Author Archives: Faye

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About Faye

Violence lover

The School Camp Experience

My ship’s hatch hissed open and I stepped out into the pink light of Neon, clinging to my bag by the straps. I grinned as I glimpsed in the distance the city the Alliance training base was situated in, a mish mash of rounded buildings of all sorts of sizes and colours, with rubbery plants snaking around them into the sky. My skin tingled and I ran my hands over the implant attached to my waist that I’d been given on my summons here. It was apparently supposed to stabilize my body chemistry so that I could exist on this planet without, like, dying. Nice of them really. The Alliance (or as I liked to think of it, the Space UN) had members from planets all over the galaxy, so Neon was chosen as a planet with a fairly neutral atmosphere and stuff for their training to take place with minimal support systems for each species’ wacky biology. I was excited to be around aliens again. Although obviously it had been good to find my father’s expedition after years of searching and get a break from planet hopping week after week, I’ve got to say I had missed the excitement and diversity of the universe. When the Alliance had offered me a job on a relief team, whatever that would turn out to be, I had jumped at it. It was the perfect work for me – visiting planets, meeting cool aliens, helping people, fixing machines – amazing right? Before that, of course, I would have to go through three months of preparatory training here at Neon’s cool facilities, get all brushed up on whatever I needed to know to be an Alliance agent. There had been some pre reading but I’d only skimmed over it because my attention span was non-existent.

Guess I was about to find out. Because my signing up to the Alliance had been super last minute I’d arrived on Neon just in time for their orientation seminar; I got the feeling from the lack of other ships arriving and the settled in look of people walking around that most people had been here for a while, at the very least a couple of hours to get their bearings before diving straight into training. Oh well. I didn’t mind. I pulled up the booklet I’d been sent and headed off towards orientation.

And then I realised I’d misread the map and had to run very quickly to the other end of the campus, entering the lecture hall just in time. It was already packed and there were probably about two hundred people filling the seats of various sizes and with various attachments. I picked my way through to a seat that I felt would be okay for me to sit on and put my bag on the small table in front of me. I turned sheepishly to the people beside me and introduced myself. I immediately got shushed and one chick pointed a tentacle towards the screen at the front of the room, where an orientation video was playing.

I was fascinated with the set up they had going on. It was wild. The presentation was being spoken by one of the Alliance heads, literally a floating head in a jar speaking in Galactic Basic, which I understood a bit of, not my forte really. It was okay though because on my desk I had hundreds of options for subtitles to choose from so I could follow along. While the presenter spoke the screen flashed different colours for those who communicated that way, and also emitted substances for those who used chemoreception. It was very inclusive and very cool. I took a moment to glance around at the various aliens in the room with me and almost squealed in awe. I’d been a lot of places in the universe but I’d never seen a place with so much diversity. There were a lot of aliens I recognised and a lot I didn’t but I slid my eyes over every section, taking in all the different colours and shapes and faces.

Across the room an alien floated upside down on the ceiling, tendrils pointing downwards at the screen. I didn’t know the species but that was awesome.

Further down on the wall was a Matraxan, a little purple starfish alien whose one eye blinked rapidly as it took everything in; I’d been on Matraxa the first time I learnt about the Alliance and it would be neat to work with their species again.

Speaking of working with, if I remembered right that guy there was a Staphan. Termite-like, flickering wings, communicated telepathically with each other. They were the native species of Staphas, which is where Alliance Base 17, the one I would be working on, orbited around.

Ooh, and over there! A whole row of Fullerton Asteroid-Archipelago Gobbleforms! I’d only seen one once before on an asteroid colony. They were blobby dudes who spoke by changing colour, and floated in the right gravity, but otherwise had to use their limbs to propel themselves.

At the end of my row sat an Andruin, and I had to physically tear my eyes away to stop myself from staring. Andruin’s were ethereal beings, vaguely humanoid but also partway in another dimension. They glowed faintly and just generally looked a bit terrifying, not because they looked dangerous but because of how almost normal they seemed, yet you could always tell there was something eerie about them. Until recent times, the main continent of Andruin had been ruled by a tyrannical government which had sold off many of their people as slaves to other planets. This had ended when an Andruin known as the Protector had overthrown them as the head of an activist group. The Protector was weirder than most Andruin’s because she could traverse the transdimensional space and thus teleport almost anywhere in the universe merely by thought, and also she had lightning powers. She’d become a living legend in the galaxy right now, and I had heard that Andruin had recently signed a treaty with the Alliance and would now be once again involved in intergalactic affairs. So that was pretty cool.

I realised that I had immediately become distracted from the video I was supposed to be watching. It wasn’t like it was a boring one either, it was quite engaging. I was just very talented like that. I forced myself to pay attention, pulling out a little gadget I’d made to fiddle with for this very purpose.

“As a member of the Alliance you will all be involved in our important work in maintaining intergalactic peace and security, through upholding the requirements of each planetary treaty, delivering eleemosynary aid, promoting sustainable development and fostering unity and empowerment. It is vital to everything we do that we are meeting the inherent rights of all beings, and being respectful to all cultures and values. To this end the Alliance developed the Gigaanum Development Goals, and an essential part of your training will be learning those goals and how you personally and as part of the wider organisation contribute to the bettering of the whole galaxy.”

I smiled and pressed on the translator so I could have simple answers for some of the difficult words that were being said. I didn’t receive a high school education after all. I thought about Abigail, my best friend from the planet Flauraan, and how excited this speech would be making her. She loved big words and social justice, she was that sort of intellectual person. I wished she was here with me right now, so I could watch her face as she looked around the room. If I had been excited to see aliens, she would be even more excited. She’d only ever left her planet once in her life, and that had been to go to Halapatov, where all the people looked like humans anyway (though they did have telekinesis). Also I missed her. She wasn’t only my best friend, she was basically my only friend. My lifestyle hadn’t exactly helped me to get to know many people closely, and I had to admit as keen as I was to join the Alliance, a little bit of fear spoke in the back of my mind. I was so used to being on my own, jumping from place to place, but I didn’t know how to make friends, and I was about to have a somewhat stable job where I’d be around the same people for extended periods of time. Even without looking that far ahead, I was spending the next three months here on Neon doing training and my mouth went dry as I looked around the room once more. Would I even be able to make friends here? I didn’t know, and despite being in a room with hundreds of people I felt very alone.

The rest of orientation went by in a blur. We were given an overview of the courses and of the campus, broken into groups to discuss what we were most looking forward to from working in the Alliance, introduced to various Alliance staff who would be working with us, had time to ask questions and then there was a lot of finnicky stuff to do. Like being measured for uniforms, have ID cards printed, have the Alliance grade organic translators fitted in our ears, check over our paperwork, get access to the campus wifi and then, after hours of this stuff, supper!

I picked from the multicultural swash of finger foods and chomped down on some Rocattian eel puffs, dipped some oiberries in chocolate sauce and sipped green carbonated foam as I made small talk with the people around me. All in all, orientation was good.

It was nearing the end of a Neon day, and as it was close to dark, we were ushered off to our dormitories where we would be staying for the duration of training.

Being in such a rush when I’d arrived, I hadn’t gotten the chance to notice the layout of this little Alliance settlement. There was the main training centre where most of my theory classes as well as some practical would take place, which was designed to blend in with the local architecture, all round and coloured with the orange Alliance flag as well as a lot of smaller planet flags flying over the entrance and signs that flashed in an almost incomprehensible number of languages.

There was the mess hall where we had our supper, with lots of devices and stuff to facilitate different species’ molecular and dietary needs. There was the ship ground where I’d arrived, with some parked ships off to the sides. I made a mental note to go admire them when I had free time. According to my map there were other buildings which were offices and behind the training centre there was a large open area for outside activities relevant to our learning. And on the edges of the campus were the dormitories.

Unlike all other parts of the training grounds, which emphasised diversity and integration, the dormitories were separated by species, or to be more exact, species type. This was apparently in part to help us feel comfortable as we transitioned to such a diverse organisation, but it was also just practical because obviously different species were different sizes and had different needs. Equity instead of equality and all that. I passed the plasmaform dorms with my hands covering my eyes, the dorms of the silicon based life forms and moved onto the dormitories for carbonoforms, ie. me, which looked a lot like an apartment building. As I took the lift up to my designated room, I wondered if there were even any other humanoid (oops I mean wormiform) people here or if I would be on my own.

I tapped my ID card on the door and it opened to one of the messiest rooms I’d ever seen in my life, and I’d been in some messy ones. There were clothes and toiletries spread around the room, which had four sets of bunk beds set into the walls and a door that probably led to a wormiform appropriate bathroom. Sprawled on the floor with their legs crossed in the air was a person around my age, dressed in a snazzy blue suit and heeled boots, with skin far paler than mine and jet black hair tied in a bun. This person looked up curiously as I entered the room, and I glimpsed wild eyes before they jumped up to greet me.

“Hey, I got a roommate! Epic.” They bounded across the room and grabbed me in a half handshake half hug. I responded enthusiastically, though a bit stunned. “What’s ya name slick?”

“Uh, Sophie.” I said. “What about you?”

“Beth.” They were chewing what seemed like gum and they blew an impressive bubble which popped in my face. “They/them pronouns. You human then?”

“Yep.”

“Earth human or colony?”

“Uh, Earth, I guess. You?” I asked curiously.

“I grew up in a ring world near Alpha Centauri. Oh, also, I’m not human exactly. Half human, half Shalronite.”

“Oh, really? I’ve been to Shalron!” I burst out, excited to have something in common with my roommate. “Have you ever visited?”

“Oh, uh, no, I’ve never gotten the chance to go myself but um… I’ve heard it’s lovely.” I nodded. It was a lovely place, although my personal experience there had been a bit messed up. I probably shouldn’t tell that particular story to Beth. They glanced down at my hand, because I was still holding my bag, and then put their hands on my shoulders. “Agh, I’m so sorry, you haven’t even put your stuff down yet. Which bed do you want?”

I looked around the room, noting the one bed with crumpled sheets that was probably Beth’s and then shrugged. “I don’t mind. What’s with the bunk beds anyway?”

“I know right.” they said, looking kind of amused. “It’s like we’re on a school camp.”

Not for the first time in my life, the fact that I didn’t go to high school became glaringly obvious and I realised I had missed out on experiences that are supposed to be universal. “Uh, is it?”

“Yeah, course. Bunk beds. A bunch of chums learning things together stuffed in a room. Clothes everywhere.” They must have noticed my blank face because they suddenly stopped and raised an eyebrow at me. “Wait, have you never been on a school camp?”

“Nope.” I admitted.

Beth covered their mouth in shock. “Okay, that changes everything. It has now become my duty to educate you on the classic school camp experience. That starts with sharing a bunk bed.” I followed them over to what was now our bunk bed. “You have to have bottom bunk tho. You can put your stuff here.” They waved their hand over a bedside table which was only partially covered in their things. I smiled and placed down my bag.

“Cool.” I plopped myself down on what I guess was my bed for the next couple of months.

Beth was still looking at where I placed my bag. “Is that all you brought?” I shrugged and nodded. “Packing light. A useful skill. Not one I have mastered.” They gestured at their scattered belongings. “I wasn’t sure what counted as professional attire for Alliance training so I brought myself lots of options. I landed on this one for my most striking first impression. What do you think?” They struck an exaggerated pose.

“Uh… It’s good?” I said with a shrug. I knew nothing about fashion.

“Hmm.” They put their hands in their pockets. “Anyway, so we’ve got a lot of important camp traditions to do. Hmm, what to do, what to do.” Beth pondered for a moment with their hand on their chin and then jabbed a finger in the air triumphantly. “Let’s build a blanket fort!”

My eyes lit up. I hadn’t done that since I was a kid and had, like, an actual family to do it with. “Absolutely!”

About an hour later we had an elaborate construction set up with multiple blanket rooms and a main turret suspended from the ceiling and lit up with tiny torches I’d extracted from the lamps in the room. We were sitting on cushions in the middle of it and drinking hot chocolate that we’d stolen from the mess hall… if that even counted as stealing.

Beth put down their cup and clapped their hands together decisively.

“Okay, Sophie, a very important sleepover tradition is that we have a D&M, and the most vital part is that we talk about our crushes.” Beth said, waggling their eyebrows suggestively at me.

“Oh.” Abigail’s face flashed in my mind; I pushed that thought aside and tried to think of a way to answer, until Beth continued.

“That would be boring though because I don’t know anyone you know and you don’t know anyone I know, so we couldn’t gossip about it. We can save that for once we’ve got some cuties in mind for each other to rate.”

