And if I do not keep moving, I will pass away. They call this ram ventilation, a shark’s way of breathing. My invisible gills demand the same method of survival. Since hatching from your womb, I have been burdened to forward momentum, a squirming force to be reckoned with. Raised in a realm above sea-level, however, the current has always worked against my nature.Most mornings, you barely squeeze in the chance to slather sunscreen over my ampullae of Lorenzini—freckles, you insist I call them—before I'm out of the door and down the street, bike pedals whirling, thrusting through the stagnant humidity. I may not bear fins like my aquatic ancestors, but the sweat I shed tastes of the sea. Marine familiarity, a restless scene. Inherent muscle memory urges me to continue on, past the front of the school, past the park, and past the fast food joints. Past the gas stations, past the woods, and past the town border. On and on, beyond state lines, never stopping until my toe-shaped fins touch the fizzy surf.Logic is a habit you’ve instilled in me, however. I settle for circling the perimeter of the building until my muscles scream for mercy or until security guards scream after me.In the classroom, society expects me to conform to anthropocentric ideologies: sit still—a manner my species physically cannot obey. Doesn’t matter that I’ve just biked the scenic route to school. For a shark, it’s move or die. I’m a fish out of water, floundering at my graffitied desk after exhausting all bathroom privileges to wander the hallways.From what I’ve overheard you whispering to neighbors and folks at our church, my teachers exchange concerns about the pacing, the rocking, the bouncing, claiming my fidgety movements are a detriment to my development and too much of a distraction to my peers. They’ve got it all wrong. The girls sporting dolphin cackles in the corner are the ones to be wary of.“See that kid over there? Yeah, that one. The boy that can’t sit still,” I make out of their clique-exclusive echolocation. “Stay away from him. Guy’s got issues.”If it were socially acceptable to bite, I would.That is a common misconception about my kind, though. I may bear a sharp-toothed grimace, but I am not violent-natured unless provoked. Even then, sharks are more afraid of humans than humans are of sharks. Often you prompt me to suck it up, to conform to warm-blooded standards out of my comfort zone for the sake of making friends. You don’t get it. My ancestors have roamed this planet solo, hundreds of millions of years before any mammal, and they’ve managed well enough.Y’know, you yourself aren’t the best at showing affection. I get my skin takes on an abrasive texture, but a bit of compassion here and there won’t hurt. Just a few kind words to validate my existence.Deep in the night, I thrash under sweaty bed sheets. The only way you get me to fall asleep is by dangling me from the edge of the mattress, flipping me head-side-down and feet-side-up, evoking a trance of tonic immobility. Assuming I’ve surrendered to human dreams, you admit to my father that it may be time to seek professional help for my condition.What condition is that? Do you not see traces of shark in yourself? Through weary slits of nictitating membrane, I watch your shadow roam back and forth past my bedroom door.
I’d been in the Midwest a month. I had stepped off the Greyhound with clothing, toiletries, documents, and a cremation urn, which I kept my savings in. The locals considered my new town dead. At first, I disagreed. Or, I figured at least, if it was dead, its corpse was flowering. Everything I needed was within the grid of a few blocks. Connecticut was unwalkable, nothing more than tree-lined roadways connecting one muddy village to the next. Soon, however, I ended up bored out of my mind, never imagining that I could do everything right and be so listless. One afternoon, I was drowsing in a booth in a downtown coffee shop when the owner, Howitzer, slid into the seat across from me. His posture was stiff, and the little hair he had was combed over his liver-spotted scalp. He gave it to me straight: he kept notice of me, trying to discern, for weeks now, whether or not I was an ‘Amoeba.’ “How often do you shave, son?” he asked, the word ‘son’ underwhelming in his timid voice. I told him I did a dry shave every few days.“Do you own a suit, and tie?” “What, like a penguin?” I answered. “Do you have an income?” “Yes, sir.” I found three within days of arriving. I cooked lunch at a daycare, walked dogs in the park, and slung drinks at a bar named Rockett’s. I lived in a former and refurbished motel for cheap. He asked what I did for fun. I told him that, like my parents and grandparents, I liked podcasts, roast beef grinders, and the smell of burning pine, and us five even shared the same galloping chuckle.“I didn’t ask for all that,” he said. “Alone, now, I presume? They call me Howitzer. I think I have your number. Kindred spirits. That sort of thing. Write down your phone number and email address on this.” A napkin. “Okay. Next. Read this, and come back tomorrow for the key.” I asked him what kind of key, and he told me that once I read the contents of the manila envelope he handed me, I'd understand.I commuted the two miles back to my apartment on foot and read the packet. The next morning, I returned to the coffee shop in the early hours before it opened and ran into Howitzer lugging two Airpots of coffee between his tattooed arms. He said my name, and I took one of the Airpots. He reached into his pocket to pass me a key on a chain. I followed him down the block and around the corner from the defunct Xavier's Books, where he unlocked a side door that led to a flight of wooden stairs. At the top was a carpeted living area, flanked by a private bathroom and a sparse kitchenette. Howitzer told me they called this the ‘den.’ We set the airpots, one vanilla bean and one dark roast, on the counter. Howitzer opened the cabinet under the sink and set out Styrofoam cups and a bowl of minty herbal cigarettes. He asked me if I had read the rules in the envelope and then, if I liked it here. I gave him the gist of my life. I came from a simple and thrifty Connecticutian family who converted the first floor of their colonial home into a diner that overlooked a secluded road and an ocean of verdant trees. Our menu was average. The sunrise is what made us our living. I lived in a shed powered by a generator in the back, saving my 15% of the earnings in a cremation urn. The urn once housed the remains of a Rottweiler named Argo, whom my family picked up from a shelter the week after we were nearly burglarized. The Midwest was a paradise. “Don’t say that much ever again,” Howitzer said. “Actually, anything at all. For the first few days. Got it?” He told me to review the rules, but otherwise to drink as much coffee and to smoke as much as I wanted, and that the den was open to me at all hours of the day as long as I remembered to lock up. I spent a few hours that morning there, and the mornings the rest of the week, as well as a few evenings. It was always the same. Howitzer would set up the air-pots. Amoebas would filter in, drinking and/or smoking, sitting on the lint-rolled loveseat, or on one of the folding chairs, or leaning enigmatically on one of the console tables that lined the walls, each of which accommodated a succulent and an archipelago of coasters kept at cautious distances. The rules were clear: no chit-chat, here or elsewhere. The best we would get was a smile or a nod and that was enough. Included with the rules in the manila envelope was a black-and-white photo of Jessica, the founder. Her father owned Xavier's books and both returned to Sioux Falls to be with family when he fell ill. In the meantime, Howitzer served as her intermediary. In the photo, she was dressed in shorts, a tank top, and spotless shoes on a beginner climbing wall. Her hands gripped the lowest handholds. Her head was turned towards the camera, eyes widened with surprise. I got the impression this was the only photo in existence of her, and even in it, she seemed unremarkable, as if she was just a feature of the textured spectrum of the faux rockface, not even the main character of her life. I think this picture was included for this reason. None of this is about any of us. We’re trembling at the base of a wall, turning our heads upwards, only to see more wall. We were not to share names, bring outside cups or cigarettes, though packed lunches were okay. No inviting strangers or oversharing. Amoebas would come in the morning, lunchtime, evenings, and sometimes in between. I came up with names in my head for everyone. There was Roger. Leathery skin, sucked-in jowls, poked holes in slippery belt, who would sometimes throw up in the bathroom before leaving for the day. There was Sophia, perhaps an eagle-eyed energy lawyer, bangs parted in perfect symmetry, who I’d seen around driving a lime-green beetle and who brought in a matching lime lunch box. There was Marie. Early twenties. Her nose was pierced, with a silver chain linked to her ear. Though we all had keys, Howitzer would open in the morning and tidy up at night. The den was comforting, especially when it was full. Us staring forward, or off, at an angle, evading eye contact. A fragile peace. Each of us, an unknowable, disambiguated phantom. Sometimes, out of nowhere, someone, never me, would share an anecdote, really a snippet, and we’d perk our ears to listen.“There was this piglet on the side of a seven-lane highway," Roger once told us. "Some years ago. One of those micro pigs, I've heard them called. It wasn't bigger than…." He held his hands out, a stretch of foot dangling between." I left it on the front steps of a humane society. I hope if someone was peeking through the blinds and saw me, they didn't think that was my micro piglet I was running out on.”Every once in a while, Sophia would share anecdotes about nuclear energy, a weave of storytelling, and light proselytizing.“In Vermont,” she once began, popping an hour-long bubble of silence, “how did they offset their energy needs after shutting down their nuclear plant? Not with wind. Not with solar. Coal. Yup, coal.”“Uh-huh,” we replied. Marie shared occasional idiosyncrasies from her visits to apathetic doctors who refused to believe in her deliberate celibacy, and she’d recount rude comments made during an ultrasound—whose purpose was omitted from us—and who blew his nose so many times she kept count. “18,” she said. “Or close to it.”We inhaled and, each at our own pace, sighed.A story was a call.The responses were either sighs, if the story was negative, or an “uh-huh,” if positive.When we were not sure, we guessed. It was predictable. It was addictive. We lived to hear about a tree collapsing and crushing a hanging beehive or a beloved aunt going missing and being found by a neighbor in an antique phone booth. During all of this, meanwhile, we held Styrofoam cups and the fragrant cigarettes. This was our form of caressing. The idleness that plagues the palms of non-Amoebas was easily fulfilled for us in this way. Our lives were undeniably boring, lacking the harsh drama and welling climaxes of paired-off couples, the highs and lows of those sorts of lives, but we were beyond that, happy that our only ambitions were to hang onto these stories passing like a drizzle before evaporating. Most days, I’d leave a fiver in the wooden collection box in the corner of the kitchenette, leaving at the very last moment and tossing my cup into the garbage. I believed that donation was a sort of magic. The money was to help keep the den’s lights on, and to help Jessica pay for her father's treatments. It was well worth it to witness the Amoebas in our unknowable grandeur. But also, there is a karmic give and take the world over. Like, in Connecticut, when I had emptied the rottweiler’s ashes into the surrounding woods in the middle of a winter night, giving back to the planet, the following week the diner was filled to the brim morning after morning. I realized, too, the more I donated to the den, the more tips I got at work. Everything was a self-contained circuit. I’d give to the den. The den gave back to me. And I could only imagine what the other Amoebas thought of me. Perhaps they suspected I was a secret multimillionaire. Or, a scuba diver in Bora-Bora. A used car dealer. A live-in butler. An underworld celebrity who rubbed elbows with Yakuza bosses and CEOs of mosquito net NGOs. I slept soundly at night on my springy mattress, imagining things like this. One night I let myself into the den. By then, I’d been an Amoeba for a few months, and the two-mile-long commute, the many hours spent on my feet,and the sixty-hour work weeks were beginning to really/truly drain me. For the first time, I considered how strenuous a lifetime of exertion can be and how painful it would be to start over, should something happen to my urn. My apartment door was thin and its lock was flimsy. I brought my urn to the den one night to see if there was a secure place to tuck it away. When I flipped on the lights, I jumped. Roger was in his usual spot, looking out the window. I was caught off guard. I placed my urn on the table, next to a bunch of print-outs Sophia left behind. Howitzer must not have tidied up that night. On top was the first page of the Gospel of Philip, the line, No one can meet the king while naked, circled in red pen. Roger looked ragged and I wanted to ask him if he was okay. Whenever I’d see a fellow Amoeba in the park or drinking at the bar, I wouldn’t acknowledge them. To do so would be like rifling through their trash or snooping through their mail. Whenever such an interaction occurred, which was rare, someone would contact Jessica, who would send out a long email, and Howitzer would have the offender return their key, change the locks, and have members collect new keys. “I’ve been eating more,” he said. “But nobody tells you that food has caffeine in it, too. Now I can't sleep."How unfair the world is. Roger had the demeanor of a surfer who survived a shark attack, and if he were to undress, I could easily picture a scar coursing over his torso, like a comet. I witnessed inequality daily. At Rockett’s, some patrons drank alone and others with loud crowds. Some dogs I walked were leaders, like a whiny husky, or followers, like the bleary-eyed dachshund. At the daycare, I could tell which kids were leaping ahead in maturity based on their grilled cheese preferences: some ate crustless white bread with a slice of American. Others like the crust. Others wanted more than one flavor of cheese, others wanted a tomato, and one kid in particular, whose parents were fast-tracking him to fabulous success, wanted minced pickled jalapenos on rye. Only we Amoebas were equal. "I don't trust my deadbolt at home," I told him, my heart hammering in my chest. This was the first time I'd opened my mouth since joining. "A light breeze is all it takes to force it open." “Uh-huh,” Roger replied, heartfelt. I was euphoric. He went back to his window. I began my search for a place to hide my urn. I measured the gaps under the furniture and opened the toilet tank. Too risky. I trusted Amoebas but not potential interlopers. In the kitchenette, I opened the cupboard under the sink and sifted past the beach containers and stacks of toilet paper. On a hunch, I felt the plywood sides of the cupboard, pushed at the corners, feeling around for a handhold. One slid off easily. I pulled my head inside and felt a chill emanating from this extra space and reached blindly inside. I pulled out a few objects: an antique hardcover of Gone with the Wind, a folded-up walking stick, and a decanter crammed with shirt buttons. I put everything back inside. I collected my urn from the table and noticed that Roger was gone. I slid my urn behind the panel and shut it. I took Roger’s place by the window. After a few minutes, I heard two voices. A couple. They were loud but not argumentative, playfully bantering by saying things like oh yeah? and shut up! I kept to my post, waiting for them to pass. The next few months were cold and fruitful. I put money into the den's donation box, and on certain nights, I'd add to my urn, which never felt like it was getting full. (The rottweiler whose ashes it used to hold was massive.) I was in the den one afternoon, eating a grilled cheese. Sophia was poking at something in her lunchbox with chopsticks. She had left print-outs on the table again, this time from the Gospel of Thomas:
Jesus said, "If those who lead you say to you, 'See, the kingdom is in the sky,' then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say to you, 'It is in the sea,' then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you.
