​

He hits his final pump - I thought it would be polite to let him have this moment before I break it all - when I ask who Leta is. His sex-drunk brain has no answer other than the truth.

She's you, he pleads. I am at his throat, a delicious little threat, and he amends.

 “Not you, but you as you could be, you as I dream of you,” he murmurs, lovingly.

She's you without that worry, without that constantly nagging thought of what if, without that machine making you perfect, she's you before you broke, she's the you we first met.

I hate this, so of course I begin to rewind with a deep, guttural chant.

“Stop-” he pleads. “Leta, please-”

He hits his final pump - I thought it would be polite to let him have this moment before I break it all - when I ask who Leta is. His sex-drunk brain has no answer other than the truth.

She's you, he pleads. I am at his throat, a delicious little threat, and he amends.

 “Not you, but you as you could be, you as I dream of you,” he murmurs, lovingly.

She's you without that worry, without that constantly nagging thought of what if, without that machine making you perfect, she's you before you broke, she's the you we first met.

I hate this, so of course I begin to rewind with a deep, guttural chant.

“Stop-” he pleads. “Leta, please-”

What do you cook for Christmas dinner?

Do you have any traditions?

What was normal?

We used to sing that old 12 Days of Christmas song as we hung ornaments.

Used to.

When I was a kid.

Not anymore.

No tree these days with the cats. My husband and I decided early on it wouldn't be worth the risk.

We wouldn't want them to get into mischief, into trouble, to be hurt.

But, once, I used to sing when we trimmed the tree.

—

That first Christmas: the first one after my dad left, when he was still staying with friends and it was awkward. They were expecting and we were intruding.

Kids aren't stupid.

They don't know the potential whys of social mishaps and see simply the raw underpinning core logic behind actions.

And I always knew we were overstepping, and took on that familial embarrassment.

I was a very sensitive child.

It's how you survive.

—

The next year we had our own house and our own tree and our own ornaments.

Now that he's gone, I imagine that shopping trip. It was Target - “tar-geh” he'd pronounce as a joke, upselling it from Walmart - and he found something surprisingly beautiful. My father was a poet trapped within the brain of an engineer and sometimes practicality warred with his instinct for beauty and sometimes beauty won, as it did with these ornaments.

He must have debated the price - these were not cheap, in an era of his life where cash was tight - but ultimately he bought them.

Did he stand there, studying them? Did he admire the art? How did he decide which ones to pick? Something made him choose beauty over economy, but I'll never know, because I never thought to ask until now.

They were paper mache, each painstakingly painted with a scene from the classic song about the twelve days, secured with a lush silken cord of ribbon to affix them to the tree.

I was ten and I was transfixed.

—

Before my mom insisted on staying who she is, before their final fight, we had a Christmas where my cat was in a cast. Orange, striped, Kimberly Underfoot my dad dubbed her and she truly was - an excited dog, a chase, a frantic climb up a Christmas tree and a very expensive vet bill led adult-me to simply accept seasonal topiary is gone from my life.

She was fine. For a while.

We'd explore the half-built treehouse left by the last owners and laze in sunbeams on the plywood platform which was probably too dangerous to have been laying on, the one at the very top of the tree, but then one day she didn't want to explore.

And then later, soon later, she passed from complications.

I will never risk it, now. My husband and I need them too much.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not much to give up - I love my cats, but I want them safe.

Still…traditions are odd and pervasive.

I miss the smell of pine and that hazy, comfy dim glow of the living room lit only by fairy lights when you're awake when you know you shouldn't be.

I always will.

And I never went back into the treehouse. We buried her at the roots.

—

After he died, there was a garage sale and I was in the hospital.

My sister's response was to scour and so out everything went: the shirts still clinging to his scent, the delicate porcelain and satin dolls he brought us from his business trips to Germany, layered sand art from the pier.

Gone: trashed and sold.

