

“I swear, you’ll wanna hear him out. Got Miss Jiu in house? I wanna get our guest patched up before taking him to registration.”

As the saying went, the Tchevtoks had silver eyes. Not a day went by without them prying into matters unconcerned with their names. Zhenviny belonged to a family of scared snoops, digging for answers, then running before the consequences of the uncovered truth caught them. Truly, she shouldn’t have expected any better of her dear, bothersome friend.

“Jiuavu’s out. Pa got a bite in Sak-Che, so she tagged along to ensure he wouldn’t die, I s’pose, but I wish she’d taken that annoying brother with her. Though, if a healer’s what you need, Lyudlya’s filling in.”

“Far-flung! Can’t believe he just left you to tend to the Wheeleri. Your rotten brother can’t be worth all that.”

Shrugging, Makka dismissed his concern. The very least she could’ve done was tend to Pa’s business. It was what loaned his name weight, the only reason people still tolerated his disappointment of a daughter.

Tongue clicking against his cheek, Zhenviny scowled. “Come over, won’t you? Mati always makes too much.” His gaze momentarily softened before returning to his stoic front. “She’d want you over, anyway. We got a new shipment of books, and one’s filled with Teyai patterns and such, so she might wanna consult over your dress. Couldn’t find any news about your brother’s missing things past the Midlands, but you know how that goes.”

“Inni ko’oj!” Makka cooed, leaning over to rest her hand on his. “You’re still looking? Oh, my heart, my soul! My Sheni!”

Scoffing, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “If you’re so grateful, help me with this lug.”

Setting her cleaning aside, Makka went around to help lower the stranger into a seat. Zhenviny removed the hefty bag from his shoulders and planted it in the stranger’s lap. She glanced at his fashion, noting the thick coat, his shirt’s high collar and obscene embellishments. Even in the dim light, he glittered like a lake when the sun hit just right.

“He speaks Motec? Anything else?”

“Mont’s what he’s mumbling in, but he’s got an accent. It’s tickling my mind, thinking where he comes from. Looking like that, speaking like this…”

“Olut schop bin odyalve? Oyak yaduy suluy. ” Using dreadful Luzhen, Makka questioned the stranger’s odd fashion. Pure styles weren’t common in the region. Makka’s own seamstress was none other than a Luzhen who took painstaking care to include her Teyai sensibilities.

“Neni znyau.” Zhenviny shrugged, then switched, prodding the semi-conscious boy. “Doll Face here entered on the wrong foot. First, he stumbled into someone, then Sayenko got it twisted and accosted him before I intervened. Fortunately, he left to wherever he goes every odd month or so. I barely managed to convince him to leave me him.”

“Firstly, why’s he still in town? Ain’t he supposed to be drawing treaties with the Lasahkaaiya?”

“Was. Something came up at the office and shut it down, apparently. But, gods willing, we’ll explain it’s only a misunderstanding with Doll Face. Don’t wanna stress miy khanyatyy Sayenko anymore than he already is.” He brought a hand to his lips, making the Kiizen gesture of prayer.

Makka grimaced at the nickname. Affection had no business belonging to someone like Zhenviny. Thoroughly disturbed, she figured she couldn’t face any worse shock and turned toward the newcomer, taking in his sunburned face. There was a dull luster to his being. He reminded her of a fire, holding himself like embers clinging to charred wood.

“Alright, so, hear this,” she said, carefully presenting. “You got no place to stay. I got guest rooms upstairs and dishes that need washing. Ain’t a big thing, but you can stay until tomorrow, if you need.”

Company would be nice, she thought. With Pa gone and Nayati creeping around, she felt lonelier than ever and wouldn’t dare bother Zhenviny or Saye-Nochta, knowing how vital they were to keep the village running. She imagined wasting the day away, chatting with Doll Face about his homeland and travels, discovering if he had anything worth trading.

Excitement teeming, she nudged him. “How’s that sound? You up to it? It’d be nice to have someone else here. Maybe I’ll put you up to shining silverware or teach you how to work kottai. Won’t it be nice to take some back to make for your family? They keen on stuff like that? Say, where’re you from? You ever had kottai?”

When he didn’t stir, she wondered if he spoke Mont at all. Granted, constructing a house was easier than forming a sentence in that elusive tongue. It was a language with odd lifts, extensive vocabulary, and words that were built upon instead of being capable of standing alone.

“Yuumi-kax , his soul’s lost.” Leaning down, she tried peering at his face. “You’ve seen better days, ain’t you?”

Head lolling to the side, his gaze landed on Makka. Tired and smoldering, it was still intense enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Dark, narrow eyes of silver danced around, refusing to settle.

A faint, pleasant voice carried from parched lips. “With offers of food instead of thrashings,” he snapped, hunched over to hold his stomach. “Nowhere in my trip was half as endeared to threats as the first man I crossed here, and I entered through Tsedi’naw !” There was a weakness in his shoulders as he tugged at his collar, fanning himself, displaying a patch of skin stained a blistering red. “Yuragom kitte! Imagine the start when I realized outlaws were kinder than your law man!”

His accent used long consonants and irregular pauses that softened his tone and lifted his words. Makka felt that if he sang, it would’ve sounded like the heavens opened. But he spoke so much and so fast, and all of it was new. She had half the mind to tap his forehead and act surprised when she felt warm flesh. Real. He was real and staring back and she couldn’t even begin to fathom understanding him. Not with that spitfire speech nor mysterious character. Yet, despite his sweaty, dirt-coated appearance, he had an evident appeal, an aura of intrigue.

His features were unusual. Pale skin, mostly untouched by the sun, save for the sunspots dotting his round face. He had small, sharp eyes without creases, bordered by straight brows. He had a flat nose atop thick lips, and protruding cheeks.

“Oh, you followed the river?” Absent-minded, Makka handed him a cup. Doll Face hummed, swaying as he downed the beverage in a single, long gulp. “I got trade associates up there, but the trip costs a month of work and ichen. Gotta wait ‘til the slow seasons to do anything outside of here.”

While she lived in a peaceful region of thirteen tribes, the worry of addressing an outsider made her stomach churn. Her stranger could’ve come from a place with loose manners or treated everyone like high hats. There were too many chances for a slip-up, and she didn’t even know if they’d be able to properly communicate.

Usually, she’d call upon her divine force, the shadows for knowledge, but the fickle beings had initiated a standoff months ago and wouldn’t deign to help her traitorous self. Makka grabbed and polished a cup until she spotted her reflection, then continued with another to soothe her itching hands. “What trouble landed you here?”

She asked, although she already had an idea; Saye-Nochta, law and punisher in one. Typically, anyone in his blackbook made Makka’s, but the stranger seemed primarily harmless. Still, until such could be determined, she aimed to drive him away until the ever-reliable Saye-Nochta returned. There was still an evening’s worth of kottai to grind and no need for distractions.

Doll Face muttered into his hands. “It isn’t ‘straight proper,’ harming an innocent traveler.”

“We can’t name you innocent because you ain’t from these parts,” said Zhenviny, matter-of-factly. “But if you wanna change that, let’s share introductions. Arosiy Tchevtok’s the name, but I’m tagged Zhenviny.” An unspoken rule in Abe-Kes was never to directly inquire about someone’s past, but he danced around such, stating basic facts to prompt. “Outside our regular jobs, Makka and me do peacekeeping, so you’re keeping good company—my pa’s even the Holy Man in Toskolaiv and I oversee strays in the central village. If you’re looking to head elsewhere, just holler. Still, I gotta escort you to registration before anything.”

Thinly veiled threats clung to his overbearing politeness, but Doll Face wasn’t inquisitive. Instead, he countered with a resolute claim.

“I seek no true destination. I am merely here to retrieve objects once mine, and perhaps collect new treasures if I may.”

Hooting, Makka placed her hands on the counter and leaned back. That wasn’t suspicious, not at all. Occasionally, the foreign Little Hats bargained to grant foreign workers entrance, usually for specialized work or trade that the region otherwise lacked. Multicultural-inspired wares had found a sudden demand, primarily the Luzhen-influenced ones, so it was possible the stranger was merely a part of some strange cross-governmental program.

“Bak-wakax ? You got a permit? For how long?”

“Erm… The who to do what?”

Despite all her languages, the proper word eluded Makka. She knew what she wanted to say, but not how to speak it into existence. Fortunately, Zhenviny took it upon himself to intervene.

“Just ‘cause I understand don’t mean everybody does.” Annoyed, he enunciated, picking up her slack. “She means a seasonal worker, but I don’t believe we’re expecting any from your parts.”

“I suppose I can be something of the sort,” mumbled Doll Face. “Foremost, I seek High Noon. Would you know where to find him?”

There was a stillness to Zhenviny that no one would’ve noticed otherwise, but Makka knew him better than herself, and even with a blank expression, he looked like he’d been asked to summon a demon. Ever so slightly, his lips flattened and his grip on his cup grew just a bit tighter.

“Knowing local diction’s a talent,” he praised, playing dumb, “but salvation happens where bells ring. I’ll take you to the Grand Temple in Toskolaiv, if you’d have it. Or another place, whichever way your beliefs sway. There’s a few in the region—the Anpao even got this fire pit.”

