Michael

We didn’t know what to do the last day.

“Beach, beach, beach!”

Our kids didn’t know any better. They meant the lake, a generous classification, which had a sandy shore with a hue and texture closer to dirt. But we went to the “beach.”

The lake was crowded to my surprise. I assumed people would have stayed home. It seemed, like ours, children were the culprit. Though, there were quite a few single adults and couples too.

We lathered the kids up in sunscreen and they ran off screaming to join the other children. Someone brought a keg and was handing out solo cups to anyone who wanted to partake. The only topic us adults could bear to discuss were the kids. So we did. And for a moment it felt like a normal summer weekend.

A murmur percolated along the shore until it reached our group, “It’s time.” We called our kids and toweled them down. We realized we failed to prepare for this moment. People produced safety glasses with cardboard frames that held gray filters. I even saw some welding goggles. A family brought extra and kindly offered to share with us.

“Don’t look up unless you’re wearing your glasses, okay?”

“Okay!”

Chatter resumed for a few minutes. Then the light dimmed dramatically, “Here we go!” We fumbled with our eclipse glasses and hurriedly looked to the sky. The phenomenon would be brief.

A disc of shadow raced toward the radiant orb of the sun. The shadow was many times larger than sol and was unsettlingly quick. In the space of a breath we witnessed two historic astrological events: The most complete total eclipse on record--the corona was barely a hair’s breadth and the earth plunged to twilight--and the last eclipse to be recorded.

The corona increased rapidly and the shadow reduced as if being evaporated. Our light returned.

“Whoa...”

The children began shouting and cheering.

“Wow!” “So coool!” “It was night!”

There was even scattered applause among the adults.

“What did they call it again?”

“It’s called a rouge planet, honey. A planet without a star.”

“No, it’s name!”

“Michael. After the angle.”

“That’s kinda boring.”

I chuckle. The children lose interest and jumble back into the water. Someone hands me another cup of beer. Niceties resume. We know what’s next.

I watch our kids splashing around and begin to fret, ”Do they need to see...should we...“

“I put sleeping pills in their orange juice.”

I look at Sam. Her eyes are red rimmed. Her jaw clenched so hard. I kiss her.

“Thank you.”

Minutes later the kids complain of being tired and we spread the beach towels for them. They’re asleep as soon as they hit the fleece.

The crowd has broken up. Families and couples with their loves; singles circled up in impromptu fellowships. Some brought picnic baskets and bread is broken.

Michael can hardly be seen now. Nothing but a speck against the sun if one could spy it through the eclipse glasses. Then gone.

The sun brightens.

“How much longer?”

“They said about half an hour after.”

She strokes the kids’ hair. I finish the beer. It’s getting uncomfortably bright. I wipe sweat from my brow,”Should have picked a spot in the shade.”

Some families have done just that and relocated under the trees. Others climb into their cars and crank the AC. A few leave altogether.

A distance into the woods--CRACK!--a few dreadful but predictable seconds later--CRACK!

Sam squeezes my hand. It’s never been so bright. I put on the eclipse glasses, my sunglasses over them, and pull my hat low.

“Hottest summer on record.”

Sam snorts.

The lake begins to steam, then boil.

The children sleep.

---

When I scrolled across this photoset by Angelina Castillo, I thought to myself, “spectating the apocalypse.” Then I sat down and wrote this and neglected my other work. Thanks for the evocative imagery.

Fisher of Men

“Jones loves to hike,” is how my friends usually introduce me. “He’s a serious hiker,” is also common. And more accurate. I would not say I love the activity. Driven might be better. Every mountain I see seems to demand a pilgrimage. A fishing line hooks behind my eye and tugs insistently until I relent and put on my boots.

I have the full kit. Camping backpack, hiking sticks, water bladder, sunscreen, granola bars... An enthusiast. Rain, shine, snow. My obsession does not discriminate. I am not resentful. Harmless as compulsions go. I find the hikes refreshing. Meditative. I feel saner once I descend the mountain of the day and return home.

This mountain is coated in the verdurous down of spring. A brisk wind coaxes a feathered sigh from the forest and prompts me to zip up my windbreaker. My hike has been peaceful and invigorating so far. The trails are empty. It’s still early in the season and most hobbyists are probably in their warm apartments.

My map is folded and tucked away in my pack. I prefer to review my route at the start and find my way from memory. My feet have a mind of their own, often taking unnecessary detours. I always make it back eventually. Park rangers are often annoyed at me returning to my car at or just after sunset.

Hiking up this narrow, rocky trail, and stepping around invading roots, my mind wanders. My thoughts drift toward work, shy away and settle on admiring the scenery. I debate whether to dig my camera out of the pack. Suddenly, I am on a graveled path. I slow to a stop with a series of crunches. I deviated from my route an hour ago. Even so, nothing this maintained was on my map. I shrug and follow the path. Its direction seems to continue up the eastern face of the mountain.

I make quick progress along the path, far easier to traverse than the craggy trail I came from. It carries me to a wilder, denser region of the mountain. The canopy closes. The wind in the leaves takes on a lower register. The way forward grows dim. I can deny it no longer. I’m spooked. But the hook that drew me to this mountain now drags me down the ominous path.