“Oh, okay.” I sipped from my cup. “What should we talk about then?”

Beth sighed and leaned back with their hands resting on the floor. “We’ll just have to get to know each other, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” I thought for a moment. What do you ask someone you’ve just met? “So uh, why are you joining the Alliance?”

They glanced up at me, looking a bit startled. “Uh, well… ya know… I don’t know really. Need a job to survive in this galaxy you know, and this is as good as any. My uncle has some influence in the Alliance so he was able to get me a position in this centre on Valye. So that’s why. Um, what about you, Soph?”

Ah, I should have realised that would get turned back on me. “Uhhh… it’s sort of a long story. But the short version is that I’ve travelled the galaxy a bit and I was involved in the Alliance resettling these people who’d been kidnapped by pirates, and afterwards they offered me a job. And I figured it sounded cool so I said yes.”

Beth studied me with their head cocked to the side. “I get the feeling you have a far more exciting backstory than I do.

I shrugged. “You said you grew up on a ring world, right? That sounds exciting. Tell me about that.”

Beth perked up and launched into a story about a neighbour who’d run a secret circus out of their backyard, and we talked well into the night, falling asleep on the floor on the cushions. I got to say, it was nice to have a friend.

The next morning we went to our first proper class, an Introduction to Alliance Infrastructure. We were split into smaller groups for this and I didn’t end up in the same one as Beth, which was a shame but like, I was pretty good on my own. Wasn’t a big deal.

At lunch time I entered the mess hall and picked up some food, looking around the room for somewhere to sit. As I walked towards an empty space I heard Beth’s voice calling my name.

I turned and saw them waving me over from a table with three other people on it, so I headed over to join them.

“Guys, this is my roommate Sophie. These guys were in my class this morning Soph. This is Tok.” They waved their hand in the direction of a slug like guy who lifted a tentacle in greeting. “Belatadiakorisafosaea.” The Staphan in question nodded at me. “And uh… geemo? Gorvu?”

This last guy had a long body and one big eye in the centre of his head. They sighed tiredly. “Gavin, Beth.”

“Oh yeah.” They grinned wickedly.

I smiled brightly as I started to eat my lunch. It was nice to be wanted somewhere. I was used to just imposing myself in most social situations, because I wasn’t good at normal conversation and people generally put up with me, usually a bit reluctantly. I’d been ready to do that over and over again while I was here on Neon, but for some reason Beth had actually invited me to sit with them. I mean, we already were roommates, surely they would get sick of having me around all the time? I pushed aside those fears as they threatened to take root in my brain and I laughed at someone’s story and made a stupid joke and just was happy in this moment.

I needn’t have worried about Beth getting sick of me. Every day after that they made sure we ate together, and we even shared a few classes, including one on rudimentary combat training and also an overview of Alliance devices and machines, where I got to show off my amazing ability to tear machines to pieces and find uses for said parts. Beth was impressed. My instructor wasn’t.

“Finally, you’re back.” Beth said cheekily to me as I entered our room after spending a few hours meticulously putting together all the things I’d pulled apart. It was well past dark. “I saved you some food.” They threw a bag at me.

“Food I can eat?” They stuck their tongue out at me and I returned the gesture, opening the bag to find a sandwich and some pink potato-like chips. I wolfed it all down.

“So what exciting camp experience are we doing today?” I asked Beth once I’d finished.

They thought for a bit. “Hmm, well a classic is sneaking out after curfew. But since we are adults and we don’t have a curfew that might be a bit impossible to achieve.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe we don’t even have a curfew.” A smile crept onto my face as a thought occurred to me. “We could sneak out anyway though.”

Beth raised their eyebrows at me. “Yeah?”

“We’re technically meant to stay on the grounds unless we have permission to leave right? Let’s go out to the city. Get the Neon experience.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Beth walked over to one of the piles of clothes on the floor and rooted through it, throwing fabric around until they extracted a puffy coat lined with stylish fluff which they slipped on. “Let’s do this.”

It wasn’t very hard to leave the Alliance grounds without permission. To be fair, I did have some experience breaking in and out of places, though usually it involved a teleport watch. This time all I needed to do was glitch one security camera and help hoist Beth and myself over a wall.

Not long after we were in the centre of the surrounding city, Beryllium, with aliens bustling about doing whatever you did at night here. Especially in this part of Neon it was very multicultural. We even saw a few humans. We went to a late night bakery, staffed by a native Neonite with glowing purple eyes, and picked out some pastries that wouldn’t burn our tongues off and monched on them as we strolled through the streets. Unlike a lot of cities I’d been in, the natural environment of the planet was really well integrated with the structures here, which was very pleasant to be within.

Beth had a comms device out and was scrolling through Beryllium attractions before they found something they liked and pulled on my arm, dragging me through the city until we found ourselves at the Neon version of an arcade. Well, I wasn’t going to complain.

It turned out that most of the games we didn’t have arms long enough or senses tuned enough to do, but we had fun with a few that were more accessible for us. We had a stupid and enjoyable time. The only time I’d had more fun in my life had been with Abi. I was so so thankful to have a friend like Beth.

Much later we got back to our room, and once we’d gotten ready for bed, Beth began rifling through one of their bags. “There’s a very important tradition we haven’t done yet…” They paused for effect and then pulled out a container and held it dramatically. “Midnight snacks.”

“Ooh. Smart.” I watched as they popped open the lid of the container to reveal a bunch of treats in little foil packages. I barely had a moment to read what they were before Beth snatched one up and ate it, foil and all. They proffered the treats to me.  I picked one up and eyed it suspiciously. I had met a few aliens in the past who could eat inorganic things, but Beth didn’t look like any of them, so maybe the packaging of these treats, which were lollies of some sort, was edible. I turned the snack over in my hands. I sniffed it. And then I went hey what the hell and stuffed it in my mouth.

Only after I’d done so did I notice the amused look Beth was giving me, and as I started to gag and cough the snack back out they burst into a fit of laughter.

I spluttered and bent over double and Beth rolled around on the floor, clutching their sides and giggling uncontrollably. I recovered quicker than them and sat there trying to retain some sort of dignity as they tried to sit up, looked at me again and burst back into laughter. Okay, okay, I’m dumb, but like, it was a fair assumption. Sort of.

“WHY… WHY WOULD YOU- BAHAHA.” Beth pointed at me and their face contorted as they continued to laugh. Finally they sat up and tried to keep a straight face as they looked at me. “Why would you do that? Can you eat foil?”

“Uh…” I said intelligently. “I thought I might be able to. Guess not.”

“Right.” Beth said and promptly popped another foil snack into their mouth and started crunching it with their teeth. They tossed me one. “Unwrap it this time.”

Time flew by pretty fast as we continued to train and take part in shenanigans. Over the course of our three month training, we learnt a hell of a lot of stuff. We studied the basics of multiform first aid, learnt how to navigate the extensive online network the Alliance maintained to keep all of their programs running, had classes on social justice and the core values of the Alliance as well as a simple history of important treaties and policies we would need to understand in order to help people without breaching our scope of practice. See, I’m using fancy words, that means we learnt a buttload. Beth continued their mission of teaching me school camp traditions, so we watched bad old movies and played holocard games and set off the fire alarm and went to a flying fox in the surrounding city and we quizzed each other on content for our exams we had to pass to qualify as an Alliance agent. It was a good and fun time.

We passed our exams. We completed a long list of camp experiences. We got our official uniforms. Our placements were finalised. It all happened too fast; we had to go from this fun bubble on Neon into the real world, and work.

On our final day, Beth and I cleaned our room and packed everything up, blasting Beth’s playlist. It was hard to believe that training was over, and we’d be going off to our Alliance jobs now. Before we departed for the ship ground, I tackled them with a massive hug and we stood in the hallway like that for a bit.

“I’m gonna miss you Beth.” I said, muffled into their shoulder.

They laughed so that they wouldn’t cry and pulled back, pointing their finger at my face. “Babe, don’t talk like that. You won’t be missing anything. We are going to talk everyday and visit each other whenever we can, okay?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’ve got me on Fishbank right?”

“Course I do.”

“Good. If you don’t talk to me I am going to come blow up Alliance Base 17.”

“Fair enough. If you don’t talk to me I will add thrusters to the base and pilot it to Valye so I can crash it into you.”

“We’re agreed then.” Beth shouldered one of their many bags and almost dropped the ones they had clutched in their hands. Since I only had the one backpack, I took another of their bags so they wouldn’t upend themself before we even got to the landing bay.

We headed downstairs and checked out on the system, transferring our profiles to each of our destinations, our new jobs and homes for who even knew how long.

When we arrived, my ship was waiting ready to take me, some of the Staphans, and a few other aliens to Alliance Base 17.

Knowing I had to leave basically right now, I handed Beth their bag and tried to think of a good way to say goodbye.

Beth spoke first. “I’m glad we got roomed together Soph. It’s been a good time.”

“Yeah.” I said, affection rippling through me. “Beth… thank you for being my friend.”

They smiled at me “Nah. Thank you.

The pilot of my ship beeped the horn behind me.

Beth pushed me. “Go on. I’ll talk to you soon. I wanna hear everything about the base.”

I nodded and turned away, rushing to enter my ship. I waved just before the entry bay closed and I settled into one of the side seats, holding my bag to my chest.

The Alliance had already surprised me. Among everyone I could’ve met, I’d made friends with Beth, someone as chaotic as me and who actually liked me and wanted to be my friend. I couldn’t wait to keep in touch with them, to visit them.

With a smile, I wondered what was in store for me now.

 

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The New Head Commissioner

Of note:
This story takes place several years in the future from the rest of these stories.


It was an average day on Alliance base 17. Staff went about their daily business, analysing data, organising meetings, writing reports, going over daily messages, and, in one corner of the main offices, Beth Colden was hanging upside down from the ceiling.

“Let me know if you see Robyn coming yeah?” They called down to Steve and Sophie, their co-workers, who were sitting at a desk below, poring over a technical diagram.

“Yeah, course.” Sophie replied, as Steve nervously craned his neck to look up at them from his spot on the desk.

“Ey, uh, what’re you doing up there, anyway, Beth?”

“Just testing out a theory.” Beth replied, holding their communicator at arm’s length and squinting at the screen.

“Ah yeah, fair enough bud.” Over the years they’d worked together Steve had learnt not to ask any of his teammates too many questions; they were all a bit crazy if he did say so himself. He loved em, of course, they were his best friends in the world, but they simply didn’t have the same grasp on reality that he did. He prided himself on being the coolest and most well-adjusted member of the team, the one they could all rely on. He piloted their beautiful ship, his baby, the Knife Edge, and kept everything running smoothly. Ask anyone, really. I mean, just look at how Sophie was asking him for help with her current project. He wasn’t even any sort of engineer!

“So what did you think of that, Steve?” she asked him now, pointing at some sort of vent on the diagram.

“That looks good, if I do say so myself, Soph.” he said, wriggling over for a closer look.

She frowned and he realised he’d made a faux pas. “Are you sure? I thought the Xyler system would be more practical there.”

“Oh, of course, of course, I misspoke. The old Xeeler is the obvious one. Can’t go wrong with that.”

“Okay, thanks for helping me bud.” Sophie said, and scribbled an edit in with her stylus, before calling upwards, “Hey, Beth, any update on that Praxeus thing?”

“Hmm? One sec.” Beth responded, voice strained, and Sophie looked up curiously and burst out laughing. They were tangled in the scaffolding they’d been suspending themself from, and trying to excavate themself while simultaneously typing furiously on their device.

“Want some help Beth?” she asked, already climbing on top of her desk and reaching up to grab her friend. Steve climbed up her leg so that he could help too.

“No, I’m fine guys, I think if I just- aah-” Beth struggled as Sophie yanked on their arms. “WAit guys I’ve almost finished this part and then you can-”

“It’s alright Beth we got you bud.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, we’ll get you down.”

Mickey appeared, holding a stack of paperwork. He glanced at them, unperturbed, as they continued to pull on Beth; he was very used to their shenanigans.  “Hey guys, Robyn and I are back. She’s being really quiet, though, and I don’t know why.”

“That’s weird.” Beth said while still trying to type. “Hey Mick. Can we have a hand over here?”

“Of course.” he ambled over and didn’t even need to stand on the table to reach Beth, owing to his height and long appendages.

“Wait–Mickey, no, I meant get them off me.” Beth pushed at his nearest grasper and he wobbled, reaching out for something to grab onto to steady himself and crashing into the desk, upending it with his weight and sending the four of them crashing to the ground in a heap. They all groaned.

“I assume there’s no reasonable explanation for this.” a voice boomed and they all looked up to see the source of it, their team leader.