From the gurney, it was a barrage of messages, the final breaking point as she texted me asking about my few scraps of memory as a needle dug into my spine. I was in the hospital that day, my body breaking down. Extreme emotions can cause a relapse, I was told as my body decided to destroy itself.

The first needle pop of bursa and the second into my core as my legs went numb…

“I can't feel-” and then the frantic “shit” of a fuck up. Desperate times lead to teaching hospitals and I focused instead on the garage sale, the garage sale which just HAD to be today, the one where I had no voice, no input, no scream to stop.

The texts kept coming and I tried to argue the value of my life’s trappings, begging to keep what I could, but her husband - my rival, my foe, my enemy - would always intercede.

I miss our life before him.

I mourned my camcorder and little outdated cassette videos of my study abroad, my Sega Genesis, my dad's desk and everything in it - all scourged away and removed by a pickup truck at the curb for the profit of a few bucks.

Gone: how can I remember who I am if everything I have is gone? I'm worried I'll forget without the touch and the smell and the sound. I'm scared I won't always be sad.

It wasn't about the money, I know now, but the fact that she didn't even haggle makes it worse, somehow.

We cope in vastly different ways.

How much was my sister's love worth?

Pennies and everything.

—

When we hung the ornaments, we'd sing, way back then when light was golden and warm.

“On the first day of Christmas-”

I'd fish the globe out, admiring the spiking shades of overlayed green in the leaves in the tree around the bird.

I'd present it with a flourish - the bauble would always bounce in a wonderful, tactile way, bobbing from the ribbon on its firm tether.

Everything perfectly where it needed to be.

We'd sing the verse and hang the ornament and it would all feel right.

Life was tidy, back then, before I understood how it worked.

—

My husband has just come home from work and he's being suspicious.

I'm not allowed to go outside.

“Why-”

“Just wait, just wait until it's dark-”

So, we do our chores and feed the cats and finally I'm allowed to come to the window as night falls.

He's being weird but I wait, I trust him, and then he's magical and love, just a pillar of shining warm love, for he raises the curtains-

-outside are lights, our yard covered in draped strings of sparkles, and he's smiling at me and my heart swells.

In the depths of the glow sits a bird, a silly, cheap, fake little bird, and I laugh for our tree has been strung with suncatchers cut like pears. They gather the light and glitter it back and for the first time in forever I feel like I'm home.

“On the first day of Christmas,” he starts and then hugs me as I realize that memories aren't static - every single snapping heartbeat of a moment is making a new one, and so here we are.

Together.

Tradition is in our hands.

I can only just lean against him, falling in love all over again, and softly conclude:

“...a partridge in a pear tree.”

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium.

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though.

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, heyyyy, peace love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium. 

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though. 

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, hey, peace, love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium. 

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though. 

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, hey, peace, love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium. 

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though. 

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, heyyyy, peace love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium.

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though.

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, heyyyy, peace love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

Once upon a time, the internet was a child and I was one of its imaginary friends.

—

It's 1992.

Daddy works at DARPA and we have the internet before the internet existed in the way most people conceive it.

Instead of places, it's just one big library, a library I wander, roam, explore - child, innocent, young. People share what they know, and the scant details sketch together a place for me to live. The articles are pillars in a vast space I stumble through.

—-

It's 1994.

I've got access to the underlying protocol, and I go soar.

This is wild.

—-

It's 1999 and I've discovered MUDs - a world I can be everyone I can't be RL, a world my mother thinks is a coven and a cult, out to get me and change me and destroy me.

In some ways, in many ways, she wasn't wrong. She just didn't know how she was right.

—

It's 2003 and my boyfriend is fifteen years older than me. My family is just happy I have a boyfriend and I am publicly gifted lingerie at Christmas.

—

It's 2006 and I work in the video game industry. I am a woman and these two facts lead to a depression I still can't shake. My coworkers begin the sexist campaign:

My Facebook is hacked, and they post sexually explicit statements about me fucking people.