Marie had just recounted a childhood memory. She was camping with her folks, and their neighbors had just caught a trout. They carried it to their coal-fired grill and dropped it there, flailing, scales and all. Marie reached the part where her neighbors shut the trout in when an unfamiliar voice resounded from the stairway. Her voice rose as she climbed, which pierced our hearts. We stood up from leaning, uncrossed our legs, extinguished our cigarettes, and swirled our coffee without bringing it to our lips. “Hullo,” a woman said when she reached the top. Her head swiveled as she took stock of us. She wore a North Face jacket, sweatpants, and bright yellow rain boots. “Come along,” she said to a baby hammocking in the bend of her elbow. “Let’s pour ourselves a dark roast coffee, yes? Did that spill? Nope, we did good. Didn’t we do good? Okay, let’s go back and find a coaster.” Mercifully, the baby was quieter than she was. The woman placed her cup on a Frida Kahlo coaster and sniffed emphatically. She raised her child to her nose and said “excuse us.” She entered the bathroom and closed the door. We looked at one another, bewildered. Having a kid didn’t disqualify one from Amoebahood. But bringing a child along and wantonly acknowledging us? The abrasion. There was nothing mysterious about her in the slightest. Our postures sagged. Amoebas scratched their nose, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Sophia straightened her skirt; I cleared my throat; Roger stood up. Marie tapped her fingers as we listened to the muffled sounds of the toddler’s diaper change. We all watched on as the interloper exited the bathroom, muttering, "late, late," and clattered down the wooden stairway, waving goodbye with her free arm, her coffee left to cool on Frida Kahlo. In the span of four minutes, she raised havoc and vanished. “What the fuck was that accent?” Sophia asked, wasting no time.“Australian,” I posited. My throat was dry.“Definitely, a Kiwi,” Marie said. “I studied abroad in Wellington.”“And who gave this ‘Kiwi’ a key?” Sophia demanded. Shrugs, shuffled feet. This was the first time in the den's history that anyone spoke louder than in a conversational tone. Sophia texted Howitzer, who called Jessica, who sent out a mass email.Who invited her, this ‘Kiwi,’ and did she break any rules? No one would be banned, she promised, both she and Howitzer were post-hoc conscientious objectors, who loathed collecting keys. Jessica just wanted to know who told his woman about the den, and if someone went over Howitzer’s head to make a key. “Again, no one will be banned for coming forward," she wrote at the bottom of the email, "We just want assurance the den is secure." We never felt secure again. We were quieter—what if an outsider were to overhear?—and we dallied less. We lingered now in a clearing fog, as if our cigarette smoke somehow materialized in frailer plumes. I could tell it troubled Roger more than anyone. When I would see him he would be slumped in his chair, almost lying straight on his back. If this Kiwi could finagle into our den so easily, who else could break through, ask questions? A meeting was demanded, the first of its kind. I’d seen the den busy, but never cramped. There was no space for leaning. Howitzer stood between the kitchenette and the living area, and we strained to hear him, in his low, droning voice. "Let's relax," Howitzer said. "She hasn't come back, has she? We haven't seen any newcomers either? Let’s allow normalcy.” Sophia darted her arm into the air. “We should change the locks again, just to be sure.”“Can we afford to do that again?” Marie asked. “She’s right,” Roger said. “If she has a key. She can make more and leave them on park benches." “That’s ridiculous," Marie retorted, and an argument broke out. No one could have predicted how dense our emotions could surge or how much agitation one Kiwi could carve out from us. I crossed my arms in the corner.Several Amoebas walked out, fanning across the empty streets. We were talking to one another directly, and battle lines were drawn. The hardliners were selfish, the calm ones were naïve, and who knows how many interlopers would take advantage of the divisions?Sophia quoted Gnostic passages to Marie. Roger punched a wall, and didn’t leave a dent. Howitzer polished the sink until the commotion died down. When Sophia tired of preaching, she called the naïve Amoebas corrupt, and Marie trailed her, and their argument carried out to Sophia’s beetle, who drove away at fifty miles per hour.A third of the Amoebas handed in their keys on the spot. Howitzer slithered through the dying crowd to the street to meekly tell Marie to hand in her key, too.
***
When I arrived at the den the next morning, I was alone and the succulents were missing. We didn’t discover the origins of the Kiwi. No one admitted to giving her a key. We didn't have the satisfaction of booting her, nor the Amoeba who did, and without those things there was no foundation upon which to repair the den.Nevertheless, I tried. It's all I had in that decaying town. I bought a lunch box and took every breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the den I could afford, gulping coffee and chain-smoking. I figured out how to mass email and reminded everyone that with closed mouths and open minds, normalcy was ours for the taking. "Don't think about the Kiwi! Don't think about interlopers!" Yet often I ate alone. But when I wasn’t, I led by example, sharing as many anecdotes as possible."We had a pet rottweiler growing up," I told Roger and several others. "He was big and mean, and he would jump on me and no one else because I was so tall. He’d lie in my bed before I moved into the shed and growl if I pushed him. I hated him. I hated him so much. Then one night, my mom or dad or grandma or grandpa—not me, is what I'm saying, this wasn't on purpose, left the front door ajar. The next morning, we found him on the side of the road; something powerful, like a truck, must've pummeled him. Strangely, he seemed at peace."I knew I should have stopped talking there. That was the story. Beginning, middle, end. I had already gotten some “uh-huhs” and a brisk sigh. But I carried on. "I blamed myself. But it wasn't my fault, like I said. But you know what I was thinking that night? I was thinking: I wish he would drop dead. And then it happened. I know it's a cliché. Listened, I willed my dog to die—on accident! Imagine what we would do for the Amoebas, on purpose!”Roger looked at me with disgust. “Really, man?” He took a long drag of his scented cigarette. He marched to the bathroom and vomited with the door open. He came back and stared at me as he wiped his mouth with an open palm. “I’m out.” Sophia sent out a mass email later that day. “I don’t know where to begin. This is all new to me,” began her three-thousand-word address. “I’ve never felt actually, totally, fully, completely, alone like I do now.” Winter came. Fewer families asked for their dogs to be walked. The daycare merged with a bigger one on the other side of town, too far to walk to. I only had Rockett’s. Money was tight. The sky labored overcast and each day shaded monotonously. I poured myself a sour beer at the end of my shift and sat in a corner. My phone vibrated with an unfamiliar number. I ignored it.The caller left a voicemail. I put the phone to my ear and listened.“We haven’t met before. It’s Jessica,” a quiet voice said. I sat up in my seat. Howitzer must have given her my number when I joined. “Thank you for sticking it out so long. You are one of the few who did.” Her voice was faint and reserved, as if she had just gotten out of bed, and didn’t carry the flavor of leadership that I was trying to emulate. "I hate that I have to tell you this. I wish I could have done more, but my dad… Things are getting worse. I'm sorry to have to tell you that I'm selling the bookstore. The den is a part of the property. I can’t justify keeping it. Thank you. Stay safe. I hope you find a new light.”I was out of the bar, full speed across the lamplit blocks toward the den, hoping that the locks weren’t changed yet and I could reach my urn before it was too late.My key fit. I rushed up the steps and entered the kitchenette and opened the cabinet and pulled away the side panels. I reached my hand in and felt nothing but cool, empty air. I stuck my head in. Nothing. I heard the toilet flush. I pulled my head out and felt a presence behind me. “Roger said you were poking around in here, but I didn’t realize…” Howitzer said. “That was my savings,” I told him. Howitzer’s face was pale. “All of it?” I asked.“Actually,” he started to say, then peered over his shoulder as if he were surrounded. “I promise. I had no idea. I should have questioned it, but I couldn’t believe our luck.”“What about my urn?”“Pawned it.”I stood up. “We helped Jessica pay off some outstanding bills. Not to mention the good luck with the buyer who actually wanted to reopen the bookstore. Our prayers were paying off.”Before I could say anything, Howitzer averted his eyes again, looking at his shoes like a child. I knew how he felt because I was him. I realized Howitzer had mistakenly invited the Kiwi. He misjudged and undid everything. He lost more than I did. I, however, was young and hungry; I still had a chance. My urn wasn't gone. It was donated, and good luck was around the corner, tenfold.I stood up and held out my hand toward Howitzer. He stared at my open palm.“I’m your barista now.”“Okay,” he said, and shook my hand. That was that.We walked down the wooden steps together. "Your key." he said, and I handed it to him, thinking, This will be the last thing I lose. "Rock bottom is only a minor setback," I told him. I smiled widely. I couldn't wait for the future. I wouldn’t be able to sleep.Howitzer squinted his eyes and told me to be in at six tomorrow. I told him I would. I wasn't even going to go back home. I'd stay at Rocket's till close and then wander around downtown for a few hours, appreciating the foggy sky, admiring our dilapidated architecture, and glaring at passing couples.As Howitzer walked to his car, I looked up at the den again. We left the lights on. You could almost make out a star or two in the night sky. I would rebuild the den because I knew it was in me all along. I was the den, looking up at the den, and I knew that no matter what happened, I would be rich, I would one day be surrounded by Amoebas again, and once that time came, any and every worry would be plucked from my mind, one, by one, by one.