Robyn stood, four of her limbs on her hips, looking with extreme disappointment at her disheveled team. “Would you all please arrange yourselves with some decorum? I have some news to give you all.”

Steve squeaked and they all scrambled to get back up. Robyn didn’t get ruffled easily and she sounded bothered by something. What could she be about to tell them?

Once they were all up they stood expectantly for Robyn’s announcement but her lenses were pointed at the ground, as if she was avoiding looking at them while she summoned the courage to speak. Mickey trembled with worry, his brains whizzing with ideas for what was wrong or how to comfort her. He had been with her all day, and though he had noticed she had been more reserved than normal, he hadn’t been able to figure out what could have happened, and felt terrible for having missed whatever it was.

“Robyn, are you okay?” he asked and she looked up and waved an arm.

“I’m fine. So… ahem… as you all know, Mickey and I made a diplomatic visit to Thoo today, as a follow up to our recent mission. The endeavour itself was quite successful and while Mickey was occupied with the delegation their minister for Intergalactic Affairs pulled me aside and informed me that they have been searching for a new head commissioner for the Alliance branch on Thoo, to replace the previous who recently resigned.” she paused and wrung her four hands nervously.

“Yeah?” Beth pressed softly after a few moments.

“They offered me the position, effective immediately.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. Mickey quaked. “What did you say?”

Robyn smiled weakly at them all, still torn. “I asked to think on it today and give them an official response by tomorrow. It is a prominent position, the kind I have been aiming for throughout my career, but there are many factors to consider. It is not an easy decision.”

Sophie put a hand on Robyn’s arm. It spoke to the vulnerability she was expressing that Robyn did not immediately remove it. “You should take it Robyn! It’s the perfect job for you.”

“You are more than qualified for it, Robyn.” Mickey added. “You are the most dedicated, intelligent and skilled Alliance agent I know. I’m sure they would appreciate you so much on Thoo. I would miss you but more than anything I want you to do what you think is right for you, and I think this is it.”

“Mickey’s right.” Steve nodded at her. “Do what you think is best, eh.”

“Yeah.” Beth added. “You’ll be kickass whether you stay here with us or go lead an entire planet’s Alliance base. Come on dude that sounds so cool though.”

“Thank you all for your support.” Robyn said, sounding suddenly choked. She fixed her optical sensors on the ground again, then looked up, and the team couldn’t help but notice how teary she had become. “I confess that the thought of leaving here is the main thing holding me back from accepting straight away. You are all very dear to me and I hate the thought of losing you.” She said and they all erupted with “Awwwww, Robyn.” and moved forward to swarm her with hugs.

She let them. Mickey embraced her tightly and then pulled back and spoke earnestly.

“Robyn, no matter what happens or where any of us go, you will never lose us. We are a family and we will always keep in touch because we love you.”

“We will come visit you on Thoo all the time.” Sophie said.

Robyn smirked, composing herself quickly, as she hated expressing emotions like this, especially in a work setting. “That sounds quite excessive.” She beamed at them all and Mickey smiled, so happy to be able to see her love for them, and thinking of how close they’d gotten since they’d first started working together. Finally she conceded, “I will tell them that I will take the job.”

“Wooh!” Sophie cheered very loudly, causing some of their coworkers to give her weird looks.

“Alright!” Steve said and Mickey wrapped Robyn in another hug.

“You know what we need to do now right?” Beth grinned.

“Go send them my official acceptance letter.” Robyn answered.

“Okay, after that.” Beth scoffed. “We need to celebrate! We are going out tonight lads.”

Robyn’s face reflected her internal struggle as she considered this proposition. Finally she said, “Alright.”

_____

“Guuuuuuyys! I love you so much!!!” Robyn threw an arm around Beth’s neck and downed another cocktail.

“Mmmm.” Sophie slurred, head against the table. Steve was passed out between her and Mickey, who clutched his drink and sublimated gases, before mumbling, “Yeahh, love you.” They had been in this club for the past few hours, chatting and laughing and reminiscing about the many missions they had been on together. It had been fun at first, but Robyn kept ordering them drinks, forced them all to dance with her, and now the night was starting to wind down.

Garbled conversation continued until Beth laughed, too loudly, and decided, “I think maybe we should head back to base. Come on guys.” They scooped Steve up in their hands and pulled on Sophie, who’d had just a bit too much to drink and slid to the floor.

“Oops.”

“It’s alright, I got her.” Mickey bent down and swung Sophie over his shoulder. Robyn leant on his other shoulder and they headed towards the exit and called a Zuber.

Robyn pulled out her comm and opened an app that she rarely used, except for when forced to for work, the Golon Fish-Bank. She scrolled mindlessly, giggling every now and then, mostly at official posts that weren’t humorous in any way, until she saw a post that made her cackle wildly for a full two minutes. She leaned over in her seat to poke Mickey, who jerked awake.

“Mickey! Mickeeeyyyyyyy. Look at this, look at these funny yellow guys. I love them so much.”

He stared blearily at the comm and tried to comprehend what he was being shown. Not understanding in the slightest, he laughed politely and dropped his head back to sleep again. Beth snuck a glance in the direction of the comm and snorted, mumbling to themself, “fricking boomer memes.”

Back at the base, they made their way through to their living quarters. Mickey took Sophie and Steve and lay them down in their rooms, while Beth scrabbled up some food and water to help sober them all up. They had always been able to handle alcohol well. Robyn sat and ate when Beth offered her some. Her manic drunkenness had worn off and now she sat limply in her suit, staring off into space introspectively.

“Beth, thank you for putting up with me.” she said suddenly as Beth was about to head to their room.

Beth turned and raised an eyebrow. “Hey Robyn, it’s alright. You’re my mate.”

“Thankkkkks, Beth. But like, I know I can be mean sometimes. I mean it’s not my fault you all don’t know how to do things properly. But even when I’m a jerk you are all still there for me. I’ll miss you.” She lolled her head back on the couch, looking at the ceiling.

Beth was speechless for a moment. They hadn’t always had the easiest relationship with Robyn due to their stark differences in, well, everything, but over the years their bond with the whole team had grown so strongly and now they couldn’t imagine life without Robyn in it, maddening as she might be sometimes. They wondered what was going to happen to their team, if they’d get a new team leader or maybe just have a shift in the type of cases they were expected to do. Thinking about the future made their head all woozy.

“I’ll miss you too Robyn.” Beth said quietly.

Robyn didn’t reply; she had fallen asleep on the couch. Beth smirked, knowing that Robyn would be annoyed in the morning. They eased her head down into a more comfortable position, draped a blanket over her to keep her suit adequately heated, and went to bed.

A week later, the gang gathered at the docking bay to see Robyn off as her transition became official. As her ship arrived to take her to Thoo, she said her goodbyes to her teammates, expression composed in a way she thought fit for such a parting.

“See you around, Rob.” Steve said from Beth’s shoulder as Beth shook Robyn’s hand farewell.

“Of course, I will come visit periodically, and will be very interested to see all your progress.” she said, and then turned to hold her hand out to Sophie, who threw herself at Robyn in a hug. “Sophie- please-”

“We’ll miss you so much Robyn!!” she said. “We’ll always be your team.”

“Always.” Mickey added and joined in the hug, lifting them both into the air with his long graspers wrapped tightly round the both of them. Sophie laughed and detached herself from Robyn once back on the ground.

Mickey pulled a wrapped object out of his pocket and handed it over to Robyn. “I got you this for you to remember us by, when you’re not with us.”

Robyn quaked, silently cursing Mickey for giving her a gift and making her feel like crying. With great restraint, she opened the package and the lights on her dials flashed as she saw what it contained – a printed polaroid photograph of the five of them on their night out the day she’d decided to take the job. He’d adorned it in a nice frame, and notes from all of them were written on it.

“Mickey-” she started to say chokingly but then cleared her throat. “Thank you. I will place it on my new desk when I arrive at the Alliance base on Thoo. I will contact you all then.”

At a signal from the pilot, she picked up her bags and headed towards the ship, boarding and sitting near a window.

As the ship hummed to life and started to pull away, she looked out at her teammates, her friends, her family, who were all waving vigorously at her, not wanting her to leave but happy for her nonetheless and a single tear encroached her sensors. Not wiping it away, she clutched the photo frame to her chest and took a last look at her team, before she was carried away from them to her new life.

 

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DILF

‘Sophie, am I a DILF?’ Mickey asked suddenly, peering at her over his sniffcomm.

‘Mmm?’ Sophie said. It was one of their clerical-work days, which meant filling out reports, sending in forms, correcting sheets. It meant a lot of dull-faced procrastination. She was somewhere between asleep and awake. She drooled, a little, on the table. She kept scrolling mirthlessly through the Fish-Bank.

The Golon Fish-Bank was the greatest poison ever inflicted on their segment of the galaxy. It was a social network, a huge one, the hugest one. It survived the language and concept barriers across the galaxy in a way few communications technologies ever could because of its incredible autopsionic translation technology and because its design ensured that nothing of any value was ever communicated across it.

‘Steve said I was one.’

‘A what?’

‘A DILF. D-I-L-F. He said it like he was joking, but also like it was a compliment. He got called off to oversee ship maintenance before I could ask him.’

‘DILF, DILF,’ Sophie muttered, rolling the word curiously around her mouth. She swore she recognised it, vaguely, distantly. She could find no associations for it, however. ‘Dilphite? Dilphus-3? We worked with them.’

Mickey shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make sense at all. And Steve was sick for that one, too.’

Sophie curled her lip and fiddled with a stray pen on her desk. She shut her comms. ‘Hey, Beth,’ she said. It whistled over Beth’s head. They were deep in their work. They hunched over their monitor, fingers working at the keyboard in a blur. In a single automatic movement they reached down, swept up one of the other stray pens invading their desks, and ate it.

‘Beeeeth,’ Sophie said. ‘Beth,’ she said again, whapping them lightly on the head.

Beth’s train of thought imploded. They shook themself like an animal emerging from a stream.

‘Yeah?’

‘D’you think Mickey’s a DILF?’

Beth clamped their mouth shut. Their whole face bulged, slightly. They tried very hard to not release any noise. They breathed, slowly, in through their noise, out through their mouth.

‘DILF? Did you say DILF?’ Beth asked.

Mickey nodded. ‘Steve said I was one. Is that true?’

Beth’s whole face began to bulge, again. They covered their mouth with one hand, and then another. They crumpled under the desk for a few moments, exhaling air. They sounded like a cold breeze coming through a dark cave.

After a few moments they emerged, completely fine.

‘Beth, are you OK?’ Mickey asked.

‘Maybe you should ask Robyn,’ Beth said hastily. ‘Maybe Robyn knows. I think she’s… y’know, her expertise, right? She knows everything, right? You should see if she. Thinks. You’re a DILF.’

‘We’ll go right now,’ Sophie exclaimed, slamming her hands on her desk and standing up.

Mickey glanced down at the work on his sniffcomm. He considered the responsibilities of his employment.

He stood up, too. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible,’ he determined. He looked sincerely at Beth. ‘Thanks, Beth.’

‘Yeah, no, problem, Mickey, ah, that’s no problem. Always, ahhh, got you, dude.’ They raised a thumbs up and kept their face completely still. The sides of their mouth twitched.

So they left for Robyn’s office.


Robyn was only a team supervisor and was technically not high enough rank to warrant an office of her own. There were reasons, however, that her name sent chills down the spines of the Alliance bureaucrats. She wielded legal loopholes like daggers, fished up technicalities from lines of text so big the holoscreens touched the ceilings and scraped the floors. She was a deeply boring person with no real hobbies and an eye for poor wording like a hawk. So, she had scored herself an office.

She had scored herself a lovely, comfy room with a soft red carpet and humble orange lighting and walls so polished that light skated over them, slid and refracted around. Her desk was crafted of some carbonous material (wood, or some such–she’d never had the stuff back home), crafted, as in, with hands, and tools, and sweat. It was a grainy, irregular material, dark and wavy. But in a pretty way. She liked to touch it. It felt softer than anything else in the entirety of Alliance Base 17, and, yet, felt fundamentally sturdy. She had shelves, also made from that ‘wood’, which would have looked lovely with assorted books and tomes and which she filled instead with folders, self-help manuals, and a nearly endless collection of 2nd place trophies.

She had scored herself, more than anything, privacy. Peace. Even moreso than her bunkroom, she felt like she could relax in her office. Work relaxed her–she liked being around her forms, her folders. She laid back in her chair and let it all seep in.

The door burst open.

‘Sophie!’

‘What? Oh. You’re right.’

