Parva Gradus

Torn Away

October 20th, 2025

Quinquagesimus Tertius Gradus

Day 224, 0630: Waiting for people to finish singing “Happy Birthday” is the most awkward experience a human being can have. Though, I bet it will be considerably easier today. It’ll be the first time I hear my daughters sing together in over eight months. Then you can factor in my position 250 miles above the surface of the Earth. Oh, no… I think I’ll have Jarret make them sing it twice.

“Aw, thank you, sweeties!” Dixie Bennet beamed into the camera.

“Who is that?” A woman floating behind Dixie gasped. “Is that my beautiful nieces?” Irene popped into the camera’s view.

“Auntie Irie!” The girls shouted with glee. Jarret chuckled at their excitement. Dixie had the girls catch up for a moment, checking the time on her watch. She gave Jarret a glance, that glance, which he registered despite the digital separation between them.

“Alright, alright, ladies. When Aunt Irene shows up that’s our queue to leave,” Jarret laughed. “Say goodbye!” A chorus of goodbyes and I-love-you’s clogged the video stream.“Goodbye, dear adventurer,” Jarret chimed at the end, sending his wife a kiss. Dixie’s heart fluttered as the stream cut. She turned to Irene and floated with her into the wider terminal of the station.

“Surprise!” The rest of the crew shouted as she turned the corner. With digital candles wriggling on their touch screens, they began singing “Happy Birthday to You.” It was horribly out of tune, time, and even lyricism, as they each filled in Dixie’s name with a different nickname. Dixie blushed and shifted her eyes, her hands closing together at her waist. A plastic smile molded itself onto her lips. She bit her cheek until they were done. This was the absolute worst.

“Aw, well, like I told my daughters, ‘thank you, sweeties!’” The crew laughed. They took turns shaking Dixie’s hand or clapping her on the shoulder as they began to chatter, enjoying a break from work. Some of them had put together little gifts for Dixie, or written poems, or drawn pictures, and they shared them with her one at a time. Dixie couldn’t help becoming a little teary-eyed at the display, even if most of the gifts were corny or plain terrible, in an objective sense. “I appreciate you all so—”

The station shook. The astronauts couldn’t feel it, but they could see the walls vibrating. They could hear the metal groaning.

They scrambled to different monitors, windows, and equipment, each performing their own part in the procedure. A voice came over the intercom: “I’m trying to see what the hell that was. I’m thinking some debris, but stay frosty.”

“I don’t think this is debris…” it was Irene this time. She was staring out of a viewport.

Dixie and a handful of other astronauts crowded around the viewports on Irene’s wall. Beside the station, against the empty black of space, there loomed a massive, dark form. Purple light shimmered off of its hull—or, whatever it was—and arms had attached to the station, locking the two bodies together in Earth’s orbit. External spotlights rotated to illuminate the foreign vessel.

Dixie’s skin sheathed itself in sweat as a shiver ripped through her. She felt a monster breathing down her neck. In a way, there really was.

——

“Oh, hey! This is super cool!” Norman sang to the observation team. “The earthlings are space-faring already. They’ve got this big ugly can full of ‘em.”

“Super sweet!” Bertha replied. “Look at all this other nasty crap they’ve got around the planet. Do they still throw stuff out? What a shame to dress her in rags. She’s so pretty otherwise. That starlight has a certain je ne sais quoi against the shimmering blue dress of the starlet, no?”

“You’re right. Ah, they’ll treat her right eventually,” Norman fired off. He snapped an order, being not so interested in Bertha’s personified Earth with its shimmering blue dress of water. He would never tell her outright, but her grandiose prattling about planet-people always irked him. “Warren, go ahead and board. Let’s see what these critters are like. Oh, wait! Look there!” Norman focused in on the viewports of the earthling station. Bertha followed his gaze. They made out blurred images of earthling faces. “They’re quite…hm. Well, that’s not exactly what I was expecting. Get in there, Warren.”

——

Dixie stared at the vessel. The astronauts swarmed around her, each a flurry of activity. She, for her part, didn’t have much to do but observe. She put a hand to her mouth as a stream of liquid snaked out of the vessel, rippling in both the sunlight and artificial light. It resembled a simple liquid ejection stream at first, but when it twisted and coiled at the end, Dixie realized that it was more than that. It had oriented and reoriented itself toward the station, as if it was deciding a course of action.

It shot forward. A loud, deep clunk reverberated through the terminal as it collided with the viewport. Dixie lurched backwards, striking her head on the wall.

——

“Oof! Ouch, that’s not a gap! It’s something hard. Super translucent though, obviously. I can’t get through it,” Warren reported to Norman, sheepish about his mistake. Adjusting his tactic, Warren spread his body thin over the station, searching for a hole or gap to enter. Fully extended, he started shifting over the body of the station. “They’ve really got this thing shut up tight. Is there any way they knew about us? Are they trying to keep us out?”

“I doubt it. We’re the first detectable things we’ve sent to this system. But, perhaps.” Norman said. “The Vroth are pretty chatty. Maybe they warned ‘em about us.” Bertha chuckled in agreement.

——

“They’re trying to breach the station!” Dixie shouted.

“They’re not responding to radio signals, Morse lights, or anything I can throw at them.” The voice on the intercom said.

Red lights began flashing inside the ship. A quiet, but certain, warning sound chirped at a constant interval.

“This is an order: Suit up. If these things breach the ship, you need to be ready for accidental jettison. Please remain calm,” the intercom warned, wavering. “The military is aware of the situation and is moving to intercept.”

Dixie scrambled for her suit. Not two pushes towards the room, the red lights swelled and the alarm blared, deafening and frantic. A horrific wind tore through Dixie’s hair and fingers.

——

“Woah! Is that them? They’re so small!” Bertha gawks at the flailing bodies floating away from the station. “It’s like they’re barely there.”

“I’m in!” Warren said. “It’s pretty impressive how quickly that gate closed up, though. These earthlings are serious business. It’s really warm in here, too, and super wet. Gross.”

“Excellent! Warren, explore around in there a bit. Bertha, go check out those earthlings and see if you can make them talk,” Norman said.

Bertha slipped out of the command room. She stretched her body away from the vessel, twisting toward the jettisoned bodies. She snatched them up by the feet. “They don’t look right, Norman. Like, they’re all bloated and blue and even nastier than the ones we saw from inside.”

“Interesting….Scan their molecules for cellular respiration.”

“Negative,” Bertha said a moment later. “No cellular respiration. What does this mean?”

“Hm. The earthlings are dead, Bertha. Warren, the earthlings can die. Try to be gentle, alright? Try not to poke any holes in their can. It would seem they don’t like that,” Norman said.

——

“They breached the station!” The voice on the intercom yelped. With the vacuum sealed, the alarms dampened enough for Dixie to hear and think. “Suits, now!”

Dixie shook her head. Pain emanated from her shoulders and hips. She had been thrown against a wall by the escaping atmosphere. Panic settling back in, she scrambled the rest of the way to her spacesuit. The legs slipped on first. With desperate haste, she snapped the other pieces together. Irene fell into her own suit beside Dixie, snapping hers into place even faster. Sylas and Bishop loaded into their suits in the same chamber as the women. Bishop entered last. He had a bandage wrapped around his head which was already soaked red. Thick, dark blood dripped down his face.

Dixie snapped her helmet down onto her suit. It flushed with dew as motors whirred. There was a round of snapping and clicking sounds, then a gush of air, and the dew disappeared as warm air flooded the suit. The clarity in her visor revealed a black mass wriggling around the chamber entrance.

Dixie screamed, shooting her arm out to Irene’s chest as if to protect her. They stumbled backwards as the tendril snaked through the air, glimmering with the same purple accents as the vessel from which it had emerged. The men’s spacesuits clamped into place, but Dixie heard their cursing shouts even over the mechanical clicks.

The alien shot forward, tangling around Sylas’ leg and waist, then pulled him to the center of the room. More of its mass appeared around the corner. It was massive; a clump of substance that ebbed mindlessly on its surface yet moved with intelligence and precision. It seemed to study Sylas as it curved around his body. Sylas was still and silent, veins bulging and threatening to burst through his skin. He was a creature then, a creature met by something so awesome and deadly that there was nothing his throat could think to scream nor beg.

——

“I’ve got one,” Warren said. “It’s a really still bugger. Soaking wet. Are you seeing this?”

“I see it, Warren,” Norman replied. “What’s that giant thing it’s in? Is that a cocoon or part of its body or something? The ones Bertha found didn’t have it. They’re way skinnier.”

“Uhm,” Warren trailed, “I’m not sure. I guess I could figure it out.”

“Please, if you don’t mind. I’m curious.”

——

“Sylas… just don’t move… okay… it’ll be alright…” Dixie whispered more for her own sake than Sylas’. She inched away from Sylas and the wriggling mass, pressing Irene back with her. Stunned, but recovering, Bishop slowly continued piecing his spacesuit together.

