Issue 9 2024

45TH PARALLEL ISSUE 9

TABLE OF CONTENTS Letter From The Editors and Masthead 2 Into The Unkown - Shelby Mills 3 Grasshopper Hymns - Bri Stokes 4 Mùa Mưa Bên Sông Hương - Adalyn Ngo 5 Together by Ourselves - Maria Pianelli Blair

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Foam - Paddy Qiu 7 Stash - Michael Montlack 8 Eros And Thantos - Joseph Milne 9 Evicted - Maurice Norman 10 Hibiscus - Alyson Miller 11 Elvis and the Archangel - Jonathan Jones - 12 Pig Latin - Sam De Belder 13 For Mother’s Day - Tiffany Promise 14 Tippy Canoe - Gj Gillespie 15 Howe Offal - Gia Bacchetta 16 - 31 Aishling, Vanja, Aoife - Pauli Pokryvková 32 The Collector - Lucy Zhang 33 - 37 Maina - Lauren Aschoff 38 Dorian Avocado - Sam De Belder 41 The Random Dissolution of Everyhting but a Rake - Bob Bires 42 - 44 Artist Biographies 46 The Pandemic-Resilient Cities Science Fiction Writing Contest 1st Place - Martha Hipley 47 2nd Place – Scott Batson 55 3rd Place – Emma Space 74 4th Place – Shoshana Groom 87 Honerable Mentions 114

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Readers, It is with great pleasure that I present to you the ninth issue of 45th Parallel and the work of our amazing contributors. As you read this issue, I hope yo will be as impacted as our team was by the quality of the following published pieces and the writers and arts behind them.

This year, we’ve had the privilege to work with the Pandemic Resilient Cities Project to run their Sci-Fi writing contest. We have the honor of publishing the winning submissions that have imagined a world where pandemic resilience has been achieved, and all the subsequent implications of such a future. In the wake of the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, I believe that art has a way of encapsulating the past so that we might carry the weight of our future a little bit lighter.

I don’t think we could’ve found a more perfect cover, or more appropriate title, than Shelby Mills’ vibrant “Into the Unknown.” Due to the nature of 45th Parallel’s staff of two year masters students, each issue is headed by a fresh team of editors, resulting in a unique publication every June. This year, I believe we’ve captured this ever-evolving patchwork aesthetic quite well—beginning by plunging deeply upwards into the rich and intoxicating blends of stark red and ending with a vision forward through pandemic resilience. I invite you into a dreamy collage of art, poetry, and prose that explore our minds, our environments, and our futures.

I often argue that every poem is a love poem, as anything worth creating must come from a passion within its creator. 45th Parallel too, is a love poem. Even through the most mournful, most angry, pieces of artwork we come across, the love that went into crafting it is still so obvious. We hope you feel this love as you read and take in each poem, story, and artwork included in this issue.

With love, Amanda Younglund Editor-in-Chief

MASTHEAD Amanda Younglund: Managing Editor Miranda Kross: Prose Editor Jess Bajorek & J. Webster: Poetry Editors Grace Hime: Art & Comics Editor Layne Bolen: Design Intern 2

INTO THE UNKOWN - SHELBY MILLS

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BRI STOKES

Grasshopper Hymns: You give shape to the howling.

You make weightlessness of corpses.

The night defines itself by your insistence, like the call of a raven against the whistling air, and I draw down the moon as the evening unwinds for you, and I mimic the cicadas with the poetry in my lungs, and you till the stubborn fields ‘till I burst from summer’s catacombs, all alight in lavender and dusted with honeybees, with oak-colored moths, with the fire of sunrise and the curiosity of arachnids (lithe limbs and peacock-painted eyes), de-fanged; drained of venom; pulled through the clouds like constellations, and vibrating, finally, with the swinging of silence.

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ADALYN NGO

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TOGETHER BY OURSELVES - MARIA PIANELLI BLAIR

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PADDY QIU

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MICHAEL MONTLACK

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EROS AND THANTOS - JOSEPH MILNE

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MAURICE NORMAN

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ALYSON MILLER

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JONATHAN JONES

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PIG LATIN - SAM DE BELDER

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TIFFANY PROMISE For Mother’s Day1

Gank a bouquet from the Fill’er Up. Steal the penny pool while you’re at it. Ain’t a single-backed beast in sight, just a bunch of boys who sling titty2 around in casual convo. Beware: Titty Boys grub the sunset color from your eyes and suffocate your sweetmeats. Like a plastic bag over the head, clenched at the throat. How Jeremiah had to kill that deer. Writhing on the side of the road—a gash through her middle—she begged for sweet release. Jeremiah was your first kiss: at fourteen, giddy on Diet Pepsi and Doom Generation3. Titty Boy will be your last. In his whole bag-of-jellyfish body, his crooked fang is the only solid thing. So, quick! Gobble up that wedding cake—don’t dare stuff it in the deep freeze4— and if you happen to find a tiny baby5 baked inside, eat that too. Get crackin’ on the book you started months ago, the one with the verbs that glut you. But if you accidentally drop it in the tub, and if a waterlogged cover happens to curl like the thin vermilion6 plastic of a fortunetelling fish7, go ahead and let it spill your fortune across the floor. Spittin’ image of those grimy octagons that pooled Nancy’s8 blood.

In 1918, Anna Jarvis designated the second Monday in May as Mother’s Day. The singular possessive signifies it as a day for each individual family to celebrate their own mother rather than a celebration of mothers worldwide. My family’s nuclear ceremony—spawning decades—starts with breakfast in bed (an array of snacks that are easily unwrapped & maybe some food-colored scrambleds) and ends with a phone off the hook.

2 From the Middle English “titte.” Referring to a woman’s breast as a “tit” was not considered impolite until the second half of the nineteenth century. Other useful slang: milk-jugs, boobies, knockers, tatas, melons, coconuts, bangers, puppies, buds, maracas, fun-bags. In my family, we call small ones “chiggers,” after that red biting mite that’s tinier than the period at the end of this sentence.

3 Directed by Gregg Araki in 1995, this madcap, raunchy crime drama stars James DuVal and Rose McGowan. Sometimes I’m unsure if my memories are actually my memories, or if they’re Teenage Apocalypse film-stills lodged in my amygdala.

4 Starting in the early 19th century, married couples ritualistically imbibed the mummified top tier of their wedding cake at the christening of their first-born. Shit sandwiches were available for nonchristenings and second-borns.

5 The baby should be pinkie-sized, gummy and boneless, different than the porcelain Christ baby that’s baked inside King Cakes, which are popular in Louisiana at Mardi Gras. Cake babies are said to bring luck. Little godsends that get stuck in one’s teeth.

6 Otherwise known as reddish-orange, vermilion is made from powdered cinnabar, a form of mercury sulfide. Mom had a tube of mercury in her underwear drawer; she’d let us slither it in our palms as a prize for complaisance. Mercury poisoning can cause kidney failure, tremors, and cognitive dysfunction.

7 Trademarked as Fortune Teller Miracle Fish, this classic novelty was originally made in Japan in the 1930s. It is composed of sodium polyacrylate—the same chemical used in disposable diapers—and is activated by palm sweat. I always skew “fickle,” but other fortune options include: jealous, indifferent, in love, false personality, passionate and/or dead.

8 Nancy Laura Spungen (1958-1978) was the girlfriend of the Sex Pistols’ bassist, Sid Vicious. On October 12th, her body was found on the bathroom floor of the Chelsea Hotel in NYC with a stab wound to the abdomen. The murder weapon was identified as the Jaguar K-11 hunting knife that Spungen had purchased for Vicious a few days prior. Vicious was arrested and charged with seconddegree murder. He pled guilty, was released on bail, and overdosed 4 months later. It’s unclear whether Vicious’s mother fulfilled his last wish by sprinkling his ashes atop Spungen’s grave, or if she clumsily junked the urn at Heathrow Airport in London. Mercurial mothers spawn decades.

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TIPPY CANOE - GJ GILLESPIE

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GIA BACCHETTA

/ȅΛǓ Kǟǟƺǹ

Aunt Maria brought confetti to Mom’s funeral. Not the paper kind but the Italian, sugarেljȅƺȠǓǏ almonds, traditionally a wedding favor. Dad’s friend Donald brought a banquet of cleaned bass, freshly ljƺȣǠǦȠ ȠǦǩș ǾȅȖǿǩǿǠ ȣǿǏǓȖ Ǧǩș ǏȅljǷঀ KȣȠșǩǏǓॹ ȅȣȖ ǿǓǩǠǦLjȅȖ [ǩljǷ ǩș LjƺȖLjǓȕȣǩǿǠ ȒȅȖǷ șǦȅȖȠ ȖǩLjșॹ ƺǹǹ șǓΚǓǿ ȅǟ Ǧǩș ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ǟǹΡǩǿǠঀ ǩǠǦȠॹ ǩǟ Ρȅȣ ljȅȣǿȠ Ǧǩș șȠȣǾȒঀ

There’s enough Saran Wrap and aluminum foil here to clothe a giant. Mom would’ve loved it. She ate just about anything. If she were here, she’d sneak in a joke or two about Aunt Maria’s confetti or Rick’s short ribs. She’d say something caustic and unfeeling about one of the neighbors. She’d bring a touch of humor, a sprinkle of bitterness, something to delay the “hard feelings.” That’s what she called them.

ΛǩȠǦǓȖǓǏ ΛȅǾƺǿ ΛǩȠǦ ΛǦǩȠǓ ǦƺǩȖ—another neighbor and a friend of Mom’s—ΛƺǿǏǓȖș Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ ǟȖȅǿȠ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ LjǩǠ ȖȅȅǾ ƺǿǏ ljǹǓƺȖș ǦǓȖ ΚȅǩljǓঀ ^ǦǓ ljǹȣȠljǦǓș ȠǦǓ ȒȅǏǩȣǾॹ ƺș ǩǟ ΛȅȖȖǩǓǏ șǦǓ ǾǩǠǦȠ LjǓ ǿǓΠȠॹ ǓƺȠǓǿ LjΡ ȠǦǓ ǟȣǿǓȖƺǹ ǦȅǾǓঀ (ǩǿǠǓȖǹΡॹ șǦǓ ȣǿΛȖƺȒș ƺ ȒǩǓljǓ ȅǟ ǿȅȠǓȒƺǏ ȒƺȒǓȖঀ

“Greta Rossi,” she begins, “was a dear friend of mine… What a…what a… fascinating young woman that (ȖǓȠƺ Λƺșঀ /ƺǿș—” she coughs, raising a bony finger and pointing to Dad, “you know better than anyone how that woman could cook.” A few chuckles ring out. “SǦǓ ȣșǓǏ Ƞȅ LjȖǩǿǠ ǾǓ ǾǓƺǹș Ƞȅ ǾΡ doorstep after my knee operation. I’d invite her in, and we would talk for an hour or two over tea. She

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GIA BACCHETTA

lived such a full life, for someone so young.” The woman takes off her glasses, wipes her eyes, and stifles a sob. “I know… I know she is still with us, in one form or another.”

Kȅ DzȞȤɂǿȅ࣓ ͧȤɂ ȤȘǮ ǧǙȿࣚ

I’m used to hearing Mom’s echoes. They began about a month after she passed. It’s been two years since ȠǦǓǿॹ ƺǿǏ ȅǿǹΡ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǹƺșȠ ljȅȣȒǹǓ ȅǟ ǾȅǿȠǦș ǦƺΚǓ 2 ǹǓƺȖǿǓǏ Ƞȅ ǹǩΚǓ ΛǩȠǦ ȠǦǓǾঀ Ƞ ǟǩȖșȠॹ ȠǦǓΡ ΛǓȖǓ șǦȅljǷǩǿǠঀ 2 ȠǦȅȣǠǦȠ 2 Λƺș ǠȅǩǿǠ ljȖƺΦΡঀ ȣȠ ȠǦǓ ǏǓƺǏॹ ƺǏ șƺΡșॹ ǹǩǷǓ Ƞȅ șȒǓƺǷॹ ǩǿ ƺǿΡ ΛƺΡ ȠǦǓΡ ljƺǿঀ

The best thing about funerals in the Deep South is the food, and you haven’t touched any of it. Look at this spread. Y’all better not let any of it go to waste.

Mom was cremated. For months she sat in a small Postal Service box marked “Human Remains” on a chair in the corner of the dining room, like some kind of possessed object. Dad and I didn’t know what Ƞȅ Ǐȅ ΛǩȠǦ ǦǓȖঀ ΚǓȖΡȠǩǾǓ ΛǓ ǾȅΚǓǏ ǦǓȖ Ƞȅ ƺǿȅȠǦǓȖ ȖȅȅǾॹ ȅȖ to the back of a closet, it just didn’t feel right. It’s almost as if she was willing us not to do anything at all. We couldn’t have a funeral in the midst ȅǟ ƺ ȒƺǿǏǓǾǩljॹ șȅ ΛǓ ǴȣșȠ ΛƺǩȠǓǏঀ ǿǏॹ LjǓǟȅȖǓ ǹȅǿǠॹ șǦǓ LjǓǠƺǿ Ƞȅ șȒǓƺǷঀ

She mostly talks about food, if I’m being honest. For a stickেȠǦǩǿॹ ȒǩljǷΡ ΛȅǾƺǿॹ șǦǓ ǦƺǏ ƺ ȖƺΚǓǿȅȣș ƺȒȒǓȠǩȠǓঀ ǟȠǓȖ șǦǓ Λƺș ƺǏǾǩȠȠǓǏ Ƞȅ ǦȅșȒǩljǓॹ șǦǓ ljȅǾȒǹƺǩǿǓǏ ƺLjȅȣȠ ȠǦǓ ǟȅȅǏ ȠǦǓȖǓॹ șȅ ΛǓ ΛǓ LjȖȅȣǠǦȠ ǦǓȖ ǦǓȖ ǟƺΚȅȖǩȠǓ ǾǓƺǹ ƺ ǹȅȠॸ ƺ șȠǓƺǷॹ ljȅȅǷǓǏ ȖƺȖǓॹ ΛǩȠǦ ǠȖǓǓǿ LjǓƺǿș ƺǿǏ ǾƺșǦǓǏ ȒȅȠƺȠȅǓșঀ ƺǏ ǓΚǓǿ șȠƺȖȠǓǏ

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GIA BACCHETTA

LjȖǩǿǠǩǿǠ ǦǓȖ ƺ ǦȣǠǓ șȠǓƺǷ ǷǿǩǟǓঀ 2Ƞ Λƺș ǷǩǿǏ ȅǟ ƺ șǩljǷ șǩǠǦȠॹ ΛƺȠljǦǩǿǠ ǦǓȖ ǓƺȠ ƺ LjǹȅȅǏΡ șȠǓƺǷ ΛǩȠǦ ƺ ǦƺljǷșƺΛ ȅǿ ƺ ǦȅșȒǩȠƺǹ LjǓǏॹ LjȣȠ șǦǓ Λƺș ǦƺȒȒΡঀ

2 ǟǓǓǹ ƺ ΛƺΚǓ ȅǟ ǿƺȣșǓƺ ƺǿǏ ƺǿΠǩǓȠΡ ljȅǾǓ ȅǿঀ

Nat, darling, you and Dad, you’re both sad poets… Life brings you hard feelings, and you have to learn to ǮDzǙȘ ͡Ȉȿȅ ȿȅDzȝࣚ

2 ǏǓljǩǏǓ Ƞȅ ǦǓƺǏ Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ LjƺȠǦȖȅȅǾঀ

2 ȘȤ͠Dz ȱȱǙȘǙǨȅȈǙࣚ FȤǧȤǮͧ ȸȅȤɂȘǮ ǿȈ͠Dz ɂȱ ȿȅDz ǿȅȤȸȿ ͡ȈȿȅȤɂȿ Ǚ ǿȤȤǮ࣓ ȵȿȅɂȵȈǙȞ ǾDzǙȸȿࣚ

EȅǾॹ ȒǹǓƺșǓঀ

2 LjȖǓƺȠǦǓ ǏǓǓȒǹΡ ƺǿǏ ǹȅȅǷ ƺȠ ǾΡșǓǹǟ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǾǩȖȖȅȖঀ 2 șȒǹƺșǦ șȅǾǓ ljȅǹǏ ΛƺȠǓȖ ȅǿ ǾΡ ǟƺljǓ ǹǩǷǓ ȠǦǓΡ Ǐȅ ǩǿ ǦȅȖȖȅȖ ǾȅΚǩǓșঀ hșȣƺǹǹΡॹ EȅǾ ȅǿǹΡ ǓljǦȅǓș ȅǿljǓ ƺ ΛǓǓǷঀ ȣȠ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǏƺΡș ǹǓƺǏǩǿǠ ȣȒ Ƞȅ ǦǓȖ ǟȣǿǓȖƺǹॹ ƺǿǏ especially today, she’s been echoing constantly.

I’m baffled. To Mom, death was just another step in life.

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GIA BACCHETTA

KǿǓ ȠǩǾǓॹ ΛǦǓǿ 2 Λƺș ƺ ǷǩǏॹ 2 ljƺǾǓ ljȖΡǩǿǠ Ƞȅ ǦǓȖ ƺLjȅȣȠ șȅǾǓȠǦǩǿǠ ǾΡ ljȅȣșǩǿ ^ƺǾ ǏǩǏ—I can’t remember what, but I’m sure it was small—ƺǿǏ șǦǓ ǴȣșȠ ǟǓǹǹ Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ ǟǹȅȅȖॹ ljǹȣȠljǦǩǿǠ ǦǓȖ ǦǓƺȖȠঀ ^ǦǓ ȠΛǩșȠǓǏ ǦǓȖ ǟƺljǓ ǩǿ Ȓƺǩǿ ƺǿǏ ǠȖȅƺǿǓǏঀ ^ǦǓ ǦƺǏ ǦƺǏ ƺ ǏȅȣLjǹǓ LjΡȒƺșșॹ șȅ ^ƺǾ ƺǿǏ 2 ΛǓȖǓ ǦȅȖȖǩǟǩǓǏঀ vǓ ΛǓȖǓ șȣȖǓ șǦǓ Λƺș ǏΡǩǿǠ ǟȖȅǾ ƺ ǦǓƺȖȠ ƺȠȠƺljǷঀ vǦǓǿ șǦǓ șȠȅȒȒǓǏ ΛȖǩȠǦǩǿǠॹ ^ƺǾ șȠƺȖȠǓǏ ǏȅǩǿǠ X[ঀ ^ǦǓ LjȣȖșȠ ȅȣȠ ǹƺȣǠǦǩǿǠ ƺǿǏ ȖȅǹǹǓǏ ƺȖȅȣǿǏ ȠǦǓ ǟǹȅȅȖঀ vǓ ǴȣșȠ șƺȠ ȠǦǓȖǓ șȠƺȖǩǿǠ ƺȠ ǦǓȖॹ șǦȅljǷǓǏ ƺǿǏ ƺǿǠȖΡঀ ^ǦǓ Λƺș ǹǩǷǓ ȠǦƺȠঀ

ǓǟȅȖǓ șǦǓ ǠȅȠ șǩljǷॹ șǦǓ ȣșǓǏ Ƞȅ Ƿǩǹǹ ƺǿǏ șǷǩǿ ƺǿǩǾƺǹșঀ ^ǦǓ ljƺǾǓ ǟȖȅǾ ƺ ǟƺǾǩǹΡ ȅǟ ǦȣǿȠǓȖș ǩǿ 2ȠƺǹΡ ƺǿǏ ȖǠǓǿȠǩǿƺঀ /ǓȖ ǠȖƺǿǏȒƺȖǓǿȠș ȣșǓǏ Ƞȅ ǦȣǿȠ ȕȣƺǠǹǩǓ ƺǿǏ ljƺǾȅșljǩ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ 2Ƞƺǹǩƺǿ ȒȒǓǿǿǩǿǓșঀ 2ǿ ȖǠǓǿȠǩǿƺॹ ǦǓȖ ȣǿljǹǓ ƺǿǏ ljȅȣșǩǿș ǹǓǏ ǟƺǾǩǹΡ ǓΠljȣȖșǩȅǿșॹ ȠȖƺljǷǩǿǠ ƺǹǹ ǷǩǿǏș ȅǟ șǾƺǹǹ ǠƺǾǓॸ ǹǩǓLjȖǓșॹ ȒǓȖǏǩljǓșॹ ljȅȒǓȠȅǿƺșॹ ljȅǹȖƺǏƺșॹ ȒƺȠȅșঀ EȣǹǩȠƺș ƺǿǏ ȒǓǹȣǏȅșঀ ǩΦljƺljǦƺș ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǿȅȖȠǦঀ /ǓȖǓ ǩǿ /ǩƺΛƺșșǓǓॹ ȠǦȅȣǠǦॹ EȅǾ ȅǿǹΡ ǷǩǹǹǓǏ ǏǓǓȖ ƺǿǏ ΛǩǹǏ LjȅƺȖঀ ș șǦǓ ǠȅȠ șǩljǷǓȖॹ ȠǦȅȣǠǦॹ șǦǓ ǾȅșȠǹΡ ǴȣșȠ șǦȅȠ ljǹƺΡ ȒǩǠǓȅǿșঀ ȣȠ LjƺljǷ ȠǦǓǿॹ șǦǓ ƺǹΛƺΡș ȒȖǓȒƺȖǓǏ ǦǓȖ Ƿǩǹǹॹ ǦǓȖ ǷǿǩǟǓ ǿǩljǷǩǿǠ ȠǦǓ LjȅǿǓș ȣǿȠǩǹ ȠǦǓΡ ΛǓȖǓ ljǹǓƺǿঀ ^ǦǓ ǾƺǏǓ șȅȣȒșॹ șȠǓΛșॹ ƺǿǏ LjȖȅȠǦ ǟȖȅǾ ȠǦǓ șǾƺǹǹǓȖ ǠƺǾǓঀ FǓǩǠǦLjȅȖș LjǓǠƺǿ ƺșǷǩǿǠ ǟȅȖ șȅǾǓ ȅǟ ǦǓȖ ljȖǓƺȠǩȅǿșॹ ƺǿǏ șȅ șǦǓ LjǓǠƺǿ ljƺǿǿǩǿǠ ȠǦǓǾॹ ΛǩȠǦ ƺ ǹǩȠȠǹǓ ǦȅǾǓǾƺǏǓ ǹƺLjǓǹ ȠǦƺȠ read “Howe Offal,” a pun on her marriage name. Our freezer is still stuffed with some of her experiments. She’ll be feeding us well after her death.