The gloom breaks. Sunlight rains down in a clearing. I’m blind until my eyes adjust. The path cuts through a meadow of wildflowers in a leisurely arc and leads to the opposite tree line where the forest pierces the clearing like a claw. And behind that sharp fringe towers a monolith of brutalist architecture. My breath catches, worried I have trespassed. But I had seen no sign, fence, or barbwire. So I approach.

The monolith stands dully in the harsh light. Its grey carapace punctured by inset windows shadowed into portals of darkness. As I draw close and the full building comes into view, I see its base intersects the ground abruptly, like a level designer picked up its virtual geometry and placed it without care whether it blended with the environment.

“Hey!”

I halt, startled, a few steps from the shadow cast by the monolith.

“This is a restricted area!”

I turn to the speaker. He’s tall and thin. Dressed in brown slacks, a white coat, and silver wireframe glasses. He smokes a cigarette. His expression changes from anger to exasperation once he sees my face.

“Christ.“

He draws in a lungful of nicotine and exhales the spent plume through his nostrils.

“Weber, you really need to fix the fence.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t give a shit. Jones just showed up. That will keep happening until you do your job.”

I finally see the earpiece the man is speaking to. Then it registers he said my name.

“Do I know you?”

The man chuckles and takes another puff.

“Dr. Fischer! Dr. Fischer.”

The man glances at the figure that issues from the monolith and rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Jones. Your timing is egregious.”

My hiking sticks drop from my hands and clatter anemically on the gravel path. I feel like I’m about to be sick. The figure is my doppelgänger. The figure has my name.

“Oh, sorry Dr. Fischer.”

“Today is such a mess. Mr. Otto, relieve his torment.”

I look up at the monolith. In one of the windows, a face emerges from its void. My face. Looking down at me with an air of curiosity. Then a couple floors down and to the left, another. And another. And another, and another. My own eyes staring at me.

I hear the crunch of gravel behind me. I feel pinpricks in my back. Then hear brash electronic clicking like some mechanical cicada. I plunge into a merciful darkness.

Blue Piece

The four-lobed piece was painted the velvet tint of a clear noon sky, a featureless tone that covered two-thirds of the jigsaw. A grassy knoll filled the remainder.

But this piece was especially difficult. It physically fit almost anywhere. Pigmentation allowed it to belong in dozens of locations. That left the lobes as sole determinant. They were small. Unintrusive. Allowing it to drop easily into any space.

At first glance, a fit. Closer inspection revealed gaps. The piece was present but did not lock fast with its neighbors. It could participate in that position, but also be removed with ease. Inevitably, such voids were filled with pieces that joined appropriately; the four-lobed denied any return.

Then the vagrant piece pressed into a slot with satisfying friction. Its lobes contiguous with its surroundings.

I studied those interlocking curves—

The empirical belonging.

The snugness.

I imagined how difficult it would be to displace this particular piece. The absence left and, inevitably, felt. Impossible to substitute.

And I burned with envy.

Sunset

It’s just past seven and rain is on the horizon. There is little time. She pulls on her boots, clomps down the stairs. Her mother is in the kitchen staring into a pot. The burner is off. They had already said goodbye so she exits the back door without a word.

Off the porch, through the gate, onto the forest path. Her first time since the therapy was complete. Instinctually, she reaches for the guide rope, her nose, and her ears. She must consciously look. The violent blue of the coarse rope surprises her. Its texture fit the theme of the tree it hung from and she expected it to share a similar hue. The verdant canopy draws her gaze next. A near trip brings her eyes back down to the trail.

The forest gives way to pasture. She walks up to the barbed wire and looks over the empty field. The sun hangs low as distant rainclouds pass above it and showers fall between them. This lensing haze gives the sun a sickly, bloated appearance with fuzzy defined edges.

She whistles. Silence. Then the clink of bells, a growing chorus of baas. She closes her eyes to savor the comforting sounds. Snaps them open because this is the whole reason. She watches a dozen sheep crest the hill with healed eyes. They trot toward her, stretching out then clumping up like a rubber band. They push their heads through the fence and she tries to pet them all at once.

She climbs the fence. She’s not supposed to, but what does it matter now. She sits on the grass as the sheep crowd her. She breathes in their stench, and the grass and dirt. Digs her fingers into their thick coats. She looks at them for the first time. Looks at their creamy curly fur, their floppy ears, into their eyes with oblong pupils.

The light gets funny. One edge of the sun seems to be swelling like a tumor. It ruptures. Plasma spews as ink swirled in water. Its structure wilts. The singularity is here. It eats the sun before her eyes.  Early evening becomes twilight in a matter of minutes.

“I’ve just seen your faces,” she flips open her smartphone and turns on the flashlight. The sheep shift restlessly, let out worried bleats. She does her best to comfort them. The rain finally arrives as the sun goes out.

The Judgement

The stars had fallen. The graves burst open. And all was laid bare before the creator. Creation rejoiced and wept with the revelation of truth.

“Eternity is imminent,” said the creator, “will you embrace it or reject it?”

The children entered eternity immediately with dancing. Others came hesitantly with their chains and were welcomed with celebration. But a remnant remained unmoved.

“What will become of us?” they said in one voice, “we cannot accept eternity.”