A second tentacle flashed from the alien and swept through Sylas’ waist. His legs twirled away with a spray of blood and a shriek. The tendril carved upward through an arm. Another cloud of blood burst into the room. With each heartbeat, a gush of blood spurted from the holes in Sylas’ body, slathering the floor and wall with red. The pink fog of blood that didn’t reach a surface bubbled through the air. Irene screamed. Sylas’ blood misted her visor, Dixie’s visor, and Bishop’s face, which had otherwise drained of color.

Sylas’ shriek withered as his heart ejected his body’s blood. It lost its human quality before it ceased. This most haunting moment of the scream, when it was no longer conscious, but was instead reduced, much like Sylas himself, to a naturalistic consequence of the shock imparted to his nervous system, echoed through the chamber long after his death. The shriek halted when the alien cut through his collarbone to his hip, but the echo remained, joined by the final vestiges of his curdling voice as it trailed into a trickling gasp. His organs spilled out and unraveled to span the entire length of the chamber, mushing into the walls of the station with wet, spongy sounds.

Bishop vomited, adding his bile to the slush of the room, then snapped his helmet into place. Irene sobbed, horrified to see her friend disemboweled and sprawling throughout the chamber. Her cries were only overwhelmed by Bishop’s maniacal laughter as his body fought the urge to black out. Dixie neither cried nor laughed, but only stared.

The alien, still holding Sylas’ abdomen, shot another tendril out to gather up his arm. The black liquid flowed around the spacesuit. It fished the severed arm out of the suit, playing with it, bending it at the elbow and the fingers. It held the sliced shoulder up to the place it should have been had it not been removed.

——

“Oh! I get it now!” Warren shouted. “The cocoon thing. It’s not like their bodies at all. They just get inside of them.”

“Very mysterious, indeed,” Norman said. He was observing the two earthlings Bertha had brought inside the vessel. He conjectured that the starlight had killed them, deforming them in the process.

“They can expand like we do, it seems,” Warren continued. “They’re a different shade when they do this, though, and they produce a really loud sound when they start, but they quiet right down. Their expansion seems to be vectored around points of mass, unlike us.”

“How do you mean?” Norman turned his attention to Warren’s perspective. The earthling body was limp and in multiple pieces. It was extremely white. There were parts scattered all over that hadn’t been visible before. Liquid in negligible gravity was blossoming throughout the room. “Check for cellular respiration, Warren.”

“Negative, sir. I guess I killed it. Never mind, they can’t expand like we do.”

Norman laughed. “No, it seems they cannot. So, they’re still compositions of organ systems…”

His vessel shuddered. Orange light flooded the vessel. Chunks of material ripped away, opening up more of the decks to space. Norman turned his attention back toward Earth. Projectiles streamed from a piece of trash—well, it seemed a piece of trash before—in orbit. They shone with bright light before colliding into his vessel.

“Is this an attack?” Bertha asked.

“Well, whatever those things are, they’re deteriorating my ship. And organ-based creatures typically associate deterioration with undesirability. Inflicting it upon us, then, must be a kind of attack.” Norman chuckled. “Warren, they didn’t much like whatever it was you just did.”

——

“Evacuate, evacuate now!” The command from the voice at the intercom was intense with emotion. “Await flyby for net protocol. Evacuate now!”

Irene, Dixie, and Bishop turned away from the alien and sprinted for the emergency release lever on the end of the chamber. Irene was the first one there. She knelt and began punching commands into the terminal. The procedure for ejecting an entire chamber of the station was lengthy in order to avoid accidental jettison. Bishop pounded on her shoulder.

“Hurry, hurry!” He screamed. Dixie punched his arm, jeering at him through her blood-dusted visor.

“Cut it out! You’ll fuck it all up!” She snapped. “You’re doing fine, Irene, keep it up girl…”

The end of the chamber bursted away from the station. A door slammed shut on the other end, slicing the alien in half. Every loose item, including Sylas and his parts, flooded into space. Irene, Dixie, and Bishop clutched each other as they careened through the void, legs flapping. Their suits became coated in Sylas’ blood, turning them each pink and red. As they settled into their ejection path amidst a cloud of gore, Dixie took deep breaths and tried to slow her sprinting heart.

——

“Ouch! Oooh! That stings…that really stings!” Warren complained as he was blasted away from the station.

“They’re trying to escape!” Norman said. “Warren, see if you can get those three back. I want to test some more things out on them.”

“Yeah, I’m on it!” Warren seethed one last time before the sting of live bisection seeped away.

“Dean, try not to let any more leave. Lock their can thing up. We’re gonna get out of here,” Norman said. He was referring to the severed half of Warren that was still inside the ship.

“You got it,” Dean replied. He attached himself to the wall of the station and grew, spreading himself thinner and thinner over the gray walls. He sensed earthlings scrambling all around him, fumbling with panels. “Oh, I see…” he thought aloud.

“Good catch, Dean!” Norman praised, “stop them from messing with those panel things. That must be how they eject themselves from the can.”

Dean shrunk his body into thin wires as opposed to a two-dimensional net, conserving mass. This allowed him to inspect the entire station for the escape panels. When he found one, he attached himself to it, injected himself between the plates that held them together, and expanded. The shocks tickled him. He started to enjoy the sensation after the second time.

“I got all the panels,” Dean said. He snapped his body back into a more condensed form.

“Perfect. Stay put. I’ll start reeling you in while Warren grabs the escapees.”

——

Earth hung in the distance among the infinite black. Dixie could see a glimpse of it through her bloodied mask. Irene and Bishop, still in her grasp, comforted her even as her body quaked within the spacesuit.

“There…” Irene whispered. Dixie moved her eyes, catching sight of an approaching spaceship in the distance.

“They’re going to get us. We’re saved…. Thank God, we’re saved,” Dixie stammered through tears.

“Dixie!” Bishop shouted over the comm.

Dixie turned her head toward her feet, which faced the space station. She kicked violently, groans tearing through the comm. The flowing alien was roping through the vacuum towards her. It ignored her kicks, planting itself on the sole of her boot. In an instant, it had wrapped as a thin film around Dixie’s spacesuit. It compressed, squeezing her.

Dixie shrieked with pain. Her helmet flew off, silencing her. The heat of the sun’s rays bore into her skin, peeling it from her skull. Irene and Bishop watched her deteriorate through their blood-soaked visors. The alien let go of Dixie’s body and wrapped around theirs, instead.

It started dragging them toward the alien vessel.

——

“No cellular respiration. I grabbed that one too hard,” Warren reported.

“No worries, we’ve got plenty of earthlings here. Actually, can you try something for me while you’re out there?”

“Of course.”

“Alright. I need you to block out that starlight first.”

——

The alien stopped dragging for a moment. With tendrils still grabbing the astronauts, it blew itself into a wide canvass, cutting Irene and Bishop out of the sunlight’s reach.

“Oh, my God…” Irene sobbed. Tears floated in her spacesuit for a moment before steaming and circulating through her suit’s life support systems. Bishop only laughed. His eyes burned as his body forgot how to blink; they shook violently in his skull, seeing nothing.

Another tendril emerged from the blanket of alien flesh. It writhed down toward Bishop’s helmet, wrapping its base.

“Bishop!” Irene said. “Bishop, don’t let it take you from me! I can’t!”

The comm link buzzed. Irene heard Bishop laughing, desperately sucking in air to stoke his delirium. She cried harder, wailing through the comm. “Stop laughing! Stop! Stop laughing!”

The tendrils pulled apart.

Bishop’s face became clear in Irene’s vision. He was smiling with a wide, toothy smile, his eyes whited out. His flesh froze in an instant, mummifying him before her eyes.

“Oh…” she turned away, letting go of the hideous corpse, resigning herself to the clutch of the murderous clump which held her.

——

“Negative, no cellular respiration.”

“Alright, then it’s not the sunlight that kills them. Dean,” Norman said to the observer still within the earthling ship. “Start to analyze the atmosphere in there for me, alright? The earthlings must rely on their environment to survive.”

He turned back to the dead bodies on the perch before him. “Oh! But of course! They’re organ system dependent creatures! Of course environmental factors still affect their survival. Bertha, why don’t you call me on my crap one of these times, huh?”

“They still use organ systems?” Bertha scoffed. “Are they even alive?”

“That’s not really my purview,” Norman dismissed the mocking inquiry. “Alright, well, anyway. Warren, pack it up. Let’s roll! Be super careful with that last one.”

——

Scanning the darkness, Pilot Russ’ thumb shook as he pressed the button. “There’s nothing here, command,” he reported, “no space station, no alien vessel. They must’ve taken it.”

The voices on the other end cursed.