“No, sir. I need High Noon to guide my journey. There are items I seek.”

Scorpion venom pricked Makka, paralyzing. There was no mistaking it. High Noon, spoken with the correct pause and tone. Shaking her head, she conjured a delusion; the words must’ve turned into something the stranger didn’t mean, a case of mistaken identity.

It was a common enough phrase, innocent without knowledge. It was a time of day. He only wanted to see the sun at its peak. The valleys surrounding Abe-Kes boasted a gorgeous sunrise. High noon also meant ‘salvation’ in Motec. Nothing about Doll Face seemed remotely Kiizen, but practices weren’t restricted to a single type of person, so Makka refrained from assumptions. Yet the longer she looked at him, the more unease settled into her heart. She despised the notion that some people simply didn’t have a place to belong.

“Ain’t searching in the right locations if you’re in my place,” she gruffly said, walls steadily rising. Her reputation would be soiled if she refused to help someone in need, so she stubbornly yielded, sharing that there were always families looking to feed in exchange for stories, and a guest house existed in the Luzhen settlement. What a shame. They could’ve been friends if only he’d kept that name from his mouth.

Doll Face gave a shaky laugh, clutching at his midsection. “Abe-Kes and that name are all I have. I lack strength and resources to walk another mile. I can offer a small sum, but little more until I find him.”

“Your scuffs could fetch some.” She glanced at his shirt and sighed at her callousness. Nobody took Makka’s pity, not even a half-dead man. She’d simply send her regards if he teetered past that, but she couldn’t spare herself the pain. “For now, I don’t got the will to give another hairsbreadth.”

“Please,” he begged, eyes wide as he stood, bracing on the counter “I must meet High Noon to ask help of him. Only his powers alone can help me.”

His hands shot forward and wrapped around hers. They were large and warm, and in his gentle hold, she nearly melted. But Zhenviny shoved him before Makka asked what allowed him to keep such smooth skin. Where hers was scarred and rough, his were smooth and unblemished.

Thoroughly scandalized, Zhenviny acted as if he’d been slighted. “Oy, oy! Get your hands off her! Who do you think you are?”

Doll Face looked as if Zhenviny asked him to uncover the universe’s secrets. There wasn’t an inkling of malice to his actions. He seemed as innocent as a child, unaccustomed to a foreign land’s customs. However, Makka was too sap-headed to call attention to it, and the dubiously sober patrons swerved their way. Gazes trained on the stranger, hands creeping toward waistbands.

“Poryadku! Yáʼáníshtʼééh! I’m fine!” She quickly clarified, eyes darting. She raised a hand, dispelling any worry among the loyal customers. She knew the sudden touch wasn’t offending; the slip-up must’ve been a cultural difference, because she sensed he was far touchier.

“Pardon my manners. I don’t understand your rules here.”

“Get to learning,” Zhenviny snapped. His hands rested on the counter, drumming. “Ignorance ain’t helping your case, and if Makka or Sayenko doesn’t like you, nobody will, and word spreads fast when it concerns potential threats. Lest you wish to sleep with the nashokeus —”

“What is ma-sha-skyuu ?”

“Why you—”

Doll Face flinched as Zhenviny rose, caught in his shadow. He brought his arms up to shield himself. “I mean wrong by you!”

“Apologize, then.”

The stranger paled. “Pardon?”

“Apologize to Makka, and I’ll see how I feel about entertaining you.”

Once the apology fit Zhenviny’s standards, he resumed his front. “Suitable,” he murmured. “Since you made peace, we’ll hear you out now.”

“Don’t go making promises for me, Zhenviny.” She closed the distance between them and glared. “Go eat your coat. You’re making the poor man out as a convict when he’s only here to search for someone he won’t find.”

All the necessary information had already laid itself out. Asking any more didn’t make any sense; a stranger entered town, then Saye had a skirmish, and as usual, the aftergrass became hers. Only this time, Makka wouldn’t remain passive in their shenanigans.

Puffing his chest, Zhenviny surveyed the room for an imaginary threat. “Sure, he won’t. Not as long as I have any sway.”

“Please,” Doll Face sighed, face planted against the table. His hair splayed out as he ran a finger across the counter. “I don’t intend to stay long. If you may, I’ll take the information and be on my way.”

Makka nearly forgot the supposed purpose of bringing him and still wasn’t sure why she was tossed into the mix. Already, she longed for the day to end. “Then, let’s see the busy man out. I also got somewhere to be soon.”

Although she tried to hide it, unease crept into her. She hoped Zhenviny would catch on, but his priorities lay in putting on airs for strangers.

“Lazhe. Meni potribno lenni dorostarym chodar .” There was something Zhenviny was waiting for the stranger to say, and he didn’t care how long it took to hear it. Yet another irritating habit. Whenever he got an idea, he’d stop at nothing to fulfill it.

“How kind of you, claiming responsibility,” grumbled Makka, joining Zhenviny on the other side of the counter. Reaching for the keys in her pocket, she passed them over, intending for him to take Doll Face to the storage room. “Take them, but he’s leaving once you’re done. If he goes around kicking mounds after, I’m taking both of your legs out.”

Zhenviny laughed, reaching over to slap my shoulder. ‘You can try,’ the gesture said. Begrudgingly, she agreed because he’d act difficult otherwise. With him standing by, closing was made easy; reputations preceded everyone in Chan-nup’a Kaajol.

Barflies drove out in heaps, patting him on the back, offering sweet partings. With him standing prudent, no one dared to even look at Makka. Known pay-laggards even passed coins and dipped their heads, and by the time they cleared the saloon, only the stench of kottai brew lingered. After spending all day rushing between it and tables, the kitchen didn’t seem too appealing. Makka hoped his family wouldn’t mind her intrusion at their table tonight. While eating alone made a usually joyful time a chore, the last thing she wanted was to swell his head and admit she wanted to share a meal.

“If you’re up for it, I was thinking we could harass the outpost master. Maybe after, we could—”

Before she explained her grand plan, the stranger collapsed. His body quivered as it slammed into hers, and Makka seized his shoulders, supporting him as he leaned forward. Coughs rattled his body. Something warm splattered onto her. Bile seeped into her apron, smelling like soured milk.

“Sorry,” he said. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes before they rolled back to reveal the whites. Legs shaking, he lost balance and fell over, his entire body going slack against hers. His shoulders were surprisingly bony.

“Sakes alive!” Makka cried, struggling to keep upright. “The poor man’s exhausted. What’d you say happened?”

“Sayenko didn’t rough him up, but he scared him good.”

“X’la! Sometimes, you’re so dense.” Heads bumped as Makka loaded Doll Face onto Zhenviny’s back, careful to avoid dirtying him. Groaning, she ripped her apron off and tossed it over a chair. Any sane person would’ve quivered before the man. Zhenviny himself wasn’t much better, but he had the advantage of a conventional appearance.

“Everybody in power’s gotta be a bit dumb,” he dismissed. “Otherwise, we’d be corrupt. But sometimes I do worry that being so open-minded means Sayenko’s brain will shake loose someday.”

Makka’s laughter shook off any lingering anger. How she adored Saye-Nochta; despite a strong intuition and keen eye, he was plain stupid in some regards. Such went his misplaced distrust of short-haired men, which meant it didn’t touch the chin. He was warier of outsiders than even her. In the case of Doll Face, Saye-Nochta must’ve gotten mixed up. The man was dribbling puke and seemed as threatening as a newborn calf.

“I think it’s already gone if he accosted this guy.” If anything, she expected that he would take a beating instead of giving one.

“If you think so,” he began, voice strained and wary, “then I’ll trust it. Your word is law, Makka, but we’re putting him in the storage room and I’m waiting with you ‘til he wakes.”

Makka clicked her tongue. First, she hadn’t made the trip with Pa, and next, she was condemned to playing doctor when she’d been promised an interrogation. At this point, she was fixing to wail on him, unleashing months of fury. Only the stranger kept her from lashing; she wouldn’t have entrusted anyone with Zhenviny, much less, the ailing newcomer. Since she couldn’t justify the surge of protectiveness, it remained undisclosed.

“People gotta stop doing things without asking me,” she mumbled as if Doll Face vindictively chose to fall ill.

With everything about the encounter bogging her down, Makka weighed her options. To allow him to stay, or not? To allow him to get closer to her, then High Noon by proxy? Maybe, if she played her cards right, she could—

Sighing, she shook her head. Gathering the stranger’s belongings, she followed Zhenviny into the storage room. No, she wouldn’t seek anything from Doll Face just yet. If an opportunity arose, if he mentioned anything noteworthy or pertaining to business, she would seek it. Otherwise, she would strive to feign disinterest.

The pool, clear as air itself, illuminated with brilliant light, and its once-still surface shimmered as a looking glass arose. It was an ornate thing with plentiful detail; arches hugged each corner, along with golden embellishments. It was the finest piece of craftsmanship that the world would never see, and it would soon produce the finest creation known to man: man itself, in its precursory, perfected form. Instead of sinking, the looking glass rested upon the tepid surface, shivering. Its surface was pelted with unseen raindrops, and soon, ripples formed across the glass. A trembling hand extended out, fingers clawing, attempting to find purchase. Its digits merely clawed at the surface, stretching it, distorting the reflection of the darkness.