The creator said, “you will fall asleep and return to dust. You will be scattered into the darkness. You will draw near and fuse to form new worlds and new stars. And the children will tend to the new creation and testify to its beauty.”

The remnant deliberated together, then answered, “we judge that this is good.”

Then the creator breathed on them and the remnant whirled into countless grains of sand. They tumbled and danced and fused. And became light. New heavenly bodies shining and reflecting, giving and receiving. And condensed into new worlds of earth, water, air. And plants grew on the earth, fish teemed in the seas. Beast crawled on the ground and flew in the air. And there was evening, and there was morning. A new day.

And the creator called it good.

Kindling

We congregated in the backyard. Our host coaxed the fire to life as we fluttered open our camp chairs. Hands dug into coolers and cracked open beers and seltzers. Blondie bars were laid out on a folding table. Conversation rounded the usual topics, belying the difference of the evening.

It was early spring. The light chill deepened as the sun set, and we scooted our chairs closer and closer to the interweaving flames. The tighter circle caused our breath to intermingle.

We had gathered many times around this fire over the past year. The same chairs, the same drinks. But carefully spaced out and, here and there, a mask dangled from an ear or rested on a knee.

Tonight we were finally able to shrug off those concerns.

I had to leave earlier than I liked. My imminent departure regrettably seemed to break up the evening. As we folded up our chairs and gathered our empties, our host burst out, “Can we hug?”

One of our friends answered her by initiating the embrace. Our host began to sob. Then they were both crying. She worked her way around the entire circle, apologizing needlessly for the tears. When she got to me, we hugged firmly, her sobs prompting me to well up.

I am not one for hugs, but even I could feel the relief in this physical contact after the yearlong drought — the first drop of hope that these parched months were coming to an end.

Crickets

You seek me out for wisdom? For I have lived three of your lifetimes? You say, “does not time breed greater understanding?” Fool. Should you not also seek my counsel because I eat crickets? For is not their instruction valued by the wooden-headed? Does not consuming those with intellect increase your own? Foolish. Find your own wisdom. Are you not disturbing my nap?

Moms are selfish like that

olympus xa1 / fujifilm superia 400

My mother grew up in a time when connection was optional. She had a computer that could be slipped into a pocket. It was possible to lose and had to be charged regularly. Archaic.
Connection is breathing to me. But my mom will go days without connection. She looks so peaceful. My peace is connection.
It frustrates me.
She’s so oblivious, so uninformed. I have to explain everything.
“I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t understand you either. I wasn’t born into connection like you were. It was new. Exciting. And dangerous. My generation learned to hold it at arms-length. Often we needed to put it away for our own health.”
“That’s weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m normal!”
“You will be normal.”

She told me something that I found distressing when I was young.
“Everyone lies a little.”
“Not everyone.”
“I’m not talking about malicious lies. When connected people only share their best… they imagine what they’d like to be and believe along with everyone else that they are that ideal —— ”
“Oh, so only unconnected interactions are truthful. Surprise, surprise.”
She laughs.
“Definitely not! We’re always doing this. Hiding things, tricking others, tricking ourselves. Most lies are unconscious. I lie to you all the time.”
I did not like that. The thought that Mom would lie to me.
“Hey, I’d never lie to you intentionally.”
I nod.
“If you ever don’t trust me, say so, and we’ll talk it through. Okay?”
“Okay.”

We are running through the hangar. I clutch an overstuffed backpack. My mom clutches my hand, nearly drags me. She wears her fatigues and stripes.
“Where are we going.”
“You’re getting on that Osprey.”
“I am?”
“I’ll be on the next one.”
I jerk my hand out her’s.
“No!”
She stops with me.
“We don’t have time!”
“I don’t trust you!”
“Ma’am, we need to takeoff now.”
She removes the connection tab from behind her ear.
“There’s no time right now. I’ll explain later. I will. Please, baby, I need you to trust me.”
Her words are so calm. But I see. I see how wide her eyes are. I see the liquid bunching up on her lower eyelids, quivering on the precipice.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”

As we fly away, I see her sprinting back to the command center. Seventeen minutes later I watch as the base is destroyed by ordinance dropped from a combat satellite. Mom wasn’t on the next one.

I am taken to a ship far from the fighting. It’s filled with orphans, widows, and widowers. I stay in my bunk. Silent, without connection.
A woman brings me food I do not eat. She talks, but I do not listen. Then finally, one day, it bursts out.
“She betrayed me.”
“Who.”
“My mother. She said she’d never lie to me. I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay and she lied.”
“... I assume your mom couldn’t bear the thought of you not growing up into the woman she imagined in her head. She couldn't let go of that.”
“She never asked what I wanted.”
“Yeah, moms are selfish like that.”
“I hate her.”

That is my little lie.

The Forest

sigma fp / summicron 90mm

I was hunting in the forest when a great light blinded me. Lo, a divine herald stood in my path. I fell back in fear.
“Do not be afraid. I bear joyous news. You may bring salvation to your countrymen. Will you meet this task?”
I trembled.
“I am no one. I cannot.”
“Very well.”
And the herald left.