They’re not experiments. Give me some credit, Natalia. You want Dad’s TV dinners for the rest of your ȘȈǾDzࣛ /Ǚ͠Dz ȅȈȝ ȝǙȖDz ͧȤɂ ȸȤȝDz ȿɂȵȿȘDz ȸȤɂȱࣚ /Ȉȸ ǿȵǙȞǮȱǙ ɂȸDzǮ ȿȤ ǨǙȿǨȅ ȸȞǙȱȱȈȞǿ ȿɂȵȿȘDzȸ࣓ ȱɂȿ ȿȅDzȝ ȈȞ Ǚ ȿȵǙȸȅ can, and shoot them. That’s how they do it in ApȱǙȘǙǨȅȈǙ࣓ ͧȤɂ ȖȞȤࣚ͡ (ȤȤǮ DzǙȿȈȞǿࣚ

ΚǓǿ ΛǩȠǦ ǦǓȖ ljƺȖǿǩΚǓȖȅȣșॹ șȠǓƺǷ ǷǿǩǟǓেΛǩǓǹǏǩǿǠ ǓΠȠǓȖǩȅȖॹ EȅǾ ǏǩșƺȖǾǓǏ Ρȅȣঀ

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Ǿ 2 LjǓljȅǾǩǿǠ ǾΡ ǟƺȠǦǓȖঁ

ǙȵȘȈȞǿ࣓ ǨǙȵȞȈ͠DzȵȤɂȸঁ eȤ ǮDzȸǨȵȈǧDz ͧȤɂȵ ȝȤȿȅDzȵࣛ

2 ǹǓƺΚǓ ȠǦǓ LjƺȠǦȖȅȅǾঀ

eǦǓ ΛǩȠǦǓȖǓǏ ΛȅǾƺǿ ǩș șȠǩǹǹ ȠƺǹǷǩǿǠঀ

“And I just… I just… don’t know what I’m going to do, now that she’s no longer here. Everytime I get a ǷǿȅljǷ ƺȠ ȠǦǓ ǏȅȅȖ—” the woman pauses, sniffs, and continues. “I think it’s her. I think it’s Greta—

2ȿ Ȉȸࣚ

—but then I realize I’m just hearing things.”

EȅǾঀ ^ȠȅȒঀ

ƺǏ ƺǿǏ 2 șǦǓǹȠǓȖǓǏ ǟȅȖ ǾȅșȠ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ȒƺǿǏǓǾǩljঀ EȅșȠ ȅǟ Ǧǩș ljǹƺșșǓș ǦǓ ǦǓǹǏ ȅǿǹǩǿǓঀ /Ǔ ǾȅΚǓǏ ȣș Ƞȅ ȒȒƺǹƺljǦǩƺ ȠǓǿ ΡǓƺȖș ƺǠȅ ǟȅȖ ΛȅȖǷঀ /Ǔ ȠǓƺljǦǓș ljȅǹǹǓǠǓ ǿǠǹǩșǦ ljǹƺșșǓș ƺȠ ƺ ǿǓƺȖLjΡ ȣǿǩΚǓȖșǩȠΡ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǹȣǓ Ridge Mountains of Georgia. He’s a somber, dramatic maǿॹ ǟȖȅǾ ƺ ǟƺǾǩǹΡ ȅǟ vǓșȠ tǩȖǠǩǿǩƺ ljȅƺǹ ǾǩǿǓȖșঀ

20

GIA BACCHETTA

When we moved to Hiawassee from suburban Atlanta, I was six. We moved into a robin’sেǓǠǠেLjǹȣǓ ǦȅȣșǓ ΛǩȠǦ ΛǦǩȠǓ ȠȖǩǾॹ ȅǿ ƺ LjǩǠॹ ǾƺǿǾƺǏǓ ǹƺǷǓঀ vǓ ǟǩșǦǓǏ ȅǟǟ ȠǦǓ ǏȅljǷ ƺǿǏ ΛǓǿȠ șΛǩǾǾǩǿǠঀ ^ȅǾǓȠǩǾǓșॹ ΛǓ ljƺǿȅǓǏ Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ ǩșǹƺǿǏ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǾǩǏǏǹǓ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ǹƺǷǓঀ vǓ ȠȖǩǓǏ ȅȣȖ LjǓșȠ Ƞȅ ǦƺΚǓ ǟȣǿঀ

2 ȠǦǩǿǷ EȅǾ ǟǓǹȠ ǹǓǟȠ ȅȣȠঀ @ȅȅǷǩǿǠ LjƺljǷॹ ǩȠ ǾȣșȠ ǦƺΚǓ LjǓǓǿ ȠȅȖȠȣȖȅȣș ǟȅȖ ǦǓȖ Ƞȅ șǩȠ ȠǦǓȖǓॹ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ljȅȖǿǓȖ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ǏǩǿǩǿǠ ȖȅȅǾॹ ƺș ΛǓ ƺȠǓ ǓƺljǦ ǿǩǠǦȠॹ ȠƺǹǷǩǿǠ ƺLjȅȣȠ ȠǦǓ ǏƺΡ ȠǦƺȠ ΛǓ ǦƺǏঀ vǓ ΛƺǿȠǓǏ Ƞȅ ǩǿljǹȣǏǓ ǦǓȖॹ LjȣȠ ǓΚǓǿȠȣƺǹǹΡ ǩȠ Λƺș Ƞȅȅ ǾȣljǦॹ ƺǿǏ ΛǓ ǾȅΚǓǏ ǦǓȖ Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ ǠȣǓșȠ LjǓǏȖȅȅǾঀ 2Ƞ ǟǓǹȠ ǹǩǷǓ șǦǓ Λƺș ΛƺȠljǦǩǿǠ ȣșঀ

eȅǙȿ ͡ȤȝǙȞ Ȉȸ ȸȿȈȘȘ ǿȤȈȞǿঀ

2 ȖǓƺǹǩΦǓ ȠǦǓ ΛǩȠǦǓȖǓǏ ΛȅǾƺǿ ǩș șȠǩǹǹ ȠƺǹǷǩǿǠঀ

“Oh my dear Greta. How awful…” The old woman stops speaking. Dad has joined her at the podium. /Ǔ ǷǩǿǏǹΡ ǾȅȠǩȅǿș ǟȅȖ ȠǦǓ ǾǩljȖȅȒǦȅǿǓঀ eǦǓ ΛȅǾƺǿ ǦȅLjLjǹǓș ȅǟǟ Ƞȅ șǩȠ ǏȅΛǿঀ ƺǏ ΛƺǩȠș ǟȅȖ ǦǓȖ Ƞȅ ȠƺǷǓ ǦǓȖ șǓƺȠ LjǓǟȅȖǓ ȅǟǟǓȖǩǿǠ Ǧǩș ȅΛǿ ΛȅȖǏșঀ

“Greta.”

/ǙȞȸ…

21

GIA BACCHETTA I can’t tell if Mom’s voice sounds heavy or not.

“I know this is a long time coming. We wanted to have a gathering for you, to celebrate you, but the timing never seemed right.” Dad shrugs. “It never is. You said that yourself. I should have listened to Ρȅȣ ǾȅȖǓ ȅǟȠǓǿॹ (ȖǓȠঀ |ȅȣ ΛǓȖǓ ƺǹΛƺΡș ǟȣǹǹ ȅǟ ǹǩȠȠǹǓ LjǩȠș ȅǟ ΛǩșǏȅǾॹ Ρȅȣ ǷǿȅΛॹ ǹǩȠȠǹǓ ǾȅȖșǓǹș Ρȅȣ ǹǩǷǓǏ to bestow from time to time.”

EȅȖșǓǹșঁ

2 ȘȤ͠Dz ͧȤɂ࣓ /ǙȞȸࣚ

Dad can’t hear you. Why do you only speak to me?

“Our first date, you ordered a massive steak with chimichurri, and I ordered a side Caesar. You told me ƺLjȅȣȠ ΡȅȣȖ ǹȅΚǓ ǟȅȖ ǦȣǿȠǩǿǠॹ ƺǿǏ 2 ȠȅǹǏ Ρȅȣ ƺLjȅȣȠ ȠǦǓ @ȣȠΦǓǹǟȖƺȣॹ ƺǿ ȅǹǏ (ǓȖǾƺǿ |ȣǹǓ ΛǩȠljǦ ΛǦȅ ǾȣșȠ LjǓ ƺȒȒǓƺșǓǏ ΛǩȠǦ ǹǩȠȠǹǓ ȅǟǟǓȖǩǿǠșঀ vǓ ǦƺǏ ƺLjșȅǹȣȠǓǹΡ ǿȅȠǦǩǿǠ ǩǿ ljȅǾǾȅǿঀ ȣȠ ǾƺΡLjǓ ȠǦƺȠ Λƺș ȒƺȖȠ ȅǟ the allure. And, of course, your beauty and kindness.”

ǟǓΛ ȒǓȅȒǹǓ șǦȣǟǟǹǓ ƺȖȅȣǿǏ ȠǦǓ ǟȅȅǏ ȠƺLjǹǓșॹ șǓȖΚǩǿǠ ȠǦǓǾșǓǹΚǓșঀ

22

GIA BACCHETTA

“Essentially, you ate, and I spoke. And we had a lovely two hours. I told you about Till Eulenspiegel, ǏȅȒȒǓǹǠƾǿǠǓȖșॹ ƺǿǏ ȠǦǓ ǓǓȖΛȅǹǟঀ ǟȠǓȖ ΛǓ ȒƺȖȠǓǏ ΛƺΡșॹ 2 ǷǩljǷǓǏ ǾΡșǓǹǟ ǟȅȖ ǠȅǩǿǠ ȅǿ șȣljǦ ƺ ȠƺǿǠǓǿȠ ƺLjȅȣȠ ǾΡ ǏǩșșǓȖȠƺȠǩȅǿঀ ȣȠ Ρȅȣ ȠȅǹǏ ǾǓ ƺȠ ȅȣȖ ǿǓΠȠ ǏƺȠe that that dinner had been the most fun you’d had in years. You had such a hunger for life, for stories. And you loved that I dabbled in dark comedy.”

“‘Why are there so many stories about eating children?’ You asked.” Dad laughs. “‘Is that a German thing?’ And I think I answered with some nonsense about symbolic language and the harsh realities of ȖȣȖƺǹ ȣȖȅȒǓƺǿ ǹǩǟǓঀ eǦǓ ȠȖȅȒǓ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ǦȣǿǠȖΡ ǾȅȠǦǓȖ ǩș ƺ ljȅǾǾȅǿ ȅǿǓঀ FȅΛƺǏƺΡșॹ ȠǦȅȣǠǦॹ ƺǹǹ ȠǦǓ ƺLjȖǩǏǠǓǏॹ (ȖǩǾǾșǩƺǿ ȠƺǹǓș ǓǿƺljȠ ƺ ǿȣƺǿljǓǏ ǟȅȖǾ ȅǟ ȒȣȖǩȠƺǿǩljƺǹ ljǓǿșȅȖșǦǩȒॹ ȅǿǓ ΛǦǩljǦ ƺLjȖƺǏǓș ƺǹǹ ȠǦǓ șljǩǿȠǩǹǹƺȠǩǿǠ ǩǾȒȖȅȒȖǩǓȠǩǓș ΛǦǩljǦ ΛȅȣǹǏ ǦƺΚǓ LjǓǓǿ șǓǓǿॹ ǏȣȖǩǿǠ ȠǦǓǩȖ ȠǩǾǓ ȅǟ ȒȣLjǹǩljƺȠǩȅǿ ƺȠ ǹǓƺșȠॹ ƺș ǿȅȠǦǩǿǠ ȅȣȠ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ȅȖǏǩǿƺȖΡঀ EƺǿΡ ΛȅǾǓǿ ǏǩǓǏ ǟȖȅǾ ljǦǩǹǏLjǩȖȠǦ ƺȠ ȠǦǓ ȠǩǾǓॹ ƺǿǏ șȅ ȒǓȖǦƺȒș ȠǦǓ ΚǓǿǠǓǟȣǹ mother trope came from the fact that, very often, fathers remarried younger women… I’m sorry.” Dad chuckles and clears his throat. A few people laugh. “I’ve gone on a taǿǠǓǿȠঀ hǾঀ (ȖǓȠƺ ƺǿǏ 2 ǹȅΚǓǏ ȠȖƺǏǩǿǠ șȠȅȖǩǓșঀ ^ǦǓ Λƺș ȠǦǓ ǏȖǩΚǩǿǠ ǟȅȖljǓ LjǓǦǩǿǏ ǓΚǓȖΡȠǦǩǿǠ 2 Ǐȅॹ ƺǿǏ ȠǦƺȠ ȖǓǾƺǩǿș ȠȖȣǓ Ƞȅ ȠǦǩș ǏƺΡঀ XǹǓƺșǓ—“

2 ͡ȈȘȘ ǙȘ͡Ǚͧȸ ǧDz ȅɂȞǿȵͧ ǾȤȵ ͧȤɂࣚ

'ȅȖ ǾǓঁ KȖ ƺǏঁ

EȅǾঁ

23

GIA BACCHETTA

“—let’s all eat. Enjoy some of this food. Enough of me speaking. Greta would have wanted us to enjoy ourselves, especially with the fine food you all graciously prepared.” A few Amens ring from the crowd.

Amen. A fig for the ‘morrow!

I walk to the table with Donald’s bass. The skin, crispy and glistening, looks tasty. I can’t figure out if I’m nauseous from hunger or disgust. I scoop a tiny bit and put it on my paper plate. I take a bite. It’s ǏǓǹǩljǩȅȣșঀ 2 ǠȖƺLj șȅǾǓ ǾȅȖǓঀ

ǿǏ ȠǦǓǿ ƺ ǹǩȠȠǹǓ ǾȅȖǓঀ

EΡ șȠȅǾƺljǦ ȖȣǾLjǹǓșঀ ^ȅǾǓȠǦǩǿǠ ǟǓǓǹș ljƺȣǠǦȠ ǩǿ ǾΡ ȠǦȖȅƺȠঀ 2 ljȅȣǠǦঀ

I feel like I’m gonna wretch.

2 șǓȠ ǾΡ ȒǹƺȠǓ ǏȅΛǿॹ Ȗȣǿ ȅȣȠșǩǏǓ ȠǦǓ ǟȣǿǓȖƺǹ ǦȅǾǓॹ ƺǿǏ ȠǦȖȅΛ ȣȒ ȅǿ ȠǦǓ ȒƺΚǓǾǓǿȠঀ EΡ ǦǓƺǏ șȒǩǿșঀ 2 ΛȖǓȠljǦ ȅǿǓ ǹƺșȠ ȠǩǾǓॹ ƺǿǏॹ Ƞȅ ǾΡ ǦȅȖȖȅȖॹ ƺ șȅǠǠΡ ǓΡǓLjƺǹǹ ǹƺǿǏș ȅǿ ȠǦǓ ȒƺΚǓǾǓǿȠঀ 2 ȖǓljȅǩǹ ǩǿ ǏǩșǠȣșȠঀ vǦƺȠ ȠǦǓ ǟȣljǷঁ 2 ǿǓΚǓȖ ȒȣȠ—

Why’d you spit it out? They’re the best partঀ

24

GIA BACCHETTA

I’ve always hated my hands. They're too large to be beautiful, too thick to be delicate.

They’re almost manish with their wide palms, girthy fingers, plump tips, and hardened ǷǿȣljǷǹǓșঀ ΚǓǿ ƺș ƺ ljǦǩǹǏॹ 2 ǓǿΚǩǓǏ ǾΡ LjǓșȠ ǟȖǩǓǿǏঅș șǹǩǾ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ƺǿǏ ȒǓȖǟǓljȠǹΡ ȅΚƺǹেșǦƺȒǓǏ ǟǩǿǠǓȖǿƺǩǹșঀ vǓ LjȅȠǦ ȒǹƺΡǓǏ Ȓǩƺǿȅ LjȣȠ ȅǿǹΡ ȅǿǓ ȅǟ ȣș ǦƺǏ Ȓǩƺǿȅ ǦƺǿǏșঀ vǓ ΛǓȖǓ LjȅȠǦ ǠǩȖǹș LjȣȠ ȅǿǹΡ ȅǿǓ ȅǟ ȣș ǹȅȅǷǓǏ ȠǦǓ ȒƺȖȠঀ vǦǓȖǓ șǦǓ Λƺș ǓǹǓǠƺǿȠॹ 2 Λƺș ljǹȣǾșΡॹ ΛǦǓȖǓ șǦǓ Λƺș ǠǓǿȠǹǓॹ 2 Λƺș ljȖȣǏǓঀ

2Ƞঅș ƺ ǟȖǓȕȣǓǿȠ ǴȅǷǓ ǩǿ ȅȣȖ ǟƺǾǩǹΡ ȠǦƺȠ ȠǦǓ ȅǿǹΡ ΛƺΡ Ρȅȣ ljƺǿ ȠǓǹǹ ǾǓ ƺǿǏ ǾΡ șǩșȠǓȖ ƺȖǓ ȅȣȖ father's children is because we inherited his chubby toes and fingers. We don’t look like șǩșȠǓȖș ǟȖȅǾ ȠǦǓ ȅȣȠșǩǏǓআ ǦǓȖ ǦƺǩȖ ǩș LjǹȅǿǏǓ ΛǦǩǹǓ ǾǩǿǓ ǩș LjȖȣǿǓȠȠǓॹ ǦǓȖ ǟƺljǓ ǩș șΛǓǓȠǹΡ ȖȅȣǿǏǓǏ ΛǦǩǹǓ ǾǩǿǓ ǩș ƺ șǦƺȖȒ șȕȣƺȖǓঀ hǿȠǩǹ Ρȅȣ șȠȣǏΡ ȅȣȖ ǦƺǿǏș ǿǓΠȠ Ƞȅ ȅǿǓ ƺǿȅȠǦǓȖॹ ȒǓȖǦƺȒș ǹƺΦǩǹΡ ȖǓșȠǩǿǠ ȅǿ ȠǦǓ ȠƺLjǹǓ ǏȣȖǩǿǠ ƺ ǏǩǿǿǓȖ ȒƺȖȠΡ LjȅȠǦ ȅǟ ȣș ƺȖǓ ǹȅǿǠǩǿǠ Ƞȅ ǓǿǏॹ Ρȅȣ ǾǩǠǦȠ ƺșșȣǾǓ ΛǓ ƺȖǓ șȠȖƺǿǠǓȖșঀ hǿȠǩǹ Ρȅȣ ǿȅȠǩljǓ ȅȣȖ ΛǩǏǓॹ șȕȣƺȖǓǏ ǿƺǩǹș ƺǿǏ ȠǦǓ ΛƺΡ ȅȣȖ LjȅǿǓș ƺȖǓ ƺ ǹǩȠȠǹǓ ljȖȅȅǷǓǏআ ǾΡ ȒǩǿǷΡ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ȠȣȖǿǩǿǠ ǩǿΛƺȖǏ ΛǦǩǹǓ ǦǓȖ ǾǩǏǏǹǓ ǟǩǿǠǓȖ ǹǓƺǿș Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ ǹǓǟȠॹ Ρȅȣ ǾǩǠǦȠ ǿȅȠ șǓǓ ȠǦƺȠ ΛǓ ƺȖǓ ȅȣȖ ǟƺȠǦǓȖঅș ǏƺȣǠǦȠǓȖșঀ