Opening your eyes at night, unsure of where you are, half-dreaming, half-awake…staring into the darkness of a living room, thinking that the shadow near the door might be a man…or a coat rack… the tremble along your spine as you hear the voice of a deceased loved one on your voicemail…the uncanny sight of a mannequin that may or may not be a living person. We all know that sense of dread that comes from uncertainty during transitional moments, as well as the relief we feel once we settle into the known.Below are a list of fiction books that are highly effective at making the reader feel as if they are occupying a space inbetween: between real and fantastical, normal and paranormal, waking and dream, self and other, sanity and madness, life and death. Some are surreal, some evoke the uncanny; some use absurdity and humor, some play with expectations of form and structure; and some distort language itself to evoke a liminal state. Fever Dream by Samanta Schweblin (Riverhead Books, 2017)“She’s not his mother. He’s not her child.” This statement on the jacket flap forecasts the oddness of this novella, which tells the story of a dying woman, Amanda, who is speaking to David, the child of a woman named Carla. David has previously been saved from death after ingesting a poisonous liquid, but the process of saving him has changed him into an uncanny version of himself, as if he’s now lacking a soul or spirit. Amanda is trying to figure out what happened to herself as well as to help her daughter Nina. Much of the story is told in dialogue, with no quotation marks, which is just one way Schweblin creates a fluidity of identity and a dreamlike state. Schweblin also plays with narrative structure, creating an enigmatic atmosphere as we try to figure out what truly happened. The result is an eerie existential tale that lives up to its title.In the House by Lyn Kilpatrick (The University of Alabama Press, 2010)This is a wildly unique story collection, each piece revolving around domestic spaces. Kilpatrick employs formal invention and a poetic, figurative lens to create a sense of liminality between psychological and physical, between exterior spaces and interior spaces. Kilpatrick uses lists, instructions, diary entries, directions, character sketches, and more. In one series of flash pieces, each titled “Diorama,” the reader explores ordinary household situations through the uncanny use of toys and figurines meant to represent reality. The result is a creepy, sad, thoughtful meditation on the thin line between danger and safety in our domestic lives.The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe (Harper, 1838)One of the founding fathers of liminal fiction in American letters, Edgar Allan Poe’s longest story is also one of his strangest. I’m oversimplifying quite a bit here, but this novel features (among other things): a man stowing away on a ship and nearly starving in the cramped space; there’s a violent mutiny; there’s a shipwreck; there’s a boat full of rotting corpses; there’s cannibalism. Eventually the story takes us to a bizarro Antarctic landscape where the water is thick and laced with veins. Poe’s familiar themes of claustrophobia give way to fear of the other, fear of the irrational, and fear of mental stability giving way to madness.The Age of Wire and String by Ben Marcus (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)One of the most unique and challenging fiction books I’ve ever read, The Age of Wire and String does nothing short of redefine the English language, providing new, wildly strange definitions to common words. It’s less a story collection than a glossary of terms, a catalogue of a parallel universe. Marcus eschews standard story elements like character and plot in favor of a swirling, befuddling, funny, and surprisingly enlightening journey through a defamiliarized landscape that resembles our world but is wholly new. My biggest takeaway is how strongly our concepts of “truth” and “reality” are determined by the words we use, the names we call things – and when these definitions are destabilized, we’re thrust into liminal chaos.Hell by Kathryn Davis (Ecco Press, 1998)This is one of my all-time favorite novels, and it’s been hugely influential on me as a writer. Hell employs three distinct spaces/narratives: 1950s Philadelphia, 1700s France (featuring Napoleon's chef), and a dollhouse in the 1950s Philadelphia home. We’ve all seen novels with multiple timelines and settings, but the brilliance of Davis’s novel is seeing these spaces/times gradually blend and converge, intruding on each other quietly and persistently until reality becomes a blurred distortion. By breaking down the normal barriers that delineate time and space, our comfort and sanity are put to the test. The novel is terrifying, bewildering, and one-of-a-kind.The Week by Joanna Ruocco (The Elephants, 2017)This collection explores the liminal space of storytelling, the way stories themselves can place us in a transitional state by raising questions about intention, purpose, and narrative stance. How does one categorize these pieces? Ranging from a few sentences to about four pages in length, they eschew traditional fiction components at every turn. Many read like stream-of-conscious rants (Instructions? Meditations?) that may or may not connect to their titles. Take “Well,” for example, which begins: “The human body is not a good place to store things, not if you want them to keep. If you want things to spoil, then, fine, put them in the human body. Put a head of lettuce in your body, it will wilt in the heat, the cellulose will turn to slime.”The Rumphulus by Joseph Peterson (University of Iowa Press, 2020)This delightful read from one of Chicago’s best writers tells the story of a forest inhabited by men. These are men who have been banished from society, forced to live in the wild. They’ve each been condemned, though none of them seem to know what their transgressions were. Franz Kafka is one of the most well-known writers of the liminal (I could have included any of his works on this list), and The Rumphulus is definitely a Kafka relative. This novel takes (and gives) great pleasure through resistance: to rules of logic, of human behavior, of conflict and character development, and even rules of grammar.Solaris by Stanislaw Lem (Wydawnictwo Ministerstwa Obrony Narodowej, 1961)This classic science fiction novel has been adapted into film a couple of times with varying degrees of success, but I personally don’t think either adaptation captures the spooky, unsettled feeling of the novel, which bends reality so thoroughly and consistently that a reader feels trapped in a prison of dread. The story finds a crew of scientists living on a planet named Solaris, and each of them start to experience visions and manifestations – actual embodiments, it seems, of repressed memories. Are these ghosts? Are they real? Or are they simply phantoms created by the psyche? The novel never gives easy answers to these questions. Instead, we’re left to squirm with uncertainty just like the characters.A revised tenth anniversary edition of Darrin Doyle’s The Dark Will End the Dark features a new introduction by American Mythology author Giano Cromley. Released October 2025 by Tortoise Books.
As his bolt pierced the deer’s flesh, Nathan felt himself reduce, his body contracting into a dark, wet mass. He clenched against the blinding light, choking on snorts as he plopped onto a leafy patch of moss and lay feeble and disoriented. Something licked him, eyes darting. Liquid warmth filled his mouth, his belly. He drifted off to sleep.His mother (but that wasn’t his mother! His mother was a chain smoker with Betty White hair) nudged him to stand. And he found that he could, although he didn’t want to. He preferred his leafy bed, the green smell of damp earth mounded around him. He liked it when she went away and left him there alone with his thoughts, and he could huff that florid vegetal perfume and stare at the stars. He wondered if every other deer he saw had formerly been human. Even the ants in the ground could be former humans. He wondered if this transformation had been a cosmic punishment or a cosmic reward.Time passed slowly in this body. He could spend all day contemplating the texture of an acorn between his teeth, the way it snaps at first bite, the residual cap crunch, the meaty center. And trying to remember his human life, that took up a lot of his time, too. Most of it was foggy, fleeting, and he wanted to pin the memories so they’d stay put. “Son, deer are prey,” his father had said. “They’re born to be prey.” This was one memory that kept landing. When he was feasting on the greenest grass, he thought: prey. What is prey? He couldn’t remember the whole of it, only that prey means run. Prey. Once the concept began to take hold, it entered his mind day and night. The rustle of a chipmunk skittering through leaves. Prey. A crow fluttering between clackety branches. Prey. Every gust of wind, even the shudder of a dragonfly landing on the surface of a puddle, triggered Nathan into flight. He made up his mind to find the most remote and unknown forest in which to start fresh, to rid himself of this anxiety forever. Never before had a deer been so stealthy. Sometimes he stood for hours just listening, barely breathing, not moving a muscle, sorting familiars from threats. He bedded down in late afternoons and traveled in the early morning hours when the world’s creatures still slumbered. When he finally found a tranquil and secluded patch of trees, he could barely contain his triumph. But his secluded patch of trees didn’t fix it. Every night came the terrors. Sometimes he dreamed he was the prey and sometimes he dreamed he was the predator, hungry and quiet in the dark, and what he wanted to be was a secret third thing that was neither hunter nor hunted. There must be a place, he thought, unspoiled by the laws of consumption, where such creatures existed. That was the place he needed to find.He searched and searched, not knowing exactly what he was looking for but knowing he would recognize it when he found it. Along the way he met many creatures, most of them kind but all of them bound to the same old truth. Prey. Actually, they seemed resigned to it, unbothered as they went about their daily business, and he grew furious as he watched them. They were complicit, every skitter and scatter contributing to this vicious cycle. Sometimes as he made his way through a copse he stepped a heavy hoof on the occasional toad or baby bunny just to teach them a lesson. He had no way of knowing how much ground he covered or what part of the world he was in at any given time, but after traversing what felt like endless forests, highways, rivers, streams, fences, groves, thickets, and farms, he entered a woodland that looked vaguely familiar. Of course, most woodlands were a bit similar, but this one had a smell that reminded him pleasantly of the place where he’d been born. The grass here was so luscious and green, the acorns so plentiful, he decided to stop for a snack and rest. That’s when he saw him. It was the moment he’d most feared, and yet he could do nothing but stare, catching flickers of the vicious nonchalance with which his human self had extinguished this body he now inhabited. He saw the crossbow, the bolt aimed at his face by this Nathan whose features he’d seen in every mirror for 33 years. As the bolt pierced his flesh, he felt himself reduce, his body contracting into a dark, wet mass.