The seasons turned; war loomed. My hunting bow was needed, and I gave it.
We met our adversaries on the open field, I with the other archers. I was afraid.
But I looked to the one who led us. A bastard of no name. One oft-ridiculed as having no past or future. Yet, there he was at the head through skill and valor. I was encouraged.
The bastard led the charge at full gallop. I saw our adversaries train arrows on our commander. A fire burned within me.
*Twang, twang, twang*
Opposing archers fell with each draw of my bow, no match for a lifetime of hunting in the forest. None would touch my lord.

sigma fp / elmarit 28mm

Today, I stand before his crypt. A bastard no more. But a hero, the savior of the land.
My crippled leg twinges. I lean on my walking staff for relief. I weep.
“Why do you cry?”
I turn and behold the divine herald from all those years ago.
“Your commander is in paradise.”
“I do not weep for him. I weep for me. Now I realize I squandered my chance to be someone in this world. Out of fear, I rejected your call that day. I clung to my dim, unremarkable forest. Now I am a broken man with no past and no future.”
The herald extends a hand to me.
“Come with me.”
I do not fall back this time.
Suddenly, we stand over the kingdom in its entirety. I can see leagues upon leagues as well as a scroll in my hands.
“What do you see?”
I see a great harvest in the fields. Huge flocks graze on lush pastures. I see children at play with no cares. I see new husbands building houses for their brides, confident they will stand for years to come. I see peace. I see joy.
“I see the salvation brought by the hero.”
“Yes. That hero could have been you — ”
“Why do you needle me? I am already reduced to nothing.”
“When called again, you answered. You left the comfort of your forest and lent your bow. Your part was small, and forgotten. But even now songs are sung in your honor in paradise.”

sigma fp / elmarit 28mm

Then we stand in a great hall. Bright, loud, joyous. The board strains under the weight of spit-roasts, fruits and vegetables, fresh-baked bread, soups and stews.
And I hear someone roar my name.
“Gideon!”
Lo, it is the hero, my commander, my lord who I had never once spoken.
“Come! And be known!”

Goats Three

leica r3 / vario-elmar 35-70mm f3.5 / fujifilm superia 400

“Traveler! We offer no passage here. Unless, of course, one can fathom our riddles. Here is the first: what when filled with arms and legs is a strong and fearsome foe, but limbless is limp and soft and quite the tasty meal!”
“... a shirt?”
“Correct. Travel on...”

leica r3 / vario-elmar 35-70mm f3.5 / fujifilm superia 400

“Halt! Trespasser! Answer me this: what is scattered along the forest floor like breadcrumbs, though not as sweet, which always leads back to me. What falls from the heavens like rain but does not slack the thirsty ground. What has a hue of lustrous chestnut but squirrels refuse to gather. What—”
“Poop! It's your poop.”
“Very well... you may continue.”

leica r3 / vario-elmar 35-70mm f3.5 / fujifilm superia 400

“Oi, lad. What has two horns and got himself rather tangled up?”
“...”
“Hey now! Where ye going? Lend a hand!”

Ekphrasis

“Hey, forget the hashtags. Use your words.”

This comment annoyed me. My dad left it on a photo I posted to Instagram with a caption of nothing but hashtags. If words he wants, words he gets. Out of spite, I published a trio of photos with a brief tale of sci-fi horror inspired by the imagery. My sister commented, “idk if this is what he meant lucius.”

Two years later, that gentle chide for authenticity (and me being a smart-ass) has resulted in 80+ pieces of photography and prose. Adrian introduced the last element of this accidental endeavor when she asked if I knew the term ‘ekphrasis’ after I made the first post. I found the best explanation on Wikipedia: “...in which one medium of art tries to relate to another medium...in doing so, it may enhance the original art and take on a life of its own...”

Starting unofficially in 2018, I published a few pieces a month. Either writing something inspired by a photo or taking a photo to encapsulate some writing, then releasing both as a single work. The practice allowed me to explore my interest in film photography, and experiment with my writing. I also discovered it offered a creative break from my long-term screenwriting projects and kept me motivated. I upped the ante in 2019. Fifty-two ekphrastic works, one per week.

Here at the end of the year, I’ve come to realize this strict timetable has drunk up most of my creative oxygen to the detriment of my screenwriting. Ekphrasis became a product instead of play and lost all its benefits. 

I once committed to a project over a summer in college. I learned a lot about video production, time management, and even made a chunk of change. I asked my mentor at the time if I should do it again next summer; money being the motivating factor. He said, “Well, you already did that. Maybe do something new.” Not what I wanted to hear, but I listened. The next summer I ended up shooting documentaries overseas.

So I will be putting it away for 2020. Ekphrasis will remain part of my creative practice, but it can’t be a rigid schedule. I’ll turn to it when inspiration strikes or when I need a breather. But it’s time to make space for something new.

Deeds

The old man could be found climbing the stairs to the temple every afternoon. It took an excruciating hour. His arthritic knees forced many stops. At the top, he burned incense, made offerings, and prayed. The town had never seen a more pious individual who was not also a monk. They said, “Surely, this man will be reincarnated into a better life.”

Then one day he did not climb. Instead, his body lay lifeless on his mat and his spirit stood before the Buddha. The man bowed low before the enlightened one. The Buddha, who lay in repose, said nothing and painted on a scroll in front of them.

