This piece was originally written for a student-led zine at Duke University's Nicholas School of the Environment entitled "Entanglement". I never heard back from the student who was publishing the zine, but I thought I'd share the piece here. 

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​Marina burst awake, drenched in sweat, salty fresh from the sea. The sun hadn’t quite decided to rise, yet sleep was already just an aftertaste. Her lungs strained, hungry for the sweet stale air of her bedroom. Her soul, too, ached.

Quickly, before her dream dissolved, she scribbled a few details in her bedside journal: Icy water, whose chill doesn’t quite reach me. Endless dark below, but millions of silvery scales flicker in the sunlight above. She took a deep breath, then added: Again, the choking loneliness swallows me whole. I want to sink into the black and never resurface. I almost do.

Marina snapped the notebook shut and tried to shake off her dream’s clammy grasp. Failing that, she swept her feet from under her duvet and into a pair of pink bunny slippers. Rita had always teased her for wearing them, but they were her last gift from her mother, their worn ears an indescribable comfort. She padded over to the bathroom.

Normally, Marina was a strict evening-shower kind of woman, but she twisted the tap anyway, hoping to wash away the chill touch of the sea. Night sweats – or was it Neptune’s lingering touch? – had left her body rimed in salt. As her shower whined up to temperature, Marina gazed at the puffy-eyed, brined zombie in her bathroom mirror. The entanglement procedure was supposed to lead her to happiness, but what had it gotten her so far? “Nightmares and overactive sweat glands—what a bargain!” she muttered, then traced a frowning face in the quickly fogging glass.

Soon, both her disturbing dreams and her haunted reflection were lost in the steam of a much-needed shower.

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​
“I don’t understand. It didn’t work?” Cathy crunched her way through the cantina’s Taco Tuesday fare, shredded lettuce trickling onto her plate.

Marina shook her head. “No, I think it worked. I just don’t know what to do. I mean, every single dream is underwater. What does she even do for a living?” 

“Maybe she’s a mermaid,” Cathy teased.

“Cath, be serious. We’re talking about my true love—I need real suggestions.” 

“I am being serious! Okay, okay, so maybe not a mermaid, but haven’t you heard about those badass female pearl divers in Japan?” She took another bite. “Their whole job is underwater; plus, with the time difference, I bet she’d be working while you’re asleep.”

Marina hummed uncertainly. “It’s a possibility. But how am I supposed to find her if I don’t have any real clues? Figures that even with magic soulmate-finding technology, I still manage to screw things up.” Marina rested her forehead on the cool tabletop, hopelessness creeping under her skin. Thirty-seven and still single. What was she doing with her life?

“None of that self-pity nonsense, Mare,” Cathy said, shaking her friend’s shoulder lightly. Marina looked up. “She’s out there, somewhere. You love puzzles anyway; it’s just a matter of searching. And hey, I promise,” Cathy gave Marina’s shoulder a squeeze. “This won’t end up like Rita. This is the real deal. ‘Or your money back.’” She winked.
​
Marina couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right. I’ve got to keep trying.”

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“Welcome to QuantAnima. Are you a returning customer, or is this your first appointment with us?” The cheery receptionist barely paused in her typing. An old television in the corner blared breaking news about floods unhousing millions in Houston again; then, a segment about the Atlantic’s last right whale making her solo voyage to the coast of Maine, chasing tiny prey that dwindled in the warming waters. Marina couldn’t hide a flash of anger. We had decades to fix this problem, and we wasted them. And here I am worrying about my love life. 

She knew she was being unfair to herself, but the thought still stung. The world was broken, she was broken, and what was she doing? Peeling her thighs off a cheap plastic chair in pursuit of… what, exactly? Loud promotional posters with googly-eyed lovers promised her lifelong happiness; bright pink pamphlets claimed to Find your soulmate!!!! Meanwhile, the half-dozen other people in the waiting area hunched over their phones in a clear “don’t talk to me” posture. The whole place was tacky as hell. Still, as much as Marina cringed at her resemblance to the lovelorn characters in their ads, QuantAnima got results. Usually.

“Returning.” Marina approached the reception desk.

“Oh. Great! When was your procedure, sweetheart?”

“Four weeks ago.” Marina fidgeted and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I need help figuring things out—these dreams are more like nightmares.” It was somehow embarrassing to admit she couldn’t do it on her own.

The receptionist nodded sagely. “You’re not alone, sugar, I promise.” She flicked through an ancient rolodex and handed Marina a purple business card. “Jo is the person you want; they’ve never failed yet.” A name and address shimmered in holographic ink, swirling in the buzzing fluorescent sheen overhead. Eager to retreat, Marina thanked the receptionist and swept out onto the muggy street, climate catastrophe soundbites and soulmate success stories nipping at her heels.

#          #          #

"Umm… I’m here to see Jo Wainwright? For a QuantAnima case?” Marina’s finger sweated on the building’s call button. She stood in the entrance of a modest apartment building on the east side of town, far from the cooling ocean breeze. A few moments passed. Suddenly worrying this was all a giant prank, Marina almost retreated before a loud BZZZT announced the way was clear. She opened the door and headed up the creaking staircase.

Jo’s office door was already ajar, so Marina rapped nervously on the glass. “Jo? Ms.… Mr.… Mx. Wainwright?” she stumbled. “My name’s Marina George, I was told to come—”

“Come in, come in!” came a warm voice. Marina slipped inside.
​
The interior of Jo’s office couldn’t have been more different than QuantAnima: A saffron corduroy couch stood below a window overlooking the far-off bay; a bookcase dominated the far wall, volumes double-parked and well worn; maps of all sorts covered the walls so thoroughly that Marina couldn’t make out the paint color beneath. Finally, a desk in the corner and, seated behind three separate monitors, Jo Wainwright. Their short-cropped purple hair and lilting smile instantly put Marina at ease, and she took a seat on the dimpled yellow couch.

“Just call me Jo,” they replied, sidestepping Marina’s awkwardness. “So. Tell me about this person you’re looking for. What slices of their life have you seen?”

“I’m going to sound crazy.”

“Try me. I’ve heard everything.”
 