The door slammed shut. After a few moments, there came a few cautious knocks.

Robyn vented air out of her ducts and leant her chin on an actuator. The door was knocked again, even louder and faster this time, brutishly.

‘Come in,’ she said.

The door slipped open. Mickey gingerly stepped in, smiling warmly. Sophie pressed against him, wiggled an arm into the room, finally squeezed past him and scampered in. Her boots were encrusted with an unnameable variety of liquids and messes. Every time she took a step Robyn couldn’t help but wince, like her carpet was a part of her nervous system.

‘Oh. It’s you two. I could have never guessed.’

‘Really?’ asked Sophie.

Robyn seethed. She vented more hot air. ‘Yes. You are always a pleasant surprise.’

‘Thanks!’ Sophie yelled, immediately examining the contents of Robyn’s shelves with a focus and fascination that disturbed her.

Robyn rubbed and adjusted her optical sensors. ‘I hope this is for something important.’

‘I need to know if I’m a DILF or not,’ Mickey said.

‘Steve called him one,’ Sophie added. ‘And Beth thought you’d know.’

Robyn removed the lenses from her optical sensors, one by one, and quietly polished them. ‘Beth told you to come here?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sophie, looking dead on at one of Robyn’s 2nd place speed-knitting trophies. ‘Thought you’d know that kind of thing. Y’know? Hey, you speed-knit? Competitively?’

‘Speed-knat. I couldn’t stand the… favouritism of the judges,’ Robyn said, taking time in the middle of her seething to appreciate her own wordplay. She thought, again, of what Mickey had just asked her, and her heart sank once more. She looked, pleadingly, at him. ‘I’m sorry. Could you just… ask me that again? I think I misheard you.’

‘Am I a DILF?’ Mickey asked.

‘Dilphite? Dilphus-3?’ Robyn was begging for clarification. She was desperate.

‘That’s what I thought!’ Sophie said. ‘No, it’s DILF, we’re sure.’

‘Are you a DILF,’ Robyn repeated. She nodded. ‘That is the question.’

Mickey nodded: ‘Yes.’

‘The question being, are you, Mickey, a DILF. This is what I am being asked.’

Sophie nodded: ‘Yeah.’

‘And Beth sent you to do this, rather than answering it themself?’

Mickey and Sophie both nodded: ‘Yes,’ they said, together.

Robyn sat in silent contemplation. She considered the facts objectively. She looked at them all with distant and unbiased eyes. She considered the facts, even, subjectively. To her horror, it was clear as day.

‘Yes. Mickey, you are almost certainly a DILF. You might be the… most suiting owner of that title I have ever met.’ She took her lenses out once more, polished them unnecessarily. ‘Please get out of my office.’

‘You’re a DILF!’ Sophie cheered, slapping Mickey on the back.

‘I’m a DILF!’ Mickey exclaimed, flicking Sophie in the face and sending her staggering across the room.

Sophie looked hastily to Robyn. ‘Hey–am I a DILF?’

‘Not only are you not a DILF and not only could I never personally ever consider you a DILF, but you cannot be a DILF. No matter how much you tried.’

‘Aw.’

‘And–Mickey,’ Robyn said, as they were leaving her room. ‘Please don’t… look me in the eyes for the next day or two.’

‘Okay!’ Mickey said, parading cheerfully out of the room.


‘Beth what the hell is happening?!’ Steve asked, the second he returned to their shared workspace. He squeaked slowly off his extra-small sized hovercarrier, onto Beth’s desk. ‘Where the hell is Mick?! What’s he done?! Beth?! Are you dying?!’

Beth was lying on the floor, trying their hardest to steady their breathing. They had their comms in their hands. Their cheeks were stained with tears. Every now and then they seemed to stabilise themself, before suddenly crumpling into the floor once again in a fit of manic giggling.

They silently held up the screen of their comms to Steve.

Mickey’s Fish-Bank account had updated. A line had been added to his personal description, which said: ‘proud confirmed dilf!!’

Steve looked on in horror as Beth scrolled down.

‘my boss @robyn-alliance-work-account and my friend @steevefastman both said i was a dilf so it must be true!! i want to thank all of my followers for making this possible. i would not be a dilf without all of your support.’

Steve watched, in horror, at the rate that it gathered likes.

He overheard a conversation passing by:

‘Very bold of him…’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it? He is a DILF.’

‘Oh. Gods. Yes.’

He looked right at Beth’s face. They’d gone pale from a sheer inability to breathe. They giggled so hard they snorted. Beth almost never snorted.

‘Oh my gawd. What have I done?’

The Melting of Ash-Boy

I was born in a pot in a corner between a pub and a grocery store where the eddies of wind spun arcane circles with the dried leaves and litter. I have a medical condition. The science-folk called it ‘Spontaneous Generation of Sentience’, SGS, ess-gee-ess, which is rubbish, because I’m the only person who’s ever had it. It seems unscientific to me.

There were always cars rushing by and their engines sounded like dead men’s moans. The roads were too thin and the drivers were too angry and it was a horn honking at a red light that awoke me. That car horn was designed for me. I can’t fathom any other reason for somebody to honk their car horn at that exact moment. Call it divine.

I despise cars, I must comment. Always hated them. I see them drive by and all I can think of is obliteration, sheer obliteration. If that car horn is the closest thing I have to a father I might be said to have daddy issues. Am I getting ahead of myself?

It was midday, then, and the pavement was gleaming white and there were no clouds. The sky was brightest and widest thing I’d ever seen, endless brainless blue, unfathomable, and it stretched for so nonsensically long it made me feel horrendous. And the sun was hot but the wind was cold, so I felt the sharp thin rays digging into my skin and the knife-breeze jabbing my limbs. I am not designed for temperatures, in general. I cannot handle heat and, evolutionarily speaking, I am designed for the natural environment of a closed pot and nowhere else. It was horrible.

I am more accustomed to night than I am day. I have wide white eyes that catch the streetlights and my skin is composed of a grainy dark substance similar to ash. I blend in among shadowed concrete or lumpy rubbish bags, and there are many dark and flitting things on those nights, on those streets.

I subsisted on scraps. You know how it is–dumpsters behind McDonalds, the sauce in a container that once held curry, chips under tables. I developed a kind of technique which I am by societal obligation no longer allowed to use.

I merely had to make, in the back of my throat, a low gargling noise, then raise it, slowly, slowly, until it became a great shrill scream. I would slink out of the darkness into the colourful blazing lights (green and red and white always) of some streetside kebab shop and they would flicker gently and the bold shadows of plastic chairs and white tables would rumble and I’d charge at somebody, yelling. Invariably they’d howl and flee and my dinner that night would be somewhat warm. Or they would beat me to a pulp, which isn’t actually so bad when you get used to it. In doing this I had doubled both quantity and quality of my meals.

I was an entrepreneurial soul. I might have been invited onto Sunrise, actually, if I didn’t smell like wet rubbish all the time. I was a fighter, you see. I spent all day pulling myself up by my metaphorical bootstraps. I always thought to myself whenever I peeled away the moist wrapping from a mouldy cheeseburger: for my grand successes, I have nobody to thank but myself.

I was fine with this for a while. I should explain where the turn, as it were, comes in. It is like this: I do not handle rain well.

As I mentioned earlier, and as you can very clearly tell, and as my name might suggest, I am composed of a substance that, if it isn’t ash, sure is heaps like it. The science-folk have not gotten back to me about that yet, though, apparently, I make for very good litterbox filling. My physical structure leaves very much to be desired. When it rains, I come apart. It isn’t painful and is, actually, very pleasant, which is even more horrifying, if you ask me.

I grew to favour a particular park table. A creek ran through this cluttered flattened segment of suburbia, and it took with it a rustling line of grass and knobbly gum trees. This was enough, apparently, to constitute a park.

The table squatted on a platform of concrete jutting out of the dry grass between the road and its cracked tarmac like torn skin, sunlight sliding down dusty Toyotas, and a wretched playground all hunched metal with paint peeling and ropes frayed and the metal slide going six-hundred million degrees celsius in the summer emerging from a moist and dirty pool of wood chips like a whale.

The table was decent as tables went. It was crumbly raggedy wood and the parts without cobwebs had ants. Frequently food was left behind there, collapsing sandwiches or the lumpen remains of a snack pack, a spilled over can of coke. There was a rectangular rubbish bin next to it where I frequently dug out some of my most filling meals. It had a roof, most of all! Rafters crisscrossed up there, stuffed with dust and cobwebs and insect corpses. I rested at times atop those rafters and I was unstoppable. A roof is a wonderful thing, you know. I was sheltered from the very eyes of God himself.

It was a humid and sunny day and clouds piled up on the corners of the horizon in wild cliffs, jaggedy, like Greek temples or French castles, battlements and bricked walls descending, and the sunlight danced in the cracks between. It felt like breathing through a dirty sock and I was lounging in my rafter when kids arrived. Loud, of course, chortling at something or another, of course, and I had to make sure I didn’t groan. I didn’t count them. I don’t keep track of these things. There was five of them or six of them and I loathed them. I prize my personal space. They stunk like sweat and dust and they flung lumpy bags to the floor and they sat, loud and chortling, at the table.

I hate groups of people as much as I hate cars. I’ve been trying to figure this out, you know. It’s a sensation in the spine, or like my brain’s going to fall out my skull. I can’t account for it–I suppose it might be some kind of phobia, or hypochondria.

The kids brought out the snack packs and that was their doom. I was starving, you see. I had tried mugging a cricket player for food the other night and he had ruthlessly launched me across the street, through a row of rubbish bins and beer bottles. The greasy, salty scent was healing, in itself, and it was despicable to me that it lay in the hands of my oppressors who, themselves, looked to have never been hit by a cricket bat even once in their combined and privileged lives.

I wasn’t paying attention to things. The wind was picking up.

So I shrieked and I leapt and I scrabbled, the three things I was the best at. This is where that awful picture is from, by the way, that showed up in all the tabloids. In the panic I snatched three whole boxes of that glorious stuff and fled away, into the open, clambered through the play equipment to throw them off.

The rain, of course, came. It fell in jabbing rivulets. It ate everything up, monstrously, ate away the streets and trees and rattled off crooked fences and concrete and cycled upwards as mist so it was all grey glistening madness and I was in the middle of it peeling away. It dug into me, flying knives, and I did not shriek, but clasped my snack packs and clambered towards the table once more, and rising up on all sides like ocean ruins the trees and the equipment and a car’s blaring light and I was unpeeling, understand me, unpeeling. I am not like you because I do not have skin enclosing vital organs and sentience, containing immensities, city-state universe constrained away from the outer universe like a prisoner, but rather I am blatant and open, like a mound of sand, so that there is no distinction from myself and the rain and the wind and it was peeling away, not painfully, mind you, but it was cold and fast and I was not ready. I panicked, having dropped a snack pack, but calmed down when I realised that it was simply because my hand had sloughed off, and then I panicked again when I realised that I had lost my left hand.

You see the situation now, don’t you?

So the mist arose and puddles crept at my legs and I sat melting and dripping (I grabbed my eye between two fingers and shoved it back into place) and clutched a pair of dripping snack packs that tasted of salty mush. And through the raging screaming mist I saw lights, dancing lights, the thrumming singing sounds of a car passing and I thought to myself, unpeeling: ‘Why do I hate cars? And why do I hate groups?’

I had no-one to ask this to but myself, of course, and ask away I did, and didn’t feel particularly much better for it.

Hence why I’m here. I’ve been trying to figure this out. I have a problem, I think. Isn’t that the first step to solving this kind of stuff? Admitting that?

Bossman

Hey ho, hey ho, here comes the bossman, swivelling those cobra eyes like radars, electrical movements like shiftings of servomotors, heartless, of electrons, not neurons but electrons in free cold copper wiring, swivelling here and there.

Here he swivels there he swivels, something reptillian, you know, blood colder than a fence in the morning, and the pupils so black you can’t see nothing behind there, like looking into a dumb animal’s face and confronting nothing at all but nonsense electrical signals.

Hey ho, hey ho, chewing a cigar thick as a thumb, thick as an arm, thick as a cannon, and the smell of smoke, second-hand, acrid like something scraped from a sidewalk, how it coils and grasps at you and how it tunnels into folds and hooks in there. How it gets in the eyes and you tear up, god it hurts, god it stinks. It can’t be good for the lungs, you know, not his–not bossman’s–and not mine. How many fingers now to count the years lost to secondhand smoke off my lifespan? It’s not mine to count anyway, goddammit, it isn’t my problem, but, fuck, it sure should be, shouldn’t it?