EΡ ǟƺȠǦǓȖ ǠƺΚǓ ǾǓ Ǧǩș ǦƺǿǏș ƺǿǏ ǾΡ ǾȅȠǦǓȖ ǠƺΚǓ ǾǓ ǦǓȖ LjǓƺȣȠΡ ǾƺȖǷșঀ EΡ șǷǩǿ ǩș ǹǩȠȠǓȖǓǏ ΛǩȠǦ ȠǦǓǾআ ȠȖƺǩǹǩǿǠ ƺljȖȅșș ǾΡ ƺȖǾșॹ ǾΡ ǓǹLjȅΛșॹ ǾΡ ΛȖǩșȠșॹ ƺǿǏ ǟǩǿƺǹǹΡॹ ȅǿǓ șǩȠȠǩǿǠ ȒǓȖǟǓljȠǹΡ ljǓǿȠǓȖ ȅǿ ǾΡ ȠǦȖȅƺȠঀ eǦǓ LjǩǠǠǓșȠ ǾȅǹǓ ȖǓșȠș ljȅǾǟȅȖȠƺLjǹΡ ȅǿ ǾΡ ǹȅΛǓȖ LjƺljǷॹ ǟȅȖljǩǿǠ ǾǓ Ƞȅ ȒƺǩǿǟȣǹǹΡ ȠΛǩșȠ ǩǿ ǟȖȅǿȠ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ǾǩȖȖȅȖ ǩǿ ȅȖǏǓȖ Ƞȅ ǠǓȠ ƺ ǠǹƺǿljǓ ƺȠ ǩȠঀ

25

GIA BACCHETTA ^ȅǾǓ șƺΡ LjǓƺȣȠΡ ǾƺȖǷș ƺȖǓ ƺ șǩǠǿ ȅǟ ljǦƺȖƺljȠǓȖঀ eǦǓ șȒȅȠ ȅǿ ǾΡ ȖǩǠǦȠ ǦƺǿǏ ȒȅǩǿȠș Ƞȅ ǾΡ ȠǓǿƺljǩȠΡ ƺǿǏ ǩǿȠǓǹǹǩǠǓǿljǓॹ ȠǦǓ ȅǿǓ ȅǿ ǾΡ ǓǹLjȅΛ ƺ ȒȖǓǾȅǿǩȠǩȅǿ ȅǟ șȣljljǓșșॹ ƺǿǏ ȠǦǓ ȅǿǓș ȅǿ ǾΡ ΛȖǩșȠ ƺ ȖǓǾǿƺǿȠ ȅǟ ǾΡ ljǦǩǹǏǦȅȅǏ ǩǿ ȒȅΚǓȖȠΡঀ

ࢳ

^ȅǾǓ șƺΡ LjǓƺȣȠΡ ǾƺȖǷș ƺȖǓ ƺ șǩǠǿ ȅǟ ȒƺșȠ ǹǩΚǓșঀ eǦǓ șǷǩǿ ƺljȠș ƺș ƺ ȒǹƺljǓǦȅǹǏǓȖ ǟȅȖ ȠǦǓ ǾǓǾȅȖǩǓș ΛǓ ljƺǿǿȅȠ ƺljljǓșș ƺǿΡǾȅȖǓঀ ǹȅΚǓȖঅș ǟƺΚȅȖǩȠǓ ȒǹƺljǓ Ƞȅ Ƿǩșș Λǩǹǹ ǹǓƺΚǓ ƺ ȒǓȖǾƺǿǓǿȠ ǹǩȒșȠǩljǷ șȠƺǩǿ ΛǦǩǹǓ ƺ ǏǓƺǏǹΡ LjǹȅΛ Λǩǹǹ ǹǓƺΚǓ ƺ șljƺȖঀ XǓȖǦƺȒș ǾΡ LjȅǏΡ șȠǩǹǹ ȖǓǾǓǾLjǓȖș ȠǦǓ ȒǩǷǓ ȠǦƺȠ ǩǾȒƺǹǓǏ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏ ǏȣȖǩǿǠ LjƺȠȠǹǓॹ ȠǦǓ ǾƺǩǏǓǿ ΛǦȅ ȒȖǓșșǓǏ ǦǓȖ ǾȅȣȠǦ Ƞȅ ǾΡ ΛȖǩșȠ ΛǦǓǿ ǿȅ ȅǿǓ ljȅȣǹǏ șǓǓॹ ȠǦǓ ǠȣǩǹǹȅȠǩǿǓ ȠǦƺȠ șǓȒƺȖƺȠǓǏ ǾΡ ǦǓƺǏ ǟȖȅǾ ǾΡ ǿǓljǷ ƺș ȅǿǹȅȅǷǓȖș ljǦǓǓȖǓǏ ȅǿঀ XǓȖǦƺȒș ǾΡ LjȅǏΡ șȠǩǹǹ ȖǓǾǓǾLjǓȖș LjǓǩǿǠ șljƺȖǓǏঀ XǓȖǦƺȒș ǾΡ ǏȅȠȠǓǏ șǷǩǿ ǩș ƺ ΛƺȖǿǩǿǠঀ

I’ve always hated my hands. While my father made them chubby and my mother scattered ȠǦǓǾ ΛǩȠǦ ǾȅǹǓșॹ ǾΡ ǠȖƺǿǏǾȅȠǦǓȖ Λƺș ȠǦǓ ȅǿǓ ΛǦȅ ȠȣȖǿǓǏ ȠǦǓǾ ǏȖΡ ƺǿǏ ȒǓȖȒǓȠȣƺǹǹΡ ljȅǹǏঀ It’s the worst during winter. When the first snow comes, the biting air splits my grandmother's skin open and leaves her hands white, red, and veiny. She’ll caress my face and I’ll shudder at the sensation of her dry palms scratching my cheeks.

My hands will look just like hers when I grow old. She’ll be gone then, but in the winter I’ll

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ΛƺǩȠ ǟȅȖ ȠǦǓ ǟǩȖșȠ șǿȅΛ Ƞȅ ǟƺǹǹ ƺǿǏ ǟȅȖ ǾΡ șǷǩǿ Ƞȅ LjȖǓƺǷ ƺȒƺȖȠ ƺȠ ȠǦǓ ǟȅȖljǓ ȅǟ ȠǦǓ ǏȖΡ ƺǩȖঀ eǦǓǿॹ I’ll rest my dry palms against my wrinkled cheeks. Then, I’ll close my eyes and my ǠȖƺǿǏǾȅȠǦǓȖ Λǩǹǹ LjǓ ȠǦǓȖǓ ƺǠƺǩǿ Ƞȅ ǦȅǹǏ ǾǓ ƺǠƺǩǿঀ vǩȠǦ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏșॹ șǦǓ ljƺǿ șȠǩǹǹ ǦȅǹǏ ǾǓঀ

I’ve always hated my hands. In middle school we’d stand in a circle, one of us with our hand șȠȖǓȠljǦǓǏ ȅȣȠ ǟȅȖ ȠǦǓ ȅȠǦǓȖș Ƞȅ ljƺȖǓǟȣǹǹΡ ǩǿșȒǓljȠঀ

ࢴ

“Don’t flex them,” a friend would warn me, “if you’re moving them, we can't see”.

2ǟ ΡȅȣȖ ȖǩǿǠ ǟǩǿǠǓȖ Λƺș șǦȅȖȠǓȖ ȠǦƺǿ ΡȅȣȖ ǩǿǏǓΠ ǟǩǿǠǓȖ Ρȅȣ ΛǓȖǓ șȠȖƺǩǠǦȠॹ LjȣȠ ǩǟ ΡȅȣȖ ǩǿǏǓΠ ǟǩǿǠǓȖ Λƺș șǦȅȖȠǓȖ ȠǦƺǿ ΡȅȣȖ ȖǩǿǠ ǟǩǿǠǓȖॹ Ρȅȣ ΛǓȖǓ ƺ ǹǓșLjǩƺǿঀ 2 Λƺș ȠǦǩȖǏ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ljǩȖljǹǓॹ ǾΡ ȠΛȅ ǟȖǩǓǿǏș LjǓǟȅȖǓ ǾǓ ǦƺΚǩǿǠ ȒƺșșǓǏ ȠǦǓ ȠǓșȠ ΛǩȠǦȅȣȠ ȠȖȅȣLjǹǓঀ EΡ ǾǩǿǏ Λƺș LjǹƺǿǷ LjȣȠ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏ ΛȅȣǹǏǿঅȠ șȠȅȒ ȠȖǓǾLjǹǩǿǠঀ XǓȖǦƺȒș ǾΡ LjȅǏΡ ljȅȣǹǏ șǓǿșǓ ƺǿ ǓΠǓljȣȠǩȅǿঀ XǓȖǦƺȒș 2 Λƺș LjǓǩǿǠ ΛƺȖǿǓǏঀ

“Sorry, looks like you’re a lesbian,” my friend declared and the rest laughed.

2Ƞ Λƺș ǴȣșȠ ƺ șǩǹǹΡ ǠƺǾǓঀ vǓ ƺǹǹ ȣǿǏǓȖșȠȅȅǏ ȠǦƺȠॹ ǹǩǷǓ ǦȅΛ ȠǦǓ ȒǹƺljǓǾǓǿȠ ȅǟ ǾȅǹǓș ljȅȣǹǏǿঅȠ ȒȖǓǏǩljȠ ΡȅȣȖ ǟȣȠȣȖǓ ȅȖ ȖǓΚǓƺǹ ΡȅȣȖ ȒƺșȠॹ ȠǦǓ ǹǓǿǠȠǦ ȅǟ ΡȅȣȖ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ljȅȣǹǏǿঅȠ ǏǩșljǹȅșǓ ΡȅȣȖ

27

GIA BACCHETTA șǓΠȣƺǹǩȠΡঀ 2Ƞ Λƺș ƺ ǴȅǷǓঀ ǿǏ ΡǓȠ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏ ΛȅȣǹǏ ǿȅȠ șȠȅȒ ȠȖǓǾLjǹǩǿǠঀ

eǦǓ ǟȅȣȖȠǦ ǠǩȖǹ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ljǩȖljǹǓॹ ǾΡ LjǓșȠ ǟȖǩǓǿǏॹ ǏȣȠǩǟȣǹǹΡ ȒȣȠ ǦǓȖ ǦƺǿǏ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ljǩȖljǹǓঀ ^ǦǓ ǏǩǏǿঅȠ ȒǹƺΡ Ȓǩƺǿȅॹ șǦǓ ȒǹƺΡǓǏ ȠǦǓ ǏȖȣǾșॹ ƺǿǏ șȅ ǦǓȖ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ΛǓȖǓ ǿǓǩȠǦǓȖ ǓǹǓǠƺǿȠ ǿȅȖ ǏǓǹǩljƺȠǓঀ eǦǓΡ were defiant. I knew that her hands were smaller than mine because we’d compared them ǾƺǿΡ ȠǩǾǓș LjΡ ȒȖǓșșǩǿǠ ȅȣȖ ȒƺǹǾș ƺǿǏ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ȠȅǠǓȠǦǓȖঀ EΡ ǦƺǿǏ ΛȅȣǹǏ ȠȖǓǾLjǹǓ ȠǦǓǿ Ƞȅȅঀ

“The fingers are the same, what does that mean?”

2 ȠȖǩǓǏ Ƞȅ șǓǓ ǩǟ ǦǓȖ ǦƺǿǏ Λƺș ȠȖǓǾLjǹǩǿǠ ǹǩǷǓ ǾǩǿǓ Λƺșॹ LjȣȠ ǩȠ ǏǩǏ ǿȅȠঀ 2ǿșȠǓƺǏॹ ǩȠ ȖǓǾƺǩǿǓǏ ȒǓȖǟǓljȠǹΡ șȠǩǹǹ ǟȅȖ ȠǦǓ ȖǓșȠ ȅǟ ȣș Ƞȅ ǾƺȖΚǓǹ ƺȠঀ 2 ǟǓǹȠ ǦǓȖ ǓΡǓș ȅǿ ǾǓॹ LjȣȠ 2 ljȅǿȠǩǿȣǓǏ ǹȅȅǷǩǿǠ ƺȠ ǦǓȖ ǦƺǿǏঀ 2 ǟǓǹȠ ǦǓȖ ǓΡǓș ȅǿ ǾǓॹ LjȣȠ 2 ȒȖǓȠǓǿǏǓǏ 2 ǏǩǏǿঅȠঀ 2Ƞ Λƺș ǴȣșȠ ƺ șǩǹǹΡ ǠƺǾǓঀ @ǩǷǓ ȠǦǓ

ࢵ

ȒǹƺljǓǾǓǿȠ ȅǟ ǾȅǹǓș ȅȖ ȠǦǓ ǹǓǿǠȠǦ ȅǟ ΡȅȣȖ ǟǩǿǠǓȖșॹ ȠǦǓ ΛƺΡ Ρȅȣ ǹȅȅǷǓǏ ƺȠ ΡȅȣȖ LjǓșȠ ǟȖǩǓǿǏ ǏǩǏǿঅȠ ǾǓƺǿ ƺǿΡȠǦǩǿǠ ȖǓƺǹঀ

Finally, my friend retreated her hand, “maybe it means I’m bisexual,” she joked. Because it ΛƺșǿঅȠ ȖǓƺǹঀ ǓljƺȣșǓ ǦǓȖ ǦƺǿǏ ǏǩǏǿঅȠ ȠȖǓǾLjǹǓঀ

28

GIA BACCHETTA I’ve always hated my hands. Sometimes I stretch out my fingers, just like we did in middle school, and I’ll check if my index finger is still shorter than my ring finger. Sometimes I’ll ljȅȣǿȠ ǓƺljǦ ΛǦǩȠǓ șljƺȖ ȠǦƺȠ ǏǓljȅȖƺȠǓș ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏșঀ

2 ȣșǓǏ Ƞȅ LjǓ ƺLjǹǓ Ƞȅ ȒǓȖǟǓljȠǹΡ ȖǓljƺǹǹ ǦȅΛ 2 ǠȅȠ ǓƺljǦ ǾƺȖǷǩǿǠॹ LjȣȠ ƺș ȠǦǓ șljƺȖș ǦƺΚǓ ǟƺǏǓǏ ΛǩȠǦ ȠǩǾǓॹ șȅ Ǧƺș ǾΡ ǾǓǾȅȖΡঀ 2 ǷǿȅΛ ȅǿǓ ȅǟ ȠǦǓǾ ǩș ǟȖȅǾ ΛǦǓǿ 2 Λƺș ǠȖƺǏǩǿǠ ljǦǓǓșǓ ƺǿǏ ƺljljǩǏǓǿȠƺǹǹΡ ǠȖƺǏǓǏ ȅǟǟ ƺ șǹǩljǓ ȅǟ șǷǩǿঀ 2 ǷǿȅΛ ƺǿȅȠǦǓȖ ȅǿǓ ǩș ǟȖȅǾ ΛǦǓǿ 2 LjȣȖǿǓǏ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏ LjȅǩǹǩǿǠ ȒƺșȠƺ ΛƺȠǓȖঀ 2 ǷǿȅΛ ȠǦǓ ȅǿǓș ȅǿ ǾΡ ǷǿȣljǷǹǓș ƺȖǓ ǟȖȅǾ ΛǦǓǿ 2 șǾƺșǦǓǏ ǾΡ ǟǩșȠș ƺǠƺǩǿșȠ ȠǦǓ Λƺǹǹ ƺǿǏ ǏǩǏǿঅȠ șȠȅȒ ȣǿȠǩǹ 2 ljȅȣǹǏ șǓǓ LjǹȅȅǏঀ 2 ǷǿȅΛ ȠǦƺȠ ȠǦǓ șljƺȖ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǾǩǏǏǹǓ ȅǟ ǾΡ ǹǓǟȠ ǦƺǿǏॹ ȖȅȣǿǏ ǩǿ șǦƺȒǓ ΛǩȠǦ ƺ ǟƺǩǿȠ ȒȣȖȒǹǓ ȖǩǿǠ ƺȖȅȣǿǏ ȠǦǓ ΛǦǩȠǓ șljƺȖȖǓǏ ljǓǿȠǓȖॹ Λƺș ǾƺǏǓ ΛǩȠǦ ȠǦǓ șǦƺȖȒ ǓǏǠǓ ȅǟ ƺ ȒƺǩȖ ȅǟ șljǩșșȅȖșঀ

I’ve always hated my hands. Last winter my mom decorated the wall in the hallway with a ǠƺǹǹǓȖΡ ȅǟ ȒƺǩǿȠǩǿǠș ǩǿ ǏǩǟǟǓȖǓǿȠ șǩΦǓșঀ ^ȅǾǓ ΛǓȖǓ ȒƺǩǿȠǓǏ LjΡ ǦǓȖ ƺȣǿȠॹ ȅȠǦǓȖș LjΡ ǦǓȖ ǟƺȠǦǓȖঀ Like scars from a former lifetime, these were the marks they’d left behind.

ࢶ

EΡ ǾȅǾ șȒǓǿȠ ȠǦǓ ΛǓǓǷǓǿǏ ȒǓȖǟǓljȠǩǿǠ ǦǓȖ ǠƺǹǹǓȖΡ Λƺǹǹ ƺǿǏ 2 ǦǓǹȒǓǏ ǦǓȖ LjΡ ǦȅǹǏǩǿǠ ȣȒ ȠǦǓ ȒƺǩǿȠǩǿǠș ΛǦǩǹǓ șǦǓ ǿƺǩǹǓǏ ȠǦǓǾ Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ Λƺǹǹঀ vǦǓǿ ǩȠ Λƺș ȅΚǓȖॹ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ șǦǓ ǦƺǏ ȣșǓǏ Λƺș ǹǓǟȠ ȅǿ ȠǦǓ ǟǹȅȅȖ ȅȣȠșǩǏǓ ǾΡ ȖȅȅǾঀ vǦǓǿ ǩȠ Λƺș ȅΚǓȖॹ 2 ȒǩljǷǓǏ ǩȠ ȣȒॹ ȠȣljǷǓǏ ǩȠ ƺǠƺǩǿșȠ ǾΡ

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GIA BACCHETTA

ljǦǓșȠॹ ΛƺǹǷǓǏ ǩǿȠȅ ǾΡ ȖȅȅǾॹ ƺǿǏ ljǹȅșǓǏ ȠǦǓ ǏȅȅȖ LjǓǦǩǿǏ ǾǓঀ

I’ve always hated my hands. I kneeled on the floor and placed my hand on my bed, palm ǏȅΛǿ ƺǠƺǩǿșȠ ȠǦǓ ǾƺȠȠȖǓșșঀ

I’ve always hated my hands. I raised the hammer and I pictured the cool steel passing through ǾΡ șǷǩǿ ƺǿǏ LjȖǓƺǷǩǿǠ ǓƺljǦ ȅǿǓ ȅǟ ǾΡ LjȅǿǓșঀ

2 ǦǓǹǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ ƺǿǏ ǹǩșȠǓǿǓǏ Ƞȅ ǾΡ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ȠƺȒȒǩǿǠ ȅȣȠ ȠǦǓ ǾǓǹȅǏΡ ȅǟ ǾΡ ǟƺΚȅȖǩȠǓ șȅǿǠ ȅǿ ȠǦǓ Ȓǩƺǿȅঀ 2 ǦǓǹǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ ƺǿǏ șǾǓǹǹǓǏ ȠǦǓ ǟȖǓșǦǹΡ ljǦȅȒȒǓǏ ǠƺȖǹǩlj 2 Λƺș ȒȖǓȒƺȖǩǿǠ ǟȅȖ ǏǩǿǿǓȖঀ 2 ǦǓǹǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ ƺǿǏ șƺΛ ȠǦǓ șȠȖȅǷǓș ȅǟ ǩǿǷ ǩǿ ǾΡ șǷǓȠljǦLjȅȅǷঀ 2 ǦǓǹǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ ƺǿǏ ǟǓǹȠ ǾΡ ǠȖƺǿǏǾƺঅș ǏȖΡ ȠȅȣljǦ ƺș șǦǓ ȠȖǩǓǏ Ƞȅ ȖȣLj ΛƺȖǾȠǦ ǩǿȠȅ ǾΡ ȠȖǓǾLjǹǩǿǠ ǟǩǿǠǓȖșঀ

2 ǦǓǹǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ ƺǿǏ 2 ȠǦȅȣǠǦȠ ƺLjȅȣȠ ǿǓΚǓȖ LjǓǩǿǠ ƺLjǹǓ Ƞȅ ΛȖǩȠǓ ƺǠƺǩǿঀ

2 ǦǓǹǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ ƺǿǏ 2 ǦƺȠǓǏ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏșঀ

2 ǦƺȠǓǏ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏș ƺǿǏ ΡǓȠ 2 ȠȖǓǾLjǹǓǏঀ

ǿǏ ΡǓȠ 2 ǏȖȅȒȒǓǏ ȠǦǓ ǦƺǾǾǓȖ Ƞȅ ȠǦǓ ǟǹȅȅȖॹ ƺǿǏ 2 LjȣȖǩǓǏ ǾΡ ǟƺljǓ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǾƺȠȠȖǓșș ƺǿǏ 2 ȒȖǓșșǓǏ ǾΡ ȒƺǹǾș ƺǠƺǩǿșȠ ǾΡ ljǦǓǓǷ ƺǿǏ 2 șǦȣȠ ǾΡ ǓΡǓș ƺș ǦƺȖǏ ƺș 2 ljȅȣǹǏঀ

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GIA BACCHETTA

ࢷ

eǦƺȠ Λƺș ȠǦǓ ǟǩȖșȠ ȠǩǾǓ 2 Λƺș șljƺȖǓǏ Ƞȅ ǦȣȖȠ ǾΡșǓǹǟঀ eǦƺȠ Λƺș ȠǦǓ ǹƺșȠ ȠǩǾǓ 2 ȠȖǩǓǏঀ

2 ȒǩljȠȣȖǓ ǾΡșǓǹǟ ǦȣǿǏȖǓǏș ȅǟ ΡǓƺȖș ǟȖȅǾ ǿȅΛॹ șǩȠȠǩǿǠ ȅǿ ƺ ljǹǩǟǟșǩǏǓ ȅȖ ƺ LjǓƺljǦॹ ǾΡ șǷǩǿ exposed to the sun and my eyes closed. I won’t remember the hammer or the best friend with ȠǦǓ ǏȖȣǾǾǓȖঅș ǦƺǿǏș ȅȖ ȠǦǓ ȒǩǷǓ ȅȖ ȠǦǓ ǾƺǩǏ ȅȖ ȠǦǓ ǠȣǩǹǹȅȠǩǿǓঀ EΡ ǟȖǩǓǿǏ ȅȖ ǾΡ ǹȅΚǓȖ Λǩǹǹ șǩȠ beside me, taking the opportunity to observe me while I’m not looking, their eyes slowly scanning each inch of my skin. They’ll say something like, “I never noticed you had so many beauty marks before” and I’ll give them a lazy smile, responding while my eyes are still closed, “They're usually covered since they're just on my upper thighs and shoulders”.