Marina hesitated, then opened her journal, painting a dreary picture for Jo: Deep waters and icy inky blackness; odd warmth despite the chill; millions of tiny plankton; and, once, a forest of jellyfish floating eerily on the waves. She finally described the ever-present ache of loneliness that was slowly driving her mad. When she finished, Jo leaned back in their chair, steepled fingers fluttering against each other. Marina couldn’t read their expression.

“Well.” Jo finally leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Now I’ve heard everything.” 

“And? What does it all mean?”

Jo stood and walked over to their bookshelf. “When one deals with quantum soul entanglement, things can get real trippy, real fast. I’ve had a theory for a while now, but it’s unconventional. Almost apocryphal. Are you okay with that? If not, I can refer you to an untangling specialist, and you can go back to your life.”

Marina thought for a moment. Either way, she would end the terrible dreams—but the former option offered answers as well. How could she refuse? “I’m in.”

“Excellent!” Jo beamed and started yanking books down, piling the chosen few haphazardly on their desk. “In grad school, I studied the myriad forms animal intelligence can take,” they explained, another book thunking onto the desk. “After starting my current line of work, I hoped,” thunk, “but I never really thought,” thunk, “until now….” Finally, the last thick volume landed in front of Marina. Whales danced in mock gold leaf across the cover.

“Marina, this will sound incredible, but… I’m not sure who you’re seeking is human.”

Marina read the title. Cetaceans of the Seven Seas. She blinked, feeling stupid. “You’re saying my soulmate is a whale?” She must be misunderstanding.

Jo smiled kindly. “No one really understands why this technology works. Companies like QuantAnima tell you they’ll find your soulmate, but entanglement actually finds what’s more like a kindred spirit, whose soul is tethered to yours, somehow. The connection is often romantic—hence the nauseating marketing—but it doesn’t have to be.”

“Oh,” was all Marina could say in response. They couldn’t be serious. Could they?

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but can you remember any of the other whales that she was traveling with? That will help us narrow down her species.” Jo flipped through the book’s full-color pictures of belugas, orcas, and blue whales, each plate a work of art.

“No. She’s always alone.”

“Hmm. Harder, but not impossible. Several species lead largely solitary lives…” 

Jo continued musing, but Marina had stopped listening. She thought back to the news story she’d watched in the QuantAnima office. That whale, cursed by over-hunting, ship strikes, and fishing nets to be the last of her kind. The final victim of a warming ocean, of decades of practices that disregarded impacts on wildlife for progress and profit. The loneliness that haunted her sleeping hours bubbled to her mind’s surface.

Marina grabbed the book from Jo and flipped through its pages, stopping on the colored plate depicting Eubalaena glacialis before she even read the title. Soulful eyes gazed up at her from a gentle face, all warts and barnacles and silvery scars. Marina felt something snap into place. A calling—not romantic, but just as powerful—thrummed through her. “Jo. This is her. I know it.”

Jo leaned over the page, nodding. “North Atlantic right whale? Another victim of whaling and climate change. Yes, she certainly would be lonely.” They handed Marina a tissue; she was surprised to find she was crying. How could there be any saltwater left in her body for tears? Marina’s gaze swept across the illustration, searching those intelligent eyes. A lonely creature of the deeps, crying out through some chaotic medium to a woman who thought she was broken for being alone. 

Maybe that woman could find connection and purpose beyond the expected.

“I’m going to find her, Jo. She needs me.” And I need her.

“All right, then.” Jo leapt to their computer, search queries already flying from their fingertips. “Let’s get started.”

Seen head-on, it was nothing remarkable. A sunny field, golden-tinged at twilight and filled with the small sheep of late dandelion. But, when caught by the catlike corner of her eye, the field swirled, tipped, and slowly started to drain. The blades of grass melted like clocks, like a lazy nail polish—applied too liberally—dripping down a finger. It was nauseating. She side-watched the sheep fall in, one two three, then pulled her gaze back to the field before she stumbled, before their pitiful bleats reached her ears. Everything was still once more, the grasses susurrating in a light breeze. The dandelion casually releasing their children to its call. Again, unremarkable.

Saoirse sighed, running long fingers through tight, dampened curls. Was this to be her new normal? Seeing, but not believing? That, at least, was an improvement. Just weeks ago, seeing had been believing. And this had almost destroyed her. Her brain had split down the middle, one half screeching that yes those shadows are real, the other pleading with her to trust your friends when they say they are not. But now? Now she knew, logically, that her eyes were not to be trusted. That the link between light and eye and brain had somehow shattered, but would be mended in time. She just had to wait.

But waiting was hard, and Saoirse was tired of hard things. She placed one sure foot on the grass, then another, stalking towards the center of the vortex. She stared it down, commanding it to remain still, to remain all grass and flower and busy bumblebee. 

At first, it held.

Then, with a slow slurp, her right foot caught in the center, and Something sucked her through.