Bossman, sauntering in the halls, tie waving, a new one, I swear he’s got a new one whenever I see him, red as a warning, or the flash in your vision when you’re thwacked hard in the skull, red red red as cutting stinging boiling heat melting away the melty extremities you don’t want melted.

I swear he’s got new eyes too, not just the ones in his head, the ones poking out like little balloon binoculars we’re all meant to have, the ones under his shirt. He sprouts them like weeds, new eyes, and they roll and twist and blink and you can see all the movements beneath that white button-up shirt, and he’s never trying to hide it. God knows what they’re looking at, the inside of his own clothes can’t be that fascinating right? The movements of lint? The journey of a lost hair towards the pelvis?

Hey ho, hey ho, fuck that guy. Fuck bossman, fuck you, you goddam dirty son of a bitch. Who are you and who placed you here? Was he born, was he raised? Had a dirty scraped hand been patched with a bandaid, healed fast, pumped up invincible with all that boisterous young vigour? Had he loved and lost or had he never loved at all? Suppose I cut the bossman open, what would spill out, what would drip from that dirty goddam bastard? Pens I suspect, and white handkerchiefs, and a stink like a broke printer.

Anyways he walks past me and he buzzes me with his look, all his eyes, the binoculars up top and the writhing just under his shirt of every young one sprouting and opening, swivelling like radar dishes to point right at me. He’s a mindreader I know, he’s got wiring in his frontal cortex, got extra lab-grown lobes dangling off his spinal cord, and he’s only not fired me because I have him by the balls: because he doesn’t want nobody to know, and he doesn’t give two shits about someone like me unless I cause a big mess. So that’s what I think when bossman (hey ho, hey ho,) walks past: I know I know I know, you dog, I know I know I know. I can see it all writhing down there, I can feel you brushing over my synapses. I know I know I know so let’s just hold this truce together bossman, you dirty son of a bitch.

Sometimes he nods at people as he walks by them. He nods at me, too. I nod back at the bossman.

Back to Short Stories

Giantsmade Shorts

The wind howled over those plains like something dying, whipped against the raft and the dusty hanging hair of the travelling woman and the dry brown scorngrass-wreathed barrel-body of her guide and sent the twisting vines and crawling grey ivy and dried leaves carpeting the ground rustling. The trees were rigid, stony, unmoving, things between plant and gravestone. They drew the travelling woman’s eye and she did not know why. Doves rested on them, silent and thoughtful, and flitted away as the raft approached, and lizards with thin flat heads and slick bodies shimmied away into the litter. The raft was an old and tired creature, and its body creaked in the breeze and its great wood legs, veined up and down with roots hardened and scratched and shell-like from age and effort, thumped and smacked against the ragged earth. Its water-mouth sloshed and gulped, and the guide, more from boredom than necessity, reached, with a milky-white appendage – something between a tendril and plated armour – for a thin stone jug in one of the racks to the side of the raft, filled the mouth, replaced the jug, their other tendrils tight on the control lines.

‘Lots of dead stuff here, maam,’ said the guide, in that low, watery voice the candle-eaters spoke with. They were a southern candle-eater, the travelling woman had gathered, their thick and tall egg-shaped body draped in one of those long sheets of intertwining scorngrass from top to bottom that was classic to the candle-eaters that lived in the plains, revealing only the multitudinous appendages at the bottom. They were thin, youthful – moreso than most candle-eaters, only born a few years ago, maybe. Their wax was still smooth, soft-looking.

‘Nothing but dead things, here, maam, nothing at all.’

The guide was not alone, because the candle-eaters feared loneliness like death and this candle-eater youth probably feared it most of all: from the back of the raft floated the gentle watery snores of an elderly candle-eater, two eerily humanoid arms jutting out of their mass of tendrils, tendrils and body cracked and dusty and old, scorngrass sheet torn at the edges, lazily leaning against the railings of the raft and stoically wobbling at every bump.

The travelling woman, who had been gazing around and hadn’t spotted a single dead thing, turned to the guide. ‘Buried?’

‘No, maam, all over the place, all over.’ The guide did give it a bit of thought, rubbing a tendril against their body, and added: ‘I’m sure there’s at least one buried, though, maam. I haven’t paid too much attention to that, though, maam, if I’ll be honest.’

The travelling woman gazed over the trees, squinting. The trees were tall and thick and strangely segmented, strangely standing, the midday sunlight playing over them and their rough bumpy skin, and she could not help but look over them, try and figure them out. They were so grave, stoic – standing there, rigid as rock, not even shaking as the wind screeched and whipped, the leaves and vines dancing and swinging on them, yet still, sitting utterly still.

‘What are those trees?’ the travelling woman finally found it in herself to ask.

‘The dead things, maam,’ explained the guide, nodding with their whole body. ‘Can you see their beaks, maam?’

Beaks, thought the travelling woman, turning and gazing over the trees, ragged eyebrows rising. Beaks, thought the travelling woman. The bones, stony and grey, of huge dead birds, standing on long thin legs and great necks stretching into the air and gazing into the sky, beaks leant back and turning upwards, all swaddled in vines and leaves and the claws of doves or sudden rushing hands of fleeing lizards. And they stretched off, into the distance, vanishing all the way down into that blue wide sky, a great sea of dead birds, a graveyard forest.

‘The Giants,’ the travelling woman swore.

‘Never heard of this place, maam?’ asked the guide, uninterested in their surroundings as any regular traveller eventually grows to be.

‘I thought they were just being – poetic.’

The guide barked a watery chuckle. ‘No poets down here, maam. We aren’t the artistic sorts. Just a bunch of nomads and gravekeepers, we are. But, then, who isn’t?’

‘Who isn’t,’ agreed the travelling woman, as they travelled through that great field of straight-standing corpses.

‘I hear – from my an’ster, who heard it from their an’ster who heard it from their an’ster, and, uh, back way back – they came here to die, when they got old. This is where the Giants made them.’ A tendril extended and gesticulated at the birds as the raft stomped by. ‘They’re all looking up, cos they’re trying to find the Giants. “Giantsfinder Birds,” is what they called them.’

The travelling woman looked up, with them, and so did the guide, and so did the elderly candle-eater (but only because they happened to be sleeping like that), and the only thing any of them saw was a wide blue sky stretching endlessly and ominously into the distance where it was eaten away by far-off mountainous dark clouds. And there were stars, behind them, and empty blackness. And the Giants were nowhere to be seen.

 


 

The lonely stars glared above in the inky blackness and the pilgrim whistled at them. The pilgrim whistled at the fire, at its orange shuddering glow, at the strange shadows it made dance off the dusty pebbles and dry jutting blades of grass, at its crackling and quiet smoking. He whistled at the dented and stained pot suspended over the fire, and its bubbles and sudden spitting and popping, its warm smell of bognut and cashew and home. He whistled to keep the King of Empty Places away, as all lone travellers like him did, for whom loneliness came like the oppressive stomping of hollow metal boots or like a hard breeze or the glaring of stars on your back so heavy it feels like stone slabs. The insects whistled back at him, clicked from the shadows in the rustling scorngrass, buzzed from the wobbling leaves of the twisting tree above him, or hovered by the fire, tiny dancing motes of light, briefly visible then vanishing once more into darkness. But the loneliness was there, for the pilgrim, and the lonely stars glared down and pressed on him as heavy as stone slabs and he kept whistling, kept watching the pot.

The pilgrim felt the wind on him and he knew immediately that he was not alone. It was thick with thoughts; they echoed and whispered and his studied mind gazed at them, ran them over, felt them. They were old thoughts. He could hear the centuries. He looked up and saw the figure in the distance, outlined against the stars, trundling heavily beneath a huge bag hanging with pouches and long thin jutting objects and jangling metal things. The mutters arrived, again, with the wind, and the pilgrim was struck by the breadth, the depth of them. They flew, thick and flowing like dandruff from a scalp, and the pilgrim was certain that this figure had thought of everything at least once.

The figure trudged into the light, bag tinkling, and the pilgrim felt like he was watching an ancient carving come to life and step out of the wall towards him. The graver walked on legs made of twisted stone, running up to a torso and arms and head made of the same, looking more like he had been dug out of a cliff face rather than sculpted. He towered above, and the bag bulged awkwardly off his spindly figure. The breeze whistled through the dark holes that were the graver’s eyes and mouth, flapped the graver’s raggedy, dust-stained cloak. The pilgrim knew all about the gravers, and so did everyone else, offhandedly out of youth, assumed knowledge, from old stories or cited as sources for this or for that. But they were old things, far away, as far away as home, itself, and the pilgrim was so stunned by coming face to them that he could not help but gasping, just a little.

‘Hello…’ spoke the graver in a voice dusty with years. The graver spoke from a carved mouth on the side of his mouth-hole, because the gravers were created before voices were invented.

The pilgrim nodded awkwardly. ‘Hello.’

‘You are a… mutter-librarian, aren’t you?’ asked the graver. He bent down, began crouching and then – the pilgrim gasped just a little, again – sat, by the fire. ‘Listening to… the breeze, catching the mutters?’

‘I’m a mutter-librarian pilgrim,’ said the pilgrim, looking into the fire, not at the graver.

‘Such an old… institution,’ pondered the graver. ‘Always good, I say… always good to see the youth… involved in such things.’ The graver began chuckling, when he said ‘youth’. He chuckled to himself, chuckled and chuckled at his own joke, and it sounded like a cavern collapsing. The joke was that everyone was youthful, to the gravers, even the wind.

‘Catch anything… interesting, off me?’

‘No. Uh, no. Um. No,’ sputtered the pilgrim, who was wondering if he was meant to kneel or perform some sort of bow, by now.

The graver chuckled his cavern-chuckle again. ‘I never was very… adventurous, no.’

The pilgrim watched his soup bubble and grumble, and he knew that it would be done soon. He did not dare touch or even look at the ladle, for fear of offending the graver. So he watched it bubble and grumble, and the insects chirped far away and the stars glared and the graver relaxed, leaned back and released his bag off his back, thumping and tinkling to the ground.

‘Lovely smelling… stew, friend,’ said the graver, at which point the pilgrim immediately recalled his etiquette. He nearly stumbled, somehow, though he was sitting on the ground. He began opening his pack, for a second bowl.

‘It will nearly be ready. Take some.’ He caught himself. ‘If you please.’

‘But how… I would love to!’ exclaimed the graver, taking the bowl in a hand worn and twisted and dusted with years. The air was thick with mutters. Insects chirped.

‘Graver,’ said the pilgrim.

‘Graver! Yes… yes, graver,’ replied the graver, nodding. ‘That is… what we are called, now… did you know that they used to call us “Flutefolk”?’

The pilgrim did not know that.

‘I was never a… graver, myself. Morbid business… only Flutefolk – oho! – Gravers, now, I suppose, ever did it.’ the graver sat back and he smiled faintly. ‘But how old we are… and all we are known for now is… carving the graves! Building their flute holes! Carrying them, placing them… I can think of little more suited for us, can you?’

The pilgrim blinked.

The graver chuckled cavernously, slowly. ‘Walking graves for the giants. And so old. Graver… Nothing more… suits us, no.’ He chuckled and chuckled.

‘Graver,’ said the pilgrim, once more.

The graver looked back at the pilgrim, and gently nodded for him to continue.

‘Why are you – what is it you need?’ the pilgrim asked, as respectfully as he could.

The cavern chuckle came. ‘What do I need… why, stew, friend. And… stories, perhaps.’

The pilgrim gazed into the fire and still did not believe the graver, or understand him. ‘Is that all?’

‘Tell me, friend…’ said the graver, checking on his fish. ‘Have you any stories?’

The pilgrim had plenty of stories, and he knew that none of them compared to the stories floating on the mutters from the graver on the wind, or the stories still in the graver’s head and in his past. ‘None. None good.’

But the pilgrim looked up and he looked at the stars glaring at him and at the heavy darkness shrouding the far off path and the blackened silhouettes of shivering trees and the long scorngrass. ‘Why are you here?’ asked the pilgrim, once more.

‘Don’t you believe… me?’ asked the graver. He looked right at the pilgrim and the pilgrim looked back – through those eye-holes, at the darkness behind. The graver chuckled.

‘Maybe I was being… somewhat facetious. Why am I here?’ the graver looked over the pilgrim, and looked up at the stars and over the shivering twisted trees that looked like shuddering broken arms in all the blackness. ‘What I seek is… rest, because I am so tired and have been so tired for so long. And this food… because I have not eaten for so long, either. And company, because I have had… none, for so long, too.’

The pilgrim nodded, slowly. The stew was nearly ready. He glanced at the ladle.