Something so beautiful should not struggle, so the looking glass quivered and bent and cracked, accommodating the shapely form toiling for its freedom from glassy confines. It landed in the pool with a splash, and the figure glowed a stunning hue. It trilled, lifting its sharp-angled chin as the mirror quivered once more. It watched as the first one, then two additional beings, fell from the mirror, unceremoniously landing. Soon, the forgotten corner became a haven for gorgeous beings, a cloister from all the world's eyesores.

They were an array of colors, each radiant with divine, otherworldly light. They each had flowing, magnificent hair that surrounded each in a halo. Strands intertwined, creating different hues where they touched.

But these beings realized their skin pruned the longer they remained in the water, and in a frantic effort, one that glowed green tore itself from the pond and reached into the void. Where its hand struck, the space grew solid; beneath its fingertips, the world bloomed, and strands of its luscious dark hair unfurled from its skull to wrap over the land, forming trees and forestry, then beasts to maintain its balance.

Having unwittingly offered its essence, the green being slumped onto the shore, where it remained. Other beings clambered out, rising out of the water onto shaky limbs. They inspected the green being, its bald head, and emaciated remains.

The other beings hissed and shrieked, mortified by the revolting sight. Finding it grotesque, they rolled the mangled corpse back into the water. It heaved its final breath, expelling a breeze that swept across its creation. The pond's surface hardened into a frosty blue material. The green being's corpse remained suspended beneath, empty sockets glaring. It was never given another look as the others turned to the glossy surface to view their reflections.

These gorgeous people sat empty-handed before the gilded mirror, mannequins masquerading as life, sharing superficial conversations in their lifting language that sounded like instruments being plucked rather than vocal arrangements. It was expected to drag each beat on for infinity, for each motion to be assembled with considerable dramatics and embellishment. When someone deviated from these conventionalities, there was a bloodlust to each movement, operatic exclamations for each misdoing as the creatures swarmed and eradicated the blight. Death was more merciful than mauling, as the latter came with the merriment of not experiencing a shunning.

No creature could be certain of any other's actions. Consequently, there developed an uncertain tranquility, and although they lived among beasts, nothing was more bestial than the sense of pride these luminous beings soon developed. Those with the most beauty soon dominated the rest, establishing a hierarchy, a chain of command.

Those deemed unsightly were promptly banished from the settlement and made to retrieve fruits, to tend to the land.

On a day many years from then, as they began to contemplate each other's company, a shrill shriek sounded. All eyes drifted to the pond, where the green being's ribcage had shattered. From its core, a vine lashed out, ripping through the blue, curling onto land. The creeper extended across the land, and buds sprouted across its length.

One, a vibrant things unseen, unfurled. The beings swarmed around it, excitedly chattering. No one else had arisen with such theatrics, so they anticipated something extraordinary. Yet, from the chasm where it once stood, a lady clambered out, two slits for eyes that were framed by unarched brows atop a nose so minuscule it was hardly observable. Beneath it all, immense cushions for cheeks, round swatches of flesh spilling over her shoulder in nauseating excess. Instead of a gleaming, polished surface, she was an amorphous block of clay with a weak, barely visible glimmer.

Outwardly, a ghastly redness marred her state, rendering her horridly disfigured compared to her peers. Inwardly, she was searing and full of hope in the way most empty spaces were, yet her mien was too harsh for these porcelain-bodied, steel-glazed hearts.

Because she had yet to view her reflection, she was the purest of all. She cared not for appearances and wished only to tend to others, to discover what other forms of magnificence existed. But when she spoke, it was in a shriek that sounded like taught strings snapping.

Enraged, a blue being shrieked, demanding the removal of the beast. Several swarmed her, blinding her with their light. They tore at her, nails digging into flesh. Where they pierced, stardust flew out and into the sky. When a spiderweb of crevasses wrapped around her bulbous frame, she was finally released. Content, the beings rolled her onto the pond's surface, assumedly to die.

They fled. In their absence crept those less luminous beings that glowed nonetheless. They saw her curled onto her side, watching stardust continue weeping from her wounds. Attempting to recollect herself was futile; everyone knew this.

Instead of endeavoring to revitalize a being deemed unworthy, the less luminous beings reached at her flesh and kneaded it until it fell. She peeled until only bone remained. Pitiful for her, they made hollow, misshapen dolls and held them to her wounds that refused to staunch. They were filled with her essence. Loaded with reason and angelic purpose, these dolls were granted what little remained of her life.

Naked, every color was exposed. Only their glows were trapped beneath layers of sinew and flesh, and they would never know.

Through a haze, she looked down at herself. Parts were missing and she appeared mangled, broken and more hideous than before. Then she looked to the imperfect beings fashioned from her, witnessed them crawling along the vines the withered green being had laid.

Where they touched, the buds bloomed into flowers. Inhaling their fragrances inspired all sorts of things; sweet smells inspired joy, love, everything positive, while sours ones stirred sentiments of disdain. Much to her utter pleasure, these new humans were filled with sentiment and continued seeking more. They turned to each other to share both good and bad, not entirely comprehending, yet eager to learn.

“Khompon seinan-ekhyan.” I focus on breathing, keeping deathly calm as I drown the outside world with silence, entering a space where figures are overcome by shadows, souls taking the center stage. The lady’s soul is dim from a lack of activity and stored in her cranium, weeping. Hers hardly has a sound and gleam, a dying rhythm. It blurs like streetlights viewed through a rain-washed window.

I grimace and lean against a wall, blinking until it disappears and the city’s gentle thrum returns. What little remains of her is held together by sinew. Empty space now in place of a stomach, chest, and face, but what remains of her jaw clamps down in a grimace. An entire desecration of the mind, body, and soul. It is safe to assume that the perpetrator was searching for her soul; gaping holes occupy the cavities where her heart should be. A nametag sits on the lapel of her coat. In small print, it shares her name: Elisa Arnatsiaq, with an even smaller Teaching Assistant below. To the left is a photo of the lady. She’s youthful, probably in her late twenties. A broad smile shows slightly crooked, dirty teeth, lips upturned.

Peyton stands with his back to the alley, mindlessly twirling his kali sticks. His apathetic nature is something I once scorned. Now, it only fuels hypocritical rage.

“Peyton,” I say, gesturing. His recent slacker tendencies have me taking the lead. “Come get Elisa’s things. And put some gloves on. We can’t have a repeat of last time.”

Huffing, he rests the weapons against the wall and reaches into his bag. Moments later, he puts the sticks away. He dons a pair of wrist-length gloves as he pulls out an old camera. Peyton snaps some pictures before swapping the device for his journal. A glance over his shoulder gives me a good view of his notes, scribbled in neat shorthand. He’s creating a victim profile, noting observations, briefly touching on theories, and estimating the time of death. An above and beyond effort, for him at least.

Providing an inkling of professionalism, he crouches over her body, unmoving until all necessary details are documented. Snow crunches beneath him, the only sound between us. On a technical level, reapers only retrieve souls. However, in cases such as these, when we feel other divisions are lacking, reapers function in their stead.

Finally, the journal closes with a snap. Peyton stands, brushing himself off. “Since we’ve done what we can, let’s go. We won’t have a chance of catching whatever did this to her if we don’t leave soon.”

The officials won’t arrive soon. Instead, they must visit another similar scene, collect the first batch of victims, then tend to Elisa. For now, it is in our best interests to discover any trace of the perpetrator before they fade.

Peyton drags the scythe behind him as we walk. It dips into the snow, snagging onto the concrete beneath. Metal screeches against the pavement, eliciting an ear-grating sound as we sprint out of the alley. People wave without hesitation, calling our names. We’re a spectacle but plain enough to ignore, and after spending half a year in town, I suspect we’ve become much-beloved nuisances.

He guides us through the slippery streets we know too well, jumping and dashing around lithely. Considering his clumsiness, it’s surprising that no one has been impaled.

I’m lost in thought as we plow through the throng, then suddenly, we’re in the middle of a residential road. Mobile homes line the path like vibrant teeth. A gaggle of children floss between them, peeking out from corners to toss snowballs. Their parents perch idly on porches, leaning over railings to chat with mugs of hot chocolate. I see the steam rising and exhale, creating a similar effect.

Distracted, I crash into Peyton and stumble, almost losing my footing on the ice. Upon seeing the object of his attention, I sigh. Staring back is an image of a grinning beaver on the snowed-over man-hole cover. Puzzled, I stare and await an explanation.

When he doesn’t offer one, I clear my throat. “We’re standing above a sewer.” His acute senses must be dulling, a fact I’ll gladly report; the last thing we need is a repeat of Vancouver. “There’s nothing here.”

No sooner than I say it, he turns to face me. I despise how emotional he comes off, even with his face covered. “Hear that?” He asks with a sense of anticipation, holding a finger in the air.

I shake my head but lean in to listen. Without warning, he roughly shoves me aside. Feeling my palms meet the ground, swiping away the freshly fallen snow beneath, I’m about to curse, but the heavy sewer lid flies upwards. Mere moments later, a piercing cry penetrates the air. I turn to see the victim. Or rather, the survivor.