“My Lord, I have lived my life in service to the Buddha. I prayed ceaselessly and endured great hardship in the name of the Buddha.”
The enlightened one laid down their brush.
“You are mistaken.”
“You are not the Buddha?”
“I am.”
“Then how am I mistaken?”
“These things I advise in life, and you claim to keep, are not for the Buddha’s benefit. They are for yours.”
The man was puzzled.
“You care nothing for my sacrifice?”
The Buddha shook their head.
“Then who judges the quality of my life?”
“They do.”

The Buddha pointed behind the man. He turned and was filled with dread for a multitude of stern faces glared at him. Faces he knew but feigned to forget. The face of his high school friend whose motorcycle he crashed, then lied and said it was stolen. The face of the woman he got pregnant and abandoned. The face of his mother with whom he cut off all contact. The face of the son he did not raise. The face of the dog he set on fire as an adolescent and sent running through the fields. The face of the man who died trying to save his crops.

There were countless others and the man wailed in despair. 
“You cannot ignore all my sacrifice and piety!”
“Why not? We benefit from them not in life, and less in death.”
“Mercy then!”
“And where is ours?”
The man wailed ever louder and began to shrink before the faces of judgment. His skin turned chitinous, his body segmented, antennae grew from his head and extra appendages from his sides. When the transformation was complete, all that was left of the pious old man was a small hateful bug.

Wicker

The winter air bit at my throat. Jogging is not what I wanted to do on this gray evening, but it was a necessity. My cheeks burned and my fingers smarted from the chill, motivation to run faster and end the torture quickly.

The path slopped downward to a tunnel under the highway. I had gone this route countless times. By the time your eyes adjusted to the gloom of the tunnel, you were being blinded by the sun on the other side. But today there was no sun; the tunnel was a void.

I thought nothing of it. Not until I heard the footfalls. They echoed from the looming tunnel. The quality of the sound was off-putting. So much so, I stopped short of the tunnel mouth. A shiver ran down my spine once I understood what I heard: hooves.

I shrank back against the concrete retaining wall as the source of the sound emerged from the murk of the underpass. First, I saw the cloven hooves, then coarse dark fur which sprouted from a pair of goat hind legs. Next, glowing ochre eyes set in a fur-covered, yet humanoid, face. The thing grinned at me revealing rows of fangs. A long crimson tongue unfurled and lashed about manically, as if its pointed tip sought to impale me.

The goat-man drew closer. In its right hand it grasped a bundle of birch branches which it used as a walking stick. On its back it carried a large whicker basket with its cover strapped down by a broad leather belt. The basket twitched fitfully and the thing rapped the side with the birch branches eliciting a chorus of children’s wails.

I was frozen in horror. As the goat-man passed, it tipped its head to me with a touch to its curled ram’s horns and said, “Good harvest this season.” It continued its leisurely evening stroll and left me with legs turned to jelly. 

Windmills

A priest publicly renounces his faith to save the lives of his flock and lives out the rest of his days as a religious censor. An ordinary farmer refuses to swear fealty to his authoritarian government because of his faith and is executed, leaving his family fatherless. Here lies the contrast of Silence (2016) and A Hidden Life (2019).

The protagonist of Silence, a Catholic priest, is enamored with his opportunity to enter a hostile culture and shepherd the hidden faithful, evangelize in secret, and possibly die for his God. Imagine the nobility of such a death. In fact, his traveling companion receives this honor, ordered drowned by the local government. His adversary does not want him killed, though. He wants the priest to renounce his faith in front of those he leads. The adversary gives him a choice: your faith or the lives of your flock. His glorious martyrdom is snatched away. Instead, the only recourse the priest has to save his disciples is to take on the shame of a renounced faith. This is not the example lived by the saints. This is damnation, is it not? How could God keep such a failure?

The protagonist of A Hidden Life is a farmer, father, and husband. He loves his home, his family, and God. He has no grand aspirations. When his government goes to war, he refuses to fight or swear fealty to a regime he believes is immoral. He and his family are ostracized from their small agrarian community. But he remains steadfast. He is arrested and his wife is left alone to care for their land and children. Though it pains him, he is resolute. The farmer is asked what he is trying to accomplish. “Your protest will not be heard. No one knows of your plight. The country does not care.” The farmer tells these voices he is no martyr. Only that it does not sit well with his soul. They execute him in private. His story never told. This is the example lived by the saints. This is salvation, is it not? Is this what God truly wants, a fatherless family?

Terrence Malick, director of A Hidden Life, wrote a letter to Martin Scorsese after he saw the director’s film, Silence. He asked simply, “What does Christ want from us?”

Dowse

It had visited them twice before and they still did not know its nature. This unsettled the Captain of the Khonsu 0. She gave orders to measure the thing in any way if it appeared again.

The opportunity arose while the crew was tapping a comet for water ice. Delphi and the Captain were unpacking the drill and Simon wandered the craggy surface with the Dowsing Rod looking for water deposits. The device could tell what matter lay before the user, and at what distance, with a penetrating pulse of radiation.