2 ȒǩljȠȣȖǓ ǾΡșǓǹǟ ǦȣǿǏȖǓǏș ȅǟ ΡǓƺȖș ǟȖȅǾ ǿȅΛ ƺǿǏ 2 ǦȅȒǓ ǾΡ ǟȣȠȣȖǓ șǓǹǟ ǹȅΚǓș ȠǦǓǩȖ șljƺȠȠǓȖǩǿǠ ȅǟ ǾȅǹǓșঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ 2 ȠȖƺljǓ ȠǦǓǾ ΛǩȠǦ ǾΡ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ƺǿǏ ƺǏǾǩȖǓ ȠǦǓǾ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ǾǩȖȖȅȖঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ 2 ƺǾ șȠǩǹǹ ƺ ΛȖǩȠǓȖ ƺǿǏ ƺ Ǿȣșǩljǩƺǿ ƺǿǏ ƺ ȒƺǩǿȠǓȖ ƺǿǏ ƺ ljȅȅǷঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ 2 ƺǾ ƺș șȣljljǓșșǟȣǹ ƺș ȠǦǓ LjǓƺȣȠΡ ǾƺȖǷ ȅǿ ǾΡ ǓǹLjȅΛ ȒȖǓǏǩljȠș 2 Λǩǹǹ LjǓঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ 2 ǠǓȠ Ƞȅ ǷǓǓȒ ǾΡ ǟƺȠǦǓȖঅș ljǦȣLjLjΡ ǟǩǿǠǓȖș ƺǿǏ ǾΡ șǩșȠǓȖঅș ljȖȅȅǷǓǏ ȅǿǓșॹ ǾΡ ǾȅȠǦǓȖঅș șljƺȠȠǓȖǩǿǠ ȅǟ ǾȅǹǓșॹ ƺǿǏ ǾΡ ǠȖƺǿǏǾȅȠǦǓȖঅș ǦƺǿǏș ȠǦƺȠ ȠȣȖǿ ǏȖΡ ǩǿ ȠǦǓ ΛǩǿȠǓȖঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ ǾΡ șǷǩǿ Λǩǹǹ ȖǓǾǓǾLjǓȖ ȠǦǓ ǹȅΚǓ 2 ljƺǿǿȅȠ ƺljljǓșș ƺǿΡǾȅȖǓঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ ǾΡ LjȅǏΡ ǟȅȖǠǓȠș LjǓǩǿǠ șljƺȖǓǏঀ 2 ǦȅȒǓ ǾΡ ǦƺǿǏș ǟȅȖǠǓȠ LjǓǩǿǠ ǦƺȠǓǏঀ

31

AISHLING, VANJA, AOIFE - PAULI POKRYVKOVÁ

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LUCY ZHANG The Collector

When the Collector comes for our hands, we run. Honestly, I would rather give up my hands than live in fear of the Collector plucking our hearts from our chests as penance. It’s all because Yao would rather die than lose his ability to embroider flowers into our cheap robes that have been patched so many times they’re made more of rags than the original silk. I’m not nearly as good as Yao at embroidering, but because he decides to run instead of severing a hand, I choose to leave with him. There’s not much point in continuing to analyze the curves of ducks and pomegranates and bamboo and peonies, images I’ve never been able to embroider quite right, stabbing my thumbs with the needle every time I tried to round a corner. Most of the time, Yao completes my assignments and I buy him his favorite fried seaworm skewers in exchange.

Yao insists on fleeing to the mountains where the Collector is least likely to search, and for good reason. Tigers and snakes roam the mountains, and not the ones that move slow enough you can hunt and skin, but the ones who outrun arrows. Even the Collector struggles with them—you can’t collect from something that moves too fast to catch. We leave early morning before the adults have a chance to search for us, this month’s sacrifices. I tie a handkerchief stitched with orchids and gold leaves to my wrist, a gift from Yao after my birthday. He’d spent six months on it. We decide to use them to keep an eye on each other since the mountains are notorious for leading groups astray, and the gold threads glint even under moonlight.

***

33

LUCY ZHANG The first time we saw the Collector eat, it was not a heart or a hand, but a lung. The sacrifice volunteered willingly, and so the only thing stolen was her lung. She’d been a singer, the best in town, known to even serenade wolves and harmonize their howls. She lived on the outskirts of town with her husband whom none of us liked—a stingy man with a balding scalp that smelled like vinegar and rice wine—and whenever you passed their home (which was every time you left or entered town), you could hear the bashing of pots and screams and clangs like someone was trying to knock the house’s walls down. But the woman sang better than any trained chorus, better even than the morning bird courtship rituals. Yao said the woman was churning her misery into music. I wondered if that made her any happier.

The Collector had reached its long claw-like fingers into the woman’s chest, each nail sinking through her rib cage like her skin and bone were made of foam rather than flesh. When his hand emerged holding a bloody organ, slick and wet within his phantom palm, the singer collapsed to the ground, her chest sealed shut like nothing had entered to begin with. The Collector swallowed the lung in one take. We could not see where the organ had gone since the Collector’s body resembled cloaks of smog more than a physical vessel. Yao theorized the Collector did not eat the lung at all but rather deposited it somewhere secret. I didn’t think it made a difference—the woman no longer had her lung—eaten or not. She no longer sang afterward, and her husband fell quiet too. We didn’t see or hear either of them much after that.

But what we did get was a full harvest: the apricot trees that had rotted became strong, the bok choy raided by insects returned to a state of vibrant green, the river that had been polluted by an unknown substance and subsequently killed all the fish seemed clean once again.

***

34

LUCY ZHANG

As Yao and I begin the trek up the mountain, a constant upward slope with few breaks in the path, I loosen the handkerchief on my wrist, the glimmering threads itchy against my skin.

“Do you think we’re leaving everyone to die?” I ask.

Yao snorts. “They’ll just find someone else to hand to the Collector. It doesn’t make a difference whether it’s us or them.”

“But what if they can’t find anyone?”

“An unlikely story.”

I exhale with each step, too tired to muster a reply. Even though Yao spends more time sitting and embroidering than I do, his endurance outshines mine. He claims it’s a characteristic of a true craftsman—the ability to stay quiet and grind despite physical pain—but I think Yao just won’t admit he walks insane distances at night because he can’t sleep. I call it the Art disease—he even forgets to eat for days while embroidering, and I’ll have to shove a bowl of congee and leftover stale buns in his face to get him to realize his swaying and dizziness are due to depleted sugar stores.

I trail behind Yao who hasn’t slowed at all. “Let’s rest?” I call. Silence greets me. Yao is probably stuck in his head and nature. Even I’m drawn by the geometrically patterned leaves and flowers here—maybe more so if I could catch my breath. Yao stops at the bottom of a boulder, drops his bags to the ground, and pulls out his trestle and frame. He sets it on a steep slant on the rock. When Yao works, he stitches so tightly you can make out each strand on whatever animal he decides to manifest—the fur of a panda or feather vane of a crane. I can hardly see the needle in his hands, as though he mixes the silk threads with filaments of air. He divides one strand into twenty, sometimes thirty strands, spreading out the colors gradually and softly.

35

LUCY ZHANG I catch up to him and look over his shoulder where he splits a green strand of silk into threads so thin I can only see them because of the translucent-white backdrop. He faces an osmanthus at the side of our path, its bloomed yellow flowers like tiny suns decorating the mountain.

“At this rate, the Collector will catch up to us,” I say.

“You wanted to rest,” Yao replies.

“Not for an eternity.” The single osmanthus will turn into a forest of embroidered osmanthus and begonias, a several-hour endeavor at the least.

“You should go on ahead. You’re slower anyway.”

I watch Yao work for another few minutes before leaving him behind. I know I’m the bottleneck, and Yao can catch up no matter how long he lags. He has always been efficient and thinks all steps out ahead of time. Plus I slow exponentially with the upward slope while he speeds up so long as there’s an interesting shrub ahead of him.

As it darkens, I set my bags down on a soft patch of grass in an open area, far from ponds or dense forests where the tigers and snakes often roam. Yao should make it here soon, and likely not a single beat out of breath.

***

The next morning, Yao is not here. I retrace my steps, taking the treacherous hike downhill where the dirt is loose and slippery. I reach for one tree branch at a time to maintain my balance, poking and scraping my hands on the scraggly bark. When I arrive at the spot Yao had stopped to embroider, I instead find the Collector standing over Yao’s wood frame, supporting

36

LUCY ZHANG rack, and a pile of tangled thread. I outstretch my arms to him, presenting my hands, palms facing upward, hoping my hands might quell his hunger. Instead of taking my hands, the Collector turns from me and descends the mountain. As the Collector’s black, cloaked mass drifts away like smog sinking with its density, Yao’s form is unveiled from beneath the tendrils.

Yao’s hands are gone, but he holds his needle between his teeth. I pull the needle from his mouth and help him up.

“Can you pack away the chassis and fabrics?” Yao asks. “You’ll need to carry them too.”

I nod and fold the structure. “I’m going to be slow going uphill with all this extra weight.”

“That’s ok. There’s no hurry. The Collector shouldn’t be coming after us for a while.”

We continue back up the mountain, although Yao trails behind even though he should be lighter than ever.

37

MAINA - LAUREN ASCHOFF

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Harvest and Holy We are the earring collectors. We are goblins. We are hungry. We are queer.

Our most recent pair are stained glass windows. A wooden frame with thin colorful glass on the back.

They’re on the heavier side but when they catch the light just right they’re worth the slight ache in the earlobes.

“I like your earrings,” is probably the most common greeting we get whether it’s on TikTok or waiting in line at the coffee shop.

There is no accessory more symbolic of our gender. Our collections are eclectic, ranging from handbeaded barn owls to sets our partners made from testosterone vials.

We laugh at the question, “Which ear is the gay ear?” The correct answer, “All of them.”

Late at night, we ravenously click on a small business's promoted post of Mothman earrings. We forget we order them and when they arrive we rejoice.

Greedy, we will make whatever we can find into something wearable. Dollhouse food miniatures and our exes fingernails and tiny jars of jam.

We are the keepers. We are the chain link fence back to our gold-earringed ancestors. Back to a needle heated over a flame before piercing skin.

Our flesh asks for more. Asks to hang on. Asks for burial jewelry and bridal pearls. Asks for picture frames and the smallest possible figurine of a dog.

Remembers the clip-on days. Remembers what it was like to first hammer a nail into the wall of a room we knit of our own hair.

Elegant and gaudy. Profane and sincere. We pick up shards of necklaces off the subway floor. We take orphaned earrings to lost and founds, saying, in vain, “Someone might come looking for this.”

We are not sure if we are dragons or angels. We are not sure sometimes what draws us to shape or design but we know we want to be remembered.

A few will stretch our ears wide. Scream into that opening. Place a plug there. A stopped drain at the bottom of a lake.

Often we are told we are too much. In loving ways and painful ways. Our bodies are turned into catalogs and museum gift shops. Our glitter, gulped down too fast. Some of us are eaten. Others, let the hole close.

Say, occasionally, “I used to wear earrings.”

39

Some of us pile our hoards in old jewelry boxes. Some of us hang our lives neatly in a grid on the wall.

Share earrings with lovers or say, “These are all mine.”

Our culture is one of harvest and holy. Of reused pickle jars and first dates on the moon. Kissing in the backseat of a car and saying, “Wait, I have to take out my earrings.” Earrings on end tables. Lost in passenger seats. Held onto by the other party, unwearable in their loneliness.

We do not ask what they will think when, in hundreds of years, they try to make sense of what we wore.

We already know. We know they will say, “I want to make something, just like that.”

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DORIAN AVOCADO - SAM DE BELDER

41

BOB BIRES THE DISSOLUTION OF EVERYTHING BUT A RAKE Not a damn thing happens in this story, just so you know.

My neighbor, Andrew, my athletic, decades-long friend, is out in his backyard preparing to rake leaves. He will never get them raked.

From my spot kneeling on the living room couch looking out through the slats of halfopen blinds, I’ve been drinking coffee and studying him for an hour. Though he stands tall and too thin atop the bank that overlooks my yard, he can’t see me. The sun has risen to just above my roof. His hand is flat over his eyebrows. Behind him waits the huge, old, beautiful tree with small leaves that spiral as they make their way to the ground.

Here's his problem: it is not autumn. It’s a humid as fuck summer day in the South where you’d only go out if you had to. Hot wind rustles the silvery green leaves in his tree. Andrew wears an insulated maroon jacket, jeans, and gloves that don’t match as he has journeyed to and from that tree over and over with a variety of tools and such.

My friend, the once quarterback, appeared first with a ladies’ field hockey stick, swinging it through the air, whacking at some weeds, setting it against a boulder, then heading back around his house to his garage. Next, he brought something three-pronged over his shoulder.

Then a black plastic lawn rake. And more. He’s leaned them around the trunk like armaments at the ready. The man who once lined up stuffed bags of leaves like an offensive line between him and the street doesn’t know what to do.

Action? His head swings right toward a rushing noise, and he follows a car that passes by. For a second, he looks as if he will chase after it.

42

BOB BIRES Jeanie, his wife, comes out now, calls and waves him to come inside. No way to know how long she has been looking for him. Sometimes she lets him wander so she can have a break.

I know because a man one street over has brought him home twice when he got lost.

Andrew’s quick turn from her suggests he is resolute that this yardwork must be done, but she is still yelling, so he looks at her again, then rearranges his tools under the tree. She gets the hose to water shrubs and fill the bird bath so she can keep an eye on him while he strategizes the leaves.

I should go out. I won’t. Several times I’ve helped him back home when he thought he lived at my house.

Once, after he rolled his garbage bin three houses up the street to a lawn service truck he thought would take his trash, I ran after him. The mowers, who didn’t speak English, stood with their silent weedwhackers, looking to me in confusion. I carried his trash to my bin so he could roll his empty one home. Jeanie pulled up next to me, crying. She had driven the wrong way looking for him. “What am I going to do?” she asked me. I put my hand on her arm on the steering wheel with pity, not compassion. She, whom he has lived with so separately, has inherited his total care.

Andrew is nearly erased. Age, diabetes, a stroke and the Presbyterian church have all ganged up on his brain so quickly that I had to stop him at a recent gathering when he started telling a story about the man whose life we were celebrating. He made himself the hero of a game that never took place. In front of gathered guests, I whispered in his ear to stop.

Good neighbor me.

But I am not the friend I once was either. I resent Andrew. Oh, I miss going with him to a bar for chicken fingers and beer or getting up close at the free downtown concerts to watch the

43

BOB BIRES guitarist’s fingers or comparing notes on a stupid investment we both made, which was my fault.

My bitterness dwells in things that will never happen, the confrontations we will never have.

Jeanie gives up and goes in.

I want to rip into him about his political lurch of late, his repudiation of the generosity of spirit he had as a coach when he accepted everyone.

Since he’s been bragging in recent years about being “a sinner” as proof of his dedication to his church, I want to get into it with him about the affair he had twenty year ago, the one he’d triangulate as he regaled us with stories of New Orleans restaurants, of unwrapping muffulettas with her on the airplane, of standing with her in front of Lucinda Williams at a show in Florida, of watching the sun came up over the levee. He knew we would not tell Jeanie, that we loved his company and his shrugged misdeeds more than we liked his cold wife.

I want to ask him about Carl’s house that time when Becca, my wife, was getting her coat off the bed as he was coming out of the master bathroom, when he tried to embrace her. I tried to brush that aside for him. He needs to know that decision has plagued my marriage ever since.

But all he does is shift his shoulders toward Joan’s house across the street as if he has just thought of something. To make a run for it? To try to break coverage against the neighborhood’s soft prevent defense?

No. He takes the rake from its spot and holds it in the air in front of him with two hands, testing his grip. It is upside down.

His memory is like a football that’s been handed off to me to see where I can go with it.

Anger doesn’t travel forward. I’ll quit. When I meet him, I’ll give him the candy-coated indifference we reserve for the helpless and those waiting for the right moment.

44

ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES Shelby Mills is a San Marcos based artists whose work focuses on painting with inspirations from photography and abstraction. She uses electric colors and geometric environments to display themes of mental health, identity, and relationships. Her work has been shown at the Texas State Galleries, as well as Jo’s Café in San Marcos. She is currently working toward her BFA in Painting at Texas State University.

Adalyn Tâm An Ngô is a poet and writer of Little Saigon, California, currently in the mountains of Vietnam under a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant Award. She recently graduated from Bowdoin College, where she received the Richard Jr. Poetry Prize (2021) and the Philip Henry Brown Prize for extemporaneous English composition (2023). She has also received the National Gold Medal in the Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards for Poetry.

Maria Pianelli Blair is a multidisciplinary artist born in New York City and based in New Jersey. A public relations director by day, Maria spends her nights dabbling in ceramics, printmaking, embroidery, and analog collage. Her collages, fashioned on everything from cardboard to playing cards, marry contemporary imagery, found vintage materials, and magical realism. Maria's work can be found on Instagram (@ sunset_sews) and Etsy. She has been published in several art magazines, and featured both galleries and virtual exhibitions.

Paddy Qiu is currently an MPH candidate at the Gillings School of Public Health.

Their work focuses upon the navigation of spaces, emphasizing the conduits of knowledge found in generational ripples and the nurture of interpersonal relationships. They are the 2023 Winner of The William Herbert Memorial Poetry Contest with honors including The John F. Eberhardt Excellence in Writing Award, The C.L. Clark Writing Award for BIPOC Writers, and The Henry Matthew Weidner Essay Award, being featured in FOLIO, Barzakh Magazine, Zoetic Press, Quarter Press, among others Michael Montlack is author of two poetry collections and editor of the Lambda Finalist essay anthology My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them (University of Wisconsin Press). His poems recently appeared in Prairie Schooner, North American Review, december, Poet Lore, Cincinnati Review, and phoebe. His prose has appeared in The Rumpus, Huffington Post and Advocate.com. In 2022 his poem won the Saints & Sinners Poetry Award (for LGBTQ writers).

Joseph Milne is an artist and filmmaker creating work that spans art nouveau pen and ink paintings, altars, projection art collages and surrealist films inspired by jungian psychology, the occult and psychedelia.

45

ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES

Alyson Miller teaches literature and writing at Deakin University, Australia.

Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches at John Cabot University. He has a PhD in literature from the University of Sapienza, and a novella ‘My Lovely Carthage’ published in the spring of 2020 from J. New Books.

Tiffany Promise (she/her) is a writer, poet, punk vocalist, chronic migraineur, and the mother of two wildlings. She holds an MFA from CalArts and has participated in the Tin House and American Short Fiction Workshops. Tiffany's debut chapbook, Blood is Thicker than Blood, will be available in 2025 from Chestnut Review.

Winner of the 2023 Honeybee Prize for Literature—judged by Roxane Gay—Tiffany’s work has appeared/forthcoming in CALYX, Narrative Magazine, Brevity, Creative Nonfiction, Epiphany, The Ocotillo Review, The Good Life Review, Okay Donkey and elsewhere. A lifelong horror fiend, Tiffany’s work skews gritty. Find her at tiffanypromise.com.

GJ Gillespie is a collage artist living in a 1928 farmhouse overlooking Oak Harbor on Whidbey Island, WA. A prolific artist with 20 awards to his name, his work has been exhibited in 63 shows and appeared in more than 130 publications. Beyond his studio practice, Gillespie channels his passion for art by running Leda Art Supply, a company specializing in premium sketchbooks. Whether conjuring vivid collage compositions or enabling other artists through exceptional tools, Gillespie remains dedicated to the transformative power of art.