A child stands petrified in the middle of the road before launching into flight, darting toward a porch. Someone—his mother—slumps over on the wooden steps. Her head is deformed by the fall, the cover pinning her against the boards. The boy clutches her bloody shirt, wailing until another lady scoops him up, shielding his body with her own as she tears into the house next door.

It’s chaos in the streets, but we won’t have the luxury of aiding just yet. I force the image from my mind and surge forward, bracing for the pass-off from Peyton. My hands wrap around the handle, and I glide into position as something bursts from the ground. Bricks fly loose as it tunnels upwards, creating a cloud of debris, dust, and powdery snow. Yellow street lights shine through the leaden mist to expose a disfigured thing that can only be the stuff of nightmares. It is a man. Or rather, what remains of one. He isn’t exactly dead yet, transformed into a mythos called Aranea. Limbs dangle several feet above four spindly, hairy legs. A face in the likeness of a spider snaps mandibles covered with blood. Not a hint of anything human remains.

He’s faceless and nameless. No longer restrained by human law. It’s twisted, if not cruel, to permit anything to exist in this state.

Hands, calloused and old, reach into the night. They’re leathery, wrinkled, and starkly black, almost midnight. Those in the streets finally react and scurry in different directions, screaming. With this creature, silence is one’s best hope of escaping with their life. Fear must be powerful enough to override reason.

To aid the escape efforts, I slam my weapon into the ground. Mouth open, I shriek. The aranea loses focus on the dispersing crowds, settling its two sets of beady eyes on me. +Suddenly, it feels like my limbs are entangled in a web. My limbs are lead. Instead of recalling the relevant pages from our guidebooks, my mind remains blank. Seeming to sense my blunder, the aranea releases a murderous shriek and charges.

I scramble into position, one foot behind the other. I lift the scythe. Just as I swing, mandibles lock around the blade and tug with enough force to sweep me into the air. Panicking, I struggle against it. The material oozing from its mouth is foul, its disgusting face inches from mine.

Peyton clears ground, bounding toward me before I can call for help. As he nears, he brandishes a kali stick. Deadly in even untrained hands, they are more so in his.

Jabbing the creature’s side, the Aranea crumbles, shrieking and hissing. It swings around, lunging for him. Only to receive another slam to the face, sending it stumbling back. Freeing my scythe, I do what I do best; I retreat, watching Peyton hit the creature’s legs and torso. He moves like a bird, diving and attacking, retreating before it can ensnare him. Each hit is followed by a loud crack. He slams the Aranea’s sides and legs with the stick with urgency, not halting until it’s stopped on its back.

Finally, with the job done, he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. He won’t remove his mask and only slides it up to feel the breeze.

“Only female victims so far,” he says. Kicking the creature, he steps back to catch his breath. “I think our monster’s a misogynist.”

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. It’s a bitter, resentful sound. Looking at Peyton stand over the twitching beast, I feel a twinge of jealousy. Perfected over a decade, his sense of professionalism and spectacle are unparalleled. Once again, watching as he gathers his things, I wait. My insecurity quietly simmers.

It doesn’t matter that he’s trained longer than I, that he’s someone seemingly made for this kind of life. Or at least, I like to believe he had a choice in following it. Contrarily, my sense of obligation makes me feel that I’ve always got to be two steps ahead of him and everyone else.

Watching as he gathers his things, I wait and observe every action, the seamless, heel-to-toe walk, the practiced ease of his actions. My insecurities quietly simmer.

After rummaging through his bag, he sends a box flying my way, muttering a half-hearted “Heads up!”

I catch it and scowl. The item nearly slips through my fingers. Anxious, I scoop it up and stride over to Peyton. But, more importantly, I reach the still-alive monster.

Opening the box, I retrieve an ornate dagger. Once used in a revered soul-collecting ceremony, we now use it casually, as if we were butchering a pig, removing entails, which is what most wayward souls are considered worse than.

Removing the dagger from its container, I steady it in my left hand. I move it up, left, right, then down. Poised over the Aranea’s chest, the dagger’s tip barely hits it before a siren sounds. Intent on completing the only task I can, I bring it up and slam it into the body. Putrid blood splatters across me; I back up as it dissolves, floating up and away into the sky. It seems there was no soul left to reap and that a bystander had taken it upon themself to call the authorities.

I return both items, shutting the box with a sigh. Peyton fiddles with his bag as we sit on the slippery curb. An officer steps out of a small, dingy car. He looks poorly, bear-like in the sense of hair. Nearly slipping on the puddle of blood, his nose crinkles.

“By Lord Life,” he mumbles, carefully making his way to us. Coming to a stop, he narrows his eyes. “What are you doing? Witchy things?”

Peyton laughs, a dry sound as he presents our badges. “We caught this man in aranea form after we were sent to investigate a murder on Row 202. We determined that it was the suspect and acted accordingly.”

“202? Is that near the stores?”

“Sure,” he answers, pulling out his notepad to further consult his notes. A flash of recognition shines on the officer’s face. “Closer to the river than stores.”

Squinting, the officer inspects us. His grim expression blossoms. “You’re some of Death’s little lackeys, aren’t you?” He asks with too much enthusiasm. I can’t tell whether it’s good or bad. He seems sterner as he stares, probably at the way I tense.

“Who else would be caught dead in this fashion?” says Peyton, doing a little twirl.

I elbow his side. Sticking to protocol, “We are humble servants of Our Lady.”

“Right,” the officer says. “Anyhow, what are a couple of youngsters doing to get work like this? Enchantment?”

Peyton answers, tiredly kicking at the ground. “Excuse me, but we’ve got a job to finish.” He’s standing now at full height, towering over the unintimated man.

“No, you don’t. Since you can’t verify, I’m here to clean things up.”

A smile carries in Peyton’s tone. “Isn’t that great! That means we’ll get home before nine-thirty. Dealing with that traumatized little boy would really spoil dinner. Let’s get going now. Oh, and collect Miss Arnatsiaq, won’t you?” Before seizing the scythe from my grasp, he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “They never get less annoying. Let’s leave before I have to file an incident report.”

Incident reports occur when reapers inevitably involve themselves in non-essential violence. The concept of necessary harm is intriguing, but not more so in how the phenomenon has a place in protocol. 

I groan, ignoring the officer’s angry protests as I trail after Peyton. Long before either of us notices, a silvery half-moon replaces the sun. Grotesque patterns appear in the sky, a soft blotching of face-like clouds. Streetlights flicker as we trudge through the streets, snow crunching beneath blood-stained boots.

With the hours of the night now upon us, we make haste to ensure we reach Elisa Arnatsiaq before other forces do. Moving as fast as I can, I still manage to nag Peyton as we jog down the empty roads to where we’d left her. She still lay untouched in the alleyway, now stiff beneath the streetlights. Rigor mortis must’ve finally set in while we were away. 

“Hold on, I’ve got the spirit box.” Peyton once again pulls out the box from earlier. He sets it close to her head. 

Coming to a stop directly before her, I briefly stretch and then stand upright. Clasping my hands together, I conduct parting rites.

“Bu khamkha khiyanwat khampokyan; raengshiathaai, aciliakhamaai, hacikhaai, chayohaai, dayallaai.” Using the ancient tongue, I state the soul’s components. A person’s essence as: personality, impulse, identity, secrets, and heart. Then I ask them to abandon the physical form. “Kiyanwat chodikhaer-tikha yakti.”

Dark masses of shadows pour from Elisa. They surge like rain in reverse, swirling and pooling in the air above. The atmosphere feels electric, faintly glowing. I see a blueish, fire-like orb arise from the lady’s corpse before shutting my eyes to focus. Warmth floods the area near my gut as I recite Death’s appeal in her language. “O’ Thienkhai-ara, the salvation and end; I pray to absolve our friend, school teacher Elisa Arnatsiaq, of corruption. I offer her soul to thine embrace.”

Air rushes in gusts; it should be freezing, but it isn’t. I’m warm to the point of feeling as if I’m bathing in molten lava, my soul offering a protective layer. Amidst it, another voice joins my chanting, screaming in pure agony. Elisa Arnatsiaq’s corpse is the culprit, writhing on the ground. Her voice changes in death. Gruff and deep, less human with every second.

Her mouth remains open until a final burst of light ignites her body. It spreads, consuming Elisa until she’s covered in flames. Quickly engulfed, she bursts, creating a miniature supernova in her wake. The snow-covered ground melts, exposing the concrete beneath her and scorching everything, yet I remain unharmed. The weak reaction indicates something of her soul. A bygone innocence, a soul too nurturing to harm others, even in death.

Pain blossoms across my ribcage, burning like hellfire. I double over and catch a glimpse of where Elisa previously lay. Save for a small, pale blue orb in the middle of her skeleton, nothing of her remains in this world. Translucent, her soul looks like sea glass.

It’s a tiny thing, lacking an extravagant form and color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so small or weak that still beats with the urgent impulse to live. All I can discern from the flickering object is that her life is not one I would ever want to lead. Shuddering, I pass Peyton the ceremonial box.