“There!” The copilot said, pointing. Russ veered the ship in that direction. A hatch opened in the side of the ship, spreading a net beside it. Russ slowed the ship, capturing the debris. He swept through the sector a few more times, inspecting it thoroughly with his copilot.

In the belly of the spaceship, the crewmen sorted the debris. They milled about the mess, bagging everything. Among the evidence were three bodies; two without a helmet and one in complete disarray, organs scattered all along the ship floor. One of the crewmen gagged and stepped away. Another knelt by the corpses, wiping blood away from the nameplates. He pressed a button on the side of his helmet.

“Dixie Bennet…Bishop Hill. Both KIA. There’s another body here, sir, but we’ll need DNA analysis to ID.” He sighed, standing. “Alright, men. Take good care of them.”

He left the terminal to weep.
Whiskey Gunboat Rebellion

August 22nd, 2025

Quinquagesimus Quartus Gradus

I’d been on Rabbit Skull Island not two days after the Hurricane of ’53 when I met the rest of my life aboard The Rebellion. Ma’d sent me down from Bourbon with the season’s harvest and a tied-together raft of old logs, saying, “Son, those good people’ll need food to fix if the Lord bid they rebuild shelter down in Darius.” I told her, “Ma, I’ll take this to those good people and make sure you and Pa get your money, but mark my words, this is the blessed voyage that turns me away from Bourbon for good.” With a hug and kiss, I was off with the cargo. And that was that.

Wasn’t longer than a moment after I had taken the copper from the merchant who’d purchased my last raft log than I laid my eyes upon her: The Rebellion. She was tall as a building and prettier than a banker’s retirement home. Wide, blue and white, glistening in the rising sun and proud in the water. Touched by vintage carpenter’s ornamentation we’d somehow lost by the time I was a lad. Two great, orange wheels plunged into the water from her stern, and sleek cannons lined her decks. Accidentally in love, I started for her, pushing and knocking my way through the crowd to get a closer look.

“Woah, partner,” a gruff voice had said. A heavy, friendly hand clamped my shoulder, “What’s the hurry?”

“Excuse me, sir. Forgive my intrusion; I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m on my way to the boat,” he followed my gaze to The Rebellion.

“No trouble at all, lad, none at all. Say, I hear she’ll be moored ’til at least nightfall. Maybe then you can take a better look. Meantime, care to lend a hand?” His lips pressed into an earnest smile. The warmth in his voice led me to believe he was right—the boat would wait for me. And Ma’d have me whipped if I declined my labor to a fellow in Darius after the storm they’d had. I peeled my eyes away from the beauty of the steam ship.

“What’s the job, sir?”

——

The raccoon’s fluffy tail slipped between my fingers as my face mashed into the dirt. I rose fast to make chase. A board shook as the back of my head crashed it.

“Dah! Guh!” I seethed. I scrambled out from under the deck boards, stumbled to my feet, and rushed to the other side of the house. Soon as I rounded the corner I leapt back, something smashing into my chest, and landed on my rear. The raccoon’s shrill squabbling filled my ear as he scratched and nipped at me. He was heavier on my ribs than I’d anticipated a little critter would be. I batted him with my forearm and he scurried right back under the darn deck again. “Daggum!”

“Aw, man! I’m sorry buddy, I missed him again!” A heavy, friendly hand hovered before me. I took it and Levi lifted me to my feet like I weighed as much as a newspaper. I fiddled with the leather greaves on my arms. Fresh scratches from the raccoon’s claws gave ‘em some character. “He’s a smart one, that raccoon there,” Levi continued. “Picked a new hole to jump out this time.”

“He’s one crafty son-of-a-gun, I’ll tell ya’ what!” Marty’s quivering voice agreed. She didn’t make a T sound too well, so words like crafty sounded more like “craffy,” and her Ss were replaced by shushes. Marty found herself to be my present employer, courtesy of Levi, the man who pulled me off the dock. Rubbing the back of my head, I was about starting to regret that event. Anyways, Marty was an old woman. An old, old woman. Her skin was tanned as brass and wrinkled as a worn flag in a windstorm, and I can only perfectly describe her as a well-weathered wind chime. “My grandnephew ran ‘em off last year—you hear me?” We turned, giving her our full attention. “But the storm ran ‘em back in under my deck again!”

I already knew that detail. When I met her earlier in the morning, she had jumped right into a grand narrative about the deck, her grandnephew, and the critter that had lasted from midmorning to noon. I was an expert in Marty’s deck, unwelcome pets, and other things pertaining to Marty generally by the time she finished her tale. Once she was done, she shooed us off straight to evicting the little fella and repairing her deck grates, scolding us for standing around. While Levi had seemed amused by the situation, I had shaken off a headache as we began our hunt for the raccoon. Now, caked in mud and sporting a bump on the back of my head, the crafty son-of-a-gun had me wishing for another one of Marty’s soliloquies. God willing, I was about to have one.

“Yeah,” Levi responded to Marty, “Y’know if it weren’t for that storm, I don’t think he’d have been run in under your deck again.”

I squinted my eyes at Levi’s parroting of her statement ‘cause I reckoned it was rather rude. Yet the words were genuine, and I caught not the slightest hint of mockery. Neither, it seemed, did Marty.

“That’d be what I just said, young man,” she replied, mirroring his smile. “I’m glad your ears ain’t quit working. Now shoo on back to work, Mister Coulson.” She stepped inside. The screen door rattled behind her.

“How are we gonna nab him?” I asked, my voice sour with disappointment that Marty had no further word to share and we would have no reprieve from the hunt. “He’s got too many escape routes for the both of us to cover.”

“Mm,” Levi mused. “Well, you reckon he likes berries?”

I considered the question, having never before considered the diet of Darius-dwelling raccoons. “S’pose if he’s anything like the raccoons we’ve got in Bourbon he’s kind to berries.”

Levi raised a brow at me when I mentioned Bourbon. “I s’pose you’re right.” With that, he plucked a whiskey glass from the rail of the deck and made for the marshy wilderness behind Marty’s cabin. I took one more look below the dusty deck, into the darkness under the cabin, before turning and following him.

The marsh quickly swallowed up my legs, pouring mud into my boots. Levi didn’t mind. He waded through like a spirit in a cemetery. Not a drop of whiskey lifted out of his glass if he didn’t want it to. Meanwhile, I trudged from tree to tree, slipping and splashing up mud all the time. Many trees were felled in the storm, leaving ripped-up stumps jutting out of the muck like spears on an old battleground. Didn’t see any bushes. No bushes, no berries. I began to grumble. Apparently, a little too loudly.

“Quit your belly-aching! Come here, there’s a whole patch of berry bushes just ahead,” Levi chimed. He was right. Just ahead, on a dusty hill, sat a clump of sun-soaked berry bushes. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I hurried to the edge of the hill, meeting Levi there. He whistled. “These are some mighty fine, mighty plump berries.”

I took a blackberry in my hand. It was heavy. Rolling it gently, I plucked it off of the branch. Purple stain trickled down the crevices of my fingers. “Oh, that raccoon isn’t going to be able to resist these!”

“No, sir!” Levi clapped. “Now, where’s the basket?”

“The—what?”

“Well, didn’t you bring a basket?”

My face turned beet red. I squeezed the blackberry in my hand, squishing it through my fingers.

“Ah, shucks! No problem, no problem… let me think,” Levi downed the remainder of his whiskey. “Mm! Here, we’ll put some blackberries in my glass. You got any cloth?”

“Just my shirt. We could—”

“Nope, not the shirt. Marty’d be on my case about staining a nice young man’s good shirt.” A moment of silence passed as he loaded his glass with berries. “Can you breath through your nose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well alright then. We’ll load up on berries. Just don’t bite ‘em.” He promptly snagged a berry off a bush and placed it into his mouth.

——

Back in Marty’s yard, I fell to my knees and spat out a mouthful of berries. I turned and spit out my purplish-red saliva. Levi kept his mouth shut until he made it to a stump in the yard, whereupon he placed each one by hand, stacking them into a neat offering plate for the raccoon. When his mouth was empty he took the berries from his whiskey glass. It was filled up again with whiskey by the time I cared to get off my knees. I brought my berries over and added them, with less eloquence, to the stack.

“Now we just wait for him to come out. Then we net him. Those berries are so good, he won’t be longer than five minutes I bet you,” Levi said, giddy with anticipation. Still feeling sour for being turned into a human marsupial, I ignored him, but I hoped he was right.

Three hours later the sky was turning orange. The berries hadn’t flinched. The raccoon hadn’t even poked out his nose from below the deck. We could hear him scampering around down there, chittering, as if mocking us with laughter.

“Daggum!” Levi finally burst.

“Yep,” I agreed.

It was Levi’s turn to grumble. He paced for a moment, then shook his head with vigor and bent down. The butt of his whiskey glass pushed up against the dust yard. He nestled it in. Still muttering, he took up his post once again, taking his end of the net in hand.