‘And I have felt, or, ah… should I say not felt the presence… what do you call it, now?’ The graver looked so puzzled, and so old. He looked almost familiar, in that sense, and the pilgrim tried to put a finger on it. ‘The sound of metal boots… in the darkness? When the stars… glare and it feels as heavy as stone slabs?’

‘Do you fear the King of Empty Places, too?’ asked the pilgrim, looking at the stew.

‘Who doesn’t… friend? Who doesn’t?’ The pilgrim looked at the graver, once more, up and down, and he realised where he recognised him – the graver looked just like the pilgrim’s grandfather, back when he was still alive, and the pilgrim was too young and too short and wearing boots too high and thick for his little legs to be a pilgrim. The graver had a look on his twisted and stony face just like the pilgrim’s grandfather when he had forgotten or lost something, when he came to the pilgrim for help – assistance for an old man. The pilgrim realised that the graver looked a lot like a lost, lonely, old man.

The pilgrim reached for the ladle, and began spooning stew into his bowl. It squelched in, gleaming. ‘But not tonight,’ he said, blowing on his bowl, and passing the ladle to the graver, who smiled.

‘Not… tonight! No, not tonight,’ exclaimed the graver, spooning stew into his bowl by the fire which, though the stars were so lonely and far away and glared down on them, danced and flickered with warm vitality.

They ate, then, and the graver told stories, and so did the pilgrim.

 


 

The elderly birder gazed out his window all slurried with dust and oil and dead bugs at the darkened brick wall right behind it. Tiny arms of steam waved from his tea in its wobbly clay cup. The porridge stared at him, white-brown and odiously bubbly, untouched, like it was invincible, spoon lying motionless next to it, dull as the table it was lying on, as dull as the dark brown woodwork and the frayed brown carpet and all the shadowy cabinets and shelves and corners and edges to bump against. The lamplight was brownish orange and raggedy, like it was old, had been used up and was rotting away. Through the walls, the birder could hear the tinkling and muttering and clop clop clop stepping of his neighbours, and far off bells tinkling, and the yelling of vendors and the hefty clomping of the rafts, and the echoing nonsense-voices of endless distance-dulled conversations. He had woken up to find his flat inside an alley. The air felt heavy and damp, and the corners were shrouded in thick blackness. When the lamp flickered, he was plunged into a thin blackness, where it was like pinholes over his eyes, could see things but only in gooey greyscale.

‘Mercy, Claire,’ he muttered, sipping his tea. ‘Mercy for an old bugger.’

The bin needed taking out, the birder remembered, gazing into the untouched porridge. Take out the bin, before the birds got there – they worshipped bins, they did. Gather around them like it’s a totempole, stand on its sides, guard it, all gaze up at you at once with their dark little eyes. The flutebirds scuttled out of the dark places under the city where wide caverns and dead streets laid covered in filth and shattered houses and where people who fell in found bricks with eyes drawn on them and intricate and rusted machines with lenses that glowed in the moonlight, and they narrowed in on the bins. Every invasion started at a bin, they always said. The birders and the streetsmen worshipped the bins, too, in a sense, then, and their eyes were kept as tightly focussed on them as the birds had.

He took the birding clickbow from its place atop the cutlery cabinet, feeling its smooth wooden body, its dull coldness, that weight it had that ran down his hand, his arm, into his shoulder. He rattled it, felt the bolts in it rumble a hello! to him. His son had once said ‘I’ll take the bins out and do the birding, pa.’

His son, who was the largest man in Claire (as the birder always claimed), whose huge back loomed over like a running hillside, whose arms spread over like arches of a boat and whose hands were wide and wrinkled and running with scars like cliff faces, who’d grin a crooked-toothed grin between cracked lips on a face dusted with growth and years, but eyes still bright and honest with youth like they had been when his tiny finger would wrap around the birder’s thumb, and he would burp and giggle. His son, who would take the birding clickbow in his gargantuan hands and hold it up, for the birder to smile and shake his head and take his son’s arms and move them into the ideal position: ‘You’ll knock your nose holding it like that, boy!’

The birder did not want his son to do everything, did not want to grow complacent, lord over the boy like some tyrant. But do everything the birder’s son did. The birder’s son contained twice the men the birder had within him, and a cracked grin would grow over the birder’s rugged face, when he thought of that.

The birder pulled the door open and felt the dusty and hefty air groan in from outside. There was the bin, down the road, shrouded in shadow, by a darkened brick wall that stretched endlessly upwards, into a faraway white, bright sky. And the calls of the flutebirds: fwooooo, fwooooo. Ghostly. Like an ancient breeze over ancient cliffs, bent gnarled trees, Gravers trundling over it, gravestones slung over their stony backs. One was outlined in darkness on top of the bin – it flapped its huge shadowy wings, haggard jutting feathers. It turned its head, its great beak, towards the birder, and they gazed at each other. The light from the birder’s house oozed out from the open door, lazy and orange, and it glinted in the flutebird’s eyes, turned them bright gleaming white. It recognised him, of course, it recognised his clickbow, his hands wrapped around it.

Fwooooooo. More of them appeared, melting out of the shadows, hanging on the bin’s edges, or stalking around it. They all watched him, as one, silent, thinking.

‘Off,’ said the birder, pointing away with his clickbow. They seemed to suddenly vanish and then disappear, in that inky darkness, slinking here, there. No creatures were more suited to Claire, more understanding of its workings or ways, than the flutebirds. They moved through the alleys and over the flat roofs and under the hanging fabrics with a fluidity as water, where the birders, where the droughtsmen who had built the shell of Claire with their own hands and sweat plodded awkwardly through, getting lost, ringing bells for help. The birder learnt this, had taught his son that, too: Claire was owned by no one, no one at all, but the flutebirds.

The flutebirds looked amongst each other, fluted. And then one turned to the birder: fwooo-ooo. Its tiny, intelligent, malevolent eyes glinted, again. It saw the birder’s clickbow – how old it was. It saw the birder’s skin, dry as parchment. It saw the way his back bent, his shuffling steps, his eyes squinting to see anything. It saw that there was nobody with him, nothing around but the dampness, the loneliness, the light running over his greying features.

The birder clutched the bow, aimed it at the flutebirds, who stood, silent, staring. ‘Off,’ said he, pointing. The birds did not move. The birder wanted his son to be a birder, too, but his son went with his uncle, instead. The birder’s son joined a boat, and they fished along the coast, far east over that sunken continent where strange dark canoes were spotted in the blackness and where children would vanish in the night and never appear again, far west to the other side of the continent where clicking creatures lived in salt pillars, out to those islands where strange lights appear and ancient corpses of old things wash up, and even further out, by the dead Giant, where the sea was burningly salty, and men came back with salt on their brows and brine for spit and never went near flowing water again for fear of suddenly vanishing. The boy came back with strange fishbones, things of all odd shapes and sizes and colours, and the birder would struggle to even imagine the creatures they came out of. He would try and show the birder how to carve them into charms that would do this, protect you from that, but the birder was old and slow and never got the hang of it. The birder’s son’s room still smelled like salt, to that day.

Clickclickclick. The bolts buzzed in the air like insects, suddenly appeared out of nowhere, jutting from the walls and quivering. The bin slowly tilted back and forth, a dent in its middle. The flutebirds were scattering, shuffling in the air, dancing away, folding into shadows. They fluttered in the darkness, appearing occasionally – a feather, a talon, a glinting eye. The birder was old and rusted, with bones like chalk and flesh dark and gnarled, but he had been birding for an entire lifetime and his mind worked fast as a whip, and he spun around immediately and click shot the bird out of the air in a corpse-silent puff of feathers. The other flutebirds paused, skittering on the ground, all looking at their comrade, bleeding out somewhere in all those shadows. One – the nearest – looked to the birder, something in its glinting eyes. The birder knew how smart the flutebirds were and he knew what that look was, knew it was a look he had worn for weeks and weeks and put on again when he padded by his son’s room, silent in all the ringing bells and chatter like something buried beneath it all. The birder’s heart was made of cold stone and it smelled like the salt-breeze from a lost son and he raised the clickbow once more.

The flutebirds scattered. Two flitted into the nearby blackness, flew off with a dark shape – their comrade – in their talons.

The birder hung the clickbow on his belt like a broken limb and carried the bin out to the street, alone.

Back to Short Stories

North Head

Where has all the sound gone?

The road to the North Head Quarantine Station is rimmed on either side by trees. Rugged and coastal – low, crouching. Hardy patchwork, greens and yellows, tiny white flowers. Occasional bone-grey branches, jutting out like witches fingers. There are dry weeds sticking from wrinkled sand, and ant-holes. Birds flicker. A wing, a leg, singing – invisible. It feels like a far longer walk than it is. For a moment you find yourself trapped in it and all that’s around you are the trees and the dust on the road and the wide sky. The wind is humming. Rustling leafsong swirls from the canopy, the walls. The ocean faintly crashes, somewhere far away. The rest of the planet has sunk into the distance and you suppose that if you had a machete, cut through those trees, you’d find yourself at the edge of a cliff falling into nothingness.

This country is built of layered strata. Stories on stories. Cultures dropped on cultures. In places like this, liminal, where the world is thin, the deeper layers seep in, wispy, through cracks in the earth. Dull reflections.

Where has all the sound gone?

Legends are classically fertile things, leaping forth from the merest blurry photograph or mistranslated phrase – monsters in Hawkesbury river, Min Min lights stealing people off the Outback, huge black cats in the Blue Mountains. In places like Sydney, they’re born by the dozen. There are ghosts all over the place. Seeping like water down the gutters, breaking out of weetbix boxes and being sucked into the air conditioning. A blood-splattered lady in white screaming on the Macquarie Fields train station. The Street With No Name at Annandale, which dogs are afraid of. Wakehurst Parkway, where an apparition will appear in your back seat and drive you off the road. Even Central Station has its own ghosts. Voices resounding in the dust and concrete where platforms 26 and 27 plowed through a graveyard. The sound of children playing, deep underground, in the buried darkness.

And then there’s Q Station. It’s argued by some to be one of the most haunted places in Sydney. It’s got everything. It’s got a buffet. Hands and figures captured in photographs. The inexplicable movement of objects. Sudden nausea. Localised temperature drops, even on hot nights. The sensation of being clasped by cold hands. Disembodied voices asking: ‘who are you?’ ‘why are you here?’ Nurses, a top-hatted mortician, a Chinese fisherman, wandering. A deeply morbid and highly depressing abundance of dead children – up to twenty of them, crowding each other out.

And older spirits, too. Buried deep, wistful scraps. Rising up between rocks older, far, far older than the First Fleet.

If death breeds folklore, it goes without saying, then, that a Quarantine Station would be crawling in the stuff.

The transfer from Manly to Q Station is uncanny. It’s a sunny day, the kind with an icy blue sky and clouds in tiny fat clumps. The sunlight is hot but the wind is cool. It’s enlivening. It’s the sort of day tourists crawl all over. The ferry’s drenched in them. Jutting out the rust-smattered pipes, breaking out of cracks in the lumpy green paint. Children, too, either shrieking or preparing to shriek. An island is sliding by, ringlets of blue-green waves sweeping, washing white against its grey sides.

‘An island! An island! An island! An island!’

So on. I have never felt more intensely aware of the presence of an island in my entire life.

And off the ferry, too. Slogging in a seeping mass of people, wiping salt spray from my face. Shuffling and chattering – somebody asking someone else about the numbness in their legs. Even past the gate, a slow bumpy trickle. And into the sunlight – spreading out, finally. But still, people, people! Noise, sound! Life and sentience reverberating from the tiles, shaking in the hardy sunlight.

Such is Sydney. Vibrancy. Life upon life, folded atop like geographic strata. A whole lot of death layered in between.

 

So comes the uppermost stratum of the history of Q Station. It’s the August of 1828 and the Bussorah Merchant has docked at North Head. It’s a ship with snow white sails towering into blue skies on masts ingrained with salt and seawater. The smell of fish rising from its soaking planks, snippets of wind playing in the rigging. It’s long as a shore. It’s sailed for more than eight months across wild seas, hauling convicts and the hardy folk to keep them in check. It’s huge, and invincible.

It’s spilling over with smallpox.

It’s the first of many ships quarantined here. Official documentation suggests 1300 people arrived – archeological research suggests 1600. Gravestones piled on gravestones, some torn out, some buried by drunken labourers who were paid in rum. 572 people died here, so it’s said. Nobody’s really sure. Here’s a metaphor for you: even to this day, researchers refuse to dig up bodies on the site. The diseases, so they say, still live in them. Poisoning the soil, burgeoning in bones like moss. The plague. Scarlet fever. Smallpox. Typhoid fever. Stains. Dig them up, and who knows what will come rising back out?