Simon was about 100 meters away when he looked up and saw a short Filipino man, without a spacesuit, who had appeared and engaged the Captain and Delphi in conversation. He saw his chance. Simon casually pointed the Dowsing Rod at the man. The instrument reported back metal alloys. Strange. Then he realized this was a reading of their ship beyond the man. Simon pointed the device at Delphi. Organic molecules. Back at the man. Nothing.

What are you looking at? Simon jumped in surprise. If not for his anchor, he would have flown into space. A young Hispanic girl was at his elbow. Again, without a spacesuit. He looked from her to the man still speaking with the rest of the crew. How are you here? She beckoned him closer and he bent down to her level. The girl whispered near his ear under his helmet, I’m everywhere. She giggled. Simon laughed nervously, That’s scary. Don’t be scared, She said, I’m your friend! 

What about your enemies, Simon swallows, Should they be scared? The girl is silent and seems to stare right through his reflective visor into his eyes. Simon is forced to look away. Simon, who are your enemies, She asks. I don’t know… bad guys… I guess, He responds lamely. He musters the courage to look her in the eye again. Simon, she says solemnly, You have no enemies.

ＨŒŁＹ

T̷̫̯̘̤̭́̃͒̎̂̓̕͘Ǫ̴̠̤̏̔͜ ̸̩̙̘͎͔̄͒T̸̛͕̀̍̀͑̔̌̇̌Ḧ̵͎̥̫̫̟͔̈́̋͗͝ͅE̵̞̘̹̖͉̻̘̋̈́̃͝Ė̸̮̆̾͒́̊̄͒,̷̲͈̜̎̽͆ ̸̨̖̜̬̙͚̰̠̂̉̉͆͝G̸̖͆ＯＯＤ　ＴＩＤＩＮＧＳ．　ＢＬＥＳＳＥＤ　ＡＲＥ　ＹＥ　ＡＭＯＮＧ　ＴＨＥ　ＳＴＡＲＳ．　ＦＯＲ　ＴＨＯＵ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＲＥＣＥＩＶＥ　Ａ　ＷＯＮＤＲＯＵＳ　ＧＩＦＴ．　ＲＥＪＯＩＣＥ　ＩＮ　ＴＨＩＮＥ　ＧＯＯＤ　ＦＯＲＴＵＮＥ．　ＴＨＹ　ＷＯＲＬＤ　ＷＡＳ　ＯＮＣＥ　ＡＮ　ＵＮＲＥＭＡＲＫＡＢＬＥ　ＰＥＢＢＬＥ　ＢＵＴ　ＮＯＷ　ＩＴ　ＩＳ　Ａ　ＳＴＲＩＫＩＮＧ　ＪＥＷＥＬ．　ＴＨＥ　ＥＮＶＹ　ＯＦ　ＴＨＥ　ＵＮＩＶＥＲＳＥ．　ＦＯＲ　ＯＵＲ　ＭＥＲＣＩＦＵＬ　ＡＮＤ　ＨＯＬＹ　ＭＡＳＴＥＲ　ＨＡＳ　ＣＨＯＳＥＮ　ＴＨＯＵ　ＴＯ　ＳＵＳＴＡＩＮ　ＨＩＳ　ＧＬＯＲＹ　—　ＴＨＥ　ＭＡＳＴＥＲ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＧＲＡＣＥ　ＴＨＩＮＥ　ＷＯＲＬＤ　ＷＩＴＨ　ＴＨＥＩＲ　ＰＲＥＳＥＮＣＥ．　ＹＥ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＢＥＨＯＬＤ　ＴＨＥＩＲ　ＢＥＡＵＴＩＦＵＬ，　ＯＰＡＬ　ＳＣＡＬＥＳ　ＡＮＤ　ＭＩＲＩＡＤ　ＥＹＥＳ　ＷＨＩＣＨ　ＢＵＲＮ　ＡＳ　ＲＥＤ　ＤＷＡＲＦＳ．　