Gia Bacchetta lives in Medford, Massachusetts. Originally from Sandy Springs, Georgia, she is pursuing a PhD in English at Tufts University. When not teaching, studying, and generally circling the vortex of academia, she enjoys dabbling in nonfiction and fiction writing. Her work is forthcoming in Trace Fossils Review Lucy Zhang writes, codes, and watches anime. Her work has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Wigleaf, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere. She is the author of the chapbooks HOLLOWED (Thirty West Publishing) and ABSORPTION (Harbor Review). Find her at https://lucyzhang.tech or on Twitter Robert Bires writes in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He has published fiction and poetry most recently in Juste Literary, Piker Press, The Centrifictionist, and Sky Island Journal.

46

THE PANDEMIC-RESILIENT CITIES SCIENCE FICTION WRITING CONTEST 1ST PLACE - MARTHA HIPLEY

47

About 2,700 words

An Oral History of Flaviviridae tegumentum, as Told by Ana Merren, on the 10th Anniversary of the Publication of Cracked Screen

As far as I know I was one of the first infected here in Mexico City. It was near the end of January of that first year. Daniela and I had gone to a picnic in Chapultepec on a Saturday night, and we were both bitten to shreds. By Monday I was calling out of the contract job I had at the time to hang over the edge of my toilet the whole day, sometimes from one end, sometimes from the other, sometimes stretched from the toilet to the basin of the tub. By Friday I had lost 3 kilos from the nausea and vomiting and was subsisting on whatever drops of Electrolit would pass through my system between trips to the toilet. I had even switched from the zero calorie to the regular, desperate for the sugar. I was already confident in my IUD- it was new since November- but this seemed to confirm more concretely that it wasn't a pregnancy.

In a dark little spot of my brain I felt glad to lose the weight of Christmas dinners and all the rosca de reyes, just before the tamales in February. I could lie in bed and listen to music or a podcast or even walk outside for a bit, but more than a few moments at my desk and I was back to the toilet. Daniela was fine.

2 I made it into the study by pure chance. I was supposed to climb with Lore the following Saturday and had to cancel on her. Her sister, the one that always seemed to be switching jobs, was doing administrative paperwork for some facility that was looking for people with just my strange symptoms.

Lore's sister pushed through my information to the top of the pile. By Tuesday I was taking leave from my job, dropping off keys at a neighbor's, and taking the 1 line bus into Centro with just some track pants and t-shirts in my gym bag. The one from [Sic] Club started to fall apart by the end, and I wondered if I'd ever get to go dancing again.

The study had taken over one of those big beautiful buildings in Centro that was surely some kind of cursed colonial mansion. Before hosting the study and after being the seat of some ministry of something it had been a pretty high-end hotel that had gone bankrupt during the pandemic. All the rooms were still nicely renovated with new plumbing so that you didn't even have to put the toilet paper in a bin, a real blessing given the nature of the virus. The hotel furniture had already been stripped out and sold, but the study had replaced it all with furniture that wasn't anything worse than what I had at home. The study's stipend for us guinea pigs was only a little less than what my contract had been paying, so if I hadn't felt like shit it would have felt like a real vacation.

My job had been paying in dollars, so I was pretty sure from the start that the study must be funded by some private entity, probably from the US, to be shelling out that kind of cash for participants, especially once I confirmed with the others that we were all receiving the same flat rate. You never know with these things, and you always have to ask. It was a pretty solid sum even for the capital, especially if you weren't paying rent or buying your own food.

We had anything we wanted to eat or drink besides alcohol, though most of us continued to lose weight at the start. I missed drinking, but I almost never craved it because of the nausea. They had to scale back the time we each were testing to an hour a day to keep our strength up. More than an hour and no one ate at all.

3

The testing varied but was structured in a tedious, self-important sort of way that screamed FAANG to me. For the longest time, I was sure it was Apple wanting to hold onto their market share for smartphones, but Julio was set on Meta. What's the good of the Metaverse if no one can put a screen to their eye anymore? Once we made the mosquito connection we were both pretty sure it had to be Microsoft.

The test was always the same: an image of some generated landscape and then a passage of text from The Mysterious Island. I had never read it, but I remembered enough from the Ray Harryhausen movie to recognize it. We would have to look at the image, and then they would ask us to read the text aloud. The text always changed, but it was always from The Mysterious Island and randomized so that you couldn't even enjoy the story. We would do this with as many devices as they could fit into the hour timeslot. By the end we all always felt awful, so they usually did it first thing in the morning so we would have enough time to recover and eat. Sometimes the devices would be this phone or that tablet, and sometimes they would be more experimental. Towards the end of the study they only used those half-baked things, sheets of floppy LEDs with power sources hanging off the backs, or bubbly things that seemed to be made of silicone. They all made everyone sick every morning.

The rest of our time was essentially free. The center of the building was carved out into a courtyard that had been done up with too many plants as the hotel's dining room. The hoteliers had left a certain amount of crumbling luxury from the colonialists, and all their half-abandoned landscaping had added to the romance. Once I was feeling stronger I took to running laps around the edges and sunbathing in the middle. Julio liked to hang out in the courtyard as well- that's how we started talking. He would bring out a guitar and noodle around with it in the sun, and I would make fun of him every time I looped past.

There was a side exit on the courtyard with wooden doors that were venerable enough to have a good three centimeter crack between them where I could look out into the downtown. There was a little

4 newsstand where I could catch the fronts of the nota roja tabloids and people-watch. Julio would keep watch while playing. We had a little cue he would play if he thought a nurse or watchman was getting close enough to scold me. It never happened, but sometimes he would play the riff just to scare me. I would stare for as long as I could before catching a glimpse of someone's phone in their hands, and then I would try to lock it all in my mind. Then at night I would lay out on the floor of my room with pads and pencils and draw what I could remember.

We could have anything else we wanted to do, and we could call out to friends and family with the help of a nurse. At the beginning I didn't tell my family, though I called them often. I told friends abroad as-needed. Lore already knew and would bring me my favorite foods and gossip whenever I asked, usually about some guy in her office who had a new crush on her, and Daniela would bring her dog, who was a star amongst the nurses. Jorge snuck in a bottle of expensive gin once, but I got so sick I couldn't touch gin again for years. Once the drawings started to pile up, I called up Fer. Every month or so, whenever he was in the city for an installation or an opening, he would stop by and poke through them and pick out the ones he liked the best to whisk away from any nurse who might try to over-tidy.

The first person I told in the US was Michael. He was always easy to tell intimate things, but my reason was that he seemed so depressed from the New York weather. I wanted him to come use my apartment while it was vacant and get some sun. He flew down with an extra suitcase full of English novels for me. I liked seeing all the little ways he had marked them up. I always wanted him to write more, but he kept his data job with the bank for the first six months at least.

Julio had trained to be an architect but was as happy to give that up in favor of doing nothing but playing his guitar as I was to make my drawings. I have to admit he wasn't very good at first, or was at least very rusty, but he progressed from passable to enjoyable quite quickly. Even when his playing was terrible, he had a good clear voice and was plenty charismatic. It was easy for both of us, and for many of

5 our fellow patients. The only thing we might have worried about was the money, and that was already taken care of. He never wanted to talk about the work before, but I assume it was like mine, hunched for hours, clicking through tabs and files.

In those early days, the only one who really suffered and the only one to pass was Mafe. She was younger, and was something of an influencer, or thought she was. Someone told me later that she really never had that many followers, only a few thousand. She would cry and scream and refuse to eat, and she even hit the nurses until one of them snuck her in a phone. Or maybe it was her boyfriend. For years I wondered how the technicians never even noticed that she was wasting away until I realized they probably just wanted to see if she would die.

Around the time that Mafe died, Julio and I started sleeping together. I still had the IUD, and what else did we have to do in the evenings? I don't want it to sound perfunctory or boring. It was always good.

We just never had to compete for time.

I was writing more as well, and felt like it was interesting enough to tuck it all under the mattress until Fer's visits. What he ended up sending to print wasn't really meant to be a manifesto, it was really just some journaling that he had edited to hell. After it was printed I was sure for weeks that I would be found out and booted, but no one from the study cared enough to pin it to me. By then there were maybe 100 of us in our facility, and however many more in other studies here in Mexico and around the world. I was always careful to make things vague enough.

I know there's still all the weird theories, but I'm sure I got it from a bite that night at the park. In the early phases there was some hope it might be something like Zika or malaria, confined to the tropics, easy to control by important people in the important parts of the world. When it started to spread through sex, that was really the end of it. There were little memoirs like mine, but also real books and speeches and marches. Julio never wrote any music about it, but lots of people did. Here in Mexico it was when the

6 mayor- married of course- finally got it that things started to shift. Even el PRI couldn't ignore it anymore.

But it all added up, the way it always does, from the garbage cans on fire in Paris to the quiet legislation in Reykjavik. The New Americans with Disabilities Act was the first thing I felt proud of coming out of my country in years. Not proud enough to move back, but enough to have that sort of single patriotic tear that no one I knew seemed to have had since Obama first got elected.

Of course there was bug chasing. I don't have anything to say about the legal or the moral side of all the stealthing, there are other people you can talk to about that. But I don't begrudge the chasing. Once, when I was working in Manhattan, I got hit by a car biking to the office, and the best part about it was I didn't have to go to work. The second best part was that the cab driver who hit me gave me all his cash from the day, and I took a friend out to dinner.

Anyway, after Anibal Casto got it and spent a month appearing on the mañenera trying to smooth things over with both his wife and the country while looking green thanks to the teleprompter, it all started to settle. Accommodations were made. I knew it was all over when I called Laura and she had it from a camping trip. She went out and bought a typewriter and called her agent to say she wouldn't be available via email anymore. That was it. She and John, they already didn't let their sons have screens, so I think it was just a relief for her to get to follow her own rules finally. We still had photographs, and movies, and the radio, and sports, and beaches. We're lucky here in the city with the Cineteca's archive of 35mm reels.

Julio and I milked the study as long as we could. We weren't in one of the ones trying to find a cure or a vaccine. It wasn't anything invasive. We were paid well, and the payments kept going for a while until the US Congress split up Microsoft and everyone got laid off from whatever department was authorizing our transfers. By then we had long moved back to my place, with Michael still lingering on the couch. He was writing again, and I came home to books stacked high against every wall in towers that

7 would spill with every little earthquake. Eventually I let Michael take over the place, and Julio and I found a new one together. We had all the money saved from the study, and my paintings and drawings were finally selling well thanks to Fer. Michael finally had to leave the stupid data job after catching the virus. He still hasn't finished a novel, but he's had some stories published.

Every crisis is someone's terrible opportunity, and we were able to buy a little place in the city with the money we had saved from the study and the international sales of the book. I think Fer lost money on the Mexican edition, but he's made more than enough back from selling the original drawings.

It's big enough for me and Julio to have space to work, and for our families to visit, and for Zuzu to have her own room eventually. She never got the virus. It's not congenital, contrary to popular belief. Maybe she'll get it some day, but she's grown up only knowing how easy it can be. People do take the vaccine here, but mostly if they are interested in the screened careers, which always pay well because no one wants them. It's a good way to stay out of debt, I guess.

Last weekend we took the bus to La Merced. Zuzu had earned whatever she wanted from the sweets market for being brave and learning to ride her bike. She only fell twice and didn't cry at all. After she had pointed and picked and filled up a sack with sugar and coconut (she's so particular), we walked to Sonora, through all the incense and candles and back to the shrine to Nuestra Dama de los Mosquitos. It appeared a few years ago, a little cult to all the sex workers, mostly women, who had offered their services to those who wanted to choose in those early days. I remember them splashed out in that horrible red on the covers of the nota roja I could see through my little golden prison. I lit 3 little candles, and Zuzu left a little marzipan flower. I don't believe in God, but I do believe we're lucky.

THE PANDEMIC-RESILIENT CITIES SCIENCE FICTION WRITING CONTEST 2ND PLACE – SCOTT BATSON

55

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 1

The Sky Never Changes

Yifan shuffled forward with the line, her daughter’s hand squeezed in the sweaty mess of her palm, and wondered if she should feel guilty for risking the lives of the three hundred people around her. For the hundredth time, she debated leaving the line, sacrificing her entire life’s savings and avoiding the risk of being erased. There’s no turning back, she told herself. And what were the lives of three hundred strangers against the life of her daughter?

With her free hand, she flipped the corner of the ID she’d been provided, the laminate chipping away. Elizabeth Olmsford, the ID read. Yifan repeated the name again and again.

Elizabeth Olmsford. Elizabeth Olmsford. The name felt so foreign, so unfitting. They will see right through this, she thought. I don’t look like an Elizabeth.

The taped arrows on the ground guiding Yifan and her daughter to the check-in station were scuffed—torn up by the hundreds of feet that walked over them every day. They’d been in

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 2 line for hours already, broad blisters forming in the shoes she’d been provided.

“Can we go home soon?” Madeline, Yifan’s daughter, asked.

“Soon, sweetpea.” Home was so close. Home was a lifetime away. Only a three-mile walk to the place where Madeline had been born. Three miles and sixty years.

The check-in center housed two dozen kiosks, separated by large black, stone columns and a slabbed roof that stretched over them all, making it look like a giant comb. In her time, it was still a park. She took her daughter there for softball practice in the spring, where they sometimes played under the buzz of the lights. She and her husband used to watch lightning bugs in that same park when they were teenagers, his arm wrapped around her as he struck up a cigarette with the other. “Those things will kill you,” she used to say.

If only that was all they had to worry about.

A sign above one of the check-in kiosks spelled out a warning in bright, reflective letters: TIME JUMPERS PUT US ALL AT RISK. For a moment, she thought the sign was meant just for her. YOU PUT EVERYONE HERE AT RISK, Yifan. But she blinked and the sign went back to normal. She focused on the head of the person in front of her instead—a bobbing tangle of gray hair as the old man shifted from foot to foot.

Apollo had told her the kiosks never close, but most people arrived toward the end of the

work day. If Yifan wanted to blend in, her best chance was to wait in line with the biggest mass of people.

Is Apollo even his real name? He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. I don’t look like an Elizabeth; he certainly didn’t look like an Apollo. Maybe it was better if she didn’t know his real name. The ignorant betray very little, after all. What do I care? If I’m

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 3 caught, I’m dead. She straightened and squeezed her daughter’s hand. Dead wasn’t the right word. She’d be erased; ripped from time, left in the space in between, and obliterated from existence.

Death was staying in her time. Death was doing nothing. Yifan had watched behind barred windows as death took her community.

“Mom,” Madeline whispered. “These clothes are itchy.”

“I know, sweetpea,” Yifan whispered back. She could feel the eyes from the man behind her—his ears were probably clued in too. “It won’t be much longer.”

Apollo had given them the clothes after they made the jump. “This is more akin to the fashion of this time,” he told them. Soft, pastel colors and hard, thick linen cloth. It was like something she saw her great-grandmother wear before she passed away. Funny how fashion was like that, repeating itself across generations.

The man behind her cleared his throat. The line moved again, so Yifan took a step to the next marker and Madeline kept close, without much prompting. Luckily, she’s shy. Yifan thought. She had been a chatterbox herself when she was a kid and Madeline’s father had a habit of always sharing his mind. But somehow, they had made a beautiful, smart girl who shied away from strangers.

JUMPERS BROUGHT US THE DEEP, another sign read—neon letters flashing in the

hazy afternoon light.

She kept trying to steer the thoughts away from her husband but even in her mind, he was stubborn. Would he still be alive when they got back? Or would he waste away, alone and afraid, locked in their garage where she had left him? She could still hear his voice through the front door after she had barred it.

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 4 “What are you doing? It’s me!” He’d shouted, pounding against the deadbolted door, his voice ragged and foreign.

The way he gawked at his hands through the cracks in the window, bluing skin like the deep ocean and veins as dark as midnight coming to the surface like webbing. He punched the door and screamed at her when he tried to walk into the house they had lived in together for eight years—the house where they raised their daughter.

He’d only gone out to get groceries. Just fruit and milk. The tragic thing was they hadn’t really needed any of it. After months of being cramped together, Yifan had just wanted a few moments of quiet as Madeline napped. A few brief moments where she could lay down with her eyes closed and try to forget the world was ending. So she’d sent him out to get groceries.

“I’d rather stay in until the next dropoff,” he’d said.

“We need fucking milk,” Yifan had snapped back.

She’d never even picked up the milk and fruit he’d dropped on their front porch. They were probably still out there, rotting and stinking up the floorboards.

Yifan had expected grief to wash over her, but it’d been mostly anger. At herself for sending him out, at her husband for being careless, and at the city for not better controlling it.

And now here she was, jumping through time despite all the warnings.

“Keep moving,” the man behind her muttered. How had the line gotten away from her

like that? She kept Madeline close, pressed against her hip, and for whatever reason, the kid never complained about her hand being crushed.

“How much longer?” Madeline asked.

“Not much longer,” Yifan lied. She had no idea. The first stop was the check-in station, where they would check the fake IDs Apollo had provided.

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 5 “Is Dad coming?” The question was a punch in the gut.

“No, sweetpea.” Could Yifan look up his name on the datapad Apollo supplied...

“Next.” The man at the check-in counter waved Yifan forward, the people in front of her vanishing into the building behind the Comb. He sat behind a few inches of plexiglass, stationed at a metal desk that matched the cold, solemn aesthetic of the building.

A small drawer came out from the wall. “Place your IDs in the drawer,” the man behind the glass said, his voice tinny through the intercom. Yifan’s hand shook as she put the counterfeit IDs in and smiled. She fought the urge to fill the tension with questions.

He held up the ID and looked between it and Yifan. “You look familiar. I know you?” he said, stroking his stubble.

“Just one of those faces.”

“You live up in Brighton?”

Yifan shook her head. “Watertown.” Just like the ID said. But she had lived in Brighton.

Sixty years before now.

She glanced down at the placard at the front of his desk. “AJAX BELLAMY” was printed in all capitals and her mouth went dry. What are the odds? Of all the lines she could have selected, she ended up at the one manned by Ajax Bellamy, a boy from Madeline’s class who had lived up the street.

It was impossible to translate an eight-year-old boy into the old man she saw in front of her. He was lanky now, with wiry arms too long for his shirt sleeves. But as a boy, he was always the runt on the street—chubby and slow, peddling up the block on a bike that was too big for him. He still had the round face, though, and the wide, curious eyes—although the bags under them made his whole face look solemn now.

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 6 He scanned the IDs through some machine and when the green light came on, Yifan let herself breathe. “You’re all set,” he said and put the IDs down in the drawer. Before he pushed them back through to her, he bit his lower lip, the same way he did as a kid when he was working out a puzzle. “I swear I’ve seen you around. You work in Quincy Market?”

Yifan had worked as a medical assistant before the world shut down but the last year had been nothing but watching her daughter and worrying that every passerby was infected. “No,” she told him.

“It’ll come to me,” he said and slid the IDs back. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to him until she was long gone.“Just follow the line to your right there and wait for your number to be called.” He eyed her as he reached for a button that opened the metal gate and lit her way forward.

Yifan collected the IDs and scurried inside, away from the one person who may actually recognize her before his memory caught up. Bad luck seemed to be the only luck she had lately. # The waiting room was a long hall of humming, fluorescent lights, and propaganda posters about time jumpers. Yifan took a small bench for her and Madeline, pressed against the rear wall and away from people.

“Now serving number B-two-thirty-nine at counter six,” a monotone voice said through

the loudspeaker. Yifan double-checked her number—the paper already crinkled.

C-103.

With time to waste, Yifan took out the datapad Apollo had provided—a thin, flexible tablet that had most of the controls disabled.

“Remember, we’re watching,” he had told her when they were making their way from the

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 7 jump spot. “So you can’t go looking for anything to extort the time jump. No winning lottery numbers or anything like that. But it has the relevant information you’ll need to study.”

She’d only been in this time for a day but she was expected to cram 60 years’ worth of major events into her head. In school, she had avoided studying—copying off of friends or getting help with papers. Reading through mountains of text always put her to sleep, so she had to pinch her leg to stay focused. She’d learn as much as she could so Madeline had a future.

She’d do anything so she could hug her husband one more time.

“The agents inside, the ones who administer the shots, they know to look for jumpers,” Apollo had explained. “Your ID gets you in the door but you still have to convince the agent you are who you say you are. They’ll ask questions about your birthplace, hometown, parents, and more. Any data they can find publicly. That’s all there in the datapad.” He tapped it with two fingers, holding eye contact with Yifan.

“But they will ask you about current events too. Things anyone should know. Who’s the President, what’s the price of gas, stuff like that. It’s ok if you stumble. People naturally stumble.

But they will try to throw in a trick question. Like ‘Who won the Super Bowl?’ There’s no NFL anymore.”

So Yifan studied, doing her best to read over the general facts of the past sixty years. The Super Bowl question she could have guessed. She remembered when the stadiums started

shutting down, leaving a season half-finished. That was the first time she realized the Deep was something to be worried about, something more than a problem on television.

“Now serving number B-two-forty at counter twelve.”

The hall curved and stretched on forever, with different markers for the different counters. Over half the world died to this and they still have lines this long? Yifan thought but

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 8 then remembered she and Madeline were two extra people added to the queue. No wonder they knew to look out for time jumpers—they’d probably given out more shots than they estimated.

Or was Elizabeth Olmsford a real person who would never get her dose because Yifan had shelled out every penny to her name to secure a spot?