Yo ho ho, adventurers, but beware: Poisonaut Buccaneers are pillaging the Indigo Coast! But Quartermaster Zabbrock’s informant has the coordinates to their secret base…Can you weather the pirate lair’s toxic traps? Damnèdfall Ship Grave is now open to bands of powerful and well-equipped adventurers! [Welcome to Version 2.32 - Full patch notes available online.][Family filter is TURNED OFF.][1. Auroradread Mountains - General] [Fabianette]: lfg heroic auroradread sepulcher looking for two more (cc + heals)[Order] [Evanstone]: yessssssssss[Order] [Evanstone]: almost friday bb!!![Order] [Rivola]: friday the 13th even!!!!!!!!![Order] [Aizar]: ki ki ki ma ma ma[Order] [Rivola]: ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ[Order] [Evanstone]: that supposed to be a knife[Order] [Evanstone]: ?[Order] [Rivola]: yes lmao[Order] [Aizar]: hehehe[Order] [Rivola]: im gonna get a tattoo tomorrow [Order] [Evanstone]: are those interrelated[Order] [Aizar]: freshman [Order] [Evanstone]: wat???[Order] [Evanstone]: shit up lol[Order] [Evanstone]: *shut[1. Auroradread Mountains - General] [Fabianette]: lf cc & heals heroic sepulcher then g2g. come on ppl [Order] [Aizar]: its a thing[Order] [Rivola]: ya like 99.99% tattoo parlors have good good deals on flash every friday 13th [Order] [Rivola]: you cant get anything crazy/color (usually) but you can get a cool lil piece for like $40 or 50 [Order] [Rivola]: its fun. my left leg is all friday the 13th pieces[Order] [Evanstone]: how many[Order] [Rivola]: tomorrow will make it 5[Order] [Aizar]: gratz[Order] [Rivola]: ty lol[Order] [Evanstone]: i want a tattoo i think[Order] [Aizar]: when you grow up[Order] [Evanstone]: shit up[2. Auroradread Mountains - Social] [Mikky]: any1 in auroradread mountains rn watch new aot ln? shit was tite[Order] [Evanstone]: I want a tree tattoo[Order] [Evanstone]: in color on my back [Order] [Rivola]: botanicals are cool. big tree would look nice there. lots of really good artists specialize in botanicals [Order] [Rivola]: what kind of tree[Order] [Evanstone]: southern live oak[Order] [Evanstone]: the one right outside my window more specifically[Order] [Aizar]: cute[Order] [Rivola]: that would be sick tbh [Order] [Rivola]: do u like american traditional? [Order] [Rivola]: i wanna get a tiger american traditional[2. Auroradread Mountains - Social] [Mikky]: rly? nobody here watchin aot?[2. Auroradread Mountains - Social] [Boneblade]: jesus christ shut up dude[2. Auroradread Mountains - Social] [Fabianette]: lol[Order] [Evanstone]: tiger would be cool. or snake [Order] [Evanstone]: my dad is so so against tattoos but idrc [Order] [Aizar]: daddy would be SO upset[Order] [Evanstone]: dude shit up [Order] [Rivola]: lol shes just messin dude[Order] [Aizar]: it is my nature[Order] [Rivola]: it means she loves you[Order] [Aizar]: lmao it does[Order] [Evanstone]: it better[Order] [Johngarden]: watch the AOE[Order] [Johngarden]: stay out of the cloud thing[Order] [Aizar]: keep it in party chat jg[Order] [Johngarden]: LOL oopsie [Order] [Rivola]: not on voice?[Order] [Johngarden]: none of em have mics [1. Auroradread Mountains - General] [Fabianette]: lf one more heals for heroic sepulcher then good to go[Order] [Evanstone]: how long til youre done jg? wanna do a few colosseum queues with me?[Order] [Johngarden]: theoretically i would but it might be a bit[Order] [Johngarden]: these creeps are fuckin TERRIBLE—we have almost wiped 3 times[Order] [Aizar]: what you running?[Order] [Johngarden]: heroic eggmine shafts with randos [Order] [Johngarden]: awful spiritualist for heals who im pretty sure is a scientologist IRL[Order] [Aizar]: lmao[Order] [Rivola]: how do you know theyre a scientologist? [Order] [Johngarden]: l ron hubbard quote in their biotab [Order] [Johngarden]: this is copypasted Men who know are secure and men who do not know believe in luck. - L. Ron Hubbard[Order] [Aizar]: thats so menacing [Order] [Evanstone]: open & shit [Order] [Evanstone]: godamit lol [Order] [Rivola]: you should macro “shut”[Order] [Aizar]: he is hopeless lmao[Order] [Johngarden]: JFC just wiped for real[Order] [Evanstone]: which boss get you?[Order] [Johngarden]: breeding priest[Order] [Rivola]: nasty guy[Order] [Johngarden]: need to dump some shit at the auction house but then i will do colosseum queues evan [Order] [Evanstone]: dope[Order] [Johngarden]: i have to take a pegasus from thorntally pub so[Order] [Johngarden]: still gonna be a bit [Order] [Evanstone]: i figured dw [Order] [Aizar]: JG can i ask you something[Order] [Johngarden]: uhhhhh [Order] [Johngarden] i guess [Order] [Johngarden]: i mean yes LOL just riffing i am just sitting here 12 min on the pegasus timer YEEHAW I LOVE THIS GAME [Order] [Johngarden]: but if i take a while to answer its cuz im pissing [Order] [Rivola]: sicko[Order] [Johngarden]: what do you want to ask me [3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Zybaz]: There is a group of 3 goblins in tier 5 gear camping Sepulcher summoning circle. I would jump on my alt but she is on the other side of the continent. Anyone who can help please help.[Order] [Johngarden]: ?[Order] [Evanstone]: lol i bet she went afk [3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Gool]: omw [Order] [Johngarden]: ?[Order] [Evanstone]: lol[Order] [Rivola]: she played you[3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Jubillince]: coming with 2 more [Order] [Aizar]: lmao sorry, negotiating for ore [Order] [Aizar]: 1 min pls[Order] [Johngarden]: JFC[Order] [Johngarden]: i am gonna have a panic attack[Order] [Evanstone]: jg…i might have to bail…[Order] [Johngarden]: fuck no please please i need a dub [Order] [Johngarden] i need a cool clean dub after what I just went through [Order] [Johngarden]: I land in 7 minutes will put my stuff in the bank and jump right into queues with you [Order] [Johngarden]: PLEASE[Order] [Evanstone]: my sister is screaming at me to use the computer[Order] [Evanstone]: she has an assignment[Order] [Aizar]: hahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahaha[Order] [Johngarden]: IT CAN WAIT [Order] [Evanston]: she says its due tomorrow[Order] [Aizar]: better get going buddy[Order] [Rivola]: this is sooo classic[Order] [Evanstone]: i really do have to go sorry jg[Order] [Evanstone]: keoki said earlier hes coming on tn so try him[Order] [Evanstone]: i owe you[Evanstone] has gone offline. [Order] [Johngarden]: COME ON[3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Zybaz]: Thank you to all who answered. Goblins retreated. [Order] [Johngarden]: :/ [Order] [Rivola]: :’([3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Gool]: no theres still one camping hill behind pegasus master[3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Gool]: ganking anyone who lands or tries to fly out[3. Auroradread Mountains - Defense] [Jubillince]: omw back[Order] [Aizar]: actually this is good, i can ask you my question with no distractions[Order] [Johngarden]: o.O[Order] [Johngarden]: well????????[Order] [Johngarden]: seriously what is it[Order] [Aizar]: i wanted to know what actually went down in goldriders[Order] [Johngarden]: oh wow [Order] [Johngarden]: not what i was expecting[Order] [Aizar]: what were you expecting? lmao [Order] [Johngarden]: not that[Order] [Rivola]: whats goldriders? rings a bell[Order] [Aizar]: before your time[Order] [Johngarden]: biggest order here during vanilla for a while[Order] [Aizar]: they fell apart before 1.5 like most of the big orders did[Order] [Aizar]: and not to put him on blast but JG was an officer in it at the end [Order] [Johngarden]: lol[Order] [Johngarden]: loukinn resubbed actually[Order] [Aizar]: thats why i wanted to know[Order] [Aizar]: i kind of knew him i heard he was playing again [Order] [Johngarden]: i gave him some silver he got locked out of his original account [Order] [Rivola]: dang thats not like you lol [Order] [Rivola]: who is he[Order] [Aizar]: his dad was torinheart the goldriders CM and he was a high officer[Order] [Johngarden]: but they dont live together IRL. game was like their bonding activity[Order] [Johngarden]: dont spread this stuff OK?[Order] [Aizar]: I won’t [Order] [Rivola]: ofc[Order] [Johngarden]: well what i heard is they never got mediator approval to play together [Order] [Johngarden]: loukinn playing with his dad violated his parents custody agreement LOL[Order] [Johngarden]: i mean…not LOL[Order] [Johngarden]: u know what i mean, its just crazy[Order] [Aizar]: yea[Order] [Aizar]: dang……[Order] [Johngarden]: there were other {big}issues with goldriders leadership but yeah the mom was reallly angry at pinnacle (thats lous dad) I think he was not so nice to her and in the end a fuckin judge said they couldnt play together and it cascaded from that[Order] [Aizar]: god[Order] [Rivola]: (◞‸◟,)[Order] [Aizar]: thats rly depressing[Order] [Johngarden]: obvi IDK them in the flesh so maybe they are real losers IRL but they have both been super nice on here so its all very sad to me [Order] [Rivola]: what was the dads characters name?[Order] [Aizar]: he said alreadt[Order] [Aizar]: pinnacle[Order] [Rivola]: thats a funny name[Order] [Johngarden]: TBH pretty badass no???You have entered channels [1. Broodburgh City], [2. Broodburgh Trade,] [3. Broodburgh Defense].[2. Trade] [Eleff]: 250g for a single stack??????????? lick my chode u conartist bitch[Order] [Johngarden]: ok finally landed if anyone else wants to do queues [2. Trade] [Cherryhouse]: emphasis on ‘artist’[2. Trade] [Eleff]: reported u fuckin bitchSleigh bells ting and ling throughout the Dueling Kingdoms, which can only mean one thing: Snow Festival is here! Adventurers drop their weapons out of holiday compassion…for now…[Welcome to Version 2.36 - Full patch notes available online.][Family filter is TURNED OFF.][Order] [Rivola]: are you going anywhere for xmas?/leave city/leave trade/leave defense[Order] [Johngarden]: disney. for new years/join craft syndicateYou have entered channel [4. Craft Syndicate].[Order] [Aizar]: lol rly?[Order] [Johngarden]: yea not my choice[Order] [Rivola]: anaheim??[Order] [Johngarden]: florida[4. Craft Syndicate] [Frogg]: you provide the mats, i charm your shit: level 350 charmer grinding to master level 50—TIPS APPRECIATED BUT NEVER DEMANDED[Order] [Aizar]: im going to my aunts in eugene[Order] [Johngarden]: fun?[Order] [Aizar]: yeah out of her and my mom shes the cool sister[Order] [Rivola]: whatre you gonna do lk [Order] [Rivola]: if you dont mind me asking[Order] [Loukinn]: ofc dont mind[Order] [Loukinn]: staying with my mom. shell drink and weep till she passes out im guessing lol[Order] [Loukinn]: ill prolly do colosseum queues while watchin like event horizon or the terminator or sumthin. also i downlowded clive barkers undying[Order] [Johngarden]: OH SHIT thats a goodass game[Order] [Johngarden]: underrated even[Order] [Aizar]: doesnt sound so bad[Order] [Loukinn]: itll be nice[Evanstone] has come online. [Order] [Aizar]: merry merry biotch[Order] [Evanstone]: hola gubnuh[Whisper] [Loukinn]: u got a sec to chat jg[Order] [Evanstone]: what i miss/r Loukinn: ofc[Order] [Rivola]: were talkin holiday plans/r Loukinn: isnt that what were doin? [Whisper] [Loukinn]: heh[Order] [Evanstone]: hmmmmmmmm[Order] [Aizar]: ?/r Loukinn: whats up [Hereward] has come online.[Order] [Evanstone]: who?[Whisper] [Loukinn]: actually brb lmao[Whisper] [Loukinn]: lets chat later[Loukinn] has gone offline. [Order] [Hereward]: gm[Order] [Aizar]: ?[Order] [Hereward]: ?[Order] [Evanstone]: are you like [Order] [Evanstone]: in like honolulu or something[Order] [Hereward]: gm just sumthing u say[Order] [Evanstone]: its 9pm where I am[Order] [Evanstone]: when did you join up[Order] [Aizar]: evan lmao[Order] [Evanstone]: wut[Order] [Aizar]: relax[Order] [Evanstone]: wat???