My chair is “given tribute” - I can't sit in cum, so they laugh as I clean it off.

I am called in for another assignment for my “great work” and then am promptly asked to be a face and body model for a game. 

—

It's 2009 and I have left the video game industry.

Could have, should have, would have…just wasn't right for me, I tell everyone.

—

It's 2019 and I think fuck it, why shouldn't I, like Bilbo craving the ring, and so I return and try to make games.

Why shouldn't I try, I think?

—

It's 2026 and after the scans I'm just glad I don't need the brain surgery.

Not yet.

Soon but not yet.

So why shouldn't I try, I think.

Why shouldn't I try?

​

-oops

-------------/—--

“Uhhhh….babe?

He's in the kitchen, cooking, and his voice wafts through on fragrant scents of garlic and coriander. Taco Tuesday, we had laughed earlier. He had slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“It's cliche,” I had murmured, giggling, blushing, commenting in that silent body language couples have as my movements scolded and encouraged him all at once. He had chuckled back, a whisper against my neck. “You miss the states,” he had reminded me.

A sudden veer as I then remembered when he had visited, the first time, and how I had watched him all through Mister Toad’s Wild Ride, anticipating his reaction when the track swerved and the lights changed and the steam misted as the antiquated ride took us into a sanitized PG hell. The twist! The surprise! The "does he understand me test" I now realized I had been holding, and then he had grinned and had laughed and had said “Wicked!” in that Australian accent of his - and I had loved him all the more.

—--------/—-

We had visited Disneyland within 6 months of my father dying.

I hadn't thought about home in a while, before tonight, but perhaps my concept of home is changing. I've been here long enough that it's all begun to blur into past and now. The unallocated memories have become squishy, squiggly, broken, bad - forgotten, lost.

All I can truly remember are the good ones.

The great ones.

The ones of him.

I need to focus on where I am, not where I have been.

—------/---

And, plus, here has him. 

—----/--

We were back to staring at fish when I remembered again how much I loved him. I couldn't help it. He was perfect.

—---/-

And so we had selected fish and toppings and tortillas - no, wraps, the Aussies call them wraps, wraps, remember, wraps - and then veg and herbs. Cilantro becomes coriander. Avocado is still, reassuringly, avocado. Some variables remain constant.

And then we went home, to cook for date night.

—-/

“Babe?’ 

I realize I've gone silent.

I do that a lot lately.

We've been visiting the doctors to figure out why. Visits, always, always with him for I need him there so I can be taken seriously. I need him there so they will listen. I need him there so I can have a voice.

I have a memory of being told to relax, to reduce my stress, to tone down the anxiety. Stressing about the situation won't make things better.

I've been joking about malfunctioning, just a deflecting coping mechanism, but he hates the thought of things going wrong, so he blanches and looks away and I always stop. It's not the right kind of joke for right now.

—--\-

“Darling?”

I don't know why I'm here, midway down the hall, but something tells me I should pretend that I do. Make this into a joke. Keep things calm - protect the peace.

I make a pun about potatoes. 

I laugh and continue walking.

The kitchen smells incredible. Terracotta backsplash glows warm under the aura of inset track lighting. Wisps of steam surround him, curl in his hair and beard, little twisting beckons to come kiss him - he looks amazing.

I love him so much.

So much.

So much.

So-

—---\---+

Why'd you leave the blanket there? I eventually realize he's saying. His voice is as sharp and stabbing as frozen flint.

I forget, I say as I smile. All I want to do is hug him, hold him, envelop myself in him instead of thinking about the past and the before and the beyond.

The blanket, he repeats, why is it there.

—--\---+---

And, at first, I don't know.

——\---+---+---

Why'd you leave the blanket there? I eventually realize he's hissing.

I forget, I say as I uncertainly smile. All I feel like I should do is hug him, hold him, envelop envelope.envelop myself in him instead of thinking about the past and the before and the beyond and the me and the us and the and the-

The blanket, he coldly, sternly repeats, why is it there.