Strata extends further down. It’s uncertain, the significance of North Head to the Indigenous Australians. They’ve been there for a while, of course. Saw the coastline form, over centuries. Sculpt and erode and shift. It’s a burial ground, some have supposed. A religious site, with ceremonial significance, other suggest. A special gathering place. Shelters and middens and rock engravings and art sites, hidden in the scraggly coastal trees. This is where the First Fleet met the Aboriginal people. The place is now named after the meeting, in fact, when Captain Philip decided the behaviour of the natives was particularly ‘manly.’ This did not prevent him and his mates from kidnapping a few of them, of course. But you know how it is.

So goes the history of Q Station. Or the shallowest, thinnest layers of it, barely beneath the sand and gravel. The grass in Sydney is grown on human bonemeal.  

Where has all the sound gone?

It’s been stripped away in that manner uncanny to abandoned places. It’s like that, even here – even this tourist centre, a single bus off the ferry terminal, the shrieking children and bumping elbows and flowing cars and grease-smells of fish and chips. Like some thick sheet is over the place. The air feels close. Blades of grass are quivering. The trees to the right widen a bit. Taller, twistier ones, gnarled and less close together. You can see the ocean below, can hear the distant waves crashing. The stretching blue, lapping, little white lines forming, unforming. And the rest of Manly, a crescent along the horizon. Fluffy green with blocks of bright white and red and blue, buildings looking like they’d been spilled from above. Lego blocks littering a grassy knoll. You can see the vague shadows of streets – look hard enough, you can see the cars. The glint of light off their hides.

It’s a nice place to die, really.

It goes down a green slope to where a swathe of tall trees, all twisted trunks through shrubbery and little white flowers, cuts a long wall between the outlying staff cottages, and the station itself. There’s a map set up on a pedestal by the side of the road, bleached so that it’s nothing but scratches and black spots and names on a white background. Q Station goes in levels, like decorations on a cake. This place, where the staff once were, is the top level. Below that, the first class, second class, and third class precincts. And then, below that – the hospital and isolation precincts. The word ‘Former’ lunges. ‘Former’ Third Class Precinct. ‘Former’ Hospital Precinct. The finality of it is brutish. Mortality, pounded with a maul. An epitaph in one word.

‘Former’ cottages run opposite to the treeline. Small and square, roofs running up in low slopes. Bright red bricks with bright white plaster. Plastic signs with their building numbers, the names of their dead owners. They’re cleaned up, as would be expected on a tourist site. The fencing is bright white, the wood walls yellow and lumpy, like custard. There’s a low stink of familiarity in this place – that with only a few more components, this could be any other street. The sides of roads could be lined with cars with glinting windows, and the noises of lawns being mowed, somebody vacuuming, somebody’s too-loud radio swirling in the air. But the windows are dark. The brick chimneys are cold, empty. The wind is singing and a single tiny tour bus slides along the road. There’s a driver, an old man, an old women. Silent.

 

A long staircase in the First Class Precinct goes down to the dock. Framed in grey branches, silver sides licked by the sun, leaves glowing gold. The water, dark, mouldy, lapping. Turning deep green by the shore, caressing blocky stones, chalk-white, flat tops gleaming. Patchwork shrubbery flowing over it as a veil.

The dock is entanglement. Suspended in a glistering webwork, time and place zig-zagging in a floating, manic mess. Old bricks, old corrugated roofs for containing old things. The cliff face, scratched with ancient graffiti. It’s easy to believe those ships still come here. That you’d look far away and see the great white sails, the salty wood. Except, look far away, and you’ll just see more of Manly, lego bricks on a stretching crescent. The great building by the pier is now a museum, with a small cafe. Little plastic brochures detailing ghost tours and local restaurants and events. Another one is a restaurant. Another has the bathroom – too-bright lights and white walls and screaming hand dryers. The shore is cut off with a wire fence. The waves breathe, lazily toy with a yacht. At night, it all catches fire. The sea chokes, coughs, hacks. The tips of waves glisten with starlight and the fiery wobbling refractions of far-off Manly – Manly, gold squares in stacks, in hefty silhouettes, cutting out the sky. The stink of fish, a row of lights rumbling off the pier.

Crouched in the shadows, opposite to the lapping shore and the darkened buildings encrusting its sides is the shower block. It’s horrible in there. The two worst things in the dark are hallways and small hidden nooks. The shower block represents an exercise in maximum efficiency that contains them both, under a yawning blackened roof with crisscrossing rafters. Blue moonlight sliding on grey edges, and splotches of blackness thick and heavy like pools of dust or water. The crooked doors, swinging, angular, the concrete floor stretching fathomless in darkness. An emptiness is here. Deep, heavy. A coldness.

Doctor Reed, unaware of his death in a ferry accident, is here. He’s lead to one of the site’s most curious legal threats, when he scared a pair of kids out of the block, to the fury of their parents. He presumably spends most of his unlife in a state of angered confusion as to why his place of employment is invaded nightly by unfamiliar people in tacky shirts leaping at shadows.

And there’s Trouble.

He lives in the rafters. In the milky light, hanging upside down, shadowed. Long locks of trailing black hair. His arms are longer than his legs and he crawls above the stalls. Silent as cinder blocks. Like a daddy long legs. He’ll reach down, stroke your hair. Feel the curve of your head. And move on. He’s an old spirit – an indigenous one, supposedly. Some tour guides suppose he’s a yowie. One wonders what his actual name is. What he climbed on, before the rafters were installed. What his role was – I assume it went somewhat deeper than ‘hair stroker of tourists’. All that died to create Doctor Reed was the doctor himself. What died to create Trouble? How old? How much is really left behind?

The isolation precinct is above the hospital precinct. It’s up a set of blocky stairs, smattered with pebbles, dust, weeds. A grainy, sun-bleached quality. Made for convicts – just a bit too tall, just a bit too wide. Small buildings with corrugated roofs crowned with scraggly branches rising into the deep blue. Wicker chairs and overhangs and wooden walkways between them. Nested in a little corner in the trees, facing a wall of ragged shrubbery and then – the ocean. Calling out. Manly laid across the skyline like a curtain. Little white flowers, little yellow flowers – hanging lilies. Huge stones in long piles looking like fallen gravestones, striating rubbly colours, hardy green lichens. And the great bare limbs, bone-white and curving above the verdancy like huge broken fingers. Curling and twisting and collapsing wavelike, skeletal, cephalopodan. The boughs make loops. Draw strange runic patterns in the air, in their rotund curves. Don’t look into the branches. Spirits live in them, and they’ll take your soul.

This place was thought to be an Indigenous meeting place, for the secret business of men. Tatters of it hang around, invisible to all but Indigenous visitors. A woman who paused, and stared between the trees. The splotchy darkness and the blue shadows in the boughs. A chanting, thumping between the foliage. Ringing. And a pressure in the skull – an unwelcomeness. She is a woman, and this is a place for men. So on. Tatters, is all. The tour guide I talked to admitted that these were not stories, really, for him to tell – at least in any greater detail. They’re not mine, either. Tatters, is all – and not our tatters.

The path from the isolation precinct leads to the third class precinct. It’s all construction work, there. Safety signs, fences with green fabric. Scaffolding and dust. There’s a cabin, on the very edge. The tour guides hate it. Some refuse to enter it. Samuel the Gravedigger is one of the many spirits inhabiting it. Nobody’s really sure who he is. A doctor, some suppose, or an officer, or a boatman, or the subject of some older grave deep beneath. Layers, layers, layers. Stories refracting against stories. Not one theory actually involves any gravediggers. Where his name came from is a mystery. I don’t think Sam cares very much, really.

Suppose the milky moonlight scrawling patterns in the dust on the table. Suppose the window frame outlined in silvery gleam, and the blue-grey shadows from the chairs and cabinets and handles and other cramped things in that tiny room. EMF detectors clicking to themselves, blinking – bright eyes. The ceiling’s corners thick and heavy with shadows, and dark mould spreading. The floorboards creaking and thumping, bending and bowing with a vigour unlikely even for a whole tour group. Sam, running laps. I imagine him chuckling to himself, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. I imagine him leaping, flat and pale and silver light cutting through his nothingness like blades. In another room, in a corner, is a cupboard. Shadows hang over it like stains – an inky solidity, like your hand could brush it away, or get caught in it like web. It’s shut tight. If you ask nicely, and Sam figures your reaction will be funny enough – it will swing open. A rising creaking. Like a sloughing dream, slipping open – slowly, slowly, so you don’t notice it until you’re gazing widely at shadows so deep it’s like looking into a hole. And the floorboards go mad beneath, rattling and creaking. Singing.

 

Q Station gives the sensation of a place hollowed out. Wide and unlit, and old echoes ringing off cold heartless walls. There are tendrils that reach out in the cracks in the dry dirt, between the dusty floorboards or breaks in the foliage. The burnt smoke of old stories drifting off to be forgotten. Most have been, already. All that can be gathered from beneath this piled strata are tatters. Tatters shared, tatters collected. Dull reflections, endlessly distant from the kernels of truth at their centres. That’s really all this is, in the end. To collect the tatters and present them as they are.

 

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A Prophet for the God of Empty Places

It has been two years now since the God of Empty Places bestowed divine epiphany upon Collin Frisbee and implored upon him to dig it out of his backyard. The pit gazes out with a solid hefty blackness like a dark eye boring a hole in the sky. It goes so deep your head swims and your eyes turn away, and you feel mythological and electrical all over. And you start seeing weird things in the shadows, scuttling gargoyles or worm-dragons down there, Jersey Devils and Bigfoots in the trees. The morning sunlight can only scrape the shadows on the top and the darkness beneath is blessed and immortal. Every day Collin Frisbee returns to it with his shovel, hoists it, dextrous, like it’s a limb. It has been baptised in that inky blackness, consecrated by the God of Empty Places. It shimmers like new, and seems to shine brighter every day. Dirt slings from it like molten butter.

It was a tough task, when he first started. He had awoken one morning with the sun burning on his face through the curtains and his arm numb from having been slept on, with the shocking realisation that he was the prophet of the God of Empty Places. Divine epiphany burnt through his skull with welding heat. A prophet? Him? Collin Frisbee? Who the hell even was Collin Frisbee?
Collin Frisbee was this: in his house, damp and drab, with moths in the sheets, in all its heavy-aired emptiness. In this stillness, purchased long ago by a man who was now dead, in the shadows of the garage, in a box by rust and rat droppings, a shovel. Glimmering. Ready for its purpose. So he took it, and he dug.

Now his hands are calcified as hard as the shovel itself, but in those early days he was still a man of flesh, and he dug and dug as the sun went down, rays scattering in the dry leaves of the tree in the yard, down, touching the top of the jaggedy fence with graffiti over the side. Down, until it turned all the suburbs into black silhouettes against a horizon pink and orange and grey, colours wildly dancing in all the crevices and bumps on the bruised clouds so it was like every form of light was cavorting up there. It was that time of day where there were no shadows and all the hard edges of the sunlight were gone so you saw everything as its true self, soft in the dullness, and the streetlamps and car lights are bright as stars and the meat-world of Collin Frisbee felt that much closer to the faded spirit-places the God of Empty Places lived. And he dug and dug right until the sky went black. And his hands hurt, right in their fibres, right in the bones.
And the next day he dug. And dug. And the sun went down and the sky flashed all its colours and the earth went black and cool, and his hands hurt. God, did they hurt.

He is descending the pit, now. It closes around him, with the cool wet air and the dirt walls rising around with roots and pebbles jutting from the sides. His shovel is slung on his back behind his bag and everything in it. All those blessed artefacts, singing in rattling voices.

There had been mechanical difficulties when he had first begun the project. After only a week or so of digging, the hole had become too deep for him to pull himself out of. Too tall to fling the dirt from. A ladder and bucket were promptly procured, but those didn’t last the week after that. He buys pitons, now, drives them into the dirt at regular intervals. They were hard to get used to but now he scuttles over them with iron-tough hands and stone-tough feet like he’s sauntering down a slope. He has installed a pully system, too. Ingenious and simple – a matter of pulling on the rope, tugging the bucket all the way atop (covering your head as occasional smatterings of dirt are loosed and tumble onto you), and then one final tug as the bucket releases the dirt onto the surface, and falls back down. It took Collin Frisbee a while to figure out that one. The God of Empty Places is as inspiring and encouraging as a god ought to be but it has no knowledge at all of engineering matters, not even the most basic. It is an old and obscure god and it lives in the dark places beneath the cracks in the sidewalks and in the cold dry under graveyards and deserts with shadows untouched for ineffable aeons. Its primary worshippers are worms, centipedes, and the occasional grieving rat looking to religion for answers. Its experience in these matters is limited.