[Order] [Rivola]: i invited them[Order] [Rivola]: we did gore plateau [Order] [Hereward]: i know my gore plateau [Order] [Evanstone]: are you somebodys alt[Order] [Hereward]: ofc [Order] [Hereward]: aint we all[Order] [Johngarden]: i think what my friends asking here is actually have we met already[Order] [Evanstone]: ya that[Order] [Aizar]: i promise it isnt always like this in here[Order] [Hereward]: lolol[Order] [Hereward]: its ok[Order] [Hereward]: dont think weve met[Order] [Hereward]: nice to meet u all :)[Order] [Johngarden]: likewise [Order] [Rivola]: dude can play[Order] [Hereward]: if u ever wanna do heroics i kno my shit [Order] [Aizar]: nice to meet you man [Order] [Evanstone]: ya[Order] [Hereward]: dont worry i am l33t af [Order] [Rivola]: lol[Order] [Rivola]: (he rly is good fr…)[4. Craft Syndicate] [Frogg]: you provide the mats, i charm your shit: level 350 charmer grinding to master level 50—TIPS APPRECIATED BUT NEVER DEMANDED[Order] [Johngarden]: …you wanna do eggmine shafts??[Order] [Hereward]: wen[Order] [Johngarden]: …now?[Order] [Hereward]: cant rn[Order] [Hereward]: just logged in 4 dailys [Order] [Hereward]: kids coming over [Order] [Aizar]: you got kids?[Order] [Hereward]: 1[Order] [Hereward]: my son[4. Craft Syndicate] [Wolj]: selling ingots in bulk[Order] [Evanstone]: i wish i had a son/w Woli: can you do 200 for 1000 [Order] [Aizar]: hehehe[Whisper] [Wolj]: 150 for 1000[Order] [Hereward]: he lives w his gma half the time. his moms mom[Order] [Hereward]: his moms stationed at aafb. he didnt want to go [Order] [Hereward]: tbh im glad he didnt [Order] [Hereward]: i love my kid/r Wolj: meet in the middle? [Order] [Rivola]: awww[Order] [Evanstone]: good/r Wolj: 175 for 1k?[Whisper] [Wolj]: ok i can swing that[Whisper] [Wolj]: meet in front of the post office. need 15 min to get there/r Wolj: sounds good, thanks very much dude /r Wolj: seeya in 15[Order] [Hereward]: im 17 btw[Order] [Aizar]: thats ok. we don’t judge here[Order] [Aizar]: maybe evan does but hes like 15 just fyi[Order] [Evanstone]: im just jealous[Order] [Rivola]: lol[Order] [Evanstone]: like i said i want a kid…boy of my own…maybe in a few years…….[Order] [Hereward]: u mite wanna wait on it lil longer[Order] [Evanstone]: are you gonna go to college?[Order] [Evanstone]: tradeschool?[Order] [Aizar]: dude chill out[Order] [Johngarden]: evan what is your agenda here LOL[Order] [Hereward]: no its ok[Order] [Hereward]: im in cc rn [Order] [Hereward]: on track 2 transfer[Order] [Aizar]: hell yeah right on[Order] [Evanstone]: ya thats good[Order] [Evanstone]: i can barely do hs with no kid so that is impressive [Order] [Johngarden]: what? you been getting stuffed into lockers?[Order] [Evanstone]: no no lol[Order] [Evanstone]: i cant stay awake. dunno what it is[Order] [Aizar]: so drink coffee[Order] [Evanstone]: anyway[Order] [Evanstone]: before you logged on hereward we were talking about xmas[Order] [Evanstone]: you got any xmas plans?[Order] [Aizar]: evan if you dont fuckin calm yourseld down i am literally gonna suspend you[Order] [Aizar]: dont like to threaten orddies but will do it fr[Order] [Evanstone]: i will shut up[4. Craft Syndicate] [Zabyx]: LF 350ML50 jeweler to craft me 2slot necklace, i have mats and gold for *generous* tip /w Evanstone: you good dude??? LOL[Whisper] [Evanstone]: that dude is lying about something [Whisper] [Evanstone]: dont know how i know but i know he is[Order] [Rivola] gonna hop on my alt[Rivola] has gone offline./r Evanstone: he barely said anything what would he be lying about tho???[Rapallo] has come online. [Order] [Rapallo]: me back - miss me???[Order] [Aizar]: yes[Order] [Hereward]: ur riv??[Order] [Rapallo] mmhmm[Whisper] [Evanstone]: trust my sus meter jg/r Evanstone: watch this/r Evanstone: and dont say im active duty. maybe aiz will blow my cover there but trust me, watch[Order] [Johngarden]: whats AAFB???[Order] [Hereward]: andersen air force base[Order] [Rapallo]: ofc lol[Order] [Hereward]: in yigo guam[Whisper] [Evanstone]: keep going lmao[Order] [Johngarden]: what does your babymama do out there???[Order] [Hereward]: lol. tbh idrk [Order] [Hereward]: she cant tell us[4. Craft Syndicate] [Zabyx]: LF 350ML50 jeweler to craft me 2slot necklace, i have mats and gold for *very generous* tip /r Evanstone: can’t say why exactly/r Evanstone: but i think youre right/r Evanstone: somethings off with this dude[Order] [Johngarden]: youre awfully forthcoming[Whisper] [Evanstone]: see /r Evanstone: like hes giving too much[Order] [Hereward]: ?/r Evanstone: and not enough at the same time [Whisper] [Evanstone]: exactly [Order] [Hereward]: im an opem book[Order] [Aizar]: dude[Order] [Aizar]: dont start[Order] [Hereward]: ?[Order] [Aizar]: i mean jg [Hereward] has gone offline.[Order] [Aizar]: …[Order] [Evanstone]: ? [Order] [Johngarden]: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ [Wolj] [says]: ok lets do this[Wolj] [says]: (srry for taking a minute)/s: oh DW yr good[Order] [Rapallo]: drinkin eggnog[Order] [Evanstone]: virgin eggnog?!?![Order] [Rapallo]: rofl[Order] [Rapallo]: yes[Order] [Aizar]: virginogSleigh bells ting and ling throughout the Dueling Kingdoms, which can only mean one thing: Snow Festival is here! Adventurers drop their weapons out of holiday compassion…for now… [Welcome to Version 2.36 - Full patch notes available online.][Family filter is TURNED OFF.][2. Trade] [Boorooboo]: love this fckin game on chrismas day[2. Trade] [Boorooboo]: shortest colosseum queues of the year and my family isnt \ here[2. Trade] [Zabyx]: roflmao[Order] [Loukinn]: this is bad……[Order] [Hereward]: y[Order] [Loukinn]: im gonna get in trouble[Order] [Hereward]: u wont[Order] [Hereward]: i promise[Order] [Johngarden]: am i interrupting something?[Order] [Loukinn]: no. merry xmas jg[Order] [Hereward]: merry xmas jg[Order] [Johngarden]: same to you both[Order] [Johngarden]: just you dudes???[Order] [Loukinn]: you missed keoki[Order] [Hereward]: ya we did oozing temple[Order] [Johngarden]: sorry i missed it!![2. Trade] [Boorooboo]: i love living alone[2. Trade] [Boorooboo]: living alone can fix anyone[2. Trade] [Zabyx]: you are broken rofl[Order] [Johngarden]: you wanna go again??[Order] [Johngarden]: off duty for the rest of the day (thank effing god)[Order] [Hereward]: u wanna?????[Order] [Loukinn]: shit i gotta go[Loukinn] has gone offline.[Order] [Johngarden]: hehe[Order] [Johngarden]: guess its just you and me man[Order] [Johngarden]: got another run in you?[Order] [Johngarden]: nothing to do here[Order] [Johngarden]: base is dead[Order] [Hereward]: im gonna log[Order] [Hereward]: srry[Hereward] has gone offline.[Order] [Johngarden]: byebye prickEmissaries from both kingdoms are missing! Last seen en route to a peace summit at the Diplomat’s Lodge—the only clue: thick, gore-flecked webs lining their abandoned peace-caravans. Could this be the doing of the Spider Viziers? Silken Parliament is now open for investigation by bands of powerful and well-equipped adventurers…if you dare step inside! [Welcome to Version 2.51 - Full patch notes available online.][Family filter is TURNED OFF.]/join defense [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: anyone able to help?[Order] [Aizar] i advise waiting until at least a day after mothers day to ask your mother for money[Order] [Loukinn]: oooof lmao[Order] [Rivola]: what happened? [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: arseholes killed the auctioneer [Order] [Aizar]: i mean[Order] [Aizar]: she didnt give me the money[Order] [Aizar]: lolololol[Order] [Rivola]: u good??[Order] [Aizar]: am for now[Order] [Aizar]: idk [Order] [Evanstone]: dude…[Order] [Aizar]: wat[Order] [Evanstone]: i could have my dad send you a little money[Order] [Aizar]: :/[Order] [Aizar]: shut up biotch[Order] [Evanstone]: no i mean it. he thinks this game is good for me[Order] [Evanstone]: your my friend [Order] [Aizar]: im going to be fine[Order] [Johngarden]: how about all of us cover your sub [Order] [Rivola]: ya thats a rly good idea[Order] [Evanstone]: i will throw sown[Order] [Loukinn]: moi aussi [Order] [Aizar]: thats really sweet of you guys[Order] [Aizar]: but tbh[Order] [Aizar]: could probably use a little less of playing this game[Order] [Aizar]: if yall cover me i will sorta feel the NEED to make your investment in me worth it re playtime[Order] [Aizar]: prolly not a good idea for me rn[Johngarden]: OK that makes sense[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: they are camping the auction house just an update[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: omw back[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: you should bring some orddies theres 5 of em now [Order] [Aizar]: are there any actually good f2p mmos[Order] [Evanstone]: imo no [Order] [Loukinn]: star wars ones kinda fun[Order] [Johngarden]: guild wars 2 is pretty good[Order] [Johngarden]: you have to buy the retail game still for $50 but no monthly sub just xpacs once a year if youre into it[Order] [Johngarden]: ends up being cheaper by like half [Order] [Aizar]: i tried it when it launched but i couldnt get into it[Order] [Aizar]: dont worry about it [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: orddies otw[Order] [Aizar]: i should like read books [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: how many[Order] [Loukinn]: yo not to be weerd but[Order] [Evanstone]: books are good[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: we got enough[Order] [Loukinn]: did u guys ever talk to someone on here called hereword something like that[Order] [Loukinn]: mebe 3 months ago [Order] [Evanstone]: lil longer than that [Order] [Evanstone]: around christmas[Order] [Loukinn]: ya[Order] [Evanstone]: we did [Order] [Johngarden]: he quit/deleted without saying anything about it[Order] [Aizar]: accounts fully gone[Order] [Loukinn]: wher can u see that [Order] [Aizar]: checked characterfinder they have no character data for that name at all which means all the account metadatas gone which means the whole account is gone not just the character [Order] [Johngarden]: hmmmmm[Order] [Evanstone]: told u [Order] [Loukinn]: whatd u tell him?[Order] [Evanstone]: that he was…suspect[Order] [Johngarden]: something seemed very off[Order] [Loukinn]: it was my dad lol[Order] [Johngarden]: whoa what[Order] [Aizar]: pinnacle?[Order] [Loukinn]: dont tell the mediator lol[Order] [Evanstone]: whoa[Order] [Johngarden]: was he spying on you[Order] [Loukinn]: he wanted to spend more time with me he only gets one weekend a month[Order] [Loukinn]: but this violated their mediation agreement [Order] [Aizar]: oh shit[Order] [Rivola]: r u ok???????