Not five minutes later that raccoon had come scampering out of his hole, marching right up to the whiskey glass, and taking not even a second look around before dunking his snout into the cup.

Levi and I lunged without a word. A puff of dust and a squeal later, the raccoon was bundled up in our net, hanging a foot off the air. He fought like the devil to scratch or bite his way out of the net, but it held true. My arms grew tired quickly, but I’d be daggummed before I set him down after what I’d gone through to snatch him.

“Marty!” Levi hollered. “We need the crate, dear!”

Marty stumbled out of the back door holding a wooden crate that must’ve weighed near as much as herself, plunking it down by the porch steps. Levi and I waddled over to it, dropping the raccoon in. I kept hold of my end of the net as Levi shut him in with the lid. We carefully pulled the net free, so he wasn’t all bound up and all. Except for being in the crate itself, of course. The raccoon screeched and scratched like a menace all along.

Now I noticed that Marty was all done up for bedtime, with a loose nightgown and coils in her hair. I took stock of my surroundings, realizing how dark it’d become. I shivered, not from the cold, but from a wave of anxiety. I didn’t have nowhere to go.

“I know I’m pushing it in age, boy, but I ain’t a ghost yet,” Marty said, referring to the expression on my face. “What’s the matter, sonny?”

“It’s nothing for your concern, Ma’am. Please, pardon me,” I smiled. “I’m just glad we caught the critter for you.”

“Yup. Well, now you’d better take him far off so he don’t come back. My grandnephew didn’t do half what he ought’ve last year in that department.”

“I’ll take good care of him, Marty, don’t you worry,” Levi promised with a gesture. “I reckon you’d better say goodbye.”

Marty’s mouth worked without producing a sound. She bent as far as her old bones would let her, grazing the top of the crate with her fingers. She began to talk to the raccoon, speaking to it like a beloved grandchild. Her farewell was so personal, I shifted in my shoes and began to think maybe I oughta step away. As I turned, I felt a tough hand on my shoulder. Levi whispered in my ear, “She’s a sentimental thing. She’s about done.”

“Behave yourself now, you rascal, and I hope I never see your face around here again!” She smacked the lid of the crate and rose. Levi helped her stand.

“Anything else we can do for you, Marty?” He asked.

“Get that feller out of here.” With that, she slammed her door shut, leaving the three of us alone on the deck.

“No point in dawdling,” Levi chirped after a moment. He knelt, grabbed the crate, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Spinning on his heel, he clamped down the steps and was almost to the corner of the house before I even registered to follow.

We were a good long walk up the road from Darius, so I got to thinking. Really, I got to stressing. The stars were now waving hullo and the sky was rolling over into its violet blanket, and I still had nowhere to be. I was almost out of spending money and I’d checked out of my room on the island that morning. As we walked, I scouted out some spots in the marsh that might do for a little fire and a sleeping body. Felt strange to try to sleep so close to the road, though. And the stink of the marsh wasn’t negligible. It made me appreciate the scent of Bourbon, which was… heck, I guess I couldn’t describe it from memory. It was good, though. Real good. Not like the marsh.

“So here’s the thing.” It was Levi who broke the dusky silence first. “This raccoon’ll find its way back to Marty. Marty’s cooking is the best-scented thing in these parts for miles around. I know her grandnephew, and he’s a good kid. He wouldn’t have just let the critter go anywhere. He’d have done a swell job of taking him far.” I looked at Levi, studying his face as he talked, trying to figure out why he was telling me this. “I reckon the raccoon isn’t gonna stay away from old Marty. That is, unless he’s got someone keeping an eye on him.”

“Are you saying you’re gonna keep him?”

“No,” he laughed. “I’ve got too many responsibilities at the moment, as it were. But you have just shed yourself of all responsibility, except to yourself. Isn’t that right?”

“Me? Well, no, now that ain’t right, exactly. I’ve got…” I trailed off. He was right. I had sold the last of my parents’ supplies, promised my Ma I’d not return to her, and was anxious about a place for my own head, and my own head alone. He took my silent realization as a “yes.”

“Then, congratulations, you’ve got yourself a new best buddy.”

The raccoon hissed in the crate. I swallowed. Levi took a sip of his whiskey and laughed.

We walked in silence for a long time. My body started to gnaw at me, tired from the day. My head hurt from when I’d smashed it on Marty’s deck. I still didn’t know where I’d end up, had nowhere to go, and now there’s a daggum raccoon I’m gonna be stuck with. Well, at least I can use the crate as a bit of a chair, I suppose.

The tighter streets of Rabbit Skull Island replaced the marshy trail without my realizing, I was so deep in my contemplations. Before long, The Rebellion—tall, proud, and well-lit compared to the cool dark waters behind it—came into glorious view.

“‘Course,” Levi started, “when I had my first raccoon, someone taught me how to tame him and train him and such. I s’pose it wouldn’t be right not to pass along the favor, eh?” He stopped walking where the dock met the dirt. “Well, the call’s yours. You can give me a break from this here crate and go on your way, or you can come aboard and meet the rest of my crew. What do you say?”
The Glugcut: Peter Pan, by JM Barrie

May 10th, 2025

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Flutter

February 2nd, 2025

Octavus Decimus Gradus

Amethym swoops down from the clear sky. Bright green hills roll beneath her tiny body. They grow larger as she draws nearer to a pearl flower in a thick patch of bushes. A cluster of long, weathered buildings zips past her vision. The fat domestic birds waddle in the midst of the buildings, gargling in their strange dialect. While Amethym approaches the pearl flower, Aquem darts into her vision. Before she can protest, Aquem winks his tiny black eye at her, only to peel away and hover in front of a red flower instead. Rolling her eyes, Amethym eases into a hover before the pearl flower. Her bill threads like a needle between the petals, diving into the pool of succulent nectar. She draws it into her body. The nectar tastes so sweet. It floods her body with a wash of vitalization. Excited, Amethym flares her wings at an even faster pace, rising in the air and leaning into the flower to reach the final drops of nectar.

Aquem’s thrumming wings draw him beside Amethym. His bill dunks into the pearl flower, nudging Amethym out of the way. She draws backwards, huffing at Aquem. The shine of his teal feathers catches Amethym’s attention even as she peels away. Amethym darts to a new flower, ducks behind it, and keeps an eye on Aquem. He pulls his bill out of the pearl flower and eyes it, tilting his head in confusion. She giggles to herself. Empty. He darts away, taking a moment to scan the farm for her, but she remains hidden. He jets away in a flurry.

Amethym dips in and out of the shadows, trading the warm sun for the cool shade in a wonderful dance of comfort. She stops at hundreds of flowers, consuming their nectar in turn. Dozens of hummingbirds float around her. They bob and weave through the trees, bushes, and flower beds. They are blurs of gold, teal, ruby, and garnet spiriting throughout the farm, blessing the landscape with their heavenly colors. They settle into birdbaths to clean themselves. Their splashing sprinkles the chickens below with droplets of water. The hummingbirds laugh at the clucking protests of the fat domestic birds.

Dusk approaches, soaking the colors of the farm with an orange glow. Amethym grabs hold of a little branch. She tucks her wings into her body and tightens her grip. Her eyes droop. Her body falls forward. The world fading black, a flurry of teal feathers perches beside her.

—

Amethym stirred awake an hour later. Starlight flooded the trees with silver. She dropped from her branch. Her wings, a blur in the night, snatched her out of the free fall. She began to drink more nectar, loyal to the route she’d carved out for herself on the bountiful farmland. Nocturnal creatures skittered above and below her, gray shadows streaking through the darkness.

Ducking behind a bush, Amethym roosted on a pipe that ran along one of the buildings. She shuffled toward a cluster of flowers to drink from them. Buzzing began to tickle her ears. Her purple head tilted toward the sound as she paused with her bill still nestled within the flower. The buzzing grew a little louder. She leapt off her perch and descended into the bush. Thick, leafy branches choked out the starlight.

A body lay the bottom of the bush. Its green and yellow feathers glimmered with hints of silver light. Flies buzzed around the body. Amethym snatched one in her bill. She hovered above Citrim’s body (for that is what it was) as the flies scattered. She remained suspended in the air long enough for the flies to regain confidence, returning to the body despite the wind she made. Amethym felt a poke on her tail.

She beat her wings in a rapid burst, jetting her upwards with sudden haste. She cracked her skull against a branch. Turning around to face her attacker, she gasped. Her tweets were rapid and angry as she told Aquem off, calling him a fool and a jerk, among other things. He chuckled, then looked at the dead bird in the bush. Snagging a fly from the cloud as a sort of toast, he offered a word of respect to the fallen bird, Citrim. He and Amethym retreated to a bundle of flowers on the other side of the bush, escaping the morbid scene and trading the buzzing flies for sweet nectar.