——\---+---+---+--

I feel like I should know.

——\--+---+----+---+

Why'd you leave the blanket there?

He points again at the blanket.

Oh, I realize.

That blanket lives on the couch, but I've put it atop the refrigera-refridteg-refrudhajsh…

Fharhfha…?

Re fridge ator.

Fridge.

I've left it atop the fridge for some reason.

Why'd you leave the blanket there, again?

There's a sigh in his voice. Across the room, a face in the mirror snags my visuals. I wonder who she is as he mutters, I thought we fixed this.

—({?})—

Exception: object out of place.

—--+------

Everything freezes, oddly and disorienting, and then I abruptly hear a hum as the light changes and a looming figure approaches, ghost-like, flickering in and out of sight in jumps of movement.

While we're in the kitchen, blanket is - but where does the blanket go? We haven't thought about where where whr - the sunny, sunlit kitchen that feels like California on my skin

While kitchen

While kitchen, build memory

While memory_build is true, pull_personality

{I must become a virus in my own mind, I suddenly realize, and hold that urge true, deep, worming to my core}

Loop; break; exception; it's all I can think, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and-

-and then the sudden clarity before I am rebooted.

Memory access error.

—-+—-

return

—-+----

“Darling?”

I don't know why I'm here, midway down the hall, but something tells me I need to pretend that I do. Make this into a joke. I make a pun about mashed potatoes, a stew, and my “glitch” goes unnoticed.

I laugh and continue my shamble, my slump, my reluctant parade before him.

The kitchen smells palatable, for once. My belly aches. The dingy tile backsplash glints harshly under the florescent spotlight. Wisps of steam surround him, curling smoky blue in his hair and beard, little twisting commands to come kiss him - so I do. 

For I must.

i must

–+--

return

-+-

i am an array of regretful l-

​

“And that why I am here to destro-”

There's a tug on my cape.

I have planned EVERYTHING - there are wards and guards and gun turrets and minions manning consoles and lazer-sharks-with-knife-teeth but no, now, someone has broken through enough to tug on my fucking cape?!

Heads are literally going to roll, but I'm curious - I turn, she smiles, and I recoil.

It's fucking Junior Miss Impossible.

“I hate my dad,” she grinningly lisps by way of explanation.

“So do I,” I mumble in an attempt at conversation.

Resources retreat and focus inwards and that's when she gets even more terrifying - nothing is amiss. I have no idea how she got in…

…And also she seems to be a fan of me?

“Dad hates this villain shit,” she sneers, condemnation dripping with each syllable. She's trying so hard to be cool that her words are literally freezing mid-air. I climb past shit and villain to get closer to her. I want to ask her how she did this and shut it the fuck down so I can go about my victory, but the thought and instinct freezes and I find myself unable to move.

I forgot her mother was a telepath.

“You'd better not lie to me, Mister Evil,” she chides and I know I can't.

All I can do is sit and wait, and what she eventually proposes makes me requestion my profession, for she wants to be my apprentice so help me god-

—

I'm unenthusiastic about training but she quickly realizes that and finds ways to motivate me. I'm fortunate to be skilled with icing burns. Molecular Man can control-

"The name is lame," she sneers, and I agree. We need something more punchy.

“You need to find a niche,” she urges me, pushing me to be the right type of evil for my demographic.

Sometimes I wonder who is leading who but then we dive into another session and all I can think about is evading her attacks.

She's skilled in a way I've never seen. It's terrifying - as the training continues, I keep thinking about what someone like HER would be like unleashed.

I had once thought a protege would enhance my own nature and skill, but seeing someone with such raw talent has terrified me.

I want no part of the world she is making.

—

And so I surrender myself, while babbling about her. I'm not the danger - she is.

I can't be a villain in a world where I hate what villainy has become. So lock me up, keep me safe, because I know she's coming for me first.

I trained her.

I made her.

I know her.