[Order] [Loukinn]: yes ty lol[Order] [Loukinn]: i am still processing life with my dad i will probably always be processing it [Order] [Loukinn]: even wen hes dead [Order] [Rivola]: its my fault[Order] [Rivola]: i invited him[Order] [Johngarden]: its OK dude gore plateau is tough as hell, i woulda brought him in too[Order] [Aizar]: hehe[Order] [Loukinn]: he was doing psycho shit anyways [Order] [Loukinn]: dont worry[Order] [Rivola]: im sorry if i made yr life harder[Order] [Loukinn]: u rly didnt – just an interesting wrinkle lol[Order] [Evanstone]: i am a child of divorce as well[Order] [Johngarden]: he knows LOL[Order] [Aizar]: rofl[Order] [Evanstone]: do i talk about it that much[Order] [Johngarden]: yes haha[Order] [Aizar]: and even if you didnt you kinda just like conduxt yourself like a child of divorce [Order] [Evanstone]: :([Order] [Johngarden]: no its OK [Order] [Aizar]: its pretty charming shtick in like a my dog skip sorta way [Order] [Evanstone]: wats my dog skip [Order] [Aizar]: its a movie about a boy whos pathetic until he gets a cool dog [Order] [Aizar]: the boy is frankie muniz[Order] [Aizar]: agent cody banks[Order] [Evanstone]: ah[Order] [Evanstone]: do they kill the dog[Order] [Aizar]: im not gonna tell you that youll have to watch[Order] [Evanstone]: ok[Order] [Evanstone]: ill put it in the queue [Order] [Evanstone]: louk do you play other vidya w yr dad[Order] [Loukinn]: ya if hes in a ok mood[Order] [Loukinn]: madden cod halo [Order] [Loukinn]: all the hetero games[Order] [Aizar]: lmao [Order] [Loukinn]: sumtimes we play mario tennis [Order] [Rivola]: <3 mario tennis [Order] [Evanstone]: my dad wont touch em. but hes glad that i have hobbies[Order] [Evanstone]: he is like a progressive dad reads books and decided to learn about games when i got into em and in the end he decided they are normal [Order] [Evanstone]: he wouldnt let me play m rated games but my mom let me play anything because she doesnt give a shit she was an army brat her childhood was like a novel she was quite neglected[Order] [Evanstone]: also she musta known it would make me go over there more. it did [Order] [Evanstone]: she let me play any game except for games with violence against women[Order] [Evanstone]: no grand theft auto [Order] [Evanstone]: in the end i had to convince my dad to be the one to let me play grand theft auto. i told him it was pushing the medium forward. and that they were no worse than like pulp fiction or 24 with kiefer sutherland [Order] [Evanstone]: and then my mom relented probably so id go over there more [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Johngarden]: do you guys need help?[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: we got their asses dw [Order] [Loukinn]: my parents dont understand that some video games are violent and have curse words and some didnt [Order] [Loukinn]: i mean they literally understand at least my dad does[Order] [Loukinn]: but they dont make a distinction [Order] [Aizar]: my moms super religious = thinks all games are satanic[Order] [Aizar]: for a while growing up there was a total ban in the household but she gave up [Order] [Evanstone]: you wore her down [Order] [Aizar]: once i hit like 13 i started to scare her because i was a person[Order] [Aizar]: then i could do whatever i wanted[Order] [Loukinn]: i can do whatever i want p much[Order] [Evanstone]: i cannot[Order] [Johngarden]: LOL[Order] [Johngarden]: im in the same boat brother. except my dads uncle sam [Order] [Johngarden]: but at least theres hella downtime here on base [Order] [Johngarden]: everyone here games. even the vice-admiral has halo/guitar hero [Order] [Rivola]: these are the guys with the nukes [Order] [Evanstone]: but also its good to know theyre building eyehand coordination[Order] [Loukinn]: lol[Keoki] has come online. [Order] [Johngarden]: yoooooooooooooooo[Order] [Rivola]: whats up k[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: sup[Order] [Aizar]: hail hail order master [Order] [Johngarden]: louks been dropping bombs on us[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: o yea? wats goin down[Order] [Loukinn]: my dad infiltrated the order [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: ???[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: tf u mean lol[Order] [Evanstone]: dont worry about it[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: ??????[Order] [Loukinn]: he made a second account rolled an alt and joined up[Order] [Loukinn]: revealed himself only to me [Order] [Loukinn]: but he deleted[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: wat was his name[Order] [Aizar]: Hereward [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: wtf[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: i ran that fucker thru magnet hills[Order] [Loukinn]: he was violating a court order [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: so do i gotta call the cops??????[Order] [Johngarden]: no[Order] [Evanstone]: dont do that[Order] [Rivola]: o.O[Order] [Loukinn]: ya its ok[Order] [Loukinn]: it was awhile ago [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: #strangerdanger [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: well not a stranger…u no[Order] [Aizar]: but it all is pretty weird……[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Johngarden]: things still good?[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: ya ag[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: well i dont mean to diminish any revelations or watevr but does any1 wanna do queues thats y i logged on[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Johngarden]: LMK i am very close[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: or heroic blood forest [Order] [Johngarden]: heroic blood forest you say???[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: i do say [Order] [Johngarden]: got a daily in there [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: lfg [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: ok now we do need yr help johngarden[Order] [Johngarden]: can you gimme 10 min[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: ya [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Johngarden]: OMW[Order] [Rivola]: im guna join as well[Order] [Rivola]: need blood cloth[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: ok hell ya [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: any1 else[Order] [Aizar]: nah i’m gonna log [Order] [Loukinn]: im in queues [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: evan?[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: ah fuck[3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clington]: they brought a lot of buddies… [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: evannnnnnnn[Order] [Rivola]: i think hes afk [Order] [Johngarden]: need 5 min[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: yr good[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: evannnnnnnnnn[Order] [Evanstone]: wat[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: heroic? blood? forest?[Order] [Evanstone]: ok ok[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: yes[Order] [Aizar]: pece friends[Aizar] has gone offline. [Order] [Master] [Keoki]: sup w her?[Order] [Rivola]: shes broke [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Clio]: well im fuckin dead [3. Broodburgh Defense] [Johngarden]: samesies haha[Order] [Master] [Keoki]: damn. same
I have this recurring nightmare in which I swim through amniotic fluid. Poppies litter the fluid, and a baby is lost somewhere amongst all the falling flowers, out of reach, beyond my thrashing hands. To keep the nightmare at bay, I lay awake in yet another hotel room, avoiding sleep. The man in bed with me has his back turned, constellations of freckles scattered on sunburnt skin. It’s obvious from the way his body teeters on the edge of the mattress that he has decided I am a one-night stand. I run my fingers along the map that is this new back, find a replica of Cassiopeia on his shoulder. I will remember his skin long after I have forgotten everything else about him. Slowly, I reach for the discarded condom on the floor, cup it in my palm. It is satisfyingly heavy. I tie another knot into the latex and slip out of bed.I find the next man in the Gare du Nord. The French have a lovely term for train station waiting halls: salles des pas perdus, rooms of lost footsteps. I am sitting at a crowded cafe, smoking a kretek — you know, one of those honey-tipped clove cigarettes — pretending to read the novel that last week’s man told me would be life-changing. It is not. I spot the next man through the throngs of passengers scurrying for their trains, and watch him slip off a wedding ring as he approaches to ask for a light. I can picture it, the conventionality of his life: the flat in some sleeper suburb, the overweight Labrador, the sad potted plants, the mortgage he can barely afford. He asks if he can sit down. There are no other free tables, and he has been stood up, he says with a little too much of a smirk in his voice. It is an obvious fib, which makes him more likeable. I don’t trust utterly honest people. They don’t see through my lies. The man asks about the book I am reading, and proceeds to tell me he found one of the author’s earlier novels had really opened his eyes to life’s possibilities. I apparently have specific tastes when it comes to lovers. So I tell him what he wants to hear, repeating what last week’s man thought of the book, opinions lifted from some newspaper review, no doubt. I tell him how seminal the book was during the Velvet Revolution in Czechia, how the writing burns with twentieth-century urgency. I’m not entirely sure what the Velvet Revolution is, but that hardly matters. It sounds violent and sensual, a metaphor for sex. The man orders an espresso. I blow clove smoke out of the corner of my lips and decide he looks like he has good genes. He will do. But this man wants to play pretend, makes us talk for hours to the lullaby of announcements, our heads and elbows creeping closer. By the time he finally offers to walk me home, I have watched two trains leave without me. I would tell him, but he might think it romantic. We fuck to the sound of traffic crawling along the Boulevard de Magenta. He runs his fingers over every inch of my skin, hesitating when he reaches the bump above my belly button, a healed piercing scar. “What’s this?” he asks, not looking up.“I don’t know,” I reply, making sure he knows this is not true. “It’s always just been there.” “A second bellybutton,” the man whispers, “A baby bellybutton.”He flicks the tip of his tongue over the hardened skin again and again. I have to restrain myself from curling up into a foetal ball, from nestling into his chest. I bury my face into the pillows instead, calming myself with the intermingled smells of sweat, dry-cleaning chemicals and dust. He works his way all around my body: right buttock, pubic hair, outer labia, inner thigh. When he reaches my kneecaps, I close my eyes and almost manage to imagine myself in love with him, caught in the cobweb of untruths we have spun. We fall asleep in each other’s arms. It takes all of my strength not to cry.I dream of poppies again, swimming, desperately trying to locate my unborn daughter. I dare not open my mouth for fear I might swallow her. Then, there is a sudden pull, a tug, a collapsing inwards. The red poppies scrunch into confetti and spiral down. Time slows to a slurry. Somewhere in the blood-flecked celebration, my baby is drowning. I know she is probably dead, but still, I search for her, that little bundle of me. The possibility that she could be alive, floating and calling out, is more terrifying than death. I scare myself awake, my nightmare baby screaming inside my head. The building groans deep within its foundations: the first underground freight train rattling below, or an empty metro. This means it is around four, four-thirty at the latest. Soon enough, rubbish trucks will clank down the boulevard, followed by an army of green-clad cleaners hosing down the pavements, drenching the city clean. I notice that this man has no moles, no blemishes. His skin is an anonymous wasteland. I lay perfectly still, trying to decide how long is too long to get up, gather my things and leave. Through the gaps in the curtains, aerials and pigeons fight for space. The sky has lost its pink glow—perhaps it is nearer five. I am already lonely. In the cramped bathroom, I bend down, still naked, to retrieve the full condom from the wastepaper basket. Under the flicker of fluorescent light, my piercing scar looks like a fish gill, breathing in and out and in again. My mother once told me fetuses have gills, some remnant of our reptilian past. I imagine my baby hungrily sucking oxygen from amniotic fluid, its umbilical cord linking us with love.