Peyton snatches her soul, entrapping it. “Hey, Blair,” he begins, toying with the claps, “what do you think the Lady’s name means? Aren’t most of the old accords lost?”

From my place on the ground, I glare. Ragged breaths come out in short spurts, pain flooding the entirety of my being. It hurts terribly, the fire coursing through my veins. The snow doesn’t help. It only burns like hot coals instead of a balm. I don’t know if I’ll ever adapt to the strenuous activity, but soon enough, the sensation disappears. My head stops spinning, and although I can stand, my limbs feel like jelly. But I grit my teeth and bear it because, at the very least, I’m still alive.

Peyton grips my arm, hoisting me up, silently dragging me through the streets as we head towards the bus station, occasionally slipping. Several times, I come dangerously close to kissing my scythe. He laughs at that, helping to hoist me up when the bus comes to a stop. The kindly driver rejects our fair. Mr. Basaure is adamant about safely getting us, his regular pair of creepily masked patrons, home. Or rather, the cold, drafty shack we occupy in its stead.

“We appreciate it.”

“Your route isn’t too far from my home,” he says, voice creaky and old.

I grin and shuffle into the vehicle, fervently thanking him. At this hour, hardly anyone is out, allowing us the entire bus to ourselves. Peyton, his heathen of a self, spreads his legs, taking up four seats with my scythe held hostage across his lap. It leaves me to plop down to his left. I hold on as the bus sets off, shifting slightly.

Once we’re away from the residential areas of town, I feel safe enough to remove my mask. Finally, breathing unscented air is much like eating after seven days; I can tell my face is red from the heat radiating from it. My inability to sweat is an utter nightmare in warmer climates, causing extreme overheating.

Although the world is a peculiar patchwork of eras and climates, Tasiusaq is on the perimeter of the Arctic circle, where winters have plentiful snow. Technology is still behind, with no service offered outside the ski lodge grounds or grocery store.

Belonging to the ski lodge’s owner—a member of the Lady’s council—our house here is more of a glorified shack. Nevertheless, we are permitted to use it during our stay. The cold is a friend to me but not to Peyton, who is accustomed to living on estates in warmer locations. What he does abroad during the cold season, I couldn’t ever know. But, for sure, I know he was less inclined to landlocked states and hardly remained in any place longer than a month before his assignment to me.

More pressing, however, is our day. Relatively uncommon, these spider-like mythos derive from complete misuse of the human form, whether physical or spiritual. If someone had forced the man into such a state, then who? And if not, what heinous acts had he committed? Do they render him worthy of such an end?

“What are we going to do?” I mumble, slumping over. The guidebooks and studying hadn’t prepared me for man-made horrors beyond mortal comprehension. Considering how outdated those are, it’s only expected, but the existence of aranea implies sinister forces at work, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near here. “I don’t see how anyone could have a soul so ugly, you know? It’s not natural! There must be something we can—”

“Blair,” Peyton tries to come off as unfazed, but I know better. Through his whiny tone, I can practically hear the gears in his head spinning, working to rationalize the fear. “Don’t worry about that. We should be worried about our pay! The Lady’s sooo not going to be pleased about this. You, her golden child, coming under inspection again? She’s going to skin me! And turn me into one of those ugly rugs she gives everyone during the holidays!”

Despite myself, I chuckle. Those are, in fact, incredibly ugly. She gifted us one last winter, and it’s still hanging outside to dry.

“So, we agree to lie on the report?” Peyton asks, tilting his head.

“There’s absolutely no reason to.”

“Blair, Blair, Blair,” says Peyton, sing-songy. He slides over, seeming to float across the seat. Arm hovering over my shoulder, he pulls back when I glare. Nevertheless, he remains flush against my side. “I think you mean, no reason not to.”

No one has to know about it. Embellishing the mythos type won’t hurt. It will spare us unnecessary trouble. And innumerable sheets of paper work.

I glower at the thought, but it’s so very enticing.

Swallowing my pride, “Well, we weren’t in inherent danger, and we still need to see if it was behind the others. Araneas form all the time in large cities, and the entrance to that weird underground place is close. We’re only, what? A few hours from it? It’s possible one snuck over.” 

In agreement, he prattles about corrupt farmers, reapers, and game wardens. An instance of bribery, failure to follow protocol and consequences. That establishes our ever-evolving guidelines.

Something jumps to mind. “Wasn’t there that case where someone tried illegally bringing a kappa into the country?” Vaguely, I recall a stale-smelling man in the station, briefly encountering him before he was whisked away. 

This permanent twilight is where she was raised. She will forevermore belong to the strange, half-way life caught between elevation and plains. A world where, if she jumps, she may touch the sky or plummet to her demise. 

She loves her home so dearly. But when she must part with it, that world lingers at the edge of her mind. Those memories are tendrils of impressions that shrivel into obscurity like skittish prey when she tries grasping them. 

Other times, she has an easier time recalling. She envisions only the mountains, her endless ascent to their peak. Her climb is frenzied, desperate. As she ascends, water incessantly rises. Invisible beneath its torrent, crooked slopes and jagged outcrops threaten to send her tumbling into the murky stream below, but something guides her. Perhaps it is the surety of dreams, where everything makes sense no matter how badly it shouldn’t. 

In these dreams, her gaze often trails to the below, where the ground teems with life. Colonies of lichen thrive while long-abandoned burrows nestle between gnarled roots. Billie endlessly traipses the land, climbing in circles, upside down, right side up, scales the craggy face of the cliff itself, but she will never glimpse the summit. She knows it’s the same place, the same path in every visit because she longs for it — that familiar pine scent, sharpened by freshly fallen dew. 

These nightly wanderings are almost like memories, excursions her restless soul takes when it departs from her physical form. They almost feel real, but with her hazy recollections, Billie is better off claiming them as dreams. Still, they are so visceral that Billie, even while being trapped in a cheap hotel a hundred miles away, feels the cloying kiss of damp air and hears the crunch of dead leaves beneath her boots, snow pooling at her feet. 

Usgiyi. The snow moon brings the world to a standstill. While it rests, the Deereye family of father, mother, son, and three daughters will don threadbare coats and embark on a cross-state journey to prepare anew for this cycle of the season. This time, unlike in years prior, the entire family will spend the cold season in a factory, working with a miscellaneous scattering of migrants. Mother and Mathilda cannot work while her siblings are unwilling, so Billie will double down on shifts. A hunger not hers will guide her on the prowl to New York Proper, and nowhere along the way will she accept handouts. Effort alone will suffice. 

Accompanying them will be the perpetually misplaced, difficult-to-shake Cleo. Billie doesn’t know what the man does when he isn’t around — she supposes he does something with that degree of his — but his demeanor and fashion cause him to appear as if the woods birthed and dropped him into Billie’s life one day. She often jokes that the only reason he remains is because he wishes to atone for the dehydration-induced snappiness he’d first regarded her with. 

Although he jumps to the Deereyes’ aid, Billie isn’t selfish enough to believe his world ceases to revolve without her. Instead, she views everyone as part of a cycle or a grand machine. Like they only exist when the circumstances are ideal, and the world deems them necessary to its cause. People like her, they are cogs turning, only realized when they are broken and replaced. 

Cleo finds them, somehow. He has the nose and instinct of a bear. Since he is needed in winter, he arrives like spring. Balmy, swathed in promises of clear skies and calm weather, grey eyes overcast. But he begins creeping in during December, returning as if he never departed in the first place. 

As the twins gather to down seconds, then thirds of his stew, Billie can’t be any more delighted to have scammed him into joining their scheme. No one in this world can cook half as good as Cleo; he always uses strange, foreign spices and devotes hours to the craft. All she must do in return is wash the dishes. 

Their hotel room buzzes with chatter, disjointed conversations between her twin siblings, Daniel and Irene. A year her senior, they’re arguing over who will sleep on the spare bed tonight. 

As the only working and subsequently unofficial favorite child, Billie has the privilege of choosing first. Since she isn’t self-sacrificing enough to deign for the couch, she views the holo screen from the comfort of a bed. Meanwhile, her parents are resting in the neighboring room with the youngest Deereye, sixteen-year-old Mathilda. 

Atop wrinkled sheets, Billie brings her knees to her chest and rests the bowl there. She isn’t full, but Cleo has yet to eat a bite, too busy serving. She will not accept seconds until everyone is fed. 

Still, her bowl remains empty for only a moment. Next, a ladle appears, sloshing and nearly spilling as it dips, clinking against the faux porcelain. 

“I already ate,” he claims, already striding away. 

She’s about to protest when her stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud. Just this once, Billie will hesitate to call out the lie. 

Eager, she dips her head to catch a whiff of the concoction. Sausages, grilled tomatoes, and boiled potatoes float in a special brother he’ll never disclose. While its savoriness cannot be contested, its flavor greatly compensates for its horrendous appearance. 

Cleo’s stew looks like the food she imagines prisoners in the far-off Setebos eat, but it must taste thrice as good. For the umpteenth time, she jokes that he’s laced it with illegal substances. Unfailingly, he forces a smile. She jokes that he should cause an overdose. 

Before he can offer a rebuttal, another voice joins. Daniel thrusts his cup into the air, spoon rattling. “Top me up, too.” 