*
​
The late sun glanced off the goldenrod and dandelion fluff and a pair of butterfly wings, and something less than a ripple padded through the tall grass. Unremarkable again.

~~~
​
[Inspiration]

I’ve been a cosmic barmaid for longer than I can remember, and I couldn’t be happier. I love chatting up customers, mixing drinks, and hearing stories from across the galaxy. I share my own tales from the stations and starships that I’ve worked on, and when I get bored, I move on. It’s not like I’ll ever run out of places to go: Look up any civilization in the galaxy and you’ll find some form of a bar, tavern, or speakeasy as a centerpoint of their culture. It’s a universal constant.

I arrive early to work this morning, so I have the back to myself as I get ready for the day. I pull my hair up into a tight knot, slip on my old sneakers, and tuck my sleeves down to cover the swirling ink that ripples across my arms and down my torso. In my youth, I had a kind of “let them stare” attitude about the tattoos, which were unique even in all-species-welcome establishments like the Cat's Eye Tavern. About ten years ago, though, I transferred to a bar aboard the Wolf-359 orbital outpost. After you have a customer barf on you in zero-G, you tend to take some precautions. Some folks’ stomachs just don’t mix right with the moving optical illusions that pattern my skin, so I cover up.

I take a moment to gauge the room from behind the bar. The Cat’s Eye isn’t the prettiest tavern I’ve ever worked in (talk about those mahogany finishings on Vega 7!), but it’s a solid dive for solid folk. Between Denebian karaoke on Sundays and half off Earth cocktails biweekly, we tend to draw a representative crowd of the station’s finest blue-collar workers. 

This morning, it’s mostly empty. The booths are scattered with a few early risers, and Table 2 has been colonized by the usual coterie of Ygalians, a hibernatory species from the Tertiary Sector whose entire society sleeps for a full standard year out of every eight. The Ygalians have been coming every morning for the past year, so I start prepping their order before they can even wave me over. Despite their sticky tentacles that tend to stray where they shouldn’t, I’m going to miss them next month when they disappear into their hibernation pods. Plus, they tip well.

The front bell rings, dragging me out of my reverie. Andy’s always said we don’t need a bell, that the whoosh of the automatic doors is distinctive enough on its own. It adds to the ambience, though, and immediately draws my attention to the strange group that waltzes into the tavern.

They’re shirtless. Shirtless, in a spaceport. Jupes, could you get more macho-man than that? I’ve seen a lot of creatures come through the Cat’s Eye, but most wear some sort of emergency suit in case of an accidental airlock breach or carbon scrubber failure. These guys, though, are bare-chested, bare-breasted, and proud of it. I’m so shocked that it takes a moment to register that each of them is covered with…my tattoos.

Well, not mine, exactly. They’ve got a range of colors to them, but all are in the strange looping script that I’ve never been able to decipher. Some ink swirls faster or slower as it drifts across their skin, and I am struck by the same hypnotic effect that I must instill in others. No wonder that poor Deltoid puked; I would have, too, if I didn’t have years of seeing my own reflection to anchor me. One of their party leans over to murmur something to another, who starts snorting laughter. Incredibly, her tattoos start to glow, as if in response to her glee. I’ve never seen mine do that.

I shake my head, realizing I’m being rude. The one in front, a stocky human, asks for a table, and I point him to a booth near the viewscreens. I don’t have time to ask any of my burning questions, though; Table 2’s plasmic fajitas are getting unbearably hot, almost melting my metal serving tray. “I’ll be with ya in a sec,” I call over my shoulder with feigned nonchalance. “Seat yourselves.”

I drop off the fajitas and busy myself in the back for a moment, cleaning glasses. I need to breathe. You’ll think I’m lying, but I have truly never wondered where my tattoos came from, or if they’re even tattoos in the first place. I’ve always had them, and with a life spent waiting tables for Axians and Zotorbs, I just took my weird skin as another oddity of the galaxy. I guess I had assumed I was just your average, odd human, but now that this motley crew has come through with their glowing tattoos, I’m not so sure. I need answers, more than I’ve ever needed anything else. How do I even start?

I’ve never been subtle. My last ex told me I was so straightforward that I was “no fun to figure out”, as if I were some kind of puzzle box. Screw her, anyway. So, I march over to the newcomers’ booth, where they seem to be arguing over the menu projected from the table. They don’t even notice me, as deep in discussion as they are. I clear my throat and they quiet down. 

A blue individual whose species I’m unfamiliar with pipes up from the far corner. “I’ll have a---”

I cut them off with a glare, and their head literally shrinks down a bit into their chest. Must be from one of the Terrapin clans, then.

“Who are you?” I demand, deciding not to stumble through any pleasantries.

“That depends,” says the willowy, four-armed Vespan to my left. “Who are you?”

I say nothing, rolling up my sleeves in answer. Her eye widens in unmasked shock. “Where did you get those?” she asks, reaching out a finger to trace along my right arm. My ink reacts immediately, encircling her finger like iron filings on a magnet.

“Dunno.” I shrug, as if this happens every day.

“Let me guess,” the stocky human says, “you’ve always had them?” I nod. “And you never questioned them, either.” I shake my head.

He sighs and leans back, a grin splitting his face like a Denebian swan about to pounce on its prey. “Where are you from? Who’s your family? What’s your name?”

I open my mouth to answer him, but I realize I can’t. Huh. Where am I from? What did I do with my life before I became a barmaid? Dread seeps into my veins. My own name…how could I forget something as simple as that? 

I’m sure my face is a mess of puzzlement and sudden fear, but the human just nods sagely. “Just as I thought. Typical. You don’t know, do you? Never thought to wonder, never asked why?” 

I don’t answer, but he doesn’t seem to need one. He rises, and his crew stands with him. He reaches out a hand and for a moment I think he’s going to touch my tattoos too. Then he grasps my hand in a surprisingly warm grip, giving it a shake. It must be some sort of Earther greeting. I shake it back, a little confused.

“Well, No-Name, we’re off to the Horsehead Nebula,” he says, releasing my hand and shuffling out of the booth. “You’re welcome to join us, if you like. I can’t promise comfort or closure, but I can promise that we’ve all got the same questions, and we won’t stop until we find the answers.”

I take his offer in for a moment, frozen in place. I look around at the crew, everyone a different size, shape, and color. All connected, however, by these swirling tattoos and a missing past. My tattoos, and my past. When I give my answer, of course it couldn’t be anything else:

“Hell yes. It’s about time I moved on, anyway.”

The sound of the front bell fades behind me as I follow them to their ship. I don’t look back.
_________________________________________

[Prompt] Being a tavern wench is good, honest work. You wear long sleeves, not to hide scars but swirling tattoos. You’ve always had them. Today, an adventuring party comes in. The shirtless ones have the same tattoos, and theirs not only swirl … they glow.

​

“Any minute now. Any. Minute.” Johnson dabbed a bead of sweat off his brow with a small pink handkerchief. Noon had come and gone, but still there was a lingering, withering hope for his career. After all, interstellar clocks must be tricky to sync up, right?

“Sir, I don’t think—” Johnson’s warning glare cut off his assistant (Peter? Paul? Some Biblical P-name, he was sure). Peter-Paul wilted, Johnson’s disapproval even more deflating than the sweltering afternoon sun. No, no, it was a noon sun. There was still time.

His watch beeped insistently, but he ignored it. Nothing could be more important than this meeting. They’d told him he was moving too fast, that Earth wasn’t ready. That no one knew how the nascent planetary government would handle a first contact. He couldn’t show his face in the office again if he got stood up.

Twelve-thirty became one, became one-thirty, became two. Begat, begat, begat. Johnson shook his head; this was certainly no time for his old Catholic schooling to rear its head. He’d buried that long ago. Must be the sun. The blazing orb sank dipped on its journey towards the horizon, his dreams falling with it. Accolades from his colleagues, begrudging mutters of well done, Johnson from his nemeses at the home office. Chairship, corner office, beautiful secretary. All fading away.

At three, long after the gelatins and tiny butter flowers had puddled, and the iced punch gone tepid in its gaudy crystal bowls, Johnson finally stirred. The rest of the delegation watched him closely. His sweaty suit jacket snapped from his seat back as he pushed away from the long table, chair legs etching deep furrows in the soft grass. He made a mental note to have Peter-Paul grab him some aloe as, despite his dark skin, he felt a sunburn blooming on the back of his neck. 

“They’re not coming. We’d better close up the atmospheric shield gates,” he finally admitted, throwing down his damask napkin and knocking over his champagne. The cheery bubbles had fizzled in the hot sun hours ago. All that work, years—no, decades—of preparation, meetings, lobbying, all for nothing. Nary a wink, nor a whisper, nor a sorry-can-we-get-a-raincheck. Christ.

“Still better than when my ex-wife ghosted me.” A nervous chuckle rippled through the assembled crowd. Johnson was not quite sure why he’d said that. He’d never been married, wasn’t too keen on the whole “till death” bit. He had supposed some off-color chauvinism was just what the situation called for but, judging from the awkward looks he’d drawn, it most certainly wasn’t.

“Right.” Johnson pulled at his damp collar. “I—” 

“Sir!” Peter-Paul grabbed Johnson’s arm, pointing at the sky. “They’re here!”

Johnson’s legs almost melted in relief. He peeled the insistent fingers from his arm and stepped towards the descending ship, a warm breeze stirring below mighty subsonic thrusters. Whatever happened next, at least he wouldn’t go down in history as the man who totally botched the first in-person first contact. He and Earth only had one chance at this.

“Drum up some fresh food out here, would you?” he hissed to Peter-Paul, eyes not leaving the ovoid spacecraft.

“But sir, shouldn’t we confirm first—” Johnson cut him off with a wave of his hand. Confirmation? This was it! Peter-Paul huffed and stalked away, pulling out his phone to dial the caterers. Johnson knew full well that he was sending him away from an historic moment, but it wouldn’t do to have the Mixolydians greeted by lobster with a side of salmonella.

The ship landed. The crowd perked up like herbs after watering, earlier fatigue forgotten. This would be their first glimpse—anyone’s first glimpse—of the Mixolydians, and a little heat couldn’t dampen their verve. For a moment, Johnson was struck by how ridiculous they all looked. Dressed to the nines, soaked in sweat, surrounded by slumping cakes that the aliens probably couldn’t even eat. Frivolous, to the last. And yet, what was diplomacy without useless pomp and circumstance?

From all their flowery mathematical communications, Johnson had expected the Mixolydians to emerge on a set of gilded stairs, perhaps accompanied by a menacing, cold fog. Instead, without fanfare, a section of the wall suddenly telescoped upwards, disappearing into the ship’s smooth metal exterior with a soft click. Darkness lay beyond. What would these creatures look like, talk like? Nobody knew. They had only ever communicated over text, Earth’s longest-ever long-distance relationship.

Johnson swallowed a gasp as the first Mixolydian emerged. The thing was tall and willowy, with a large head and big, green eyes. Here was where the similarity to the aliens of yore ended. Covered in red scales and sporting a long tail jauntily hitched on its arm, the Mixolydian was more like a tall lizard than anything out of H.G. Wells. It wore no clothing that could be distinguished, and its chameleonic eyes rambled about for a while before landing on Johnson. He held his breath.

“Sorry we’re late, old bean,” the Mixolydian crooned. Its accent was pure upper-crust British society. Johnson was so surprised by the alien’s drawl that he almost forgot to be surprised it spoke English. The Mixolydians had given no indication that they had bothered to learn any of Earth’s languages and had instead spent the last few years communicating entirely in a mixture of mathematics and physical constants. What had at first seemed an impenetrable language barrier was now revealed to have been … laziness? A flair for the dramatic?

Completely immune to the shock it had caused, the Mixolydian swept past Johnson to peruse the oozing offerings on the banquet table. It settled on a salad fork, a bright stack of cocktail napkins and an entire wheel of cheese, all of which were promptly stuffed into its mouth. Johnson caught a glimpse of needle-sharp teeth and a purple tongue. A man in the back fainted.

“Interstellar clocks, you know,” the alien said around a mouthful of sweating Gruyère, “hard to sync up.” A coterie of other Mixolydians filtered out of the vessel, each roughly the same save a different shade of red. They stood off to the side, eyes darting about independently, claws lightly rested on holstered space-guns. Johnson blanched. Nobody had mentioned bringing weapons.

“Ah, yes. Quite right,” Johnson managed weakly. He glanced over at Peter-Paul for some measure of support, but the man was still on the phone with the caterers. “Er—we would like to humbly welcome the Mixolydian delegation to our planet,” he began, remembering his lines. “The p-people of Earth wish nothing more than peace and prosperity for both our—”