At the intersection between the Many-Worlds Interpretation and the Law of Assumption, you can bow out of the shitty life you’ve created for yourself and slip into an existence that’s basically your own personal heaven. People call this place your “desired reality.” Let me give you some reference points here.In my old reality, moving house was always an exercise in abject misery.But.Let me tell you how things unfolded after one night I used the “state akin to sleep” to visualize stepping through a doorway into a magical world of miracles and ease. On Monday morning I received notice that a distant relative had passed away and left me 90K.Ninety. Thousand. Dollars. I’d never had that much money. I was terrified, actually. All night I tossed and turned, grabbing my phone to research proper money management. Imagine—spending so much of my life plagued by a lack of money, then being blessed with a random windfall and suffering just as much anxiety if not more.But I needn’t have stressed myself. Because on Tuesday, I received a job offer. A very lucrative, very exiting job offer that was ridiculously up my alley: creative, remote, and part-time with, get this: full-time pay and benefits. FINALLY! A money-making opportunity I actually wanted! I accepted faster than I’d ever accepted anything. No hemming and hawing for days. Just a resounding YES from my very soul. And as soon as I accepted the job, I immediately felt better about the inheritance. I knew that no matter what happened, I’d still have plenty of money coming in. I was on cloud nine and didn’t think things could get better.But then they did. On Wednesday, I received a wire transfer from a previous employer that had failed to pay me. It was only $875, but it was a relief she finally did the right thing. And it was immediate money.On Thursday the trend continued. A talented artist reached out wondering if we could collaborate on a project. As he described it, I became more and more excited. I would have done it for free, but he offered me 15K up front. When he sent me the contract, I noticed I’d be receiving royalties as well. I was so happy I almost exploded, my entire existence projecting across the universe in billows of glitter, confetti, and flustered giggles. By Friday, my inheritance deposited into my account. I had no clue inheritance money could come so fast, but it did. And I was no longer afraid of it. This is when I embarked on the most joyful moving experience of my life: one in which I could just pick a rental and move there. Luckily, the city I had in mind was also the city where my project mate resided, so if we ever wanted to meet up, it would be easy.Easy.What a relaxing word.On Saturday. I found two quarters on the stairs. A paltry sum, I know, but I ended up needing exactly two quarters later that day. Easy.On Sunday, an ex showed up at my apartment out of the blue. He took me to brunch and gave me a care package filled with a soft plaid blanket, Illy ground coffee, a pack of hand-drawn tarot cards, a scented candle, and a dark academia novel. I was touched he knew me so thoroughly. Inside the book was five hundred dollars cash. Startled, I looked at him. He shrugged and kissed me. “I just want you to remember me.”“I will, always.”After brunch he drove me back to my apartment and opened my door for me so I wouldn’t have to juggle my care package and keys.Easy.It was still a new word to me, but I was growing quite fond of it.As I packed boxes, a task that usually felt like it took months and often culminated in a harried moving day, I was delighted to find that I did it all in a week. Never in my life had I packed that fast. The funny thing is, I didn’t rush. I didn’t beat myself up for having so many Christmas decorations. I didn’t fret about everything making it to the other side in one piece. In fact, several times I caught myself smiling and—gasp—humming some jaunty tune. I knew that no matter what, I’d be fine.Moving day was interesting. As I watched the moving truck ramble away, I imagined my boxes and furniture arranged in a snug Tetris formation, shifting only slightly as they traversed bumpy roads, wide turns, and all that distance. I got my cats set up with their beds, food, water, and litter box in the back of my friend Woody’s conversion van. Then I hopped into the passenger seat, where we listened to Billy Joel and Jhene Aiko and Chapelle Roan and Eric Church. We drank coffee from Starbucks and Dunkin and BP and Cracker Barrel. We stopped to pee often, though the ride was so consistently flat that our bladders probably wouldn’t have bothered us much if we didn’t. We coasted down perfectly paved highways. There were very few people on the road, and the ones that were seemed to just glide into the next lane, allowing Woods and I to continue our smooth trajectory the entire way.Finally, we pulled into the driveway. I savored the feeling of my legs carrying me up the porch stairs, the beautiful weight of my cat in my arms. Woody carried my other cat, and we smiled at each other before entering the house, an adorable little Victorian with a woodburning fireplace and a pantry and a clawfoot tub and a tall wooden fence completely enclosing the sunny, grassy backyard. Yes, everything was exactly as I hoped it would be. A miracle, considering I never saw the place in person before signing the lease. I’d done everything remotely and hoped for the best. And this house is the best. It’s hands-down the most peaceful place I’ve ever lived. Thank goodness for my real estate agent, who made the whole process, well…Easy.To this day, it seems the universe is conspiring to deliver me money, ease, and convenience. I don’t even worry anymore that I’ll randomly wake up back in my old shit heap of a life. My desired reality would never let me go like that. It cradles me to its bosom like a devoted mother, this absurd thing of happiness and ease, and for that I am profoundly grateful.
My father dug his own grave. But he didn’t use it right away. For years, the grave lay unfilled and inviting. All he would do was visit it once in a while, stand by its empty feet, and sigh. I don’t know if it was a sigh of relief or impatience. He made us promise to leave the grave unmarked once everything was in its place. Everything has its place. I slept in the grave once. But not on purpose. It’s ill-advised to read meaning into sleepwalking so I won’t try. All I know is that I woke up surrounded by the peeling dirt and I didn’t feel scared. Whenever my mother and I asked him why he dug the grave, he would only say “everything in its place.” He never bothered to change the subject. He’d let the phrase punctuate his conclusion and shrug silently against our repeated retorts. No desire to fan any spark back into life. Every time the same dance—we’d either give up gracelessly and leave the room or let our irritation move us to another conversation topic. I told myself I’d never be like him. But when I woke up in the grave I didn’t get up right away. The walls fit my shoulders well. For a moment my tinnitus almost ceased. I didn’t feel safe but there wasn’t any fear either. There was space to rest, blue sky seeping in through my periphery as I inhaled the earth-soaked dew. I don’t know how long I stayed down there. I like to think that I would’ve felt days pass by, but let’s be honest. It can give purpose to dig a grave. That’s what I thought to myself when he first started to dig. Stabbing violently at the ground instead of yourself. To carve away at something new. And when there’s nothing left but a hole in the ground maybe the first thought is, “Finally, a place for me.” But then why not immediately jump in? Why leave the gap to scab and grow stale? Perhaps the digging is a merely a reminder. That in order to fill a grave one has to dig first. And perhaps by the time you’re done the callouses that have grown make everything a little easier to handle. And you remember that no matter how much you dig, you’re going to die anyway.
With just enough water in the tub to sluice through its gills as it thumps its caudal fin and arches its spine the carp could stay there for far longer than it will take to prepare the vegetables for the stock which the carp’s head and bones and skin and any parts not reserved will be joining the next morning. Its jelly eye fixes on the water stained ceiling which it doesn’t see as anything but part of what is above because the carp has never seen water stain or been even wet before the tub. When its head seizes up it catches the silver of the drain the carp knows as the moon because the moon controls the tides of the river where it lived as the drain controls the water into the tub. A ring of reddish soap scum circles the drain and if the carp could turn a bit it would see the same ring lining the upper third of the tub but the carp has never been on its side or front or back or anything because until the tub it wasn’t even but in the tub it is now the carp in the tub. All of this the carp tells the boy in the plaid pajama set. In his bed under the itchy wool blanket layered over the duvet over the kicked down flat sheet the boy thinks he is awake because he can hear the carp’s ceaseless thumping. He is awake because the carp is in the tub and would be awake even if the tub was far away like Hackensack or Ontario. Cocooned in the itchy wool blanket he creeps to the bathroom. It is dark except for the moon silvering everything inside. The carp thumps.Water slaps against the sides of the tub and beads across its scales.The boy places a finger on its side, retreating at the feel of its twitch. The carp thumps, unregistering.He places his finger again, stroking its dorsal fin. It is smooth against the pad of his index. He moves to put his palm on its abdomen, feeling the flex and roll of its muscles. Thump. Thump. Thump.Tomorrow they will use a rolling pin. Slit its gills to bleed and become water. The boy in the plaid pajama set feels the itchy wool blanket start to slip off his shoulders. One of his hands is white knuckled on the edge of the tub. The other wet on the carp. The blanket puddles on the ground.The carp’s thumping up and down a prayer to the tub and the water and the moon and the hands that plucked it from the water and the hands that placed it and the hands that will kill it. He presses, feels its bones. He will have to help pick them out of the meat tomorrow before they grind it.The carp has not known pressure like this. And it won’t. Because to know it it has to exist on the other side of it and the carp won’t. The pressure is now and so is the carp and when the pressure is gone the carp will not feel absence. The carp is where it is and takes no meaning from it. It is drowning and it is tight but as soon as it is not it won’t be.The edge of the tub is cold on his cheek. He wants to sleep but he is crying now.He doesn’t think the carp is sad. Or scared. But it is thumping in the tub because of him. In five years he will become a Bar-Mitzvah and with every step towards the Bimah he will think, Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Ruler of the Universemay the fire alarm go off before I get to the Torah. Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Ruler of the Universemay the ceiling fall before I get to the Torah. Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Ruler of the Universemay Aunt Harriet have a heart attack before I get to the Torah. But God will let him get up on the Bimah and let his voice crack during his parshah and so he will learn lesson one: God is a bullshit artist.