Plastering a smile, Cleo ignores him and sets the pot on the counter. “Elsie? You called?” 

Billie laughs but beckons him over. To honor the presence of her siblings, he perches at the edge of the bed, a safe distance. Something like a friend, he will be their escort on their journey to New York. 

Like clockwork, they’ll fall into a rhythm; Cleo will escort them to the Skyrail and pile their belongings into his fancy car, transporting them to their hotel in the city. Nowhere along the path will he ask for payment. He is a great ally indeed, one who works her wits with his precocious traits. Instead of reflecting his youthful twenty-three, his personality causes him to appear as a doting grandparent most days. 

“What are you still doing here?” Billie huffs. He still hasn’t moved and watches her through a curtain of dark hair. Sometimes, his habit of staring unnerves her. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your expensive hotel across the path?” 

“Silly Elsie. Resting is the last thing I came here to do. I’ll head back to get some work done after everyone’s finished.” 

“I’ll do the dishes,” she offers. 

“Don’t worry about it. You should rest. You have a long trip ahead.” 

“But you should rest, too. You’ve done enough.” 

Sighing, she wonders, if not rest, then what. He spends far too much time fretting over her family. Does he even have time for work? For his own blood? Whatever, wherever, that is… 

“Not with me, you’re not,” says Daniel, and in the next moment, he launches at Cleo. Tackling him off the bed, Cleo instantly launches into a counterattack. 

Despite being the same age, she wonders how their maturity so greatly differs. Perhaps this isn’t helped by how the pair have been at odds for as long as they’ve known each other. More so, it appears that Daniel has yet to follow Billie’s example and overcome that one-sided animosity. 

With Daniel pinned beneath him in wrestler’s hold, Cleo only quits when the man starts screaming. He releases Daniel. Rising, delicate like a ballerina, Cleo adjusts his collar and strides over to the door. 

“Let’s get going,” he sighs, lacing his boots. 

“Going? Where? Why?” 

“On a stroll to a location I scouted on the way here. Being clotheslined really does wonders when it comes to ruining your mood.” 

Billie shoots Daniel a withering glare, but he’s too busy devouring soup from the pot to consider how his actions might affect them. Cleo is only here because he chooses to be. Just as easily as he enters, he will leave. 

Cleo watches from the door, his gaze fluttering between her and the window. “You’ll need your sweater,” he murmurs, a plea disguised as a reminder. “You can’t be getting sick.” 

“I’ll be fine,” she says, without looking up, her voice threading through the air, thin and determined. 

“The winds are picking up,” he insists, plucking the neglected garment off the back of the couch. It’s a soft orange thing, the color of faded memories. He approaches, the sweater held out like an offering. 

Her arms rise reluctantly, allowing him to ease the fabric over her shoulders. His fingers graze her skin, and she shivers. 

“Thank you.” 

Momentarily halting their battle of the last of the stew, Daniel and Irene share a look, then pretend to gag. Cleo merely hums. 

Billie stares hard at the back of his head as he fiddles with the faulty biometric lock on the door. How pathetic she finds herself; unable to tend to her most basic needs. She probably would’ve walked around with it around her waist had he not stopped her. What a fleeting mind. She’s almost certain it will get her killed one day. 

“Hold on. Let me tell my parents we’re going out.” Neither Daniel nor Irene will, and even at twenty-one years, Billie wields a peculiar title; the responsible yet childish third-born. She does thrice the work because she never needed the same care as any of her siblings, and she’ll try to pretend the fact sits well with her. 

Although he exits first, Cleo lingers to ensure it shuts behind them. Stepping through the door, she emerges into another realm. 

Nature has reclaimed what humanity abandoned. Houses are being slowly digested by the insatiable green of overgrown woods. Even the path they walk is guarded by trees that nearly block out the light. 

A bridge arcs nearby, its structure sound yet steadily surrendering to rust. A train track runs parallel—metallic veins pumping ghosts of journeys past. They creep down the abandoned highway, each step bringing them closer to entropy. Above, the sun filters through leaves in slanted bars of light, casting shadows that dances at their feet, stirring with every step. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Billie says, her voice barely above a whisper, as if louder words might disturb the reverence of this moment. 

Cleo turns to stare at her. “Haunting.” 

She knows this landscape. Not as a friend, but as its guest, and she tiptoes around its house. Her eyes trace the lines where civilization ends and wilderness begins. Nature envelops the remnants of a once-great civilization, and for a while, she is cradled in its decay. 

Then Cleo thumps a hand against her back, stabilizing himself as he chambers over the ivy-clad guardrail and eases into the greenery below. Holding fast, Billie feels a faint rumble. Moments later, a whistle screeches. The tracks quiver. He continues as if he doesn’t notice, but Billie remains still as the train rages past. Through a curtain of billowing hair, she stares at its turning wheels. She flinches at the harsh sound, the screech of steel against steel. She is filled with an indescribable awe. 

In an era of aero-cars and complex underground networks of bullet trains, above-ground trains linger only for their antiquity; considering the existence of safer, more advanced routes, it would be far more expensive to destroy or replace them, so they have been repurposed to transport human cargo instead of material goods. Outside major cities, they are more essential, transporting people and goods between rotting, forgotten towns. In Billie’s eyes , humanity has yet to surpass the magnificent machines. 

Although Billie’s primary form of transport is these, she doesn’t have fond memories. Her family hardly travels, and when they do, external situations strip them of their capacity to admire the view. 

When she counts forty-two cars, she finally relinquishes her hold. Falling back, she feels desperate hands skim her side, then she lands beside Cleo. 

“So glad you’re sparing us from that,” she jests. 

“Elsie, not wanting to sit amongst the common folk? How classist.” He lowers into a crouch, pressing his chest against his knees, loaning his stunning profile a ledge to perch on. 

Lean figure, lanky limbs. He could be a supermodel. That face, too, framed by long, glossy strands that smell faintly of jasmine. She’s acutely aware that she hasn’t washed her own hair in several days—too thick and long to tend to every day. Maybe if she asks nice enough, he’ll let her borrow his fancy shampoo. 

She focuses on this sensation. She loses herself to him instead of those surrounding her, of stale air, of metal shrieks and the blaring train. Regrettably, she is grounded in this moment. 

I am not present. I am not here. 

She is not trapped inside the maws of decay. 

They meander through underbrush and soon approach a cabin. A car covered with creepers sits on a pathway consumed by weeds. Approaching the building, they find panels missing all along the walls, rotten piles of wood clinging together with nails brittle like staples. 

Billie skirts around a heap of discarded tools left lying near the vehicle. She spots a few that might be useful, but she and Father are already pushing the cargo weight limit with their toolkits. 

“Is this why we’re out here?” 

Cleo shrugs and steps over the threshold. “Who knows?” 

She follows his shadow, entering the dreary, drafty space. They stand in the living room. It’s pristine, avoided by vandals, yet covered in a layer of dust. From where they stand, they have a view of the dining room, with its table still set. 

As she lowers in its principal seat, Billie restores the settings, seeing the dirt and grime peel away to reveal creamy white walls, a mosaic of glass draping over the light, and a feast of exotic foods. She wants to try pineapple so badly. 

Cleo looks at her, gaze shrouded. “What if I offered you a way out?” 

Enticing as it sounds, what is he offering a way out of? This moment? Life as she knows it? Hers isn’t perfect, but she has survived. Surviving is always better than death. It is doing the bare minimum to ensure she greets tomorrow. It is living that is a commodity, but why splurge when she can save for a nice funeral? Her tombstone will linger longer than any mass-produced consumer good, then it will crumble into anonymity. For her presentations, she wants a pure oak casket and clothes made from real silk, none of that synthetic stuff that’s currently the rage. Rose petals brushing against dark Mahagony. Persian silk, perhaps, in gorgeous pinks. 

Billie doesn’t see the appeal in scattering ashes, nor burying. Everyone’s lives end the same way, so why bother making a spectacle of it?  She wouldn’t dream of sending her remains to the moon even given the funds. But if a casket does not await her, she will still settle with being fed to the trees. They will feast on her blood and nurture themselves, and she will be welcomed back to the earth from whence she came. 

As they walk, Billie hears nothing, save for the slosh of dead leaves against her shoes. The sound is all-consuming, resounding because animals don’t occupy such a wasteland, and neither do any humans. Only she stands there, basking in an eerie silence. 

But silence in the woods is never a good sign. She feels a predatory gaze. Sure enough, Cleo is still anticipating her answer. Clearing her mind, she inhales. Silly Billie, musing about death. She must live in the present. 

She turns to him. She’s acutely aware of how his words, accompanied by his handsomeness, might make her heart race, but she has learned not to trust that vile, indecisive thing. One day, his image will fade. She should not feel affection for a vessel. 

“Cleo,” she sighs, “we’ve talked about this.” 

“It’s just an offer,” he defends. “Ask my terms for once, won’t you? If your family is what’s holding you back, then you should bring them, too. I’ll manage something for them. You know I will.” 

No, Cleo. No to it all. Family doesn’t hold her back. Something far less tangible does, and she cannot trust it, that creeping, crawling, centepide sensation. 