“Ooh, my, is this a soup?” the Mixolydian cried, ignoring Johnson’s speech and diving for one of the butter dishes. “I have read much about these aqueous Earthen delicacies.” The alien tipped its head back and drained the dish of melted butter, then licked it clean.

Johnson dropped all pretense at diplomacy, staring mutely, jaw ajar. The Mixolydian looked up from its second dish, blinking twice with layered vertical lids. A buttery tongue slithered up to wet the creature’s limpid green eyes. Disgusting. No wonder the Mixolydians had been so coy, never showing their faces. Not even a mother could love that.

Johnson was about to launch back into his speech when Peter-Paul frantically waved him over. Johnson turned, sighing, as the Mixolydian guards tore into the pot roast. “What could you possibly want?” he asked, jogging over.

“It’s… it’s the Mixolydians, sir,” Peter-Paul whispered, holding out the cell phone.

“I’m sorry, the who?” Johnson felt the blood drain from his face.

“The Mixolydians!” Peter-Paul’s voice dropped to a frightened whisper. “We just got another message from them. They send their apologies for missing the banquet, something about starlight savings time—” Peter-Paul squawked as a thin, red claw grabbed his shoulder and jerked him sideways. 

Johnson turned to see the lead Mixolydian (or not-Mixolydian, as was becoming increasingly clear) pointing its gleaming green pistol at Peter-Paul’s head.

“Now, now, no need to struggle so,” it said, eyes akimbo, stroking Peter-Paul’s temple with its weapon. “We’re just going to have a little chat with your boss here. Don’t squirm.”

“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding,” Johnson started, stepping forward. Of course, it wasn’t, but it seemed the thing to say.

“Ah-ah-ah!” the not-Mixolydian warned, digging its gun more forcefully into its captive’s head. Johnson froze, and Peter-Paul let out a pathetic whimper. “The Astroyd-5000’s a bit touchy, you see. We wouldn’t want your assistant here to have an accident.”

For the third time that day, Johnson felt himself melting, the gears in his mind clicking sluggishly as he struggled to put the pieces together. The late hour. All the inconsistencies with what they knew of the Mixolydians....

“Yes, you have that right, my dear fellow. Finally, he understands,” the alien added as an aside to no one. Its eyes rolled upward, which Johnson at first mistook for exasperation, until he realized the thing was pointing at dozens of faint white splotches appearing, one by one, miles above in the cloudless sky. Johnson couldn’t make out any details, but he didn’t need them to know that his fears of a soiled banquet were now laughingly tame.

“Look, we’ve been planning this for years, and I can’t show my face in the office again if this takeover doesn’t go smoothly,” the alien said, this time the exasperation clear in its voice. “Let’s talk planetary defenses, shall we? Oh, cheer up,” it added as Johnson fell to the ground in a faint. “At least now you’ll definitely go down in history!”

It is sunny. The golden light hits my face with full force, and I know it to be midsummer. Overhead, oaks and elms whisper to each other, wind and birdsong and the hum of cicadas filtering down through their broad, green leaves.

I think I miss green most of all when I’m away.

I look around me and see I am in a cemetery, a sea of overgrown stone markers and wilting flower arrangements becalmed before my feet. Ah, yes. I am quite familiar with cemeteries, you see. It is the nature of my business, the business of my nature, that has brought me to gravesides and stone tombs on many an occasion. They are places of death, to be sure, but also of reflection and honesty. They are no place for me. If I should ever die, bury my soul beneath the ash, the oak, the elm, far from any stone marker. A resting place green and pensive, finally forgotten.

I digress. Time affects us all, mortal and immortal alike, and I have found myself slipping into reverie more often than usual. Apologies.

You may inquire, then, what is my business? My nature? Call me djinn or genie, angel or demon, for I have no name that I can recall. I reside in magic lamps or coins, wayside trees and silver flutes or, once, inside a shriveled monkey’s paw. It matters not to me. I am who I am, so to speak, and nothing more.

You humans are always looking for something, but I am content with what I have.

#

Hakata Bay, Japan.

A young man stands at the crest of a ridge, overlooking a windswept bay. Evergreen trees whisper around him as he stares out into a sea of wooden masts and crowded sails. Thousands of ships lay at anchor, Mongols attempting once again to invade his island home. Although at this distance they are little more than toy boats, they will succeed.

The man holds a small silver bowl in his hands, filled with water and juniper needles. “I call on the Divine Wind to come once more to protect me and my people,” the man cries, tossing the bowl’s contents out over the bay. His arms spread wide as his eyes close in prayer. Tears fall freely down his cheeks.

I oblige.

The wind stirs, leaps and, within moments, becomes a powerful gale. A typhoon rages suddenly across the water, and the toy boats crash into each other. Timber splits, sails rend, men cry out, and the whole fleet is blasted out to sea. In moments, nothing remains but the gleam of jumping fish in the fading sun.

#

“Are you a genie?” The small voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I look down. A human child, aged six or twelve or twenty. Black and brown curls bounce upon her shoulders, and dark eyes rest under dark lashes. I suppose she is beautiful. She looks at me expectantly for a long moment before I remember she has asked me a question.

“You may call me that,” I hedge, puffing my chest and staring down my nose. Humans expect a certain amount of bravado and mystery from me, and so I provide.

“So it did work!” she squeaks, holding up a golden coin. It must be my vessel this time. “Father told me stories of a great genie inside, but I didn’t believe him.” She looks down at her shoes. A small inchworm has settled on her left toes, sallying forth to reach the laces. We sit for a bit, both of us soaking in the sunshine and our situation.

“How come you’re not in a lamp?” she asks suddenly. The inchworm stops; he wants to know, too.

“I suppose the Universe just didn’t fancy it this time.”

“Oh,” she says, as if that had made any sense to her at all.

#

Edinburgh, Scotland.

“Please, please, make her love me.” 

“Is that your wish? True love?” The woman looks up at me in surprise. Her dark auburn hair rolls down to nearly her calves, loose and shining in the firelight. The silver mirror she had been cradling in her hands lies loosely in her lap now.

“You can do that? Make another love me?” The woman pauses, musing. “That seems to me too powerful a wish to grant.”