It doesn’t matter, Yifan told herself. If she’d trade the lives of those three hundred strangers waiting in line with her, then she sure as hell would give up Elizabeth from Watertown.

Anything for her daughter. # “Now serving number C-one-zero-three at counter fourteen.”

Her mind was stuck in the datapad, her attention divided. She wasn’t quite certain it had been the right number. When no one else got up, she nudged Madeline awake and clicked off the datapad.

“C’mon. We’re almost done.”

Madeline sighed. “Thank god.”

Yifan took her daughter’s hand and guided her up the hall. It reminded her of running through airports, trying to find the monitor to see if your gate had changed, scrambling past white walls that all looked the same.

Finally, she found a sign for counters one through fifteen. Another hall, another turn, and

another array of dizzying fluorescent lights showed the way to another impersonal station. At counter fourteen, behind more plexiglass, was a middle-aged woman with thin-rimmed glasses, manicured eyebrows, and a shade of lipstick that was a bit too dark for her complexion.

“You can have a seat right there.” The woman motioned to the two chairs on the other end of the glass. “And just place your IDs in the drawer.” Yifan’s smile did nothing to disarm the

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 9 woman as she followed the instructions. The woman scanned the ID and said, “How are you doing today, Elizabeth?”

“I’m fine. Yourself?”

“Not bad. Getting close to the end of the day.” She looked at her screen as she talked, typing like a pianist. “As you probably know, I do need to confirm your identity and ask a few questions.”

Yifan’s heart felt like it would jump up her throat. She pinched the inside of her thigh, hoping the pain would keep her from shaking.

“Where were you born?” the woman asked, her voice muffled through the glass.

“Stoughton.”

“And where did you grow up?”

Yifan had memorized all of this early on—Apollo had made her recite the basics before they even made the jump. “Berkeley when I was young, but I don’t remember it. Amesbury after that.”

“When did you get married?”

“June fourteenth. Twenty-one, ninety-three.” That one was easy to remember. Madeline’s half-birthday.

“Where was the reception?”

A trick question already? “The what?” Yifan acted dumb.

“Nevermind. Who is the current President?”

Yifan raised an eyebrow, acting the part. Although Apollo had prepared her for these questions, he had hammered home the point that most people of that time didn’t expect them.

They would think: what the hell does this have to do with me?

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 10 “I’m sorry?”

“Who is the current President?” The woman repeated.

“Miller, unfortunately.” Yifan grimaced but the woman wouldn’t yield even the slightest smile.

“How many states are in the Union?”

“Twenty-three.” That was a part of her future she wished she could read more about but there had been only so much time to cram.

“Who is the Surgeon General?”

Yifan wouldn’t have been able to name the Surgeon General of her own time, but given the health crises, the position had become glorified—or so she read. It was a position more touted than the President. “Regina Keefner.”

“Who won the World Series last year?”

This one felt like a trick—like Apollo’s Super Bowl example—but Yifan had managed to skim this one bit of relevant news. The previous year had been the first season in several decades with a full baseball season, although there were only eight teams. It had become a cultural phenomenon. Even if you didn’t like sports, her datapad read, people tuned in to watch the World Series.

“The Orioles.”

The woman finally smiled. It was an awkward slant of her mouth that didn’t match her eyes. “Glad that’s over with. Thank you for your patience.” She slid their IDs back through the drawer and opened it with a flick of a switch. “Are you both receiving the shots today?”

Yifan took a calming breath as she reached for the IDs, her hand shaking like she’d downed a full pot of coffee. It was really over. She just had to smile, accept the inoculation, and

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 11 be on her way to her century, her daughter safe.

“Yes… yes, both of us.” She smiled down at Madeline, who didn’t seem vexed in the least.

“Your daughter is so patient. Most kids we get through here are complaining by the time they make it to the counter.”

“She’s always been pretty calm. She must get it from her father.” Yifan chuckled, reveling in the honest bit of dialogue. It was the first moment she had felt normal since arriving in the future.

“What grade is she in?”

“Third grade.” The schools had gone remote in her time, and the curriculum was fractured, suffering from a lack of staffing. Still, it was better than nothing.

The woman behind the counter pulled open a drawer and fumbled around inside for a moment. “It looks like I’m out of needles,” she said, her hands still sifting through whatever was tucked away, out of sight from Yifan’s gaze. “I’m just gonna go grab a few. One second.” She swiveled in her chair, stood, and walked back into the room of desks, cabinets, and medical coolers.

Yifan couldn’t see much past the first rows of desks, so she leaned back in her chair.

“Are we almost done?” Madeline whispered.

“Just about, sweetpea.” Yifan was almost giddy. There was still the ordeal of getting back to the jump point without being noticed, but there didn’t seem to be a ton of security on the street. This was the hard part. The final wall to scale before making it to the Promised Land.

But the woman still wasn’t back. How long does it take to grab a couple of needles?

Maybe there was more to it than that. Apollo said supplies were extremely limited. It’s not like

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 12 they would just be sitting in a bin. There was probably a process for requisitioning them, some papers to fill out. The place reeked of bureaucracy… So much, in fact, that each station should already have the exact amount they needed.

Right?

Was that something she could look up on the datapad? Yifan flicked it back on and started skimming articles. Had she missed something? Every question was expected. She had answered them all perfectly. Unless her data was wrong. How would she know? Would Apollo have given her faulty data? Or was it that…

Shit.

Yifan jumped to the index, skimming topics until she found one she had skipped over.

Education. She tried to read through the bullet points but her pulse was hammering behind her eyes and she couldn’t make sense of the words.

School for children has been restructured to a tiered system based on merits and not aligned with age. Each subject has its own tier, therefore, and students become more proficient in different subjects at different rates. Due to remote access, schools had to…

The words started to jumble in her head, so she flicked the datapad off, her mouth cotton and her arms shaking. There was no ‘third grade’ anymore. There hadn’t been grades in four decades.

“We’re going,” Yifan told her daughter, motioning for her to stand up.

“Now?” “Yup.” She took Madeline’s hand, pulling the child up and out of the chair and exiting the cubicle in one motion. She followed the arrows, working toward the exit.

I was so close. The pulsing behind her eyes turned to tears. She bit her lip to hold them

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 13 back, resolved to at least make it outside.

The hall stretched on forever—neon arrows of yellow tape shining under the hum of the fluorescent lights. There was no nook to hide in, no corner to cry behind. Finally, the exit sign appeared, hung over a turnstile with a guard standing duty. He eyed her as she rushed down the hallway with Madeline in tow.

“Do you have your card?” the guard asked, his voice rough as gravel.

A card, showing that she had been inoculated. A card she had been moments away from getting.

“My card?” She smiled, playing dumb.

“Your inoculation card. Should’ve got one right after the shot,” the guard said.

“They must’ve forgotten.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “It happens. That’s fine. I can walk you back to get it.” He started forward, motioning with his head for her to turn around, his hand on the baton that hung from his hip. “What station were you at?”

“I… I don’t remember.” She lied. C-one-zero-three at counter fourteen. That number would be etched into her mind, like a date on her tombstone.

“I can just check at the terminal.” How long before someone called through to this guard’s radio? How long before shouts came from up the hallway and a rush of men spilled out

from the doors to whisk her and Madeline off to oblivion?

Erasure.

“What’s the last name?” the guard asked as he tapped a touch screen on the wall. Could she just run for it? If she picked up Madeline and sprinted toward the exit, could she make it before this oaf even knew what was happening?

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 14 “There you are.” A voice came from up the hall. “I was looking for you.”

The guard looked to the man up the hallway and then back to Yifan. “She one of yours?”

“Yes.” It was Ajax—the round-faced boy from her street who had grown into a tired, round-faced man. “I forgot to give you your card. Sorry about that.” He handed her a laminated piece of cardboard, no bigger than a playing card, imprinted with the name on her fake ID and a seal she didn’t recognize. Behind it, a slip of paper, torn and jagged.

“Okay.” The guard shrugged, leading them back to the exit. Once he was ahead of her, Yifan took out the slip of paper and read the note Ajax left: Meet at corner of Milk and Congress. # “I knew I recognized you,” Ajax began, sweat dripping down his round cheeks. “It kept bugging me and my memory ain’t what it used to be. But you remember people from that time.

From the early days of all this.” He looked at Madeline—a girl technically his age—but he didn’t say anything to her. “We’re told to keep a lookout for jumpers. It didn’t click for me until my shift ended, and I realized who you were.”

“Why were you in the building though?” Yifan asked, holding Madeline close as people passed by on the street, going about their day like death wasn’t looming around every corner.

“I heard the call on the radio when I was at my locker. Your admin figured it out and was

calling it in. They were just waiting for a squad to show up. Good thing you made a break for it when you did.” He laughed like it was a clever joke but all Yifan wanted to do was vomit on the sidewalk. She bit her lip, taking deep breaths through her nose, urging her heart to slow down.

How close was she to being erased? Would her husband ever know what happened to her and their daughter?

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 15 She looked up at the darkening sky, holding back tears that had been trying to break free for the past hour. Dark, gluttonous clouds threatened the city as a wind rushed through the streets, cutting through the cheap clothes Apollo had provided. That feeling of chill that kissed her skin reminded her of her husband and the way they would sit out on their front stoop and watch the rain pour in the street in the summer. Would he even be there when they got back?

“Anyway,” Ajax said. “I’m glad I found you. I know they warn us against jumpers, but I figured they wouldn’t do that unless some got through already. And I thought it can’t be all bad, letting a few people live long lives. Even if jumpers caused the Deep in the first place, it can’t really unravel all this,” he motioned to the city, to the people, to the time.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I want you to take this.”

She held out her free hand, Madeline still gripping the other and took the bulky envelope without much thought. “What… what is it?”

“A vial. Good for two shots. One for each of you. You’ll have to find your own needles, though. It goes right into the shoulder, right in the muscle. No wrong spot as long as it goes in.”

Shots? The word almost had no meaning as she ran it over in her head. Shots.

“Your arms might be sore for a few days. Might even come down with a fever, but don’t worry. Even if you got the Deep already, it’ll cure ‘em. Can bring you back from the brink, even.”

“Why would you do this?” She asked, pulling the envelope closer to her chest, closer to her heart. There was something else in there—padding around the vial.

“There’s a note in there… I want you… I need you to give it to me… Kid me. And I don’t want you to read it. You have to promise not to read it.”

“I promise.” A note? From his future self? Apollo had warned about bringing anything

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 16 back. They couldn’t even have the clothes he’d loaned them when they made the jump. Just their underwear, apparently.

“They search us before we make the jump. I can’t hide something like this.” If she couldn’t pay the price he was asking, would he take it back? Should she run now while she still has legs under her?

“They don’t do cavity searches,” Ajax said and Yifan took his meaning. Anything for my daughter.

Yifan just nodded again, muted sunlight vanishing even more behind the horizon of dark clouds. “Won’t you get in trouble? Would they erase you for this?”

He nodded. “Yeah, most likely. That’s why I need you to get that note back to me. It should set me on a different path. It should save me now. The old me.”

She understood. He was breaking the law for a better life, betting that he’d never have to ante up. Like when you swear someone out on vacation. And when your husband tries to admonish you, you just say “What? We’ll never see these people again.”

“I have to go,” Ajax said, checking his watch. “You can’t stick around long. They know your face now and will be on the lookout, even outside the facility.” He tapped his shoulder with two fingers. “Remember: right in the shoulder.”

She nodded her thanks, holding the envelope to her chest as Ajax made his way back into

the busy street. Rain started to trickle down, drumming against the sidewalk and street lights of the city. A city she’d always known. A city that was completely foreign to her. I should probably get inside. But her feet wouldn’t move. Instead, she let the rainwater rush down her face, mixing with the tears she couldn’t hold back. Tears of relief, tears of terror, tears for her husband. A slow rumble of thunder sounded in the distance but she still couldn’t bring herself to move. She

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 17 just sobbed, staring at the sky as passersby moved around her like she were a stone in a river. # Yifan sipped her tea—ginger and lemon—stoking the fire she had started in the living room. Madeline laughed behind her, doing a puzzle with Ajax. It was the first time they’d had anyone over to the house since the whole thing started. Yifan hadn’t known that Ajax was usually left alone while both of his parents went to work, riding his bike up and down the street until they rolled home close to midnight.

She’d never have thought of inviting him in before, but knowing that Madeline wouldn’t get sick, it seemed like the right thing to do. Hell, it was the least she could do, all things considered.

Yifan leaned back in her chair and warmed her feet by the fire, staring out the window at another darkening sky just like the one she’d stood under before making the jump back. As different as the city had been, it was comforting to look up and know that the sky never changes and the stars you grew up watching would still be there long after you were gone. A few stars poked as the city lights died and power was shut off on the street, breaking through a blanket sky a shade of midnight—the color of the Deep.

“Feeling okay?” Her husband asked as he came in from the kitchen to join her. Only three days and his skin had gone back to normal, his voice had returned and he was upright. Old

Ajax had been right—that shot could bring someone back from the brink.

Yifan had tried to give Madeline her shot as soon as she got home—a medically sealed needle in her supply closet from before she’d lost her job. When Yifan rolled up her daughter’s sleeve, Madeline stopped her. “What about Dad?” She asked, her eyes wide and pleading. How was it so easy for that girl to know the right thing to do? There was so much good in that girl and

/ THE SKY NEVER CHANGES / 18 Yifan would do anything to preserve it.

So Yifan never got her shot and maybe that meant that she wouldn’t get to see her daughter grow up. But wasn’t that always the risk? Wasn’t that the ultimate risk of being a parent?

Ajax laughed as he held up a new piece of the puzzle. “I found the other corner!” A kid with a goofy laugh who would grow up to be a tired but brave old man.

“You want to help us, Mom?” Madeline asked.

There was nothing she wanted more in the world. “Yeah, sweetpea.” And when she got up, she tossed the note from Old Ajax into the fire. If his life changed for the better, would he be there in the future to sneak her those shots? She couldn’t take that risk. The chance of that note unraveling everything, leading to a life where he wouldn’t be there for Yifan and her daughter?

Anything for her daughter.

***

THE PANDEMIC-RESILIENT CITIES SCIENCE FICTION WRITING CONTEST 3RD PLACE – EMMA SPACE

74

Households

I am conscious of my body as I move through the world.

The city is conscious of it too, benevolently conscious of me and my movement. This city was gifted to us from our grandparents, who reached forward through time to make sure that we would be safe, that we would not be alone.

Always, in the mornings, I check in with Household. I stand in front of the mirror and fight my hair into a bun as Household scans my forehead for fever, takes my pulse through my skin. “How are you doing today?” it asks me.

“Tired,” I say, because I am. My face is interrupted by the deep pockets underneath my eyes. Household is a non-modified version that comes standard with each apartment, coded to look after me. It projects my biometrics on the glass of the mirror. My pulse, my temperature flash in front of me.

“Your body functions seem typical.” Household’s voice is devoid of emotion. “Please remember to take your medication. A vitamin C supplement has been included with your daily dosage. Please limit your caffeine intake today and increase your protein consumption.” There is a rattling deep within the mirror and I put my hand out, underneath the electronic components. A hole opens and a collection of pills falls into my hand.

“Thank you, Household.” I put the pills into my mouth one by one, and swallow them dry. When I have finished, I put my hands together underneath the facet and fill my palms with water, gulping out of my cupped hands. Water flowers from the cracks between my fingers and splashes up onto my face. It tastes better this way, wilder.

The cafe is only a short walk from my house. I do not eat before I leave, which is a health choice Household disapproves of, but if I make myself anything, I will be late. The door closes on my heels as I leave the apartment, rush down the steps to the foyer of the building. I pass through the light decontam arch before I push open the front doors, which leaves my vision spotty as I walk out of the building into the black morning.

The sun has not yet risen. Everything is cast in long shadows by the street lights that flicker awake as I pass. I walk with my head down, my music on. There are so few people on the street that I could be alone in this city, my footsteps loud enough to wake the sleepers still cosseted in their beds.

The streets are tidy. I have seen on the net that some cities have rats running between trash bins in the wee hours, but sanitation is one of the best paid jobs in our city. I pass by three empty trash cans on my street. Sanitation and mindfulness are built into the infrastructure of our home, borne of our grandparent’s respect for community.

I am grateful to be here. We are some of the lucky ones.

The cafe is dark as I come to the front door. I fumble with the key chain for only a moment before I am able to coax the door open. Here, the gray light of dawn has cast the upside down stools on the tables into the antlers of beasts, stretched out on the floor.

The first thing I do is flick on the lights, illuminating the room in gold.

The cafe is warm. Woodtones on the floors and tables emulate the woodtones of cafes from forty years ago. Vintage. It’s cute, in a shabby sort of way. There are paper books propping up vases, crocheted doilies on the top of the tables, and all of it collects dust. Decoration isn’t my job, though.

The second thing I do is plug in the decontam arch. Although everyone decontams leaving their house, people feel safer when there’s one in your business. Just in case.

The lights from the decontam arches are blinding, supposed to kill bacteria on contact.

The arches hum too, sort of a low and shaky sound that fill up the small space of the cafe. As soon as I can, I turn on the cafe music to drown it out. Even the golden oldies are better than the neverending hum of the arches.

By the time the clock hits nine, the customers coming into the cafe are concerned, in an unusual sort of way. Regulars give me a tense smile as they take their coffees from the counter, seem to shy away from standing too close to me. I try not to look at my phone while I’m on a shift, but today I can’t help it.

The first headline makes my heart drop in my chest.

Illnesses of magnitude are uncommon in our city, and in the cities around us, because of the commitment to civic duty our grandparents made. There are always communities that choose to prioritize individual well-being over the community, unable to realize that the repercussions radiate outwards.

In a suburb southeast of city center, an outbreak of an unidentified disease has been reported. The headline that announces this is supposed to be reassuring, but it makes my stomach feel like someone has put a spaghetti fork into my organs and given them a good spin.

THREAT LEVEL LOW, CONTINUE DAILY ACTIVITIES I put my phone back into my apron pocket and smile at the next customer who approaches the counter, but my smile feels shaky. The customer smiles back to me, but they look equally shaky. “Just a mocha,” they say. We are creatures of routine, and I do not fault the

person on the other side of the counter for forginging ahead through their day, for ordering a chocolate muffin, for picking up their cup with a napkin as though an extra sheet of paper between their skin and mine will protect them.

Illness is frightening in a way many things are not. Possibly, it is because we were raised on the stories of the Pandemic that occurred while our grandparents were young, but it is also an intimate, inherited fear. Illness is a complete dissolution of the boundaries of self.

Of course, even in cities like ours, we get cold when we’re children. And the occasional food poisoning, and cancers that are impossible to root out, and allergies, and all the other small ailments of life. Even when they’re small, illnesses remind us of what we used to be, which was small. We become young again, dependent on the community that was built around us.

I think that sickness is scary because it’s debilitating. And when things are scary, we become angry, because fear is weak and we want to be strong. Even if our community has been built so that we may rely on it, I think there are many of us that want to refuse help. To prove that we are stronger alone. How silly of us. Even when we’re children we know better.

My coworkers and I follow the story on our phones. Every two hours, the news feeds update.

Patient zero is a man who went to a less community-minded city on a business trip and developed a headache that was so bad he couldn’t get out of bed. And then he threw up.

When his wife threw up, and then his children threw up, and none of them could get rid of their headaches, they called the sanitation department. The man was currently intubated and stable, the medical professionals said in their interviews. Anyone who had contact with the family in the past week, including all of the children who attended Southeastern Elementary and

their families, should report to the temporary testing station set up by the sanitation department, and then should immediately impose quarantine.

Clocking out, my coworker Netta tells me, “It’s such a relief that the family is all in the hospital together. I would hate to be in such a scary situation without my mom.” That’s what her mouth says, covered over with the veneer of a smile, but her eyes are wide and panicked. Her eyes are saying, How could he be so selfish? How could he go and get sick in another city and bring it back home to us?

“The sanitation department caught it early,” I say. “I’m sure everyone who has to will quarantine. I mean, we all have Households. They’ll make sure that we’re where we need to be, and they’ll make sure everyone reports to the sanitation crew. This won’t be a pandemic, I’m sure of it.”

I don’t know if I’m sure of anything.

Netta’s shoulder’s relax. She is younger than me. This is her first job out of secondary school, I think, and she acts as I did when I was her age. There is a tension in her shoulders that holds her up, but when the tension is dissolved, how will she move forward? I wish I could put a hand on her shoulder, to press some peace through my palm into her chest, but touching people was something we did yesterday, not today.

“That’s true,” she said. She takes her apron off over her head and hangs it up on a peg next to the clock-out. She swipes her ID against the sensor and it beeps. “I guess I’m just—you know.”

“I know.” When she steps out of the way, I clock out, am greeted with the same beep. I don’t want to stand too close to her either, even though the back rooms of the cafe are narrow, pushing us into close proximity. “You don’t need to be afraid. We’ll all be here to help each

other, no matter what happens. And if we need to stay home for a few weeks, we just stay home..

We’ll be okay.” I smile at her, and she smiles back.

She looks so young. Is it her fear that makes her look small, or is mine? She says her goodbyes, and thanks me, and promises to call if she needs anything, and leaves through the back door, her arms crossed over her chest and her head tucked down so the crown of her scalp was pressed towards the wind.