But figure it out he did. The hole yawned deeply, and deeper and deeper it yawned. The trips down there lengthened. People came to his door every once and then like they always did – official-looking types in stiff suits wanting him to sign this or that. Or awkward-smiling faces with flyers asking for donations for children here, or children there. The mailbox filled. He had no time for them, not any more.

‘I have no time for this,’ Collin Frisbee would say, shaking his head. Dirt flew off him, dripped off his shovel. ‘Not any more.’

‘No time for what?’ They might ask.

‘The God of Empty Places needs me,’ Collin Frisbee would reply. ‘I was bestowed with divine epiphany.’

Their reply would usually come a bit slower after that. ‘Oh, well, um…’ is usually the most any of them could get out before he would march off to the yard, shovel slung over his shoulder like Excalibur. He holds nothing against them, as prophets and holy-men ought not to.

Some things needed attention. He had a burst pipe, once. It leaked for hours and hours and turned the kitchen into a small swamp when he had finally come back, aching, sweating. There had been a frog that had gotten into it somehow and it looked at him from the kitchen counter and croaked. He fixed it, of course, but he is unsure if he would even bother, now. Now he spends more time in this pit than he does at home. All he really needs is a place to sleep for four hours or so every day. Maybe he can get a tent. Maybe all he really needs is a sleeping bag and an umbrella.

He began finding truly strange things in the pit in the second year. The light from above was impossibly distant. Mostly the air was cool and damp but sometimes it felt warmer and warmer, and so did the dirt, and sometimes you felt a gust of humid wind and a sound like something breathing, and the roots quivered like veins. Still, Collin Frisbee dug. He didn’t know what he would meet, but he knew that his shovel was consecrated and his hands were as hard as stone, and that nothing could hurt him.

He passed a place where the dirt glowed with a swampy green light. Loose debris wobbled and the air thrummed with sentience, and every stone he hit with his shovel sparked suddenly with a bright white flash. It stunk of gas and light.

And he passed a place where long lost dead had become trapped and buried in the darkness and the soil, and they gazed morosely, jealously, at him as he dug past, pleading with their eyes for things he didn’t have, grazing him with plaintive hands soft and weak as ash.

And, at one point, his shovel struck something rough and dry. When he swept the pebbles and mess off it he saw it was a chalky cracked white. It was bone, he knew. It was a femur. It stretched hugely along, up, he supposed, to some massive pelvis, down, he supposed, to some colossal foot. He redirected his hole around it.

He would uncover a travelling worm, here, or a trundling centipede, there. They would bow to him in that distant and hasty way of theirs, and would tunnel away and vanish. It was lonely and tiring, but he thought on his divine epiphany, and this drove him.

Deeper, so deep that time was slow and sludgy and you couldn’t tell whether you were awake or unconscious and for how long or not, Collin Frisbee felt the Candle-Eaters. Aware, prophet, the God of Empty Places had told him. Be aware, prophet. He felt it in the walls, felt the rumbling movements like they were from his own organs. There was an undeniable noise: a repetitive sturdy shuffling. He felt it building for what might have been hours, until the dirt split suddenly aside, crumbled apart like liquid, spurting. A hand. Gnarled and thin, bone ridden over with narrow white flesh. It tore violently at the walls around it, spidery, frenetic. There was a slavering, agonised panting, of something long, long starving. He swallowed, and drove his shovel into the hand. A wet crrsch, and a hissing sound, and thick dark smoke wallowing from it.

Collin Frisbee knew in that exact moment what they were and why they were here. They were the Candle-Eaters who lived in houses made of the roots of dying trees and who had skin like wax and tongues and blood made from smoke. They loathed Collin Frisbee, and he couldn’t help but loathe them right back. They loathed him all over, for his lifestyle and clothing, for his hair, for his diet and his joblessness, for his state of education, for the way he talked, and his distance from his living relatives. They hated him because he had no candles, because nobody seemed to have candles anymore. They hated him because they hated his mission and because they hated his god, and all gods. They did not believe in anger management and, as a cultural whole, despised therapists.

Another hand jutted through and he stabbed that, and another one, which he stabbed, and another one. Scrabbling hands, hissing, grabbing, flicking dirt, scratching. He stabbed and stabbed at them for what might have been days, or weeks, or minutes, or a single second, he couldn’t tell. It smelled like dirty smoke and wax and his eyes and shoulders stung, and he only stood down when the God of Empty Places finally told him, with a humid breath from deep below, that it was over. He fell to the ground, leaning on his shoulder. He rested, checked the rope and the bucket, and his shovel, and his injuries. He had cuts and scratches, and a bruise or two, but nothing more. And his shovel was clean and smooth as moonlight.

The Candle-Eaters never attacked again, but at times he knew their scouts were nearby, scrabbling, sniffing him with long waxen noses. He would yell at them and jab into the walls where he heard them, and they would scrabble in a panic and vanish. They appeared less and less of late. They were afraid of Collin Frisbee, and of his consecrated shovel, and his stone arms. But never enough to go away entirely. Even now, as he digs, where the depth of the earth rises around him cathedral-like, where the shadows are ancient and virgin and distant even from their tree root cities, he hears them.

The dirt pile in Collin Frisbee’s backyard, meanwhile, swelled. Fed on deep, wet, healthy dirt, it grew monstrous and fat. It grumbled happily to itself and spread outwards, over the grass, towards his house. It was nearly as high as his roof, then, he recalled, the last night he had checked. He can feel it swelling, can hear its sighs, licking its tongue. It is probably bigger than his house, now. It is probably eating it. Sometimes he thinks of what is happening up there, what he has left behind and what he has wrought. If one day should he stop, look at the faint fizzling sunlight, take up that long climb to the surface, what would he find? The whole world a great dirt pile, mountain-high, reaching its filthy, wet mass, squirming with worms and buried houses and bones up to scrape the moon? Or – would anything have changed? Had it been always like that, and he was only thinking of it now? Perhaps there isn’t an Earth at all. That the hole scales endlessly up and there is nothing at the top but a light bulb. His mind drifts occasionally to these thoughts, even at this depth, his cheeks stroked by the holy shadows, the breathing roots. Sometimes he feels a gulp of illness at it. His mortal self returns and his stone limbs quiver into meat and he is unable to even dig – but sit there, in silence, thinking about that dirt pile, and how big it is, how faraway it all is.

He sees the sunset rarely, now. All the miraculous lights, pirouetting red and yellow and orange in clouds like Greek temples. The long shadows and the twisted black trees and the headlights down the cracked roads that shine like trapped flame. The only light he can see now is the faint thread from the top of the pit, and the wandering swampy green will-o-wisps. He thinks these things, even now, when he is so close. When the dirt beneath him trembles with foreboding. And the dreary air feels electric.

The God of Empty Places does not have a Bible, because its worshippers mostly don’t have eyes. If it did have one, this is what its first and most important prayer would be:

1 I don’t really know anything about anything.

2 This is fine by me.

Collin Frisbee’s divine epiphany has remarkably similar wording.

 

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The Gardener

Blasphemy, blasphemy, thought the gardener, and that really was the oddest part.

Though the gardener was a filthy disbeliever – a rotten agnostic-or-atheist (alternating with dependence on factors as the quality of his day, his health, the weather, et al), dirty to his bones, faithless (frequently, anyhow) in topics involving anything more spiritual than a hot cross bun – despite all this, he found it blasphemous. A rumbling in his gut. A dark vague weight on the back of his brain. The sinking heaviness of his face into a frown.

But blasphemy, blasphemy, so on: the gardener sunk into it. Felt it absorb him up to his ankles, hips, chin. So he stepped, silent, frowning, broiling internally, warm ash hugging his boots, gentle and snug as a lover.

The planet had ‘military relevance’. Hills of ash, death-grey, rolling over and down, flat in great far-off plains. Ash twisting in gales, rattling off the gardener’s helmet. A corpse-land, beaming with white light, but grey everywhere, grey-skied, grey-earthed. Grey corpsed, and the gardener, grey-suited, looking like some ambulatory smudge, a man watched through mist. A grey no-one with a gleaming visor.

And another one: legs splayed, scorched on the back, deserting. No judgement from the gardener. That was none of his business. He placed his nozzle under the boy’s face and spun him over: terror and smattered ash. But that was none of his business, and the gardener spun the crank and aimed at the boy, and with a noise like an electric zipper being pulled up sent jittering tendrils of light over him, fizzling away at him. They worked away, jaggedy and vivid, turning him blacker and blacker until there was nothing left but another mound of ash, sinking into the hill, steaming into the sky. Blasphemous, felt the gardener, in spite of all he kept saying to himself.

For instance: they were hardly innocent, were they? Glimmering like stars in those low ashen fields – weaponry. All those centuries developing, inventing, philosophising, and it all led to this: magic wands that made guts and life come flying out instead of nicer things like doves or rabbits. All the evidence was there: homicide. Murder in all of them, murder gleaming in even the most wide, terrified eyes. So the gardener explained to himself.

And, for instance: they were already dead, weren’t they? They certainly weren’t asking for his manager, let alone weeping over their fate, which, frankly, was probably bound for them anyway, gardener or not. Cremation was in. Next to all such newfangled hologramming, mechano-taxidermy, clone museuming, and sun-launches, it was cremation that was the most fashionable. Cremation was retro, like mounted deer heads and fireplaces. It was the best treatment you could really get in that state of being and the gardener would have even appreciated a ‘cheers, mate’ now and then. So the gardener explained to himself.

The new kids understood it. Esoteric figures who all looked similar, spoke similar, had Anglo-Saxon names never longer than seven letters. The new kids were as invincible as djinni because they never seemed to think about anything at all.

‘Nasty stuff, isn’t it?’ Asked the gardener some weeks ago. He and a new kid (John or Brian or Adam) met on a hill, ended up walking alongside each other. They talked like robots, traded word for equivalent word. So they came upon a field where the bodies were piled like the ashes. They were clean as the day they had all been born but for their throats. Chemicals in the air tasted like lightning.

‘Ahum?’ The new kid replied.

‘I said, “It’s nasty stuff, isn’t it?”.’ The gardener checked over his apparatus and said once more: ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Um, yeah, sure?’

And that was the end of the discussion. It was noiseless but the zipping of the vanishing corpses and the rattling ash on their visors. That was when the gardener realised that the new kids were invincible, safe as Adams and Eves (before that nasty tree business). They were unlike people like the gardener, who were mortal, disgustingly so, oozing flesh and snapping bones, squelching, leaking and bruising. The gardener envied them. In fact, the gardener despised them, with a howling, white fury he had never felt before. They were wretched, vapid, hateful creatures, brainless, and the gardener wished he could be even a tenth like them.

He wondered bitterly upon these things until the apparatus broke. Thank God, thought the gardener. There was no greater blessing upon the gardener than the apparatus. It might have been fashioned by Hephaestus. It was a dirty mass of metal and tubes. On one end there was the nozzle and on the other was the handle, and on the other was the crank. The Holy Trinity.

The apparatus had jammed right as he had come to a small squad and they lay like gentle sleeping babies under the white sky as the gardener tugged at the machine. It was a perfect world in those few moments as he worked at the device and everything might have been right forever had he never fixed it: those dead bodies would have been nothing more than sleeping children and the gardener would have been plugging away at the machine in mindless peace, and all would have been well forever. But the gardener wasn’t half as smart as those new kids and soon the thing was tittering back to life, sweeping over them.

One of the bodies moved.

The gardener paused, of course.

The body shuddered. The visor was cloudy and cracked on the edges and the gardener couldn’t see anything of the soldier’s face except his wide eyes, blinding as searchlights. They blinked.

So the gardener shot the soldier dead. The noise resounded like a bell and the air smelled like thick ozone. He looked like a burnt out candle, a clean hole in his face, tendrils of coiling smoke. So the gardener turned all of it to ash. These things happened.

Blasphemy, blasphemy, thought the gardener, dragging himself across the ash hills, towing the apparatus, heavy. He felt binded. There were ropes on him, connecting all around, back to that boy he killed, and to that gun in its holster, and to every particle of ash he walked on. All of it together, tied, pulling at him. The gardener understood, then, that he was dead, too. Dead the instant he had killed that soldier – probably long dead before that, too. Back when he first thought of blasphemy. Back when he was born, he had been dead. That really was the oddest part.

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