As she drank, Amethym thought about the dead bird. Citrim had seemed a healthy character, born in the same generation as Amethym and Aquem. She shared the odd nature of his passing with Aquem, who shrugged. Perhaps he was injured by an owl, escaped, and died there. Shame the owl didn’t eat: he may be hungry yet. Nudging her goodbye, Aquem darted away from the bush.

Amethym flittered back to Citrim. She whipped up a breeze with her little wings to scatter the flies before planting herself next to the unfortunate corpse. Citrim was not the same size as he had been in life. Amethym’s head snapped to and fro as she noted the details of his body. The pattern of his feathers seemed distorted. That made sense, especially if the flies had burrowed into his skin. But that didn’t explain his eye. The beady thing was nearly shut, though not closed. Rather, it was swollen over, forming a band rather than a circle.

A fly zipped back to his body. Amethym snapped it up and ate it.

Inspecting the body again, Amethym noticed it wasn’t only his eye that was swollen. Little bulbs of flesh dotted much of his body.

Desperate shrieking tore Amethym away from her investigation. She fluttered to the top of the bush, scanning the area for the source of the cries. She caught a glimpse of Aquem disappearing behind a corner. She raced after him. As she turned the corner, he noticed her presence. One of his wings gave out and he crashed to the ground. A dark flurry of motion obscured him from Amethym’s view. Through the cloud, he cried for her to stay away, to fly away. One final squawk punctuated his life.

Amethym retreated, perching herself on the roof, looking down at the sad scene. Tiny creatures continued flitting all around Aquem’s body. They dove into it and pulled away with jarring flight patterns, circling and diving back in. They were relentless. From her distance, Amethym couldn’t make out what they were. She dove off the roof and returned to the trees. She hoped that there she would be safe from these new killers, whatever they were, through the night.

The morning light rose, whisking away the gloom and damp of night. Amethym hurried to gather the hummingbirds, leading them to Aquem. The group observed from a distance as the chickens pecked at Aquem’s body and the flies surrounding him. She told them of the cloud of attackers, then led the group to Citrim. The disturbances in his skin were much more visible in the sunlight, even under the shade of the bush.

The hummingbirds left the body and perched together in a tall tree, overlooking the lush pasture. They discussed the killings, linking them to the same murderer.

Jasper’s wings thrummed as he settled onto a branch beside the group. His wings beat at a lower pitch, revealing the slowness that racked his aging body. He attended to the group’s theories. During a lull, he chimed in.

“Wasps.” With that, the old bird drifted away in a breeze.

Amethym shivered, her feathers puffing. The rest of the group likewise displayed their shock. Horror crept over them. Jasper was straightforward, yet his song had been thick with warning and melancholy. The group lifted off of the tree and swooped toward the ground, dashing together through the air.

Along the tree line, they spotted more bodies. Gold, teal, ruby, garnet; every color scattered along the beige dirt, swarmed by black flies.

The group flew with haste away from the trees, ducking into the stable. There, a light brown, papery coil was stuck to a corner. As they approached it, a yellow insect flew out from it, orange legs and wings glaring like fire. Two more emerged, then a dozen, then two dozen. The hummingbirds backpedaled through the air, twisting to dash away at full speed, panicked chirps echoing through the building. Amethym chanced a look behind her. A bright blue bird was overwhelmed by the creatures. He squawked terribly as his body heaved and his wings began to slow. Amethym popped out of the building. She heard him slam into the wood, his cries dying off behind her.

A stream of the killer insects writhed out behind the hummingbirds. They chased in a relentless pursuit, unrelenting even as more birds were stung, slowed, swarmed, cut down to the ground, and left dying. Hoping to create distance, the hummingbirds tore away from the farm. They zipped over the pasture. Still, the buzz of the insects continued, growing louder, and louder. A sudden screech of a hawk drowned them out for a moment. Frantic chirps rang from the birds as they urged each other to separate. So, they did.

Amethym dove toward the crops and fluttered as fast as she could, low enough that her feet skipped over the dirt. She scrambled toward the farm, listening for the buzz of the wasps. She risked lifting up over the crops when she was sure she had lost the insects.

She rose to the height of the farm buildings. Chickens clucked carelessly as they plodded throughout the farm. They inspected the dozens of dead hummingbirds scattered along the grounds. Each one swollen with the venom of the wasps.

Amethym dove towards a window. She floated in front of it, her heart in overdrive, and poked the glass with her bill. She rammed it with her skull and scratched it with her claws. Something inside began to move. It grew larger… larger…

The window opened. Amethym slipped inside the crack, flitting from position to position, hovering in front of the farmer. She choked out pleading chirps, her head frantic as it snapped to and fro.
Heliosphere

January 26th, 2025

Quadragesimus Secundus Gradus

Rumbling jet engines suffocated Zariah’s ears as her head traced a benign dance through the air. Pressure throbbed all around her skull. Her eyes bobbed, struggling to focus. The cabin was dark and splashed red from the onset of dusk, so her eyes flitted from reddish shadow to shadow. Faust squirmed next to Zariah, straining against the bindings which held his hands and feet together.

Zariah sensed a thud. Faust began to shout, which seemed to cue the pressure on her head to lift. Her ears continued to ring, but Faust’s voice grew clearer against the engine growls. Her head still hung limp, but she could settle her eyes on the aisle; on a silhouette. She blinked, as in a lull, to clear her vision. When they opened, the silhouette remained. It was a man. He loomed over Faust. A man, but ghastly. Catatonic. Even as the shadows of seats and windows pitched around him, his form remained steadfast, as if the world was anchored to him.

Zariah felt pressure along her side as Faust adjusted in his seat to turn toward the man. His bottom rose onto Zariah’s thigh, his shoulder pressed into her cheek. Now his shouts soared into the man’s face. Of more importance, his body hid hers from him.

The shadow in the aisle spoke in a whisper. Zariah heard it over the deep groan of the engines, over the creaking of the plane, and over Faust’s angry cries, because it sliced like a silver dagger through the air. It silenced Faust and hushed the cacophony of flight. Faust trembled. Zariah shivered as well, desperate to escape the shadow’s presence.

When the whisper withered, Faust barked at the man. The rage in Faust’s voice was now tinged with horror. Zariah registered not a word, but she gathered the hopelessness just as well. She jerked her head back and twisted her neck. Her body obeyed, allowing her a perfect view of the aisle over Faust’s shoulder.

A hand fell on the shoulder. The heat from Faust’s body disappeared as the shadow-man snatched him away. He crumpled to the floor. Zariah tried to shout, but found her mouth full of cloth. A sliver of light glinted near the man’s hand—a knife. Zariah’s eyes snapped onto it. She commanded her legs to thrust her forward, but they couldn’t muster the strength for the endeavor.

Then it was gone, returned to the man’s black sheath. Faust was alive. The rope from his hands fell to the floor, severed. Zariah watched him stabilize himself on his hands and knees. His abdomen quivered. Zariah decided that he was weeping.

The shadow-man kicked Faust, who clutched at his belly as his face fell into Zariah’s feet. He turned away from her. She could only stare at him. The cutting whisper of the man returned for a moment. In response, Faust sat up to hurl more venom towards him.

Howling, like a storm, assaulted her ears. Air gushed around her. Her eyelids flickered. She curled as the cold bit her. When Zariah opened her eyes she saw Faust standing before the man. She saw that he was yelling, but she could hear nothing aside from the rushing wind. The shadow’s arm shot out from his side, with an awful glimmer, and a spattering of blood fell upon Zariah’s face. Faust fell to a knee. A desperate scream scratched her ear. She shut her eyes tight, unwilling to watch him die. The wailing continued, harmonizing with the wind. When at last it fell silent, Zariah felt that she may never open her eyes again.

Hands grasped her shoulders. Firm, but tender. His hands.

Her eyes snapped open. Faust was staring at her, but his eyes were shut. His face was split from edge to edge and bathed with red glow and black shadow. His eyes were shut tight. His cheeks gleamed with tears and blood. He squeezed her shoulders. He shoved her. She tumbled out of the plane.

—

A sudden, searing pain in her leg snapped Zariah awake with a lurch.

The motion threw her body out of a precarious balance, sending her careening down a hill. Even as she rolled, she unwittingly reached for her calf. As her face struck a sharp branch, she gave up on the leg. Instead, she brought her forearms up to protect her head. Branches and rocks carved out gulleys in her skin as she descended. Rivers of blood ran through them. Anything uncut was battered, though most of her body met both pains. Zariah fought the urge to flail in an attempt to brake, an urge which strengthened with every punch and slice. The urge subsided when at last she began to slow, rolling to a stop in the dirt. Zariah seethed, body coiled tight, and was grateful that she hadn’t crashed into a trunk.