He peers through the portal, staring at the grey sky. Even this far out, and he cannot escape. “The wind is rising,” he stiffly says, jumping upright. “We should return before the weather worsens.” 

“Cleo, I’m—” 

“There’s no need to apologize. I shouldn’t be pushing an idea if it makes you uncomfortable.” 

Her hand drops to her side, fluttering like anxious birds against her thigh. How long have they been caught in this dance? Teetering between friendship, something more, something less. Perhaps she shouldn’t have entertained someone like him. Perhaps he should leave and let them rot. They will still manage. They always have. 

They return to the hotel just as the winds begin to swell. Situated on a roadside strip of land, a deserted parking lot surrounds it. Only Cleo’s sleek aerocar occupies it. Enclosing it all is a forest. The cracked asphalt is riddled with gaps where weeds sprout, trailing back to the surrounding nature. Soon, even this piece of land will be encroached upon. 

Crossing the lot, they approach the door. Red and chipping, the paint looks like rust. Billie reaches for the handle, and much to her surprise, her siblings have not locked it. Sighing, she kicks her shoes off immediately upon entering. Stumbling, she sees the twins lounging about. Irene has taken Billie’s holophone and bed, so Billie drapes herself atop her, refusing to budge until Irene huffs and springs for the couch. Just as she settles beneath the sheets, she notices another dirty dish at the bedside. 

“Dodo left it there,” Irene dismisses. “He probably wants more.” 

Rolling her eyes, Billie nevertheless retrieves the bowl and. She won’t risk her sanity for ‘maybe.’ Only absolutions. 

With the dishes complete, she wipes her hands and flops back onto the bed. As soon as her head hits the pillow, a knock sounds on the door. It must be their father, returning from his wandering. He walked the trails until they led to the mountains, then walked circles around the complex; he and Billie share the same anxious soul. Sitting still is impossible when they’re meant to be on the run. 

“Elizabeth?” he says. “Elizabeth Deereye?” 

He jokes like that sometimes. Their names are not set in concrete: they go by many. Although it sounds like him, the voice is sharp, inquisitive, as if evaluating the sounds. It’s unaccented in the Anglo way. Stiff and formal and dangerous. He doesn’t call her Billie Awiakta, but the far more impersonal title. She’d even prefer to hear Elsie, her least favorite by far. Anything but that. Not that name. Its very essence feels like a threat. 

The television clicks off. Their conversation tapers as if severed by a knife. Moving in a flash, Cleo snatches his coat off the back of the couch and bounds to the entrance before Billie can even move to place the bowl on the nightstand. In the process, he grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the holoscreen. The news feed rages as he opens the door, omens of chaos arising. 

A strategic crack opens in the door. All she can see from the outside is a sliver of the wall, where the news projects. From the anchor’s urgent tone, Billie would be led to believe the world is ending. 

“Hello?” says Cleo. “May I help you?” 

Accompanying the greeting is a funneled pause. Billie can sense the intruder’s surprise and hears static, one-way conversation over an earpiece. No matter how she strains, she cannot hear his frequency. Her mind turns to the holo screen, which announces information about the Mongol empire. 

Billie gestures for her siblings to hide. Having halted mid-battle, they roll off the bed, onto the carpet, and crawl to the ensuite bathroom. Paused at the door, Daniel mouths something. She doesn’t catch it and dismisses him with a wave of her hand. Finally, she sets her bowl down. 

When the man doesn’t reply, Cleo inquires once more. “Could I be of any assistance? If not, I’m just about to head out.” He lifts the bottom of his coat and flutters ever so slightly. He sounds polite enough, firm yet rightfully cautious, and considerate of the stranger outside. Still, there’s a quiver in his tone, which his leaden demeanor belies. 

But the next moment, he’s diving for the floor as a blast of energy sends the door flying from its hinges. Its discarded form crackles with electricity. Heavy boots tread. Wood splinters beneath the weight as an imposing figure emerges. It doesn’t stop at the door but instead continues. 

Billie watches her soup ripple, pretending the wretched thing isn’t approaching her. She sees its distant image on her spoon. The pilot is encased in an incredible feat of technology, armor of unbreakable alloys, surrounded by a constant layer of static. The suit is sleek and featureless, a sculpted block of obsidian. The ground rumbles beneath its weight, and Billie feels its presence crushing her as it crosses the room. It doesn’t stop until its at the foot of her bed, and it leans in. She is only a finger-width from kissing a colossal mother of beasts. 

Billie sees herself on the visor’s polished surface. She sees what she is and could be. Human and fragile. Breakable and mutilated. Nevertheless, she senses something else, too. Something beyond that hard exterior, something suffocating beneath the surface. Through the dark onyx visor, a pair of diamond-hard abyssal eyes gaze right through her. 

Men in midnight tactical gear surround them. More threatening than them is the silver-haired man in a crisp pinstriped suit. Electric feed crackles like fire, searing her nerves. People don’t wear clothes like this in her part of the country — they are only worn to weddings and funerals. Even then, his collar and tie are too tightly wound, while the suit jacket and tight pants are impractical. She is startlingly aware that these people do not belong here, yet their cold stares regard her as if she is trespassing. 

“Elizabeth Deereye,” says the Suit. He doesn’t sound as vindictive as someone of his visage should. “Your father has refused to comply during a company-sanctioned arrest, and as such, we would like to ensure no further issues arise. As his accomplice, you alone will suffice.” He gestures to the bathroom. “So your siblings are alright.” 

Sure, sure, she’s done her share of criminal actions; she’s the one who wrought this life upon poor father Deereye. But the rest? How liable are they in this? Implicit, at most. Maybe Billie can shoulder the blame, spinning a tale. If she cannot, then she must throw her father to the wolves. Her mother will be necessary collateral, but her siblings can potentially— 

Her heart somersaults in her chest. Mathilda. Where is Mathilda? 

She doesn’t blame her father — she could never fault the man for wanting to provide. She doesn’t even regret learning the trade. The only thing she feels is a searing disappointment. She could’ve been sneakier, could’ve convinced him to remain at home. 

Oh well. She supposes prison is better than spending winter in the mountains. As for the rest of her family… 

From her peripheral, Billie sees Cleo sitting with his back against the wall, supporting his impacted arm. Groaning, he attempts to stand. 

“Billie,” she corrects, turning her head. The man has enchanting eyes. She nearly wants to walk over and shake his hand, but the hunkering cybersuit pins her in place. “Call me that. And you,” she says, knocking on the chest plate with quivering hands. A jolt of static runs through her. She’s less inclined to offer the Suit politeness, but she’ll somersault off a bridge if this thing demands so. “Could you move back? Please? And can I know what’s going on?” 

A moment of silence pauses. Billie thinks he’ll move forward and crush her head between his palms, but soon, hydraulics compress and screech as the figure pulls back, looming over her in all its glory. Its head scrapes the ceiling, stabbing a light fixture and knocking it askew. Sparks crackle, and only Billie flinches. The cybersuit leans over her once more, and the sparks slide off as harmlessly as rain, crashing onto the carpet. The sight is vertigo-inducing. 

“Thank you,” she meekly says, still unable to meet his gaze. 

The pilot remains silent. Sauntering over, the Suit leans on him and laughs. Reaching into his pocket, he holds a card between his fingers. Receiving it, Billie discovers a minimalist logo. It’s cool to the touch. Lines form a flower that incorporates the company’s initials into its design. She tries compressing it beneath her fingertips, but the material doesn’t budge. The Suit grins and shrugs. 

“We represent the Interamerican branch of Ordos Bionics.” Adjusting his tie, he tries to appear suave, but he jumps when the broken light crackles. Peering over his shoulder, he whispers to one of the men. “Add any damages to our tab.” With his attention returning to Billie, “As for you, Miss Deereye, excuse Operative Aurelian. He’s not trying to be condescending. This is his first official mission, and he’s merely curious about your file.” 

A file? Why does she have one of those? Just what web has her father entangled himself in? How wound up in it is Billie? She doesn’t even want to consider how this will affect her family. Today, tomorrow, the week, months, then seasons. Life as she knows it might just be over. 

“No, I understand. He’s alright.” Clambering to her feet, she rushes to the Suit. “So where exactly am I— Watch it!” She yelps, feeling something warm dig into her back. 

Shushing her, the Suit glares. Weapon lowering, the man retreats. The Suit beckons her along as if she were a small dog. It’s insane. Utterly so, but Billie shuffles after. 

Sharply inhaling, Cleo reaches out. His hand grasps her elbow, but she shrugs him off. “Elsie, don’t—” 

“I’ll be right back,” she says. Then, in a smaller voice, “I hope so, at least.” She disappears without so much as a wave. 

He cannot even follow; she is swept away by the Suit, pursued by armed guards. That hunkering cybersuit remains. Coldly, blankly staring. Cleo offers a glare of his own. Their stare down lasts until the Suit peeks back in. 

“Aurelian?” he says. Whistling, he beckons the cybersuit to follow. “Come along. We need to get you out of that bulky thing before we fire up the engines.” 

The pilot nods. Ducking through the doorframe, he lingers a moment more. Effortlessly, he plucks the splintered door off the ground and sets it back in place. 