“That’s wonderful, Sam,” the voice says, cooing. “May I call you Sam?”The voice is low, mellow, musical. The English it speaks is careful, cultured, unhurried, seductive (or so Sam thinks; he’s become a connoisseur over the years). Its tone is polite and comforting with just an edge of anticipation. Normally, this voice has rarely been given the freedom to speak so much, to reel off so many carefully-edited chunks of information. It senses an ultimate victory.“Sam, or Sammy,” Sam says.“That’s wonderful, Sam,” the voice repeats. “Now, all you have to do—”“My mother used to call me Sammy,” Sam says. “And both my grandmothers. But not my grandfather on my mother’s side: he called me Ig, short for Iggy, I dunno why. My grandfather on my father’s side didn’t call me anything. He croaked long before I was born. I didn’t know him, obviously. Although I did dream of him, once. I recognized him from the old Polaroids, and in my dream he sort of had a static, faded appearance, and he approached me while I was in a library, the first library I remember, torn down long ago, he just sort of slowly came my way between the stacks, walking like he was in a swimming pool, and he called me Nathan, which is my father’s name, and I told him so, and boy was grandpa confused, he was in the wrong dream, which is absurd, but I don’t look anything much like my father, so I don’t know why grandpa called me Nathan, but then again I suppose because he never met me he didn’t know I’m Sam, and I felt very sorry for him, it must have taken a lot of effort to show up in a dream only to discover you’ve screwed up, that you’re in the wrong damn dream. My father, by the way, calls me Samuel.”A moment as the voice realizes Sam has finished.“That’s wonderful, Sam,” the voice says a third time, hesitant but pushing forward. “Now, all I need you to do is send the two hundred and eighty-five dollars to the address I’m about to give you, and once we’ve received it…”Sam, calm, listens, writes, nods. He worries about the dead grandfather he never met, worries that his grandfather is still wandering from dream to dream, looking for his son and never finding him.Sam sends the money.The next time he orders a bacon cheeseburger, Sam asks that the pickles and lettuce be left off. This is the first time he has done this, rather than pick off the pickles and lettuce later. “I don’t seem to be digesting them properly,” he tells the kid taking his order. “I love them, but now they don’t love me. It’s like I haven’t even eaten them. They just slide through me, and it’s disgusting. Same goes for the fried mushrooms. Next morning they’re there, swimming in the bowl, shorn of breading, otherwise intact. I don’t understand. Anyway, the burger comes with fries, right?”Sam calls his doctor, makes an appointment. He goes to the appointment, is early, brings a stool sample, pisses in a cup, opens his veins for an armada of blood tests.He follows up with a dietician, buys over-the-counter probiotics on his own initiative. He switches from table salt to sea salt. He avoids milk. He buys four bottles of sparkling Moscato D’Asti because it’s cheaper to do so in bulk with his CVS rewards membership, and is carded at the register. “I’m forty-six,” Sam tells the checkout lady. “No, you’re not,” she says, looking at his ID, “you’re forty-four.” Even though he is taken aback by this—who in their right mind goes around thinking they’re older?—Sam laughs and says, “Well, I’m thinking ahead,” and gets the hell out of there, bottles clanking in the inadequate plastic bag which is only seconds away from breaking.“Now, what this means,” the voice says, rolling right along, “is you are not charged a single penny for the first two months, and after that it’s only a nominal weekly charge, and you won’t be bothered by reminders, it’s all done automatically. With me so far, Mr. Riboste?” This voice is strong, clear, aware of its teeth, exudes confidence and knowledge. The voice hasn’t asked him if it’s all right to call him Sam, although Sam has been waiting to give permission.Sam nods, with no one to see him. “Still with me, Mr. Riposte?” the voice says.“One hundred and ten percent,” Sam says, “although I know there can’t be more than a hundred percent of anything, unless I’ve been misled. I’ll never forget the way Mr. Klebber, my fifth grade teacher, tried to prepare us for fractions. You sound just like him, only without the smoker’s rasp. A couple years ago I saw him at the bar of a strip club which is now a Burger King. I remember that he sat at the bar, his back to the strippers, nursing some tall drink in a frosted glass, and I never understood why anybody would go to a strip joint and not look at the strippers, but then I saw that the wall behind the bar was nothing but mirror, so you could see the action, only in reverse and a trifle warped. I said hello to him, but he didn’t know me, and when I reminded him that I had been his student back in the day, he only made one of those ‘pffft’ sounds when I mentioned the school, and he didn’t have anything further to say to me, just went back to clutching his drink, which had an umbrella and cherries on a spear, and watching the reflection of the stripper who, at the time, was my Aunt Patti on my mother’s side and was only ever invited to the big yard parties, nothing intimate like Christmas. She’s still around, although she’s not stripping anymore, which is probably all for the best, considering she’s north of seventy.”“That’s great, Mr. Riboste—”“Call me Sam.”Sam learns there is nothing wrong with him, but his doctor suggests he might be under a lot of stress or might be developing an ulcer. Sam doesn’t respond. His doctor presses the point. “I’m under no stress at all,” Sam says. His doctor says okay and hurries off to be late for his next patient.Sam’s sister asks him what happened with Uncle Herman’s electric trains because she wants them for her son, Toby, who hasn’t been born yet. Sam says, “Ask mom.” His sister tells him that Mom was the first person she asked and that Mom said Sam had taken them when he moved out. Sam denies this. “Where would I put all that junk?” Sam asks. His sister has never visited him; she has no idea of the cramped dimensions of his dump. “All that stuff is probably still in the basement,” Sam says. His sister says if the trains were still in the basement, Mom would have told her. “Go over and look anyway,” Sam says. His sister says he should go over and look, he’s closer. Sam reminds her once again that be that as it may, that yes he is closer to them, distance-wise, he is no longer closer to them, emotional-wise, even though he’s still closer than his sister, and besides, all those trains that Uncle Herman left behind were from the early Fifties, and that her future son, if ultimately desirous of fun in the form of scale-model trains that ran around in a loop, would probably want the latest models and not a pile of heavy junk that was so old its machinery growled whenever they were pressed into action. His sister says she doesn’t know why she calls; she can’t talk to him.“Everything you’re doing is perfect, Sam,” the voice says, aggressive and bright. “Now just go ahead and click on the link I just sent you.”Sam does as he’s told. “And now?” he asks.“Do you see the attachment, Sam?”“Yup.”“Go ahead and download the attachment, Sam.”Sam downloads, waits. A rainbow wheel spins. He and the voice wait for the wheel to disappear.“I hope you aren’t feeling pressured in any way, Sam,” says the voice. Bright, aggressive, but not bullying. The voice of the younger brother Sam always wanted.“I’ve always been good at following directions,” Sam says, “except for this one time when I just couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to put up a pup tent, and I think that was because it required two people to put it together and there was only me. This was at a camping trip, my first, I was really young, during college, I think junior year, a bunch of us drove across the state to a place just along the river, the camp sites high up, you had to drive a long, curving road that wound its way up, and I had to drive separate because my friends and their girlfriends had loaded up the van with all sorts of stuff, and they were busy putting up their tent, a real deluxe thing, it slept six, but they had suggested I not bunk in with them because, well, at some point they were going to get intimate and they didn’t think I’d want to suffer through something like that, so there I was with this little tent I’d picked up last minute, cheap, couldn’t figure it out, and the little hammer that was included wasn’t much better than, like, a jeweler’s hammer, tink-tink-tink, not doing much of anything, they were all laughing at me, tink-tink-tink, then they weren’t laughing because, as you can imagine, it got to be annoying, and then later there was this big storm, you could hear it coming through the trees before it hit, a great whooshing, and my tent blew away, I ended up sleeping in my car.”“You didn’t deserve that, Sam,” the voice says. “Now go ahead and open that attachment.”Sam sees her when he was certain he would never see her again. She is there, handling plates, telling a young salesperson that she’s just looking. She hasn’t seen Sam.Sam considers making his presence known to her. “Well, this is a nice surprise,” he imagines himself saying. To which he imagines her saying, “Oh my God, I’ve been thinking of you,” while Sam says, “You have?” while she says, “Quite a lot, actually,” while Sam says, “Good things, I hope,” while she says, “There are no bad things,” and then he imagines them telling each other how they’ve been for the past eighteen years, what they’ve been doing, how each other hasn’t changed at all, and she says, “You know, I’ve always wanted to tell you that I made a mistake,” while he says nothing, not maliciously, but he hopes he knows what’s coming, and she goes on, “The thing is, Sam, you’re the love of my life, and I didn’t know it then, or I did know it but was too afraid of my feelings, they were that strong, so I ran, and I really, really hope you can forgive me.”None of this happens. Sam watches her pick up a box of stemless wineglasses, tuck it under her arm, and head for the closest register. As she passes, she sees Sam, but there is no recognition in her eyes, he could be one of the displays, she’s on her way, no doubt to the man she told him, long ago, that she was going to marry, the man that wasn’t even there to lug her wineglasses.“You need to act quickly, Sam,” the voice says. This voice reminds him of the elder pastor from his church who baptized him and who later, when Sam was fresh out of college, listened to Sam’s ongoing concerns about life and love and trauma without giving so much as spiritual advice before hastening off to a Stewardship Committee Meeting. “But you’ve been so good at acting quickly,” the voice continues. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, however, Sam.”“I’m good,” Sam says.“Love it. I know it sounds too good to be true, Sam, or maybe you think it’s too true to be good, ha ha ha.”“When I was little boy,” Sam says, “First Grade, I went out during recess and I went on the slide, but my foot got caught in the side rail, my left foot, I was wearing blue sneakers with white laces, I can remember it like yesterday, and the kid behind decided to slide down anyway and I went over the side, I was dangling by my left leg, looking straight down at the asphalt, nobody noticed, and I don’t know why I didn’t call out, maybe I was certain that I was seconds away from my skull busting open like a ripe melon, but this other kid, Brady Sorrentino, was suddenly below me with his arms outstretched, telling me he’d catch me, he was a bigger kid, he’d been held back a year, not the brightest kid but real sweet, very handsome, the girls all had crushes on him at one time or another over the years, and there I was swinging from that slide like a piñata, certain that Brady wouldn’t catch me but hoping he would, and still nobody, none of the teachers, none of the other kids, had noticed my peril, but there was Brady’s sincere, trusting face, Brady reaching up to me, and I didn’t fall, I hauled myself back up onto the slide, slid down, got up, walked away as best I could, and by ‘best I could’ I mean limping, and I never went back on that slide, and when I turned to thank Brady for the help he had offered, he was already off kicking a ball across the playground, and I never thanked him, not properly, not at all, because he hadn’t saved me, and I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the other kids by thanking him for being so brave and coming to my rescue. Years later I heard that Brady had gone to jail for something, I don’t know if I ever heard for what, and he might still be in jail, but I don’t know.”“You can pay with gift cards or cryptocurrency, Sam,” the voice says, “and I, for one, am so glad you didn’t take a header off that slide.”“It sucks, after nineteen years,” Sam’s boss tells him, “but what can you do?”“Twenty-one,” Sam says.“Twenty-one what?”“Years.”“Is that so? Huh. Well, it doesn’t matter, because we, as you know, don’t have a severance package, although in certain cases leadership will decide to maybe throw in a month’s pay, even two months’ pay.”“What’s leadership giving me?”“I said in certain cases, Jim.”“Sam.”“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sam. I always got that wrong, it sounds so much like Jim. The things our minds do, right? I just need you to sign there at the bottom, and you can just leave your badge on my desk.”“How was your day, Sam?” the voice asks. Sam is almost certain he’s heard this voice before. It is like satin. It is like sunshine. He tells the voice how his day was.“Did you sleep okay, Sam?” Sam says he assumes he did because he felt rested, if not refreshed, when he woke up.“What did you eat for dinner, Sam?” Sam says he wasn’t hungry, but he’d had a can of smoked oysters and a bag of raisins for lunch.“I love talking to you, Sam,” says the voice. “I love talking to you even more than I loved talking about my husband, who died, if you remember me mentioning it. I love the fact that you were so sorry to hear that even when you didn’t know the man. I love that you’re sincerely interested in my child, in my child’s health and welfare, and that you think that my child going to school in another country was a smart move even considering our little problem right now. I love that you’re here for me, Sam, or there for me, and I’m here for you, Sam. I don’t have anyone, Sam, no relatives, no friends. Just you, Sam. You listen, you tell me such wonderful things about yourself, you make me feel like you’re right here in the room with you, Sam.”Sam feels warm, despite the heat being shut off. He doesn’t just feel warm; he feels engulfed in radiance. He listens to the voice and feels himself looking up at a small boy hanging from his left foot from a slide, he feels himself smiling, a forced smile of encouragement; no, a genuine smile of responsibility, a smile encouraging trust, the small boy so close Sam can almost reach him and release him, take him away in his arms.