She lifted her leg to see what had caused the pain that sent her down the hill. A rat, ten inches from head to rump, caked with blood and missing an eye, slid off her shin and splattered to the ground in a heap. Zariah turned the opposite way to vomit.

In agony, she stumbled away from the rat and the bile, leaving a thick trail of blood behind her. Wood snapped beneath her feet; an owl sounded to her left; she was grateful she could hear.

Zariah spotted a boulder in the crimson moonlight. She used branches and fallen trunks to stabilize herself as she crept toward it. She was desperate to reduce the pressure on her legs, which gushed blood. She nearly fainted with every step. Reaching the boulder, she sat, hard. Leaning forward, she took a moment to spit and pant.

The little backpack on her shoulders fell away, rotating into her lap. She slipped a wet hand inside and produced a canteen. Tears streamed down her face as she rinsed every inch of her broken skin with alcohol. Dipping back into the bag, Zariah secured the canteen and drew out gauze. Taking a deep breath, then draining her lungs, she began to stuff a puncture wound beneath her ribs. Her fingers soaked in blood immediately. The gauze disappeared. So, she drew more, and stuffed. Again, and again, until the gauze was level with her skin. She dabbed at the blood to dry her skin, then applied a bandage. Another riffling through the backpack produced a thick roll of wound wrap. She wrapped the deepest lacerations on each limb first, then used up the rest of the roll. Many scrapes remained exposed.

Zariah felt blood trickling out of the puncture, so she placed both hands over the bandage and compressed. She couldn’t sob. The gauze might’ve tumbled out, followed by another pint of blood. She couldn’t risk a sob, as the hitching would’ve torn her wounds wider. So, instead, she sat there upon the boulder. She stared into the blackened ground. She used her hands to trap her blood inside her body. Water streamed from her eyes, cascaded over her cheeks, melted into her blood, and wetted the soil. But, catatonic, she would not sob.
Soul Facing Depths

January 6th, 2025

Quadragesimus Septimus Gradus

Boards soaked black

Ropes soaked russet

Barrels rattle.

Stubborn lantern casting

Red orange flicker

Over dark deck.

No horizon

No direction

Only sapphire, teal.

Spiralling colors

Melding images

Waves, clouds.

Vast waves flow

Like serpents slither

Cascading foam, churning clouds.

Leather boots strapped

Strong legs planted

Black coat whipping.

Waves plant water beads

From rogue spray on

Skin sapped white.

Ears consume raging wind

Eyes scavenge faltering light

Nose inhales swathing salt.

Clothing drenched

Heart slow

Body still.

Skin dripping

Beard fluttering

Eyes peering.

Rain showering

Water splitting

Cyst forming.

Disruption growing

Funnel swirling

Cone deepening.

Abyssal vacuum scarcely

Visible within boiling

Ocean canvas.

Centric sheet rises

Rushing white streaks,

Blotting perception.

Clear vision unscathed

By titanic distance

Counted to immensity.

Armored neck

Arching ascent

Veil hides scales.

Water flows

For minutes

Toward waves.

Final drops roll

Over scaled snout

As eyelids peel back.

Stark blue irises

Bright as stars

Strike, unsettle, balance.

Crowned head continues rising

Frills stretch, consuming sight

Strong chest emerges.

Midnight scales gleam indigo

Water beads cling tight

Else steam into night.

The Ocean

Stands revealed

Before man.

Eyes meet

Body tense

But still.

Beyond measure

Above surface

Below, unimaginable.

Petrified, stubborn.

Awed, flippant.

Adoring, offended.

White lips whispering

Slate ears hearing

Accepting protests.

Maw splits open

Sword teeth shine

Rich, somber voice.

Hair rises.

Wipe arms.

Can not relent.

Heart convulses.

Breath quickens.

Sweat beads.

Wrath?

Is that, is that wrath?

Or,

Sadness?

Is that, is that sadness?

Time for mercy expired.

Due wage has arrived.

Act!

Vain.

No time.

The Ocean

Surges

Snatches.

Scales recede

Into swirling sea.

Cut the surface

Without interrupting.

Stubborn lantern

Casting red

Orange light.

Russet ropes.

Black boards.

Rattling barrels.
Hesitation

January 3rd, 2025

Septimus Gradus

“Describe to me what you saw when you arrived at the scene,” a dull voice crawled through the cool room.

“When I got there the SWAT guys were settling into positions around the building while the firefighters kept dousing the doors. I was told that no contact had been made with the suspect. The mission director shoved a floor plan in my face, told me where his men suspected the bombs were planted and where the hostages were being held by the suspect,” the detective reported dryly.

“Was there anything unique about the scene?” The interviewer groaned.

“What do you want me to say? There were pretty police lights flashing, the building seemed empty, the firefighters were wrestling their hoses, it was dark.”

“Right…” the voice droned. “What was your understanding of the situation before you arrived on scene?”

“I knew about the fires, how they choked off the entry points. Except one, which I later used. I knew there were bombs. The hostages were a surprise. I—”

“A surprise?” The voice perked up. “Why were they a surprise?”

“The case struck me as similar to one I had encountered before. Or at least, would have encountered. A few years ago I was called out to help with suspicious activity in some underbelly neighborhood. Came across a fella with a toxic relationship with fire and a real desire to blow shit up. He seemed misguided to me… not malicious. So I just talked with him. He let me take his contraband, I set him up with a therapist, and I checked in on him now and then after that.”

“Checked in on him?”

“Sure, I felt I was responsible for him, in a way. I wanted to make sure he was doing well. And, it always seemed he was. So I put it out of my mind that it could’ve been him when I responded to the call. But the mission director told me it was him when I arrived.”

“You knew the suspect before the incident, and the director knew that.”

“Of course, that’s why I was on scene. He hoped I could reason with Chuck.”

“Chuck Gershwin, the suspect?”

“Of course. Where do you find guys like this?” The detective asked, peering over his shoulder into the false mirror as his arms rose in a wide, mocking shrug.

“If we could stay on topic…” the interviewer’s voice drooped low again, his eyes half shut. “So you walk into the building. Then what happens?”

“I followed the floor plan, ducking under the smoke. The room was simple enough to find. It was right in the middle of the second story. No windows, no secondary access. And it was pretty small, basically a maintenance closet. I hollered a bit coming down the hallway so Chuck wouldn’t be alarmed. I said, ‘I’m alone, unarmed, and I just want to talk to you. Is that okay?’”

“They sent you in unarmed?”

“Not really. I had a concealed pistol on my hip,” the detective continued. “Anyway, there wasn’t any response to my question. I peeked around the corner. Chuck was holding a remote. The hostages were sat under him between the two of us. He’d duct-taped their wrists, ankles, and mouths. Three men and two women.”

“Was there any conversation?”

“Sure. I greeted him like I’d bumped into him on the street. He was shaky. He told me I wasn’t going to talk him out of this one, ‘not this time.’ He had to do it this time, he really had to, or else they would come and get us.” The detective shifted in his seat before continuing.

“‘Who are they?’ I asked him. He just fidgeted and flexed his arm. He had never mentioned ‘them’ before, so I have no clue what he meant. Seemed like I wasn’t going to find out, either. So I changed the topic. ‘Hey,’ I continued, ‘who are these people?’

“‘They’re my friends,’ he told me.

“‘Your friends? Well, this is no place for friends, don’t you think? They might get hurt.’ Chuck agreed with me. He let one woman and two of the guys go. He had me cut their tape. But he wouldn’t budge on the other two. ‘You guys will come in and get hurt,’ Chuck said.”

“He didn’t want to let them go because SWAT would come in, and he’d blow them up?” The interviewer leaned in, resting his arms on the cold table.

“That seems to be the case, yes. Then he told me to leave, because he didn’t want me to get hurt. I asked if the last two hostages would be hurt if I left.”

———

“My husband and I were so scared,” her voice shook. “The bomber insisted that we had to be the two to stay, because we’re married. I think he thought that we should die together.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” the indifferent voice lulled. “What I need to know is what happened after the other three hostages were released. Do you remember?”

“The detective bargained for our release, or tried, I guess. The bomber wouldn’t do it. The detective was so…well, he really tried. He was really kind, too. The bomber, I didn’t get a look, but he started…crying. I felt sorry for him. He was about to blow us all up, bury us in that building, but I felt bad for him. The detective moved closer. He was trying to get the remote, I think. But he told the bomber he was just going to take the tape off of our mouths. The bomber started getting angry, so the detective stopped. I was staring at him as he talked to the bomber…it felt like hours. I heard another sob behind me. His face contorted—”

“Whose face contorted, ma’am?”