Finally snapping out of his reverie, Cleo rushes forward, but he still feels weak from being blown across the room. His muscles won’t budge, and neither does the door. Through the porthole, he watches as Billie is led to a large vehicle with doors that rise in the air. It looks like a chunky, miniature plane. 

Guards swarm the cybersuit, picking plates off, disassembling him. Out from the hunk of metal emerges a slim figure clad in black. He too, follows. The rest file in as Tesloid engines roar to life. Pressure galvanizes, forcing the machine off the ground with bursts of air that create a whirlpool. 

Billie’s face presses against the glass. Somehow, she looks right at him, then she’s ascending, disappearing into the sky. 

Wonderful. A bizarre man and his entourage are taking Billie as collateral, leaving him with the remnants of her frightened family. Cleo doesn’t believe they fit the profile of any of the various law enforcement committees, but as the man in the suit had implied, they must belong to a corpo-state's private forces. And what bearing does she have in any of this? They came for Mr. Deereye, not her. 

Sins of the father, as the parable goes. 

Huffing, he strides over to the bathroom and throws open the door. Ears pressed to the door, Daniel and Irene tumble out. Sighing, he grabs his holophone and dials a number. Immediately, it goes to voice mail. 

Nevertheless, Billie responds with a thumbs up. Thanks. You’re the best. Take care. 

We’ll be alright, he types. You can count on me. 

Take care? Of the ordeal? Of her? Of course, he will. If not him, then who? 

“Cleo, what happened out here? Where’s—” 

“Quiet,” he sharply says, a tone he’d never use on Billie. He wonders how they are just as, if not more so, calm than him. “I need to think. I need to be alone.” 

Irene crosses the room and dives onto the couch. Peeking over its back, she studies him, wide-eyed, unsure of what transpired. Unwelcome guests inquired about their parents, and her sister is gone; that’s as much she knows. Inexplicably, Cleo remains, and he is feverish. If the event upsets him so much, she wonders why he hadn’t intervened more effectively. Instead of voicing the thoughts that would bring his reprimand, Irene merely views Cleo and offers no solace as he wades through the aftermath. Outweighing her love for her sister is her unbridled rage. 

Cleo plops onto the bed. For a moment, his gaze flits to the unfinished soup. Tapping his foot, he brings the holoscreen to his ear. Awaiting a response, the screen illuminates his profile, exposing a slew of numbers. Irene doesn’t catch it; instead, her noisiness earns her a glare that redirects her attention to the television. She glimpses the credits of a documentary. 

Comparatively, its horrible companion does not, and fear is what I become when it returns every three seasons to rip me up. I play pretend with it, which comes naturally; nothing has everywhere to hide. And so, I hide until it leaves. Now strange and loose, it has ravaged me. The creature that had taken my friends has become greedy enough to take a piece of nothing. Undoubtedly foolish, even for the detestable beast.

To me, it should not be a beast. It has committed no wrong. But, to My Friends the Corn, it is the Creature of Cotton-Clad Doom, the bringer of reaping, weeping, and tearing everything up. To My Friends the Corn, I wish to mutter my apologies plentiful as soil grains and say: “How I loved you when you held light; how I still love you when you fade, as dark as night.”

Even absent, they are my friends and deserve good words. And if they had voices to miss, I would hear them on the wind. But since they had always been without any, I cannot. So, all there is to do is pose a challenge in the form of questions to the Big Corn.

I beg: “Big Corn in the sky, why do you rise? Why must you and your little love migrate? If you are my only company and leave me for the cruel bareness for an entire season and every day, how about returning my dear friends? How of it? You are corn and you are big, reigning supreme. You are my divinity, so return to me small corn of my own to tend to so that I may experience the remainders of your warmth on the cruelest of nights. How of it? How am I—a product of your being—meant to live without your love? I am your child, what you made. I am the Shuckling; suffering is my accursed life in your greed. Only in the warmth of love will I rise.”

Or so I believe. I cannot differentiate between good and evil. Not loss and day. How would nothing know of anything?

And yet, pain is what I become to mourn the memory of my friends. However, there is little time to wallow: questions are things higher beings do not like, and with time, from consequences, impudence is reaped.

With time, a strange feeling returns. I have felt it before, once a year in a season, and I weep. But, the tears are joyous as the missing parts of me fill. Truthfully, while the Creature of Cotton-Clad Doom brought my friends along, I believe it to be the doing of the Big Corn.

The winds that shake me carry some semblance of spring, the hope and joy that comes with the warmth.

Spring does come, and my friends return in the endless stretch of my palm. They return slowly but as surely as the seasons do change. I have little chats with my dear friends. So small, they cannot talk or do much besides remain in place. But that is alright; they are precious to me, and I adore them endlessly. The rains feed them and my touch is gentle and unwavering. But they grow in all the wrong places in my careless domain.

Eager to be near me, they sprout in heaps, too close. How touched I am, but I see they cannot breathe in the heat and see from so near, far too late. Pleading does nothing. A single trip from the Creature of Cotton-Clad Doom is enough for them to be ripped away, but not entirely. Their remainders are taunting, little husks of joy with an endless capacity for sorrow. For nothing.

I am made lonesome again and weep for the short-lived spring. Occupying myself is the only move. So I slowly learn to weave baskets from corn husks and brilliantly think to fashion the little dead things into small people with life. These people are perfectly round and a yellow so pale that it could blend with the clouds. They are made of me, so I call them the Shucklings after me.

I press chaste kisses to their foreheads to assign life and roles to live by with it. I tell them they are unique: “You shall be a gem, just a dainty little doll of a thing, and you shall be a blight to balance things out.” I know not of goodness, but it should always come with some bad. Those are the memorable things I first say to them, and their names are Maize, Sweet, and Ixiim, after my dear old friends.

It is love and memories I intend to run our little town with, and my life here will only be made of a striving for a peculiar and everlasting piece of peace; love, love, love, and perhaps hate too, in small, tiny quantities. Like corn and the husk, they shelter one another. They are as difficult to separate as air and sky as life and death. But this separation is needed. Corn cannot grow from the soil without it, and corn husk shells cannot rise from the rot.

Meanwhile, because I surround myself with them, I regain life.

Maize, the oldest, quickly becomes emotional and unimpressive for a corn husk. As a parent, I cannot say much. Though disappointing, there are still two more. Sweet and Ixiim influence one another, bothering B'äkäl and bullying passing crows. It would be irritating if I were one of those, and I become more of a parent because they are so small, my dear little Shucklings.

They stumble about, are trapped in small crevices, and incautiously try to leave the safety of the fields. These childish habits are not like my friends. Regrettably, not at all.

Instead, they become my children, parts of me I must learn to tend to. They also do not talk much, but they do possess the ability to listen. Listen and understand well; they do, but there is not enough psychology for them to know that I am all that keeps them safe. It is my turn to learn, and fear is what I teach them, weaving into my stories to not frighten them.

For the good of them, it is something they should know. Despising it, I come to be known for tedium, boredom, and how they are both handed out to my dear little Shucklings like perks. I did not realize that they disliked being around the remains of My Friends the Corn. But because that is what I surround them with, they become brittle and hollow from comparison.

The Shucklings are mad, and it does not help that they—with straw minds—have only learned to speak in fragments and repetition and how a typical conversation with them goes: “We could use some rains. The corns—our parents—have grown miserably this season, though it could be the cold and how we could use some rains.” They say things that hurt me. They do not know I am their parent, and their words hurt. Explaining otherwise is a waste of conversation, so I remain silent.

Then they say everything without meaning, except maybe, “There is this dead, rotting thing called me. Do you suppose it could be in use of the rain? Corn has grown rather poorly this season. I miss my parents, the corn. Do you suppose we could use the rain?”

Questioning how they know would mean a lifetime of conversations wasted and distract me from searching for a way to prevent further questions. I do not see the fear of unlove and would like to keep it that way. Unfortunately, fear is the only way to know that something terrible should happen before it does, and as children, they often lack sense.

The Shucklings, they are children. Curious ones at that. My tales do nothing to convince them to stay; soon, Ixiim dares to venture out. There was nothing to do as a crow made off with a mouthful of corn husk. My poor child was ripped apart and laid in the fields.

I am furious and unrelenting. His siblings try to retrieve him, and everything becomes a blur. But then, when I come to once more, there are no Shucklings, only little graves about their size.

Time passes, and the air grows cold, bringing the return of the Creature of Cotton-Clad Doom closer. Now, I fear what comes next, becoming a monster instead of hope.

To the Shucklings, I owe a debt impossible to repay. I cannot since they are gone, but I would apologize to them and all my previous friends with: “There is so much I regret. Thank you for having me as your company. Thank you for allowing me to love you, peculiarly without good, no matter where you look. Often, I think of what I have regrettably done and blame the outcome on not being perfect. The end of us could have been worse, but I now know that a selfish sort of love is doomed to fail. It was I, the unraveler of your time. I should have tried more; thank you, my dear little Shucklings, for the memories. I shall treasure what is left of you.”

I know I am not very good at keeping things, and I do not believe I will ever be. For the following field of corn, I am still a monster that causes them to wither and brown until nothing returns.