I watch her walk down the street for a minute before I follow. The wind has picked up since I walked to work this morning, but the chill that has descended over the street has nothing to do with weather. The sidewalks are emptier than they usually are at this time of day, and the people who are out are pulling their shoulders in towards their chests, keeping themselves to themselves.

I join the flow of the movement, down the main street and around the corner of the block, retracing my morning commute. I pass by hollow store fronts, vacant restaurants. Back in my building, I stand for a little longer under the decontam lights, taking my coat off and shaking out my sweater, so the rays penetrate every layer of my clothing.

More cases of illness are reported sick in the next twenty four hours. Carl, the owner of the cafe, sends out a message that we would be closed temporarily, to submit our work IDs to the city social programs to make sure we get basic universal income while we’re on leave. Ten minutes later, the city social program sends out a mass message, letting us know that all public gathering spaces will be closed for the time being, and that all employees should apply for universal income. So, redundant. But helpful.

I wake up late the next morning. The sun has already risen, and wind whistles down the empty street in front of my building.

Everyone I know is glued to the net. Updates come about the spread of the sickness every few hours. Kids and teachers from Southeastern Elementary were being reported ill, people were being brought to the hospital. Of course, we knew no names, but the media reported on any crumb it could pick up. The first man who was sick had been put on life support, and though no one was saying aloud, things did not look well.

I sit in my bed, wrapped in my comforter, watching television that I never get the chance to get caught up on. When I’m bored with that, I call my mother.

My parents still live in the city, but they live on the northwestern side of the city, about as far away from the infection site as possible. Because I live in the city center, they are always worried about me. “Crime,” she told me before I moved to my apartment, her forehead drawn like curtains over her nose, “is a different animal downtown. You never know what could happen to you.”

So far, in the seven years that I have lived here, I have not found that to be true. Still, though, she presses her worries onto me through the phone, and I press my loneliness and uncertainty onto her. That first day is both the shortest day in quarantine and the longest. I play the television in the background while I am on my phone, the sound filling up the quiet space.

Household can’t get a word in edgewise.

Throughout the next week of isolation I text with Netta when she needs it, and Admiria and Louis and Callon, but their words on a screen are not the same as words spoken. I make a pillow fort in the living room and pull a stuffed dog from the back of my closet and watch movies until my eyes hurt.

Household tries to coax me from my stupor. One night (Tuesday? Wednesday? the days stopped meaning what they used to, the nights extending beyond its boundaries and seeping in through the leaking the corners of my bedroom) Household calls me from staring at the wall.

Their voice comes through the speakers of the television.

I flinch.

“Ada, have you prepared your evening meal?” Household does not dally with preamble.

“What?”

“Evening meal.” Household says. “Health workers have left a meal preparation package at your doorstep. You were notified of this at three in the afternoon.”

Had I been? I can't remember. I stand. “Okay.” My living space is small, just a bedroom, bathroom, and a combined kitchen and sitting area. It only takes me a few steps to go to the front door. My legs are cramped from disuse. The front door opens, and there is a small brown box on my doormat. I bend, pick it up.

There is no one in the hallway. I can hear the hum of the decontam arch down the stairs, but I cannot hear other sounds of my neighbors—no laughing, no instrument practice, no footsteps. Even the air is stale, stuck in here with the rest of us. I step back into my apartment and shut the door firmly behind me. All at once I am afraid to breathe too deeply, that the air seeping into my room around the seams of the door is poisoned with illness.

That it is already in here with me.

Household’s voice through the speakers is reassuring. “City council says they have provided several cans of soup as well as ingredients for a meal. I marked your dietary preference as vegetarian.”

I blink, hard. My static vision clears, and I am looking at my kitchen again. “Okay.” I bring the box to the table, open it. The contents are exactly what Household indicated. Four cans of soup, a small carton of strawberries only slightly wilted, artificially flavored yogurt, a package of tofu, broccoli, one green bell pepper, a small bottle of soy sauce. Veggie and tofu stir fry, I guess. And something for tomorrow’s breakfast. I had been running out of food.

Household hums. “Does the meal provided meet your level of satisfaction, or should I request the health workers bring another package of food at their earliest convenience?”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” I stand in the middle of the room and stare at the food in front of me. It is such an insignificant amount. I will have to rely on the city for food tomorrow too, and for the day after that. Such a colossal amount of work that I had not even considered. I clear my throat, ask Household, “Can you pull up a stir fry recipe? I have some garlic in the fridge and a carrot I can rehydrate, I think.”

“Wonderful,” Household says. Their effect remains flat. A chirp on my phone indicates that Household has sent a recipe. “Increasing your Vitamin C intake would be beneficial.”

The week moves into the next and the news gets grimmer. Eighty percent of Southeastern Elementary had secondary or tertiary contact with the sick children, and almost the entirety of that eighty percent fell ill. The entire suburb has been put under strict quarantine, with the news showing hazmat suited law enforcement patrolling the leafy streets.

Hospitals are overwhelmed, and people from the southeast are filling ICUs across the city. The first man who fell ill passes seven days after he was intubated. There are no updates about his family, but a memorial broadcast plays in lieu of a funeral. I switch the television off when his face appears on screen.

I try not to watch the news too much. If I think too hard about the disease, I’ll convince myself that I’m developing symptoms too. Lying on the couch, I can feel a headache pressing against the back of my eyes, a nausea building in my throat.

I still check the channels, just to see what is happening. If quarantine will be lifted soon, if we’ll be able to go back to work. The emergency act for universal income has made sure that my rent will be covered, but I miss being useful. I miss the dark mornings all to myself, I miss the cafe made strange by shadow and then suddenly alive again. I miss the cold blasts of air as customers crowd into a warm shop. I miss the crooked fingers of older women in their best pointing to pastries they cannot read the names of through the glass display case.

Not that the job is wonderful. But I don’t know who I am without it.

The city takes care of our bodies as sickness sweeps through its streets. Our minds are left to us to tend for, and I do a frightfully poor job. It is lonely. Although we are working together to achieve a future, the present leaves me so alone.

Within the third week, it is announced that the illness is bacterial in nature, not viral. The week after that, doctors have announced that they have found an antibiotic combination that would weaken a bacteria’s hold on the nervous system, to give it enough time to find for itself. The new broadcasts become more cheerful and hopeful. Even the sun has begun to shine for longer during the day, long and slanting rays dipping through the window shades as I eat dinner.

My phone chimes with a hopeful email from Carl, telling us to look forward to an announcement tomorrow morning. I squeal, drop my fork, call my mom. “I can’t wait to go back to work,” I say.

My mother frets. For me, for all of us. “Won’t it be too soon?” she asks. “Don’t you need more time? Don’t we need more time? What if there are people who are quarantining, who are just walking around, I couldn’t bear the thought of you being sick—” “We can’t stop the sickness from being here.” I think that’s true. I’m still afraid of falling ill, of losing control of my body and of being taken away from the comfort of my home and of my routine, but I’m not afraid that I will die. I am not afraid that my community will break down completely. We have proved ourselves stronger than that.

All of the habits that our grandparents passed down to us keep us safe, a blanket descending over our shoulders.

“And I can’t stop being afraid,” I tell my mother. “But I can be brave. I can make sure that I’m there to help other people when they need help. I mean, that’s basically my job.”

My mother worries still, but she will never stop worrying about me. Her voice plays in my head the next morning as I pull my socks over my bare feet, a jacket over my shoulders. The decontam arch blinds me as I leave the building, leaving the stinging residue of glow in my eyes.

The streets are empty when I step out into them, but the shadows cast by the streetlights are not as stark, the sky a warm gray.

In the month we have spent inside, the sun has clawed its way back over the horizon. I walk down the street with my back held straight, my footsteps ringing against the clean pavement. Today’s food boxes are resting on the doorsteps of people who are still isolating. The city information screens are displaying the notice that the general quarantine has been released, that a medicine has been found.

I am conscious of my body as I move through the world, conscious of the fresh air that fills my lungs. A wind picks up through the narrow city streets, blowing me forward, onward. I have been lonely, but never have I been alone.

THE PANDEMIC-RESILIENT CITIES SCIENCE FICTION WRITING CONTEST 4TH PLACE – SHOSHANA GROOM

87

THE SALVATION OF AFTENBORG Dear Anaya-odL, I just want to follow-up on our last discussion about the Homo sapiens bottleneck event of 2100-2250. While the sociological details of the collapse of most societies during that period are unknown, I just stumbled across an unusually well-documented case, the collapse of a society on an island off the coast of Northwest Europe (it seems as though this area managed to keep their electricity working up until their collapse, and they recorded information on a previously undiscovered technological artifact that’s provided a wealth of information for us–yay them!) I scanned the government records and sent you some of the files I found in case it happens to pique your interest; if you want to do a deeper analysis, just reach out to Anaya-PUL at the university data center and she’d be more than happy to help you.

Most of the docs are in 22nd century Danish, but the closely related 20th century Danish language was recently added to the national translation software so you should be fine. Let me know if there’s any other way I can help! I look forward to hearing your presentation next month.

��

All the best, Professor Anaya-uKa

File 031.4 Date: February 18, 2195 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video of a mayoral office. The two figures are identified as Bernt Bhaduri, the mayor of Aftenborg, and Freya Hagen, a mayoral staffer.

F. Hagen: –fucking lunatic. We should be studying medicine– B. Bhaduri: We tried that, Freya. I know you’re upset, but please be logical. If pouring everything into studying medicine hasn’t worked so far– F. Hagen: You don’t win a cold war by giving up!

B. Bhaduri: Freya, how many of our neighbors died this past month?

F. Hagen: I–that’s– B. Bhaduri: If this is a cold war, we’ve already lost.

F. Hagen: Then…then we should be studying communication, so we can actually learn if another goddamn strain is coming, or farming, or something reasonable. I’ve got kids, Bernt–

B. Bhaduri: And I used to have kids.

[Incomprehensible] F. Hagen: Bernt, I’m sorry, I understand where you’re coming from, I swear. If my Lars or Trove were taken from me… but we need to be reasonable. We have so few resources, so little time. We need to protect the living.

B. Bhaduri: This was the will of the people, Freya.

F. Hagen: The people aren’t rational, Bernt. Sending our only quantum scientist to our only working lab to figure out fucking *time travel?* Do you know how stupid I feel to just say that out loud?

Bernt, they’re desperate. The people are just desperate.

B. Bhaduri: Yes, we are desperate.

[Incomprehensible] F. Hagen: I’m sorry, Bernt, I didn’t think, I’m so sorry– [Incomprehensible]

File 031.7 Date: January 25, 2196 Format: Physical printed material Description: A ballot of a special election held in the town of Aftenborg on January 31, 2196. Completed by an unidentified resident.

AS

The public of Aftenborg has voted to focus their excess resources on exploring the possibility of messaging individuals in the chronological past AND Professor Johan has determined he has the ability to realize two manners of sending print messages to individuals in the chronological past AND Professor Johan has determined that he has the time and resources to study, plan, and create only one manner of sending print messages to individuals in the chronological past AND

Mayor Bernt Bhaduri and Doctor Charlotte Larson, being the two remaining Aftenborg residents with relevant scientific knowledge, have agreed to oversee and establish the legitimacy of Professor Johan’s plans and creations, The citizens of Aftenborg are hereby granted the opportunity to decide which manner of contacting individuals in the chronological past Professor Johan will pursue.

Position One

Position Two

Professor Johan will use his scientific expertise, and

Professor Johan will use his scientific expertise, and

resources owed to the public of Aftenborg, to alter the

resources owed to the public of Aftenborg, to create

current timeline to avoid the Century of Plagues. He

alternative timelines in which the Century of Plagues

shall operationalize this aim by creating a device that

is minimized in fatality or does not exist. He shall

will warn a past global leader to exercise extreme

operationalize this aim by creating devices that can

caution when permitting the use of antibiotics and

send messages to individuals in the past, creating

increasing the rate of international commercial travel.

Because of uncertainty regarding the so-called “Grandfather paradox,” this option features a low probability of success.

alternative timelines in which those messages are

To minimize risk of the “Grandfather paradox,” only Professor Johan, under the supervision of Mayor Bernt Bhaduri and Doctor Charlotte Larson, would be allowed to message individuals in the chronological past.

received. Because this option avoids the “Grandfather paradox,” it features a 99% probability of success if implemented correctly. Because messages are received in an alternative timeline, the current timeline is unaffected, eliminating the probability of altering the current timeline to avoid the Century of Plagues.

Because there is little risk of the “Grandfather Paradox” and because of the low cost of creating the

Locally referred to as the “Line” method.

necessary technology, devices would be distributed to all adult citizens of Aftenborg, to use at their discretion. Professor Johan has warned that, without more materials, the devices will only be capable of sending 1 message, of maximum 204 characters, per 196 hours.

Locally referred to as the “Vee” method.

Position One: ⃝

Position Two:

⚫

File 031.9 Date: January 2, 2197 Format: Digital collection of messages Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Hilmar Gundersen | January 2, 2197 To: Franklin Delanor Roosevelt | January 1, 1940 Dear President, I send an urgent message from the future. The overuse of antibiotics led to the rise of resistant bacteria, and we have been devastated by waves of disease. Please use constraint!

From: Freya Hagen | January 2, 2197 To: Ivan Amberg | July 5, 2169 Prime Minister, I can’t explain, but I am a mother with two children who go hungry each night. Localize Denmark’s food production, because supply chains will fail and we will be alone From: Manoj Bhaduri | January 2, 2197 To: Keryn Tranberg | January 1, 2100 as a man who has buried 3 grandchildren, i beg you: don’t fight the coming plagues with more antibiotics. as you can see from the sent date of this message, you have time to save my grandchildren From: Njord Hom | January 2, 2197 To: Alexander Fleming | September 3, 1928 Throw out the mold. You have no clue the horrors you will release. Ignore this message, and the world will perish From: Sanne Andresen | January 2, 2197 To: Poul Schlüter | January 1, 1985

You idiots, you absolute idiots, how dare U trade our loved ones for yours?! We burn corpses each night, all because you couldn’t help but treat every disease you see! Sacrifice a few-it’s only fair!

File 032.3 Date: January 18, 2197 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video of a mayoral office. The two figures are identified as Bernt Bhaduri, the mayor of Aftenborg, and Freya Hagen, a mayoral staffer.

B. Bhaduri: Freya, I’ve been looking for you.

F. Hagen: I’m sorry, it’s just… the 196 hours will be– B. Bhaduri: I know. Everyone is distracted. But our water filtration system is failing and I need you to focus.

F. Hagen: There must be something we can trade with the mechanics in Odense, maybe Sanne has some extra calves– B. Bhaduri: The island’s internet was on long enough yesterday for me to get a message from Odense. The militia fell and the city is in chaos.

F. Hagen: Svendborg, then.

B. Bhaduri: I haven’t heard from them since reports of a new strain of– F. Hagen: Then Robert can fix it.

B. Bhaduri: The parts are from China, the uptake was taken care of by Copenhagen… we don’t have the knowledge or the ability.

F. Hagen: If the uptake was done by people in Copenhagen, they might have spare parts, and the knowledge to fix it. Hilmar still has that boat. He can go to Copenhagen.

B. Bhaduri: If it still exists.

F. Hagen: What choice do we have?

[Silence] F. Hagen: If the water filtration system dies, we die. Hilmar knows this. He’ll agree. He wants to save his family as much as we do.

B. Bhaduri: What good does it do?

F. Hagen: What good does it do? We might have more days to see our children, Bernt. And we can help the other timelines learn from our mistakes. Don’t you see? We aren’t alone anymore. We might not be able to save ourselves, but we can save– B. Bhaduri: He might die alone.

F. Hagen: He won’t die alone. He’ll have a lifetime of people to talk to.

B. Bhaduri: Freya, last time we talked, you’d planted in my head the suspicion that this time travel was a waste of time and resources.

And when Johan showed Doctor Larson and me the inner workings of the first, completed device, and we shared to our constituents the best news they’d heard in their miserable lives, I was so grateful that I hadn’t listened to you.

F. Hagen: I was wrong. But this timeline needs water, and the other timelines need us to survive so they can learn from us. My children, your father…they need us, in this timeline and others.

[Silence.]

B. Bhaduri: Very well. Go find Hilmar.

File 031.8 Date: March 6, 2197 Format: Digital collection of messages Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Hilmar Gundersen |March 6, 2197 To: Hilmar Gundersen | January 1, 2181 Invest in the good boat, the one with the covered top and the stronger motor. Someday the community will depend on you, but the

rain is cold and the going is slow. I can’t explain any more.

Trust me From: Freya Hagen | March 6, 2197 To: Asta Mpofu | March 6, 2090 Please, Madam, focus Denmark on preparing for an onslaught of diseases during the next decades of your reign. My children helped carry the dead to the pyre today. This is the future if you do not act From: Manoj Bhaduri | March 6, 2197 To: Aretta Unigwe | June 1, 2050 as a man who has buried 3 grandchildren, i beg you: start focusing now on globally battling disease, so the plagues of 2100-2200 won’t happen. let my grandchildren survive in your future, if not in mine From: Njord Hom | March 6, 2197 To: Orville Wright | December 16, 1903 Destroy your plane and all of your blueprints. The more connection we have, the quicker plagues can spread. Ignore this message, and the world will perish From: Sanne Andresen | March 6, 2197 To: Soren Ursin | January 6, 2180 The few survivors of a group of refugees from Odense collapsed on the edge of our town, and we had nothing to spare for them. THIS is the future U make if U do nothing

File 033.0 Date: May 15, 2197 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video of a mayoral office. The two figures are identified as Freya Hagen, a mayoral staffer, and Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg.

F. Hagen: [Incomprehensible] talk to you. Is there any way to access the messages people send on their Johannides?

C. Larsen: Oh, sweetheart. Is this about Hilmar?

F. Hagen: It’s just that he’s been gone for so long, and the 196 hours just ended and I need to know if he’s– C. Larsen: I’m afraid it’s impossible. The Johannides send their print message into the hands of the recipients, and then it’s recorded in the device itself but nothing else. Without his device, there’s no way– F. Hagen: Then can we make a way? Hack into it, I don’t know, somehow use the internet to– Doctor Larsen: It doesn’t connect to the internet. I’m sorry, dear. I know how frustrating it is to not understand these things, and to just depend on this batty old lady to tell you what is or isn’t possible in this confounding world. Believe me, if we could see if Hilmar was still alive, the mayor and I would already have made Professor Johan do it.

[Silence] C. Larsen: This isn’t your fault, my dear.

F. Hagen: [Incomprehensible] dead! Charlotte, how could I [incomprehensible] C. Larsen: Oh, sweetheart, come here. It was the right choice. Come here. We need that water filter fixed. It was the right choice. Come here F. Hagen: I know, that’s why I’m so [Incomprehensible]

File 031.9 Date: May 29, 2197 Format: Digital collection of messages Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Hilmar Gundersen |May 29, 2197

To: Mei Gundersen | May 28, 2197 I failed you, Mei. I’m lost and my feet bleed. Know that I love you, and I would do it all again if it meant a chance of saving you. Look at the stars, and thinks of the Vs where we grow old together From: Freya Hagen | May 29, 2197 To: Ezra Jorgensen| March 5, 2177 Mayor, please make Aftenborg self-reliant, especially our water system. Someday our bravest heroes won’t be able to find the help we need, and we’ll suffer. My son has a fever. I don’t know how to help From: Manoj Bhaduri | May 29, 2197 To: Manoj Bhaduri | November 6, 2167 spoil that son of yours as much as you can. let bernt keep those kittens, and buy him that stupid scooter. please. let that beautiful boy be happy while he can From: Njord Hom | May 29, 2197 To: Saif Hakimi | October 29, 2077 Isolate Denmark and focus it all on building resilience. The water systems will fail and medicine will fail and we will still have families to protect. Ignore this message, and Denmark will perish From: Sanne Andresen | May 29, 2197 To: Pernille Foss | May 29, 2057 Don’t waste OUR country’s $ on some war, focus on FOOD! We can’t import, and bacteria affects cows too, and now my daughter is hungry because we lost half our meager herd and we have nothing else!

File 033.9 Date: July 11, 2197 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video of a mayoral office. The two figures are identified as Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg, and Bernt Bhaduri, the mayor of Aftenborg.

C. Larsen: –think it’s flammable. From the color we made when we burned it, I don’t think the fumes were safe. We should check in on her children later, they might have inhaled it.

B. Bhaduri: Why did you burn Mei with her Johannide? It seems like a hazard.

C. Larsen: She was clutching it when her children found her, and by the time I got there, she was stiff. But I think you’re stalling, dear.

B. Bhaduri: [Sigh] Always the sensible one. Very well. What do we do with Freya?

C. Larsen: I hate to say it, but I think we need to strip her of her office. Stealing someone else’s cow, the property they depend on to live– B. Bhaduri: What, do you not know about Lars?

C. Larsen: …what do you mean, that he got some parasite from the water? My love, I’m his *doctor.* Of course I know– B. Bhaduri: Then you know how much he needs medicine. Nyborg still has a few antiparasitics, but they won’t give us them for free. What exactly was Freya to do?