“Of course,” I answer, a bit insulted that she thinks my powers have limits. The woman she yearns for is betrothed to her brother instead. Granting her wish will cause a rift in the family, likely leading to exile, hunger, and poverty for the two of them. But this is what she wants, and I cannot refuse such a selfish wish.

#

“I wish you had your freedom!” The girl’s brown eyes shine with triumph.  Her sudden pronouncement is so full of pride and bravery that I feel terrible when a laugh escapes me.

“My freedom?” I manage, wheezing. The girl wilts a bit, sitting back down beside me on the stone bench. “My freedom. Child, I don’t know what stories you’ve been told, but there are only two rules for my wishes.”

I hold up my fingers, so long and golden compared to hers. “One, you only get one. Two, it must be used for you. As touching as your sentiments are, you cannot wish me my freedom. That ship has long sailed.”

The girl looks dejected, but she perks her dark eyebrows upward at my last statement. “What do you mean? Did you have your freedom before? Or have you always been a genie?”

“Ancient history, my dear,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s not dwell on the past.”

“But don’t you want to be free? To see the world, instead of coming whenever you’re called?”

I pause for a moment. No more centuries stuffed in darkness, aching for a bit of blue or green to pierce the endless gray. Going where I wish, when I wish. “Yes,” I admit slowly, “yes, I would like that. But that is not my lot in life.” She waits for me to continue, but I refuse to say more.

#

Nairobi, Kenya.

I am recognized as I emerge. “A genie indeed,” the man mumbles, placing a golden lamp on the bed beside him. The light filtering through the windows has the expectant quality of a day awaiting an afternoon rainstorm. Colorful buildings crowd around the view outside, and in the distance lies a verdant swath of trees. The room is quite warm and smells of vomit, and his deeply lined face belies a deep pain.

Before I can speak, the man bombards me with a dozen wavering questions about my nature, my history, and all my previous summoners. His voice is thin. Surprised at his fervor, I answer as best I can. I can’t remember the last time I stayed for so long, or so enjoyed a conversation. I find a rare smile split my face, and a laugh escapes my lips.

We talk for hours—days?—before I reluctantly offer him a wish. I could give him health, return his youth, take away his pain.

“No, no, I don’t need a wish,” the man says, waving a dark hand scattered with liver spots and wrinkles. “They always come with trouble, you know.”

“Not mine,” I insist, and it’s true. I only give them what they ask for. It’s not my fault if what humans seek is not what they need.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he answers, sighing. “I am an old man, too tired of being tricked. Please, sir, I only wish for a glass of water and to be left alone to die.”

I wave my hands—though this is only for show—and a glass of cold water appears at his bedside, beads trickling down steadily in the hot, sticky air. “No tricks,” he says, and I nod. The man smiles and pats my hand. Reluctant, for once, I return to my slumber, and he to his.

#

“I’ve thought of my wish, Genie,” the girl says after a time. She kicks her foot against a stone marker, dislodging the inchworm into the unkempt grass. The sun is lower now, and some early katydids and crickets have started to tune their instruments.

I nod knowingly. Of course. Of the thousands of times I have been summoned to a graveside, how many of those have been the exact same, predictable request? The resurrection of a loved one is a prize that humans can’t seem to resist.

“So, you want me to raise them from the dead? It’s a simple enough task, I’ve done it before,” I add, though I don’t mention how often the wish has been immediately regretted. It is nigh impossible to fully recover from hours or years of grief, of moving on.

The girl’s hand grips mine with a sudden, surprising force. “No!” she squeaks, panic coloring her young voice. “No. I miss them. I think I miss them. I should miss them. But mummy and daddy... they were...” Here, her wide brown eyes lock with mine, before her gaze pulls mine to the fading green bruises, so like fingerprints, that ring her upper arm.
“So what is it you want? What have you summoned me for?”

The girl falls silent. Her hand drops from mine and we sit, listening to the quiet pips of birds snatching an evening meal, the orchestra warming up in the bushes, the wind in the trees. The girl turns my coin over and over, worrying the soft gold metal with her petite fingers, nails lacquered with cracked pink polish. Then she speaks, so softly I almost miss it.

“I just wish to have a friend. Would you be mine?”

I can’t speak. I have been a servant to kings, a confidante of great thinkers, a god among men. A passionate lover, on many an occasion. But never, in all my years, have I been called friend. It’s such a ridiculous notion that I am stunned to silence. 

She looks at me with worry, misunderstanding. “I can’t wish you your freedom, but you could go where you like. See the world, travel. Just be my friend and come tell me of all your adventures when you have the time.” 

I overcome my shock, fully intending to refuse. Is this really a wish for herself? But as I ask the question, I find I know the answer. Her past flashes before me. A lonely girl, raised by self-centered and angry people. Cut off from children her age, moving constantly from town to town. No friends to speak of. Yes, this is a wish for herself as much as it is for me.

“Yes.” I surprise even myself, sometimes. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

Her face splits into a warm, crooked-toothed smile as she pulls me into a deep hug. I don’t try to stop a grin of my own from forming as well. 

“I’ve never had a friend before,” she whispers. 

Me neither.

Humans are always looking for something. I suppose I was, too.

 Jackie’s hand shook wildly; it took three tries before the quill would spit ink onto the weighty parchment. Official Stepmother Registry, 1821, the form read. Several other names already filled the top quarter, though it was only February, and Jackie couldn’t help but feel nervous puzzling out the looping scripts. Margaret Sophia Longwood, Anna Borisovna Petrovik, Maria Teresa Ruíz Gonzales... just plain Jackie looked so small and lonely below these magnificent monikers.
 
But, nothing to be done—as the ink dried, Jackie oozed a faint orange glow as if carved into hot metal and sunk deep into the parchment. The first step was completed, and all that was left to do was wait.
 
No one ever spoke of what went on in the trials. The women that emerged held their lips tight as oyster shells, and those that didn’t emerge wouldn’t be spilling their secrets anytime soon, either.
 
Jackie had never heard of a man taking the trials, though. The law clearly stated that expectant stepmothers were to undergo the grueling ritual, so it followed that stepfathers were to be exempt. But, well, he wanted to do things right, and though Josef had begged him not to risk himself unnecessarily, he couldn’t help but feel it would be cheating to do otherwise. The thought of starting a new life with the man he had come to love, and his sweet daughters, only to have it be taken away on a technicality... it was too painful to bear much consideration.
 