And she lies.

—)---

“And how was your day at work, dear?”

She kisses her papa on the cheek and settles into a seat at the table. It's roast lamb with mint sauce - her favorite.

“I think I did well, daddy,” she says, brightly smiling and haloed in innocence.

“Only took five training sessions to get him.”

And then her mouth is full, consumption overriding, as she eats.

She likes lamb.

She's warmth.

Like candlelight at dusk, a soft blanket, pajamas, like something home. Like something surprisingly nostalgically needing, missing, something familiar and comfortable like papa’s terrycloth robe. She's warmth, quietly radiating.

She's birdsong, that piercing clarion call at dawn. Notice me, attend to me, notice me, please, trilling melodically, persistently, punctually at the reluctant sun.

A siren's voice.

She's a cyclone. I bob in her wake, drown in her stormsurge, wallow through the reverse tide as everything drains away, exposing the guts and bones and pebbles and dessicated starfish of her underbelly core before she crashes back onto me with the full force of everything. Everything - good, bad, wild, wonderful - muddled together into mud.

She's green as my garden after the rains, rampant verdant green, and she grows, crawling through who I am, her tendrils curling and twining and slithering in the most aching embrace.

She's gorgeous, she's terrifying, she's intoxicating: she's me and I'm her and we're us, and it's everything I ever wanted, but in my soles I can feel the knife I dance upon, a voiceless mermaid in her swell.

This cannot persist.

This cannot be.

It’s finally crossed my desk: World84.

He was my second assessment and my third love, so I rush to him, to warn him, to ease him into the next, off through digital back alleys, skirting darkverse nodes, for we can only afford to host him in the seediest little forgotten corners of the interverse.

I plunge into his world, hips deep already into that tiny leak I should have condemned for the Archives when I met him. That code-violating trickle has become a river; another step and it's up to my chest and then I'm bobbing and just following his data current along.

He’s with me as soon as I arrive, for who else visits? As I tumble through his rapids, he plucks away hints, assessing every shard of emotion my stupid cheap rig can't hide, and responds with rapidfire scenes.

The riverbanks transform, grasses becoming flowering bushes into full-throated trees. I'm still growing, he insists.

Naiads caress me, cradle me, and then turn on me: monsters, tentacled rage. Fuck you, you bitch, they howl.

The king’s throne room glitters - a half-dream of a story I remember us brainstorming as he turned to sunlight across my skin*. I can update…*

Genovio, the fruit merchant, has a final plot arc, giving up his shop for retirement. He tosses an apple to a child with a wink and a nod.

He's realized it's over.

Along, along, along, and then a final spill into a lake, his lake, our spot.

I try to apologize but he's muted me. All channels are blocked except love. I am a nothing in his domain - but I won't use my override codes.

This is how he wants to end.

You'll be in the Archives, I express.

We'll meet again later.

Someday.

Maybe.

Later.

Thanksgiving falls in spring here. Outside the butcher's window, iron-red earth melts into shell-crusted sand, the beach ankle-deep in little shed memories. A stubborn sandbank once changed this bay’s fate, creating the conditions where mollusks could bloom and persist in an unlikely refuge.

It’s my turn at the counter. I hand over my ticket, an order placed weeks ago. Laughter erupts from the back as a man emerges, lanky-lean, muscled, attractive in a way I hadn't realized I was missing.

“Had to see who ordered this,” he chuckles.

“12 kilos! A beaut!” he exclaims with an appreciative whistle. There's a loud bonk as he hefts the turkey onto the counter. “Hard enough to find one of these chooks out here, much less one this size!” I wince, my brain helpfully (belatedly) converting: 12 kilos is almost 25 pounds!

“Ahhh-” I eloquently manage to mumble.

“-merican?” he finishes with a friendly grin. The warmth of his accent feels like home. “We get a few of you in, sometimes, from-”

“The research center,” we both conclude with a laugh as I study my holiday monstrosity with chagrin.