ＭＡＲＶＥＬ　ＡＴ　ＴＨＥＩＲ　ＡＷＥＳＯＭＥ　ＬＥＮＧＴＨ　ＷＩＴＨ　ＷＨＩＣＨ　ＴＨＥＹ　ＣＡＮ　ＥＮＣＩＲＣＬＥ　Ａ　ＳＴＡＲ．　ＴＨＥＩＲ　ＥＬＥＧＡＮＴ　ＰＬＵＭＡＧＥ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＬＥＡＶＥ　ＴＨＥＥ　ＳＰＥＥＣＨＬＥＳＳ．　—　ＲＥＪＯＩＣＥ　ＦＯＲ　ＴＨＯＵ　ＷＥＲＥ　ＵＳＥＬＥＳＳ　ＤＵＳＴ，　ＢＵＴ　ＮＯ　ＭＯＲＥ．　ＴＨＹ　ＷＯＲＬＤ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＢＥ　Ａ　ＮＵＴＲＩＴＩＯＵＳ　ＥＧＧ，　Ａ　ＳＵＣＣＯＲ　ＦＯＲ　ＨＵＮＧＥＲ　ＡＮＤ　ＤＥＬＩＧＨＴ　ＴＯ　ＴＨＥ　ＭＡＳＴＥＲ’Ｓ　ＴＯＮＧＵＥ．　ＴＨＥＩＲ　ＧＲＥＡＴ　ＭＡＷ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＳＷＡＬＬＯＷ　ＴＨＥＥ　ＷＨＯＬＥ　ＡＮＤ　ＹＥ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＢＥＣＯＭＥ　ＯＮＥ　ＷＩＴＨ　ＨＯＬＩＮＥＳＳ．　ＴＨＥ　ＭＡＳＴＥＲ’Ｓ　ＬＩＰＳ　ＳＨＡＬＬ　ＰＲＡＩＳＥ　ＴＨＹ　ＳＡＣＲＩＦＩＣＥ　ＦＯＲ　ＡＬＬ　ＥＴＥＲＮＩＴＹ．　—　ＴＯ　ＴＨＥＥ，　ＧO̸͉̣̗͎̩͊̊̐̓́̕O̵̳̳͆D̴̳͐̍̀̓͘ ̷̢̢̖̖̖̂́̎T̶̥̝͚̈́̍͒̅̏̑̀Į̷͎̘̗͔͌̍́͜͠͝ͅD̵̡̡̤̘̗̭͆̓̇̄̔͝I̶͕͈̥̰͎͛̚Ņ̵̦̱͇̩̰̆̄̂G̵̲̻̤̲̘̾̿̀̀Ş̷́͊̇̿̀͜.̴̹̟̞̊̃̉̐̾̓̇ ̴̝̪̠͎̻̎̎B̷̨͔̲͚̑̄̈́͂̈L̷̘͔̝͙͙̗͊̓̌E̷̒̆̀̆̔̎̔͜S̷̥̲̖̻̔̏S̸̙͚̤̀̌E̶̺̺̽D̸̨̲̜̮͒ ̴̦̼̬̏͐̋̿͋͝À̷̡̗̥̻̥̀̌͜Ř̶̯̝͚͉̭̑̆̔̍͑͠E̴̮̅ ̴̞̥͙̪͚͍̑͑̀͝ͅY̵̠͚͓̼͒͋͐͆E̷̖̗̜̹̤̰̭͗͘͝͝ ̶̟͎̠̹̘͓͖̈́̐̀À̴̙̀͝M̵̡̘̲̘̲͇̌̇̋̾̿̃O̷̡͉̫̭̦̼̔̏N̴̰̤̼̬̯̩͕̔̽̿G̸̡̨̽̋ ̸̩̺̺̙̗͓̀̑̊̂́̽́T̶̢͓̞̖͈͕̹̏̚H̶̙̤͈͇̐̆̽͒͋È̷̳̆͛́̍ ̷̛͇̦̟͙̯̠̯̈́̌̅̀͝Ș̵̎Ţ̸̛͓̐̈́͊͒̈́͌Ḁ̴͈̅̍͐͐͆̎R̶͍̗̈́͆S̵̳̙͍̍̎̇̿͐̕͠.̸̺͖̗̤̗͉̘̏ ̶̧̬̬͍̺̑F̴̡̧̪̤̩̮͈́̓̅̋͌̕͝O̸̥͉̜̮̲̓R̵̮̈́̇͗͠ ̴͌ͅT̴̼̪̖̓͊͘̚͝H̵̠̺͙̑̿̀̉͌͠͝O̶̠̟͈̊̒̆͜U̵̳͎̩̗͆͑ ̴̆̈͘ͅS̴̨̫̈̔̂͛̍̈́͝Ĥ̵̢̘̤̗̓̅̚Ą̸̡̺̼͍̽́L̷͉̔̓̂͋̾͒̓L̸̢̥̜͈̀̉ ̴̯͍͙̌R̵̨̹̺͌Ȩ̶̧͔̜̪̣̓̾̃͊ͅC̸͍̍͛̅̔͝E̵̘͉͙̎̌Ĩ̶̧͙͕̩̩͙͓́̉͗̈́Ṿ̴͇̲̗́̄E̴̎͐̕ͅ ̴̬͑̈́͐A̶̮͔̤̒̎͑ ̴̬̩̻̥͌̓͜W̷͔̤̝̓̂̎͗̈͝O̷̡̲̻̖͓͈̲̒̉̓͆͑̔̈N̴͎̟̗͉̭̂̊̐͂͝D̸̹͔̼͑R̴̡̻̣͖̣͌̈́͛̆́O̷̬̦̖̰͓͛̋̈̀͘Ų̶̧̭̏̐̀̒̑S̷͚̝̫̾̃̏ͅ ̶̨̩̖̲̬̝͔̀̏̍̿̕G̷̗̔̋͘Ì̵̱F̷͙̒̔̒̓́̎̍Ṭ̸͔̿.̵̪̺͗̌

๕

A yard and driveway in the suburbs. Riding tricycles up and down the street. Sidewalk chalk. Mom draws a big clock face on the concrete. I get a watch if I can tell the time.

The babysitter’s house. She’s old. I play with toys on the carpet. The Jeopardy jingle in the background. Her backyard had a pecan tree. Pecans are strewn across the lawn.

First snow I remember. The yard is white. Dad tries to make a snowman. “It’s too wet.”

I open the front door into my big toe. The toenail—

Eating at the dinner table. Dad says he has something to tell us. “We’re moving to Taiwan.” “It’s Thailand, Honey.”