The clerk gave Jackie a curious sidelong glance, but said nothing as she rolled the parchment back up and tied the official yellow silk ribbon into a neat bow. She gestured at the door behind her, barely looking up from her other work.
 
Jackie swallowed, wiped his sweating palms on his trousers, pulled open the weighty door, and ... almost walked straight into solid oak. Right.
 
Jackie pushed open the weighty door, nervous as hell.
 
Great start, Jack.
 
***
 
The fairy appeared after Jackie’s third trial.
 
He had already waded his way through a moat filled with sleeping crocodiles and balanced a stack of porcelain bowls ten high on his head. In all, Jackie was feeling pretty good about himself. But before him lay his nemesis, his downfall, the one test he had hoped he wouldn’t find in here: A needle, some brightly dyed thread, and fabric stretched across a wooden hoop.
 
Embroidery.
 
Jakcie swore up and down. “It’s not fair, not my fault that I wasn’t raised on this stuff! Tell me to make a table, a chair, a tiny wooden soldier! Anything but this!” He eyed the embroidery hoop with suspicion, half expecting it to leap off the table and bite him.
 
As a child, he had watched his sisters mastering the art of embroidery; though it seemed interesting at first, he quickly disabused himself of any hopes of becoming a seam...ster? He had received such a tongue-lashing from his mother over the tangled thread and bent needles that he had been afraid to try ever again.
 
And here he was, facing the dreaded hoop once more.
 
“Need any help, dearie?” Jackie jumped, startled by the soft, high voice hovering right over his left shoulder. Turning, he saw her--the fairy godmother! Of course he recognized her, who wouldn’t? Petite blue dress, gossamer-thin wings elegantly holding her aloft, and that magic wand! The stories in the papers didn’t do justice to her golden locks and tiny cupid’s-bow mouth set between round apple cheeks. And she was so small, barely three inches tall!
 
“I, uh, hello!” Jackie couldn’t think of how to address a famous fairy, so he settled on a bow, almost holding his hand out for a handshake before realizing how preposterous that would look.
 
“Hello, Jack, darling! My, how fun. Do tell me, what is a man doing in here?”
 
Jackie relayed his short life story to her. How his mother suspected his feelings for other boys and bundled him off to become a carpenter’s apprentice. How he grew to love his craft, how he met Josef when he’d come in to have a beloved childhood toy repaired. How they fell madly in love, and how deeply he cared about Clarissa and Maribel. How he didn’t want to replace their mother, but instead bring his own love into the family.
 
“Oh, dearie, what a romantic story!” the fairy squeaked, literally glowing a bright, joyful pink. “Please, let me help you out! With a wave of my wand, I’ll have this task done in no time at all, and you can go home!” She flicked her wrist and the embroidery hoop sparkled with magic. Josef couldn’t help but gasp; a beautiful seaside scene stitched itself into the fabric, complete with tiny pinwheeling gulls and delicate shore-grass.
 
“Beautiful, no? Hurry up, we can’t keep Josef and the girls waiting!”
 
Jackie took a step towards a door that had materialized in the far wall, so tempted to pull (or push?) the handle and go home. He could see their happy faces before him now.
 
But no. No, that would be too easy, just like it would have been too easy to lay low and skip the trials entirely. If he was going to do this, Jackie would do it right.
 
“I’m, er, flattered by your offer, Mrs. Godmother, ma’am. But I think this is something I need to do alone.”
 
The fairy nodded sagely and waved her wand again, resetting the fabric to that daunting blank canvas.
 
Jackie picked it up and began, biting his tongue in concentration. He tried to channel the dexterity he’d learned carving tiny wooden figurines for the shop, imagining all the dollies he would carve for the girls once he survived this task. It was hard, just as hard as he remembered from his childhood. But he pushed away his doubts and fears, concentrating just on the task at hand.
 
***
 
After hours of cursing and struggling with the needle and thread, Jackie sat back to look at his masterpiece.
 
It was hideous. He had tried to recreate the view out of Josef’s front windows, of the towering Grandfather Mountain surrounded by his many grandchildren hills, but the stitching was uneven and the colors flat. More of a gray blob than a magnificent vista.
 
Jackie sighed and set down the hoop, looking up at the fairy godmother. “Well, that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Is it enough, do you think?”
 
If you’ve never seen a fairy in a fit of giggles, just imagine a high tinkling noise and lots of somersaults.
 
“This is possibly the worse piece of embroidery I’ve ever seen,” the fairy managed, after calming her laughter.
 
Jackie sighed, palms sweating again. He knew what this meant—no one ever came back from the trials having failed. They were just never seen again. He waited for her pronouncement of doom.
 
“But... it is enough. You’re free to go to Josef and the girls, Jackie.”
 
Jackie looked up in wild surprise. “I, uh, what?” he stammered. “You just said it was awful!”
 
“Ah, I did,” she answered with a wink. “But you did it yourself. Tell me, what kind of a trial would this be if we let stepmothers—er, or stepfathers—wish away their problems? Step-parenting is a noble and difficult task, and those who would take the easy way out do not deserve the distinction. You passed, Jackie, not because of your embroidery skills—which are, I will repeat, the worst I’ve ever seen—but for your honesty and commitment to hard work.”
 
Still in shock, Jackie stood numbly and pushed open the door. This time, it gave, and he almost left before turning back.
 
“Can I keep this?” he asked, reaching back for his hideous creation. The fairy nodded, and he snatched up the embroidery hoop before continuing through the doorway.
 
Josef and the girls would surely get a good laugh out of it.
 
_________________________________________________________________________

Written February 2021. 

[WP] A vengeful Queen Cinderella makes it a new law for the future stepmoms to go through various difficult and dangerous tasks if they want to marry the widowed fathers, many have failed. A maid falls in love with a widowed knight with kids, the fairy godmother comes to help her succeed at the tasks.

​

I wish he’d never found the damn thing.

It had been chained at the bottom of an underground lake: a silver sword, glinting six hundred feet down a twisting cavern of dripping limestone. I told him not to take it, that the ancient, gilded vines and faded glyphs were there for a reason. The skeletons, too, should have been a clue, mineralized after decades of rest belowground. But of course, Darrius never listened to me. Never has.