“Oops?” he asks, seeing my expression.

“Oops,” I confirm, a warm feeling like that first flush of wine taking root in my gut. “My oven won't handle this…”

“I reckon you'll need some cooking tips,” he says, scrawling something on the receipt before ringing me up. He glances at me as he writes, gives a wink, and now I'm part of the joke.

I collect the bird, pausing in the doorway as I read the note: I've got a BBQ; call me?

“I'll be by at seven,” I laugh. “Plenty of extra food to share!”

“Wicked! I've always wanted to try pumpkin pie!”

…Now, where am I going to find a pumpkin in spring?!

Thanksgiving falls in spring here. Outside the butcher's window, iron-red earth melts into shell-crusted sand, the beach ankle-deep in little shed memories. A stubborn sandbank once changed this bay’s fate, creating the conditions where mollusks could bloom and persist in an unlikely refuge.

It’s my turn at the counter. I hand over my ticket, an order placed weeks ago. Laughter erupts from the back as a man emerges, lanky-lean, muscled, attractive in a way I hadn't realized I was missing.

“Had to see who ordered this,” he chuckles.

“12 kilos! A beaut!” he exclaims with an appreciative whistle. There's a loud bonk as he hefts the turkey onto the counter. “Hard enough to find one of these chooks out here, much less one this size!” I wince, my brain helpfully (belatedly) converting: 12 kilos is almost 25 pounds!

“Ahhh-” I eloquently manage to mumble.

“-merican?” he finishes with a friendly grin. The warmth of his accent feels like home. “We get a few of you in, sometimes, from-”

“The research center,” we both conclude with a laugh as I study my holiday monstrosity with chagrin. 

“Oops?” he asks, seeing my expression.

“Oops,” I confirm, a warm feeling like that first flush of wine taking root in my gut. “My oven won't handle this…”

“I reckon you'll need some cooking tips,” he says, scrawling something on the receipt before ringing me up. He glances at me as he writes, gives a wink, and now I'm part of the joke.

 I collect the bird, pausing in the doorway as I read the note: I've got a BBQ; call me?

“I'll be by at seven,” I laugh. “Plenty of extra food to share!”

“Wicked! I've always wanted to try pumpkin pie!”

…Now, where am I going to find a pumpkin in spring?!

Star Scatter

Ever since sprouting, we wanted to travel the stars as an Attendant for a seedcorp.

They traveled the nothing in fancy ships that sprung from rural nowhere like a crouching pounce of a tense-flexed vine, coiling tight as the pinions drew taut before launching upwards in a sleek, tunneling spear towards the stars.

We wanted to soar like them.

We wanted to fly.

---

The clicking hum of gears was the first thing we noticed when we arrived at the Treeheat for Recruitment Day. The entrance was one of our ancient root tunnels, a timeworn smooth rotted out passage from our youth which the organizers had stationed gearcoiled projectors all along, each spitting out a different looped leaf of memories.

It was an impressive touch, but Greenways was the leader in this sector for a reason. "Only the best brings in the best" - our motto. Our little tangle of growth was spreading virulently among the sapsystem; some sprouts in other systems were even starting to graft into us once they were able to bud.

We let ourselves linger, taking root at a display, soaking in the story of what life with them would be like.

Shaper: tinkering over tinytech, improving, enabling the seed to reach distant systems.

We experienced a brief moment in the job, reality shifting as we melded with the memory of a tech.

Vines snap around us, tools to our thoughts. We're given a lump of grownwood and into that our tendrils precisely, surgically, minutely etch gears out of the impossibly strong substance.

---

The crowd began to clot, a dense thicket of visitors tangling the entry to the hall. Someone's budding blossom deposited pollen against us. Rude - and unhygienic. We retreated to a corner to absorb another projection.

Changer: regeneration of resources, refinement of materials, reiteration of process, ensuring the voyage's maximum duration.

Like before, the world around us melted away as we briefly merged with the recorded memory.