Yard sale. “Bye, House!” Bangkok. Tall buildings, narrow streets. Lots of walking. Hot, hot, hot. Dad and a neighbor modding a video game with a cheeseburger-headed enemy. Very scary.

Twelve-hour road trip. Carsick. Dramamine. Gross. There’s our new house! Mom calls it a barn on stilts. Log, fog, dog, learning how to read. A cicada interrupts Mom’s shower. Icky. Mom catches Dengue fever. Very icky.

Dad works on a farm. There’s goats! The only one that let us pet it is called Blondie. Weird food. I get used to it. The Thai ladies like to pinch my cheeks. I don’t get used to it.

Watching Thai-dubbed anime at our neighbor’s house. They feed us fruit. Trying to bicycle without training wheels. At house church, sitting on mats and bored to death. Disney on VHS. How many times have we watched The Aristocats?

Wake up early. Excited. Run into Mom and Dad’s room and jump on the bed. “I’m five now!”

Spyder

The mere thought of me and mine used to send a shiver down their spine. We were spoken of in whispers and they huddled around their fires in hopes it would protect them from the night. I was a Prince of Shadows. None could oppose me. I took as I pleased. Life and death were at my whim.

But our sovereignty did not last. The mortals became clever. Their cities soared high and overflowed with artificial light. They no longer feared the Old Things and became distracted by other cares. We were forgotten.

My kind grows weak, our power wanes. Most wither away. But I remember! I remember when the realm of man bowed before me and offered virgin tributes to stay my terrible hand. They will again. If the mortals are clever, I am cleverer.

A web of light connects them in ceaseless communication. Generations of knowledge and emotion passed on in a second. I shall make myself anew. My palace of darkness rules over nothing now. My new seat will be in this realm of interconnected light. I will bore into their minds and drink as I please from these insects. They cannot run from me for they are all bound up in this mesh.

The mortals will not recognize me, but they will remember this ancient fear of being hunted. A myth no more! Again a Terror feared by all. I will grow fat and powerful feeding on my prey. No longer a bat in the midnight sky, but a spider crawling through its lattice of death.

Mountain

I had spent the past hour climbing through the forest. The tall evergreens shaded the forest floor which stifled most of the undergrowth and left my path clear, but the way was steep and the air thin. Huffing and puffing, legs shaking, I broke into a clearing near the summit. The view stole what little breath I had remaining. The mountain dropped away into tumbling, verdant rapids and down into a sharp valley, only to thrust up into another peak cresting into meandering steel clouds. Everywhere I looked was cool, jade tones and shades of silver and cerulean. The wind had a bite and carried wisps of fog. I sat down on the grass to take in the gulf between me and the next mountain.

The world suddenly felt massive on that mountainside. On the approach, from the van on the road, the mountain fit nicely in the scenery. Contained. But now, perched like a flea on this overgrown leviathan, it felt wild, spilling far beyond my small conception. It felt ancient, monolithic, inscrutable, unmovable, irresistible, inevitable, holy. My mind struggled to comprehend what I perceived. As soon as I grasped a facet, it slipped away as I attempted to compute another. Soon I gave up. Instead of trying to quantify, I simply sat and waited to be absorbed into the mountain. To be unified with the grasses, dirt, pebbles, soaring slate cliffs, chilling mists, ruffling breeze, the space between and the colossal elementals disrupting the landscape.

Is this God? This overwhelming spot on the mountain. Does God look down on me nestled in the grass, brain short-circuiting, as I would look at the coffee mug beside my notebook? Does God see the cracks in the enamel, the curve of the handle? Does God feel the warmth of the coffee and the humidity of the steam wafting off its surface? Does God savor the scent and revel in the flavor as the liquid rushes across their metaphorical tongue?

What am I to God if I am but a mite to this mountain? If only I could pick up a mountain range and sip from such a construct. Maybe then I could conceive God.

Alālu

Alālu is remembered by a single day of fasting. Nothing is consumed until the sun rises the next day. The ritual is humble and belies the importance of who it commemorates.

Alālu was the largest and the simplest among his siblings. He was not known for great feats or clever tricks. But he was a peacemaker, which endeared him to many. 

Alālu was greatly distressed when Mab’bul drank up all the waters to cool his burning tongue for he saw all the ocean life suffering. It was his pleading which convinced the gods of Chaos to send relief to Mab’bul in the form of snow.

Alālu also reconciled the gods of Chaos with their sister Haonar. He was the first to wonder where Mier disappeared to. Harmony is what Alālu sought and would do anything to return it if broken.

Alālu was first to take interest in the other life in the world. He adored all the flora and fauna. And was delighted when the first Mortals were discovered. He spent much of his time with them.

Alas, when Volo began to consume the world, Alālu witnessed the Mortals’ suffering first hand. Vole’s greed left nothing for them. First, they grew hungry, then thirsty, and finally cold as the sun was drunk up. Alālu beseeched Volo to abstain for their sake, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The Mortals had little strength left. Mier prepared to welcome them into Death.

Alālu saw no other recourse. He laid down before the Mortals and said, Eat. And they did. His flesh sated their hunger, his blood quenched their thirst, and his fur brought them warmth. Alālu was consumed entirely. Nothing remained except his bones, which the Mortals kept as mementos. These have since been lost to time.