My friend dove down, down, his form disappearing under the lake’s glassy surface. I held my breath with him. The minutes stretched on, glowworms holding a swinging vigil behind my tense reflection. Then, with a gasp, Darrius emerged again, swinging the sword triumphantly over his head. My palms were ringed in crescents as I helped him out, but I plastered a smile over my nerves. I should have tackled him then, ripped the sword from his hands and chucked it back into the lake. But I didn’t.

I’m telling you—it’s all Darrius’s fault. If he had never taken the thing from that damned lake, I wouldn’t be in prison, and none of them would be dead.

#

Osiris was something out of a fable, a blade long and deadly and glowing with an ethereal shimmer whenever enemies drew near. Its sheath was wreathed in an ancient language that neither of us could read—perhaps if we could have, we might have avoided this whole mess.

Being an experienced adventuring party, we quickly catalogued the sword’s responses to our usual foes: yellow for ogres, green for goblins, silver for faeries. You get the picture. It took us a while longer to realize that the intensity of the glow was also linked to the number of creatures. We once came upon a swarm of hundreds of pixies and the sword went plasmic, so bright I had to avert my eyes. Not wanting to piss off a nasty swarm, I insisted we circle around and continue on our way. Darrius kept glancing back over his shoulder though, twitching with a nervous energy. That was the last time we avoided a fight, and the first time I had doubts about the dangerous hold Osiris had on my friend.

#

Sometime over the next few days, Darrius’s eyes developed a mean glean to them. I don’t know when it started, but I do know when I first felt their sting.

It had been raining for several days. Osiris alerted us to a roving band of ogres, likely five strong, behind the next rocky outcrop. I was tired, worn out from days with little sleep and less food, and just wanted to make it to the next town without incident. Darrius, though, had other plans. As he twisted Osiris thoughtfully in his hand, he told me we should attack. Ogres are nasty creatures, always picking on the weak and the innocent. That barn we passed yesterday, smashed to pieces? What if there had been someone there, a prisoner, a damsel in distress? Wasn’t it our duty to help? His eyes reflected the soft golden glow of his sword, and I knew there was no talking him out of it. I sighed and nodded, barely pulling my crossbow from its oiled leather casing before Darrius was gone round the bend.

I won’t dwell on the ensuing battle—if you can call it that. Two adults, three ogrelings. No damsel in distress. Likely just a family band migrating through the countryside, trying to scrape out a living in the only way they knew how.
He slaughtered them all.

Darrius turned to me, grinning and dripping dark purple blood on the grass. I could barely meet his gaze. The ochre light from Osiris fizzled with the life of his last victim, but the light in his eyes remained: He was satisfied, triumphant. Gleeful, even. My friend was gone, and in his place—a monster.

I should have left him then and there, but I still held hope that I could talk him down from his mania, or part him from Osiris if it came to it. I was thoroughly convinced the sword was cursed at that point, but of course I couldn’t tell Darrius. The thing was an extension of himself, and he treated it like a lover, caressing it softly as he cleaned blood from its shining silver blade. So I remained, trying my best to steer him clear of more innocent creatures.

Of course, I failed, many times, and so we have arrived at the pivotal moment in my tale. The goblin cave.

#

The goblin cave was really more of a shallow depression in the mountainside, and hardly seemed worth the title. I hadn’t even noticed Osiris beginning to glow, so faint was its shimmer, but of course Darrius knew. There’s a goblin up ahead, he told me, I can feel his presence from here. I shook my head, arguing that a lone goblin couldn’t possibly be worth his trouble. But then came the gleam, and the excuses, and the nervous energy, and I knew I couldn’t win. I followed him up to the cave, stomach thick with dread.

A faint sound emanated from the cave; someone was humming. An old goblin came into view, trundling about his goblin chores and humming his goblin tune. He was obviously alone, no harm to anyone. Just an old man going about his day.

I grabbed Darrius’s arm, pulling him back. Shouldn’t we leave him alone, just this once? Osiris only alerted us to the presence of creatures, after all, and I had seen no evidence that it could differentiate between evil and good. Darrius shook his head, the gleam in his eyes turning to an angry flame so fierce that I pulled back my hand as if I’d been burned. Without a word, he pulled away, and I closed my eyes to the horror I knew was coming next.

A quick cry, a tussle, and then the thunk of a head hitting the ground. I vomited onto the hard-packed earth.

Then, something unexpected: the distinct tang of magic in the air, followed by a sharp cry of pain.

I quickly sprang around the corner, sword drawn in defense, and was surprised to see a knight, member of the King’s Inquisitors, dark armor gleaming in the sunlight as he pinned my friend against the ground. He quickly locked Darrius’s wrists with a thick silver chain, and a red aura of magical restraint speckled my friend’s body. Osiris lay in the dirt a few feet away, next to the head of the defenseless old goblin. A worn pipe smoldered from the corpse’s lips, tobacco and fresh blood playing a noxious duet in the air.

“You need to come with us,” said a voice from my right. I turned to see another knight, this one with a captain’s badge on her shoulder. She glared at me disapprovingly, crossbow pointed at the center of my chest.

“An ogre family slain at Catharta,” she announced, counting off on her fingers, “and band of orc schoolchildren and their teacher. Three gnomes killed in cold blood around their campfire. An elderly hermit with no family. Do you deny having a hand in these senseless murders?”

I shook my head slowly, stepping back into the rock wall of the cave. “No! I mean, I tried to stop him! It was the sword, I think it infected his mind, Darrius would never...” My mouth was dry, and I swallowed hard.

The captain shook her head, eyes hard as flint. “You tried to stop him? Doesn’t sound like it to me. Sounds like you were too coward to do anything, and now you’re trying to save your own skin.”

“I’m not! The sword—just look at it, it’s evil! We are but traveling adventurers, taken advantage of by a demon blade. You must see that I’m telling you the truth!”

“If that’s true...” the captain looked thoughtful for a moment. She glanced at her partner, who shrugged as if to say, It’s up to you. I prayed to every god that I knew. She had to see that it was Osiris who was the base of all the killing, not Darrius!

She turned back with a look of clarity in her eyes, and my heart pattered with hope.

“If it’s true that your friend here really was possessed by a cursed sword, then what’s your excuse?”