“The detective’s. I couldn’t ever see the bomber. The detective’s face…I don’t even know to describe it…I thought we were about to die. The bomber, I thought, had pulled the trigger, and we were seconds from blowing up. I turned to my husband, then I heard a bang! I thought—”

“The detective shot the suspect at that point. Was the suspect threatening in any way prior to the shooting?” The voice cold as the stiff air in the room.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” she stammered, “but he did sound very angry. Angry crying. If I had to guess, he was about to blow the building, yes.”

“Thank you.” The slender man stood, strolling out of the room.

———

“Do I regret it?” The detective repeated. “What is ‘it?’ The shots? No, not at all.

“What, then?” He snapped. “Yes…yes, I regret it very much. I regret that I didn’t stop Chuck from getting there.”
A Day on the Farm

December 30th, 2024

Vicesimus Septimus Gradus

Daniel dunked his hand back into the numbing water. Sweeping it across the surface, his arm caught hold of twigs and leaves. He scooped them up over the edge of the container. The sunlight struck his bare skin in the most pleasant way; a flush of warmth after an icy plunge. The tractor hiccuped over a divot as it started toward the next tree, but Daniel kept his balance. Water sloshed over the rim and drenched his jeans. The man smiled with a shiver as the conveyor belt roared back to life and more branches, leaves, and cherries tumbled into the container with a splash. Daniel batted away the biggest branches, plucked away the smaller waste, and scooped up what remained at the surface when the belt stopped feeding. Few cherries dropped to the ground due to his precision and tact, the former a consequence of his experience and the latter a consequence of his personality.

Hydraulic groaning preceded the routine clang! and thud! of the machine’s claw tightening and clamping down on a trunk. More whirring sounded, accompanied by a fresh shot of the smell of motor grease, as another mechanism extended from the tractor and a huge, upside-down umbrella fanned out beneath the tree. Daniel stared at the process, enamored, as he always did. The machine began to shake. On his first ventures, the machine jostling him around was a nuisance, but Daniel had since grown to appreciate the relaxing quality of the experience. Instead of tensing up, Daniel allowed the vibrations to wave through his muscles in a sort of massage.

But if the machine shook, the tree trembled. Her branches and leaves whipped up a maelstrom of their own. A cascade of red swept down from her like silk sheets falling onto a bed. The wave of fruits plunked onto the umbrella with a beautiful sound; it was as if hail could land gently on a roof overhead. It could make Daniel snooze, but it was inseparable from the mechanical screeching of the tractor and the rustling protests of the tree.

When the shaking finally stopped and the claw returned to the tractor, the cherries and debris from the tree rushed down the chute. With the relative quiet, Daniel could hear the bouncing fruits, rolling branches, and whisking leaves with perfect clarity, a symphonic collaboration of nature’s bounty and man’s machine.

It was interrupted, as always, by the racket of the canvas folding itself up and pulling away from the trunk. That, itself, was interrupted by a belch of the tractor’s engine as the train pulled forward to the next tree.

As the conveyor belt rolled, Daniel sorted through its falloff. He treated it like Tetris, preparing now for what was coming in a moment. His present motions had been decided seconds earlier. Commitment to his predetermined actions enabled his efficiency and efficacy as a cherry sorter. The belt ran out of debris, so Daniel stopped it and looked toward the next tree, ready to admire the umbrella.

But he didn’t see it, and he didn’t hear it moving into position. Instead, he heard the engine break into an idle. Wilbur hopped out of the driver’s seat and walked toward the tree. Curious, Daniel quickly fished the last of the waste from the container. Finally at rest with the tractor, the water within settled into a flat sheet, cherries glistening under the surface. A ripple crossed it as Daniel leapt off his foothold.

Wilbur was now kneeling by the tree, inspecting something around the other side.

“What do you see, Will?” Daniel called. As much as he enjoyed the experience of sorting the cherries, he appreciated a lapse in routine. He stretched his limbs as he strode.

“Well,” Will spoke slow, and very low. It was a voice to which one pays careful, patient attention if they wish to hear what it says. “It looks like a fox hole to me. What do you think, Dan?”

Wilbur shifted as Daniel rounded the tree. Kneeling, Daniel noticed faded tracks. They weren’t perfect prints, or even scattered prints, but tracks nonetheless—dirt patted down in a way it couldn’t be without animal tampering.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Daniel agreed, puzzled by their choice of estate. “But they must’ve moved out. Nothing’s been around for a while.” A breeze fluttered the yellowing grass over the hole. Daniel stopped feeling the breeze, but he continued to hear it. “Wait, shh,” he said as he bent closer to the hole.

Weak whimpers grazed Daniel’s ear.

“Huh, I was wrong,” he said. “There’s definitely pups in there. But I’m sure nothing’s been around…” he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“D’you think Mom’s in there?” Wilbur asked. Daniel had him move in to listen, then explained their whining. “So you’re saying she’s not. And she hasn’t been for a while. You don’t think she’s lost, do you? Or worse?”

“Oh, man!” Daniel exclaimed, “I don’t believe foxes can get lost. But worse… I hope not.” He tapped a finger on his chin, staring at the hole. “If she is, we’d better help.”

“Well, what if I skip this tree for now, and we’ll keep an eye out for Mom. If she doesn’t show, let’s bring ‘em back some food. Say, what do fox pups eat, anyway?” Daniel gave him a punctuated answer as the men headed back to their positions on the tractor. The thrum of the empty orchard snapped away as the motor roared back to life and lurched the machine forward. Daniel swung onto his foothold as the tractor crawled to the next tree.

Daniel expertly plucked sticks and leaves out of the tank as it filled with bright red cherries. The water darkened as it shallowed, both due to the decreasing depth and to the orange attitude the sky adopted in the early evening. While the cool water was a welcome comfort in the heat of the day, it became frigid as the sunlight receded. Daniel’s lips began to shiver. The hair of his arms stood on end.

As Daniel was about to holler to Wilbur, the driver turned and shouted over his shoulder. Daniel couldn’t make out his words over the clanging and bustling. He didn’t need to. He smiled, finished clearing the last load of cherries, and rubbed his arms dry to stop his shivering.

They made for the tree with the fox hole. Daniel craned his neck around the tractor, desperate for a hint that Mom had returned for her cubs. His heart clung to hope as they neared, but he saw no change in the grass or dirt surrounding the den. Wilbur beat him there, kneeling and listening. He moved out of the way as Daniel approached. The men shook their heads.

“Got a box?” Daniel asked. Wilbur shook his head again. “Well, maybe they’re small yet.”

Considering how to pull them out, Daniel listened to the soft coos of the kits wafting from the hole. Gently, Daniel slid his arm inside, letting the dry dirt roll alongside the fabric of his sleeve and skin of his arm. His fingers met the young fur of a kit. Soon his fingers pet the meager body of the young fox. It seemed to purr as he cradled it within his grasp, finding the best position from which to pull it into the open air. The kit remained calm as Daniel cupped it, and, gently as he put his arm in, scooped it along the tunnel and into his arms. It was bony. Daniel thought it might fall apart in his arms, scattering its bones among the grass. Its fur was dull and weathered despite being kept inside a hole. Wilbur stared at the creature, shivering as he took it from Daniel’s care.

“Poor things probably would’ve died tonight,” he observed, solemn.

Daniel returned to his delicate chore.

With practice, Daniel gained speed in fishing the foxes out of their den. There were some snags. One kit, he found, was tucked behind a kind of corner. Daniel spent considerable time maneuvering the wild baby within the hole, positioning it so that he could extract it properly. On another dive, Daniel noticed that a root had sprung up. He grabbed hold of it and yanked, loosening up dirt all around the hole. A pocket knife sawed through the root and allowed for the last of the kits to be brought out. They were caked with dirt. Daniel brushed them off.

He listened at the hole for a good while. All he could hear was the cricketing of bugs in the orchard as dusk’s gray-orange light began to draw the color out of the field. Finally, he stood.

Wilbur held three on his lap, tucked under his shirt, as he drove back to his farmhouse. Daniel cradled two kits in his arms, snuggling them to protect them from the sloshing water. They cooed and breathed deeply. Daniel felt them pressing into each other to conserve what little was body heat they had left. Even dulled by malnutrition, their orange coats were striking—a beautiful stroke of nature’s portrait, complimented by the well-faring evening sun.

Wilbur’s farmhouse came into view. The machine rumbled up the driveway. The tractor popped and heaved as Wilbur put it to rest for the evening. Daniel was off before the tires stopped, hurrying the kits into Wilbur’s house. Wilbur trudged behind him.

Inside, Daniel balanced the foxes in one arm as he ripped up a blanket and formed it into a makeshift nest. He set the animals into the blanket. They swaddled themselves with their tails. Daniel leapt away from them to find a shoebox, which he stuffed with soft towels.

The screen door creaked on its rusty hinges as Wilbur pulled it open with a boot. He shuffled inside, settling the siblings into Daniel’s nest. Daniel turned back into the kitchen, shoebox in hand, and scooped up the smallest and weakest looking kits. He tucked them into the shoebox before settling in a kitchen chair. He watched them, counting their shallow breaths as their ribs rose and fell so barely. Wilbur set milk on the stove and cut some bites of jerky.