C. Larsen: Bernt, it’s not that I don’t empathize with the poor girl.

But we’re on the brink of chaos as it is. All we have is each other.

We can’t allow our neighbors to steal from our neighbors.

B. Bhaduri: Freya. Without the medicine, her son will die.

C. Larsen: Bernt, my love. I understand that this is a delicate topic and I want to assure you that I hold Freya in the highest esteem. But without that cow, Sanne and her daughter might die. We can’t–

B. Bhaduri: They will all die, Charlotte. I won’t punish a mother for trying to save her child.

C. Larsen: Bernt– B. Bhaduri: She won’t be punished. Tell Sanne to let her go. I will not punish any parent from trying to save their… [voice break] their children.

File 032.1 Date: July 13, 2197 Format: Photo file Description: Photo of a handwritten letter. Text transcribed under photo image.rMXpWnfgkdf.alf Freya Hagen, How fucking dare you. I may not have been the best neighbor but I NEVER would have DARED steal your children’s food, not when the pantries are empty and our children’s ribs stick out. You are a MOTHER and yet you tried to stop a MOTHER from taking care of HER CHILDREN. I feel terrible for your son, of course I do, but your child’s life is NOT more valuable than mine.

Even if the city won’t stop you, I promise you, Freya Hagan, if I see you or your daughter near my farm ever again the city will need to nd a new mayor’s assistant.

To think, I actually messaged past members of the WHO and told them to focus on eradicating parasites after I heard the news about your son.

I’ll still give my all to x this water lter, but don’t think for a MOMENT it’s for you.

Fuck you, Sanne Andresen

File 035.2 Date: September 4, 2197 Format: Digital collection of messages Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Freya Hagen | September 4, 2197 To: Lars Hagen | May 14, 2196

Lars, my beloved, I need you to read this & know that I love you.

Look up at the stars. In another world, know that your mother is looking at the same stars & is so, so grateful she could have known you From: Manoj Bhaduri | September 4, 2197 To: Bernt Bhaduri | December 4, 2185 i dont know why you dont have a Johannide but if you wont tell yourself i will: spend every moment with those kids. i know youre busy as mayor, but dont leave childcare to me. dont take them for granted From: Njord Hom | September 4, 2197 To: Uffe Ingwersen | October 4, 2067 Build strong water systems on the island and give us the knowledge to fix them. My grandfather is sick from the water and I boil and haul it for him, but it’s not helping. You cannot ignore this message.

From: Sanne Andresen | September 4, 2197 To: Pernille Foss | April 1, 2068 STOP wasting our time/money on some stupid war while we are fucking DYING from YOUR rotten water systems and famines YOU didn’t stop and plagues YOU didn’t prevent. Our children are DYING and YOU DID NOTHING

File 032.3 Date: October 11, 2197 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video. The two figures are identified as Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg, and Freya Hagen, a mayoral staffer.

C. Larsen: Freya. I’m glad to see you again– F. Hagen: –am I making worlds just for him to suffer?

C. Larsen: No. Freya, you’re– F. Hagen: Every message I'm sending him, every desperate attempt to save my baby, am I making universes for him to suffer in just so I can sleep at night?

C. Larsen: Not at all– F. Hagen: –but when I don't, when I message people centuries ago to change the world and prevent this all from happening, am I creating worlds where he doesn't even exist?

C. Larsen: Freya. Breath. I have answers, if you're ready to listen.

F. Hagen:[Deep breath; sputters; sobs]. Please. Anything.

C. Larsen: I've gotten a lot of questions like yours, and I'll tell you what I've told them all: you aren't creating new worlds. You're just… splitting the existing reality. Halving it. All the halves still make a whole. In our reality, Lars existed, and he loved you, and you loved him. Nothing you do can erase this. You may halve our reality and create one fraction where we never existed, but that doesn't undo all the parts of reality where he does exist. And in the part of reality where he does exist, it does nothing but good for you to halve the painful parts, and create offshoots where those more painful parts were softened by your wise guidance, or simply words of motherly love.

F. Hagen: I tried to ask Johan and he turned me away. [Silence] I want to believe you, truly, I do.

C. Larsen: Johan has been hit incredibly hard by the loss of his parents, and is seeing no one. I honor and love the man, but we must allow him space and not read into his actions. You are not harming your son, Freya. You are protecting him. You are telling him he is loved.

F. Hagen: Do you promise?

C. Larsen: My dear. I’m a doctor. I swore to do no harm, and I will protect that oath until the day I die. It’s okay. You’re okay.

File 035.8 Date: November 23, 2197

Format: Photo file Description: Photo of a letter. Text transcribed under photo image.rMXpWnfnppdf.alf To the friends and family of Hilmar Gundersen, We offer our condolences for the death of Hilmar Gundersen, whose body we discovered several months prior. We found this odd device with him, and forgive us, but we took a look at the messages it held. Best as we can understand, the poor soul was hit by a storm when returning to the island from Copenhagen, washed off-course, and succumbed to the elements shortly after reaching land.

We’d heard that you people in Aftenborg believed in some sci- magic thing, so we assumed he was from your town when we saw the device with him (not that we're judging–we’ve certainly prayed to weirder gods). Apologies for not giving it to you in person, but we’re as human as you and Hilmar did have some useful gadgets on him.

We don’t intend to return the items we need, but Mei deserves to see these last messages.

May the gods have mercy on us all.

File 032.5 Date: October 25, 2197 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video. The two figures are identified as Bernt Bhaduri, the mayor of Aftenborg, and Njord Hom, a citizen of Aftenborg.

N. Hom: Sir, please. Let me go.

B. Bhaduri: I made my choice. Robert Bukh, Trove Hagen, and Mia Andresen will find the thieves. You will stay– N. Hom: Trove and Mia should be safe at home with their mothers, not battling grave robbing thieves. It would be a humiliation to my family’s name if I sat safely at home while those poor girls scoured the plains for dangerous bandits.

B. Bhaduri: Your mother is sick, and your nephew needs someone to care for him. Njord, I’m not afraid to send you into danger. I’m afraid of what would happen to your family if you were lost.

N. Hom: What, they might die of some waterborne illness?

B. Bhaduri: Njord– N. Hom: My grandfather died only last week, sir, and I carried gallon after gallon of water for them all and boiled them all. It didn’t help. I brought my mother to Charlotte’s hospital yesterday and I saw how low medical supplies were. If I sit around, I’m twiddling my thumbs while I wait for my family to die.

B. Bhaduri: It might not help. We don’t know for sure that these “gadgets” the thieves took were the parts for the water filter. The messages on his Johannide didn’t even say if his mission had been successful– N. Hom: What else would you have me do?

B. Bhaduri: Stay and fight for your family.

N. Hom: I won’t stay and watch my parents die while girls battle grown men for the one chance to save us. Trove, she’s only 15, what happens if she dies? Freya almost lost her mind when her son died, stealing Sanne’s cow–what happens if her daughter is lost, too?

B. Bhaduri: Who will provide for your family?

N. Hom: Trove can, in my absence. Sir, please. I can’t sit around and wait. Please.

B. Bhaduri: I don’t know. Trove already agreed.

N. Hom: You know what it’s like, watching the typhoid or cholera or whatever has emerged now take your family while you watch. I know what happened to your father. I saw it happen to my grandfather. I boiled water and I ran for Charlotte and I carried his corpse when he was dead and it all meant nothing. Let me defend my family.

[Silence] B. Bhaduri: Very well. Send word to Trove and Freya. You’re a good man, Njord.

File 034.1 Date: December 4, 2197 Format: Digital collection of messages

Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Freya Hagen | December 4, 2197 To: Freya Hagen | May 4, 2179 Make a place away from Aften with a spring, a cottage, and a hearth with space before it for 4. When our children are born, take them away. Make a world where we 3 are in front of a fire and we are safe From: Njord Hom | December 4, 2197 To: Njord Hom | November 25, 2197 Take the left road when you get to the quarry. Right leads nowhere. Have strength. We’re making our family proud.

From: Sanne Andresen | December 4, 2197 To: Hilmar Gundersen | April 1, 2197 A storm will hit when you return. PLEASE record in Johannide if you got the parts, bury them if needed and record where. Young people risking themselves to find it. Thank you. We love and mourn you.

File 032.7 Date: December 31, 2197 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video in a makeshift hospital. The two figures are identified as Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg, and a female minor deduced to be named Trove Hagen.

C. Larsen: My dear. I mean this with all my love when I say: get out, or I will find your mother and make her drag you out of here herself.

T. Hagen: He’s dead, isn’t he? Is that why you won’t let me see him?

He’s dead, and I was too late, and– C. Larsen: Either he’s dead and this room is not sanitary to be in without my protective equipment, or he’s very sick and this room is

not sanitary to be in without any protective equipment. Trove, please. Go. T. Hagen: It’s my fault, isn’t it? I saw that he was getting worse but I was so afraid of catching something, and I thought it wasn’t that bad, I’d gotten that sick before and survived, and– C. Larsen: Breath, Trove. You are 15. You are not a medic. You did the best you could.

T. Hagen: Then he *is* dead? He’s dead, and I let a child die as I slept? He’s just a child, I promised Njord that I would care for him, Njord risked himself to save me and I let his fucking nephew die– C. Larsen: Trove. Breath. Go. T. Hagen: But what do I do, please, Charlotte, what can I do, he’s just a child and there has to be something, I can’t be a murderer– C. Larsen: If I give you my Johannide, will you go?

T. Hagen: …what?

C. Larsen: My Johannide. Promise not to look at the past messages, and you can have it. I know you’re not a legal adult; you don’t have one yet. You can’t undo what’s happened. But you could create a world where– T. Hagen: Please.

C. Larsen: It’s in my house, under my bed.

T. Hagen: [Incomprehensible] thank you thank you thank– C. Larsen: Trove?

T. Hagen: Yes? C. Larsen: Never come back to this room. I love you. Go.

File 036.3 Date: January 15, 2198 Format: Digital collection of messages

Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Freya Hagen | January 15, 2198 To: Freya Hagan | December 30, 2197 Don’t let Trove go to the Hom’s house tomorrow. Sickness. Send Charlotte in her ppe, but don’t you dare let that beautiful daughter of ours to their house. She is sick. Don’t know what to do From: Njord Hom | January 15, 2198 To: Njord Hom | October 25, 2197 Don’t go. They’re dead. No parts. Don’t go. Don’t fucking go.

From: Sanne Andresen | January 15, 2198 To: Mia Andresen |January 15, 2198 I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. The house is so empty without you here, but whenever I feel alone, I think of you out there, fighting for our survival. Please get home safe. I love you.

File 032.9 Date: January 29, 2198 Format: Photo file Description: Photo of a handwritten letter. Text transcribed under photo. image.rMXpWnfnwkcV.alf From a mother who has lost a child to a mother who has lost a child, I know that no words can help. I won’t try. But I won’t let you walk through hell alone.

Look up at the stars. It’s been 54 weeks since we got the Johannides. 54 weeks, with over two dozen remaining villagers, that’s over a thousand messages on the Johannides. A thousand different worlds, with thousands of people receiving and sending more messages on the Johannides, creating thousands of more worlds where

Mia and Lars and us might be alive and well. And we may have changed a lot in those worlds, but do you know what no human can change? The stars.

Look up. Somewhere across the thousands of millions of universes we’ve created, our children are looking at those very same stars.

Mia is loved. You are loved.

Freya Hagan

File 037.0 Date: February 2, 2198 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video in a hospital. The three standing figures are identified as Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg, Freya Hagen, a mayoral staffer, and Njord Hom, a citizen of Aftenborg. The two prone figures are Trove Hagen, a minor, and an unidentified unconscious older woman.

C. Larsen: [Incomprehensible] out. Freya, Njord, I’m sorry. I know how desperately you– N. Hom: We’re staying with them, Charlotte.

C. Larsen: Even I barely stay with the sick longer than necessary, as much as it pains me. It’s too dangerous. Your lives are too valuable– F. Hagen: Charlotte, it’s our choice. Please. I need to be with her.

Please.

C. Larsen: We’ve buried so many already. I’m running out of medicine.

I’m running out of space. I’m the doctor of this town, and I’m barely able to care for the sick as is. My loves, please. Leave this room.

N. Hom: We won’t burden you. You don’t need to care for us.

But we’re staying.

C. Larsen: But you’ll fall ill, and I won’t be able to care for you.

F. Hagen: Then, in another universe, I will be alive with my daughter. And in this universe, I will be dead with my daughter. And that will be okay.

C. Larsen: I can’t, in good conscience as a doctor, let you die.

N. Hom: Then where would you rather us die?

[Silence] C. Larsen: I just want to help you.

F. Hagen: Charlotte. You angel. This is how you can help us.

[Silence] C. Larsen: Njord?

N. Hom: Yes? C. Larsen: If I hear one apology, or one “I failed,” from your lips, I’m kicking you both out.

F. Hagen: I love you, Charlotte.

[Incomprehensible] T. Hagen: Mom? Wh….

N. Hom [overlapping T. Hagen; directed at unconscious woman]: Mom? Are you awake?

F. Hagen: I’m here, my beloved, I’m right here.

T. Hagen: [Incomprehensible] N. Hom [overlapping T. Hagen; directed at unconscious woman]: Is there anything you need?

F. Hagen: Njord, I think your mom is asleep.

T. Hagen: [Incomprehensible.]

F. Hagen: Don’t apologize, my beloved. You did nothing wrong. There’s a billion other worlds where we can worry about what we need to do.

Right now, in this world, all I want to think about is you. And how happy you’ve made me. And how honored I’ve been to be your mother.

N. Hom [directed at unconscious woman]: I’m here, mom. I tried. I really tried. I don’t know what I can do anymore except stay here, so that’s what I’m going to do.

T. Hagen: [Incomprehensible] N. Hom [directed at unconscious woman]: I’m so sorry, mom. I’m not going to leave your side. I’m not going to let you down again. I’m staying right here.

Staffer Hagen: I love you, my beloved. That’s all we need to know in this world. I love you.

File 037.3 Date: February 12, 2198 Format: Digital collection of messages Description: A section of a collection of messages initially recorded by ‘Johannides,’ a technological device created in Aftenborg in late 2196.

From: Freya Hagen | February 12, 2198 To: Trove Hagan | February 12, 2190 My beloved, I want you to step outside. I know it’s cold. Do it with me. Feel the cold with me, and look up at the stars. It’s lonely in this house, but I’m never lonely when you are with me From: Njord Hom | February 12, 2198 To: Jan Hom | February 12, 2187 Raise me to be better. Raise me to be stronger and kinder. I failed my family, and I failed myself. My stomach hurts, and I can see the dead calling for my death. Dad, please, teach me to be a better man From: Sanne Andresen | February 12, 2198 To: Sanne Andresen | July 10, 2197 let freya have the fucking cow. please.

File 037.5 Date: February 19, 2198 Format: Transcript

Description: Transcript of a security video in a hospital. The two figures are identified as Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg, and Njord Hom, a citizen of Aftenborg.

N. Hom: With all [cough] all due respect, why are you back? Did you find medicine?

C. Larsen: I’m afraid not.

N. Hom: Then leave. It isn’t… isn’t safe for you.

C. Larsen: I’m not leaving you– N. Hom: To what, die alone?

C. Larsen: Yes. [Silence] N. Hom: You won’t die on my account.

C. Larsen: To paraphrase a wise young man, on whose account should I die on, then?

N. Hom: Someone smarter? Someone better.

C. Larsen: My dear. You singlehandedly supported your entire family.

N. Hom: While they died one by [coughing fit] by one.

C. Larsen: You volunteered to join the group seeking the lost water filter parts. You took Trove’s place.

N. Hom: And returned alone.

C. Larsen: You avenged them, though. You killed their murderers.

N. Hom: We attacked first.

C. Larsen: It’s hard to be a good person in a horrific world. Those men– N. Hom: They weren’t men.

[Silence]

N. Hom: It doesn’t matter anyway. They never had the parts in the first place, [wheeze] and now we’re all doomed.

C. Larsen: We were always doomed, Njord. My darling. You did the best you could.

N. Hom: And it wasn’t enough.

C. Larsen: How do you think I feel?

[Silence] C. Larsen: Let me sit by you.

N. Hom: You’ll die.

C. Larsen: I’m a doctor. I live to save people. I have nothing left to live for. Now, may I sit by you?

N. Hom: …thank you.

[Silence] N. Hom: How long will you stay?

C. Larsen: As long as you need, my dear. As long as you need. It’s okay. I’m here. There’s a thousand worlds where you’re fighting to protect your family. It’s okay to rest your head in just this one.

I’m right here.

File 037.7 Date: February 19, 2198 Format: Transcript Description: Transcript of a security video in a hospital. The two figures are identified as Charlotte Larsen, the doctor of Aftenborg, and Bernt Bhaduri, the mayor of Aftenborg.

B. Bhaduri: Charlotte. You’ve looked better.

C. Larsen: [Wheezing] Bernt. It’s not safe– B. Bhaduri: I say this with all the love in my heart, Charlotte: shut up.

C. Larsen: [Sigh] Come here, you glorious moron. That seat is the best for holding someone’s hand as you watch the light fade from their eyes.

B. Bhaduri: Always thinking of others. You know that’s why everyone loves you.

C. Larsen: How many are left?

B. Bhaduri: I took down the town’s sign yesterday. Aftenborg is dead.

[Silence] B. Bhaduri: I found Sanne’s cows rotting outside her house, and Sanne dead in her bed. I think she had been so delirious, she never realized what was happening.

C. Larsen: Lucky [cough] lucky woman.

B. Bhaduri: It hurts that bad?

C. Larsen: You don’t have much to look forward to.

B. Bhaduri: I should have kept you safe in the dark, Charlotte.

You’re such a good woman. Johan and I could have done this alone– C. Larsen: What, convinced the townsfolk of this fairytale– [cough] [coughing continues for several moments] C. Larsen: …fairytale sci-fi nonsense on your own? My dear. Be reasonable. Besides. This is what I live for.

B. Bhaduri: This is what you’re dying for.

C. Larsen: And I’m proud of that. You completed your goal, you know.

B. Bhaduri: What do you mean?

C. Larsen: He shouldn't have, but Johan told me what you told him back in ‘95. “How can I keep anyone from going through what I went through when everyone will go through what I went through.”

B. Bhaduri: And all it took was lying to all my constituents.

C. Larsen: [Laugh; turns into a cough] Spoken like a true politician.

[Silence] C. Larsen: I actually have one request.

B. Bhaduri: Anything.

C. Larsen: Grab some Johannides and bring them in here. Read them to me. I want to be able to see what we’ve done.

B. Bhaduri: Of course.

[Rustling] B. Bhaduri: I read a number of them already. Do you want to hear the strangest thing?

C. Larsen: What?

B. Bhaduri: Johan actually wrote in his. Once a week, like clockwork.

Only stopped the day of his death.

[Rustling] C. Larsen: Whose is that new one?

B. Bhaduri: Freya Hagen. I found her yesterday morning.

C. Larsen: The poor girl.

B. Bhaduri: It was odd. You know how we find most people in their beds, with their eyes closed and their Johannide close by? Well, she was outside.

C. Larsen: Really? She died that suddenly?

B. Bhaduri: Not at all. She had brought a blanket out with her. It was absolutely bizarre. She was just lying there, curled up with her head on her son’s jacket, her Johannide clutched to her chest, and her eyes were open.

C. Larsen: Open? So…so she did die suddenly? I’m missing something.

B. Bhaduri: Me too. I think she must have been looking at something.

C. Larsen: What was there for her to see? Do you think she was looking at something in [cough] in the trees above her? Should we be worried about some new animal?

B. Bhaduri: No, she was in a clearing. It’s a mystery. The sky was completely empty that night, not even any clouds, so there was nothing to see but the stars.

1st Honorable Mention – Maya Johnson “What’s Left of the World” 2nd Honorable Mention – Steven Neiman “MIRV” 3rd Honorable Mention – Timothy Donahue “What’s First to Fade” 4th Honorable Mention – Katherine Hoffman “Race to Terra Luminie”

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ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES

Martha Hipley is a writer, artist, and filmmaker from Baltimore, Maryland who lives and works in Mexico City, Mexico. Her work is preoccupied with themes of gender and identity, technology and futurism, nostalgia, and documentation. When not writing, she enjoys competing in triathlons and open water swimming events around the globe.

Scott Batson is a graduate of the University of Maine Creative Writing Program.

He has previously been published in Leading Edge Magazine and runs the literary blog aspiring-reader.com. He currently lives in Charleston, South Carolina with his wife, two daughters, and three cats.

Emma Space is a recent graduate of the Creative Writing Masters' program at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She enjoys being outdoors and writes a lot of science fiction.

Shoshana Groom is a sociology major at Oregon State University and a volunteer with OSU's literary and art journal, PRISM. She's previously been published with Corvid Queen, ActiveMuse, Apricity Magazine, and Tall Tales TV, among other publications. When she's not writing, she's Country Western dancing or trying to convince neighborhood cats to like her. “The Salvation of Aftenborg" wouldn't be a fraction of the piece you read today without the amazing revision assistance that Jessica Groom, Jeremy Groom, and Liam Murphy generously offered, and to them Shoshana extends her sincerest thanks.

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