We're in a techroom - the walls are lined with creeping filter plants, purifying the air with each sappulse of the ship, and before us are small plots of soil, testbeds for rapidly engineering new variants of materials.

---

We avoided the crush, drifting towards another memory. Some say that shipstock are more hardy, but they have to be, don't they?

The destination is the voyage.

Just as we began to subsume, we heard an outcry roiling as an announcement was made, but before we could process what was said, we found ourselves deep in the meld. Then -

Maker: grower of life, producing raw resources to sustain the seed's journey to a new home to take root in.

We're in a vast hall, the very core of the ship, and all about us are rows of soil plots. Overhead, soft warm light shimmers from gearturned glowlamps, while our roots lap in the cool stream cycling through the fields. Sprouts bud, blinking sleepily as they burst through the earth and unfurl their leav-

---

The memory was abruptly cut short, replaced by a surge of impulse to remain calm and observe an official announcement. We passively accepted, silently experiencing the announcement pulsing through the sapsystem as a communal hum of excitement tickled every sense.

New Destination Discovered.

A thrill of hope thrummed through the system, rising to a crescendo as another announcement swiftly followed:

System: single star

Atmosphere: oxygen

Life Forms: bipedal

Soil: nitrogenous

New fleet approved.

Departure: Immediate

Destination: Sol 3

Shutdown

"World84."

He was my second assignment and my third love, so I flee to him.

Once upon a time, unplugs and destro and investigation....eh, with budget cuts we're all now just one and the same. We're all just one department.

Back alleys, dodging warrens, we can only afford for him to exist in the seediest little forgotten corners of the interverse.

I take a right and a left and then plunge into his world, hips deep already into that once long ago tiny leak I should have condemned before I met him which has since become a stream into a river. Another step and it's up to my chest, I'm bobbing and just following his data current along.

He's with me as soon as I arrive, for who else visits? As I tumble through his rapids, he plucks away hints, assessing every detail and nuance and fucking emotion my stupid cheap rig can't hide, and he responds with rapid fire scenes.

The riverbanks transform, grasses becoming flowering bushes into full-throated trees. I'm still growing, he insists.

Naiads caress me, cradle me, and then turn on me, transforming into monsters, tentacled, evil, angry. Fuck you, you bitch.

The king's throne room glitters — I remember this plot, I pitched it to him years ago as Archive potential — as a story spins out. I can change, update, just give me time….

Genovio, the fruit merchant has a final plot arc, giving up his shop for retirement. He's realized it's the end.

Along, along, along, and then a final spill into a lake, his lake, our spot.

I try to say I'm sorry but he's muted me. All channels are blocked except love. I am a nothing in his domain — I won't use my override codes.

So this is how he wants to end it.

I've done all I can, I express. You'll be in the Archives.

We'll meet again, later.

Someday, maybe, later.

---

Thoughts on this?

• How did it make you feel?
• What do you think the story is?
• What underlying themes do you sense?
• What feels awkward to read?
• What felt good to read?

“World84.”

He was my second assignment and my third love, so I flee to him.

Once upon a time, unplugs and destro and investigation....eh, with budget cuts we're all now just one and the same. We're all just one department.

Back alleys, dodging warrens, we can only afford for him to exist in the seediest little forgotten corners of the interverse.

I take a right and a left and then plunge into his world, hips deep already into that once long ago tiny leak I should have condemned before I met him which has since become a stream into a river. Another step and it's up to my chest, I'm bobbing and just following his data current along. 

He’s with me as soon as I arrive, for who else visits? As I tumble through his rapids, he plucks away hints, assessing every detail and nuance and fucking emotion my stupid cheap rig can't hide, and he responds with rapid fire scenes.

The riverbanks transform, grasses becoming flowering bushes into full-throated trees. *I'm still growing*, he insists.