Satisfied that the foxes were going to be alright for now, Daniel picked up the landline and dialed the conservationists. A soft prayer rose from his lips while the phone rang.
Trudge, part two

March 17th, 2024

Vicesimus Sextus Gradus

Marsden’s boot pressed into the dusty, split earth, eager to soar through the air again. His pace was quick and his face full of the joy in his heart. The sun drew sweat from his skin like a bucket draws water from a well, but he kept up. The merciless air sucked the breath from his lungs, but he kept up.

The cacti applauded his advance. Or so he imagined, or so was the case.

Ah! He seethed into the wind as a fine, long stroke of pain coursed up his forearm. He paused, the wind gently lofting dust around him. Peeling back the layers of his bandages, Marsden inspected the wound. The healing was coming along well. Too well, in fact, for a man who’d been secluded from medicine and in the wilderness for…

How long? How long ’til I am reunited with them?

He pours water—the freshest water his canteen has held—over the gash-turned-cut. The pain recedes, swept away by the flow. The salty, bloody water rushes down his tan arm and off his worn fingers, sprinkling the ground. Marsden pats the cut dry, then replaces the bandages as he makes off again toward the town.

No time to focus anymore on the evidences of the desert critters. No notice is given to the cursive of the snakes, the dens of the jack-rabbits, the footprints of the birds. There is no time to invest in the details of the journey, for Marsden was busy rejoicing at the destination, grateful for the revelation, bustling in his mind with thanksgiving and love. Ah!

Marsden wonders at how the fellows will receive him. Will they welcome his return? She, and he, and he may. Will they sneer, or mock? He will, she, she and he may, too. His lips draw apart, his teeth gleaming in the bright sun, and he smiles at the thought of all the people welcoming him back in their myriad ways. He smiles, eager to share with them all.

He imagines the town, but sees no picture, as he trudges toward it. Rather, he feels the town in his heart as the faces of his friends and his enemies, his neighbors, parade through his mind. He hears their voices singing with him in the chapel, their whispers conspiring to kill him in the dark. He feels their sadness seep into his soul through their faces, and he feels their happiness warm his heart through their eyes.

He hurries now, his walk an unfamiliar bubble.

He feels apart from them. Kept apart by the desert that lays between them. Kept apart by their struggling to grasp at what doesn’t exist, like he had tried to do.

How long? How long until I can be with them?

He feels apart from himself, as well, as if there is some new thing that has replaced him. Some new him that is no longer him but is now fully him. A him that is plagued by the ghosts of the old, but which pays them no mind, for the new is a him that stands apart from, but always with, the prior. It’s… a better him living a better life.

He wonders how much longer the vanity of the desert will surround him, how much longer his pride will continue to impose its consequence.

Oh, the tragedy!

That in my despair, I had carried myself so far from the task now revealed, the one task that matters, the one comfort that I have been called to, now held so far away!

Rippling skin, yelping muscles, his heart skips a beat and he jumps in the air, excited by the joy in his soul.

Indeed I may be wiped away by the storms of this accursed world. My body is of dust, and destined to dust return, but within writhes an immortal soul! Yes, our bodies will melt away in the sun, or be consumed by beasts, or buried and rotted under the earth. But the earth itself is being weathered by an even greater wind. What a joy! What a great…

He leaps again, clapping into the air.

…relief! The waves of eternity are eroding the despairing world. Eroding, not merely to destroy, but to adopt into perfect eternity. All will be as it should be. Look! See the withered cacti? See the animal corpses strewn about me, their blood and gore scattered by the scavengers? Blessed are they who are dead and relieved from this earth, for all here is vain, but they are tasting now the glory yet to arrive. I pray I might join them soon!

Later. Later, I will die. First I must reach the town, and I must eat. Yes, I will break bread with my friends and my foes, and with them I will share. I will smile, I will invite them into joy!

Experience the promise, dearest friends, all of you! That there is a whole life beyond the pain we endure, or the things we hate, or the meaninglessness we bear. There is hope, in the wilderness, and here, and everywhere, if only it grows it your heart.

Dust rises from his feet as he trades wild ground for that settled by his fellows. His pace quickens, restrained only by his awareness of the necessity of breath for speech.

“Look!” Marsden shouts in the town square, pointing to the wilderness from which he came. “That is where I found it. The greatest comfort, the depth of joy. My heart yearned for what I cannot understand. I thought it was there, but it is not. The same strange thing your hearts yearn for. Blessed will you be, you who are true, and meek, and who hold dear the ungraspable truth!”
Trudge, part one

March 15th, 2024

Vicesimus Quartus Gradus

Marsden’s boot pressed into the ground with that satisfying crunnch again, then again, his ears relishing the noise. The sole of his boot molded the cracked dirt with the softness of a thumb rubbed over a lover’s wrist, leaving a signature of love imprinted upon the wilderness by which he was so smitten. The wilderness enveloped him, its comfort tight and warm around his soul.

The cacti, denouncing the desert’s parching heat with their stores of moisture, surrounded him. In his periphery they became silhouettes of the friends he once knew. They disappeared behind him as he walked.

The sand, cracked dirt, parchment drawn upon by the beasts and vipers and birds, gripped Marsden’s attention as he soaked in every detail. His dreams rendered the minutest detail of the landscape with picturesque accuracy. A detail which escaped even his waking mind, but which to his unconscious self seemed the most important fact of all Creation. By morning, the detail is wiped away by the silent wind of vanity, the destroyer of record in both dream and reality.

Marsden wondered when he, too, would be removed from record by the wind, falling to the sand, collapsing into dust.

Later, later. The answer is always later.

Presently, a pain seethes on his forearm, tearing attention away from the wilderness. Marsden turns to a deep gash on his arm, shabbily wrapped in bloody bandages. He pauses his step and places the pad of his finger and thumb on either side of the fleshy crevice. Pinching, he hears the gentle gsh of flesh reuniting, of blood being roused from pools within his skin. A thin streak of bright red appears on the darkened bandage above the gash. The pain subsides, and he carries on, scanning the desert for a suitable place to rest for a moment.

He settles upon a slight dune to rewrap the gash. Then he takes a sip of whiskey.

Overcome by temptation, he turns his head back along his path, scanning the horizon. There is nothing to see but the edge of where he has been and where he can not reach. Yes, the town is out of sight, put behind him. But for all his love of the wilderness, he cannot kill the adulterous longing in his heart for return. He cannot put the dusty, pale boards out of mind; the packed, trodden roads out of mind; the jesting and birthing and rearing and gossip and betrayal and joy and hatred and murder and music and drinking and preaching and cursing. Those things which seem to evade the erasing wind, stored away from the weathering wilderness. But surely they, too, must succumb and meet their end?

Even the cactus dries up in the scorching sun.

A bead of sweat rolls over his dirty face, trudging over his pores and flecks of sand, parading through his hairs, desperate to touch down on the sand and burst into mist.

Marsden tears his eyes away from the horizon, stands, rightens himself, and hears that satisfying crunnch again, moving away from that temple of man and into the heart of the Earth.

How far? He wonders, How far must I go to be apart from them?

And in the back of his mind, the itch to turn whispers, always swaying like a sign in a breeze, always lurking like a spirit in a graveyard, coaxing one more glance toward the town, on threat that this time, when he glances, he will take a step toward it.

How far? He wonders, How far must I go to be apart from myself?

When I go until I cannot go any longer, will I at last collapse into dust, and will then my stricken pile be dismissed from corporation by the first gust? Will I be but as hundreds of flecks, irrevocably separated, yet unified, still clinging to legacy, my legacy, the murderer, the healer, the griever, the rejoicer, the regretful, the contented, the proud, the generous, the wise and the fool? Apart, but bound together by the air which roused my selves from their former companionship and cast out to all the world? Apart, but bound together by origin; I will cease to be, and be yet.

Then, I will still be when I am no more? Will the wind return and wipe my remains away, completing my destruction? Surely, they are doomed to be washed away by the wind, and so I have left them. But here, too, the wind snatches the sand, and the animals lay their corpses down, and they become dust.

I thought that here, surrounded by the death of life, that I could wrestle the wind into submission? That apart from them, nature would preserve me?

No, I am them, and they are me, and here, too, the wind will reach me, and I have no better chance of wrestling it away when comes that fateful morn.

Marsden spat through a frown, scorning the wilderness as he might a challenging duelist.

Whether I wrestle here, or I wrestle there, the match is lost.

With the sun rising overhead, Marsden continued trudging through the desert, away from them and toward his end, contemplating these and other matters.

Quinquagesimus Tertius Gradus

Quinquagesimus Quartus Gradus

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