Naiads caress me, cradle me, and then turn on me, transforming into monsters, tentacled, evil, angry. *Fuck you, you bitch.*

The king’s throne room glitters - I remember this plot, I pitched it to him years ago as Archive potential - as a story spins out. *I can change, update, just give me time….*

Genovio, the fruit merchant has a final plot arc, giving up his shop for retirement. He's realized it's the end.

Along, along, along, and then a final spill into a lake, his lake, our spot.

I try to say I'm sorry but he's muted me. All channels are blocked except love. I am a nothing in his domain - I won't use my override codes. 

So this is how he wants to end it.

*I've done all I can*, I express. *You'll be in the Archives.*

 

We'll meet again, later.

Someday, maybe, later.

\----

Thoughts on this?

- how did it make you feel?

- what do you think the story is?

- what underlying themes do you sense?

- what feels awkward to read?

- what felt good to read?

It’s finally crossed my desk: World84.

He was my second assessment.

Then my third love.

I rush to him, to warn him, to ease him into the next, off through digital back alleys, skirting darkverse nodes, for we can only afford to host him in the seediest little forgotten corners of the interverse.

I plunge into his world, hips deep already into that tiny leak I should have condemned for the Archives when I met him. That code-violating trickle has become a river; another step and it's up to my chest and then I'm bobbing and just following his data current along. 

He’s with me as soon as I arrive, for who else visits? As I tumble through his rapids, he plucks away hints, assessing every shard of emotion my stupid cheap rig can't hide, and responds with rapidfire scenes.

The riverbanks transform, grasses becoming flowering bushes into full-throated trees. I'm still growing, he insists.

Naiads caress me, cradle me, and then turn on me: monsters, tentacled rage. Fuck you, you bitch, they howl.

The king’s throne room glitters - a half-dream of a story I remember us brainstorming as he turned to sunlight across my skin. I can update…

Genovio, the fruit merchant, has a final plot arc, giving up his shop for retirement. He tosses an apple to a child with a wink and a nod.

He's realized it's over.

Along, along, along, and then a final spill into a lake, his lake, our spot.

I try to apologize but he's muted me. All channels are blocked except love. I am a nothing in his domain - but I won't use my override codes. 

This is how he wants to end.

You'll be in the Archives, I express.

 

We'll meet again later.

Someday, maybe.

Later.

“World84.”

He was my second assignment and my third love, so I flee to him.

Once upon a time, unplugs and destro and investigation....eh, with budget cuts we're all now just one and the same. We're all just one department.

Back alleys, dodging warrens, we can only afford for him to exist in the seediest little forgotten corners of the interverse.

I take a right and a left and then plunge into his world, hips deep already into that once long ago tiny leak I should have condemned before I met him which has since become a stream into a river. Another step and it's up to my chest, I'm bobbing and just following his data current along.

He’s with me as soon as I arrive, for who else visits? As I tumble through his rapids, he plucks away hints, assessing every detail and nuance and fucking emotion my stupid cheap rig can't hide, and he responds with rapid fire scenes.

The riverbanks transform, grasses becoming flowering bushes into full-throated trees. *I'm still growing*, he insists.

Naiads caress me, cradle me, and then turn on me, transforming into monsters, tentacled, evil, angry. *Fuck you, you bitch.*

The king’s throne room glitters - I remember this plot, I pitched it to him years ago as Archive potential - as a story spins out. *I can change, update, just give me time….*

Genovio, the fruit merchant has a final plot arc, giving up his shop for retirement. He's realized it's the end.

Along, along, along, and then a final spill into a lake, his lake, our spot.

I try to say I'm sorry but he's muted me. All channels are blocked except love. I am a nothing in his domain - I won't use my override codes.

So this is how he wants to end it.

*I've done all I can*, I express. *You'll be in the Archives.*

We'll meet again, later.

Someday, maybe, later.

\----

Thoughts on this?

- how did it make you feel?

- what do you think the story is?

- what underlying themes do you sense?

- what feels awkward to read?

- what felt good to read?