jamieproctor.ca

Hey, listen.
Forget all those other times, okay? Just listen. I know I’ve told you this before, but just listen, please, just for a moment.

This is the oldest and simplest way to make a world.

First, go to the water. That’s easy; it’s everywhere. Cold and calm and clean, but what we need it for is this:
Try to pick it up. Carefully – oops! – there you are.
Swish your hand a little. Can you feel it trying to get away?
Now make a fist, and watch what happens.
There.
You can’t hold it. Nobody can hold it. You can just keep a little in your palm, for a while.
Put it back, we’ve got to do the next thing.

Second, you take a stone.
Any stone. Could be dirt. Mud. Ground-up stone’s okay.
Mark it. Scratch it, stir it, squish it, mound it.
Now drop it – carefully! – into that water.
Ah! CAREFULLY.
No, no, that’s okay. There’s always a splash. Hard to make a world without a few splashes.
Now let’s watch it float.
See it spin?

I know it isn’t what you ever wanted.
I know it isn’t ever as you planned.
I know that water can be hard to find these days, and fresh stone too.
But it’s still the oldest, and still the simplest.
And I still like it best.

“Well I say it’s all about marbling.”
On hearing those words, Hal shrank a little in a small but nourishing part of his soul and knew that the next half-hour in the little diner was going to be very draining indeed.
“Marbling?” Fred snorted – loudly, Fred’s nose could move a lot of air very firmly, and his torso could hold a lot of it in reserve – and pushed back his plate. “Picky, picky, picky! No proper human sits still long enough to develop that kind of fat deposits. Would you eat a ‘marbled’ grasshopper? No! Such things are contrary to the spirit and essence of the-”
“Essentialist!” spat Tina. Literally spat; her teeth had trouble keeping all that vigorous disdain inside the confines of her mouth. “Would you boil down the full diversity of the human experience to a single strip of habits to fit your tastes? Even a hundred thousand years ago there was more variation in habits, customs, and general fattiness in the tender subcutaneous layer than your pitiful imagination would admit!”
“And yet you compare their ideal meat to that of the ideal domestic cattle, an animal specifically born and bred to contain such an over-idealized cut of fat and flesh! You ignore reality in search of decadence!”
“They’re not so bad as far as fat goes,” interjected the man who had been vying with Hal for the title of the quietest of the four; a broad-sided beefwall more chest than anything else. “I mean, if you compare humans to the rest of the primates, they’re clearly among the fattie-”
“See?” demanded Tina, waving his words aside with one hand and pointing with the other. “Gorilla Jim agrees with me!”
The beefwall frowned. “I eat more than g-”
Fred’s nostrils flared once more. “Oh wonderful, you have the least-discerning cannibal of them all on your side. Oh wait; how many people has he eaten again? Actual, real people. One? One –half?”
“I ate my own brother!” shouted Jim.
“Just his heart,” sneered Fred. “That’s more a macho thing than a meal anyways. Really, I’m amazed we let you in here.”
“Elitist,” said Tina.
“Plebe,” said Fred.
“Narrow-minded twits,” said Jim, quietly, so no one would hear him.
“People!” said Hal.
They looked at him.
“It’s all about the people, we agreed on this when we started this club. Yes, we may disagree on the nitty-gritty-”
“Taxonomy above the genus level is NOT ‘nitty-gritty!”
“THE NITTY-GRITTY,” repeated Hal, loudly, “but! But! BUT! We are all united on this one firm principle: human flesh is delicious, and worth eating, and worth discussing.”
“And we’ve done precious little of either for the last six months,” said Tina. “Bickering doesn’t count, and neither do pork chops, no matter how skillfully prepared.”
“Pigs are intelligent animals,” said Jim. “Better this than chicken.”
“Whatever you say, Gorilla Jim.”
“I eat more than go-”
“Let’sEatJeff” said Hal.
They looked at him.
“Pardon?” said Fred eventually.
“Let’s eat Jeff.”

Hal wrote ahead, of course. It would’ve been rude to do otherwise.
And Jeff phoned back to confirm, of course. It would’ve been unpunctual to do otherwise.
“So, how’s the wife?” asked Jeff.
“Don’t have one, Jeff.”
“Oh! Right, right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How’s the husband?”
“I’ve never been married to anyone at all, Jeff.”
“Oh! Blast it. I’m very sorry, you know.”
“I know, Jeff.”
“So, how about that weather?”
“It sure is.”
“Right on the money.”
“So, we’re thinking of a honey glaze.”
“Really?”
“Although Jim suggested applesauce.”
“Really? How unorthodox.”
“It’s the pork chops at the diner. He’s gotten a taste for i-”
“Oh, right, Gorilla Jim. That explains it.”
“He eats more than gor-”
“But the fact remains that I don’t give much of a twig for your prep methods, Hal. I trust you lot implicitly. My concerns are a little more… fundamental.”
“Such as?”
There was a sigh down the line, full of dust and worn-out alveoli. “I’m seventy-five, Hal. I’m not quite the prize I used to be. Even if you marinade me down to tenderness there’s no GAME in it, Hal, there’s no SPORT. Why, I couldn’t put up a fight against a gradeschooler these days, let alone you four strapping young things. That’s what, half the fun gone to pot? Two-thirds?”
Hal frowned.
“There, you see? I knew you’d recognize the predicament we’re in.”
“How about a proxy?”
There was silence from the other end of the line.
“NotThatI’mImplyingYou’reWorthlessBut-”
“No, no, it’s quite all right, I was just thinking. And you know what? I think you’re right. A proxy! Spot on. My choice, of course?”
“Absolutely. You know more of the community anyways.”
“Yes, yes I do. You know, I think my brother Reggie might know just the one for this. Plenty of fine young things under him who’d be game for a shot at your troop under fair rules.”
Hal grinned.

They assembled that Thursday at dawn outside Jeff’s estate, loaded for bear.
“Jeff,” said Fred.
“It’s an expression,” said Tina.
“I’ll have no truck with nonsense regardless of its pedigree,” said Fred. “If I were loaded for bear I’d be carrying something much bigger than a garrote and a plastic bag.”
“I’d expect something less clumsy and manual, with that talk.”
Fred looked down – or rather over – his nose at her with some difficulty. “SOME of us,” he said, ”never had the money for a license.”
“Convicted of petty theft, more likely. Tell me, what was it? Twinkies? Or are you more of an Oreos man?”
Hal cleared his throat in what he hoped was a diplomatic manner. “We’re all pretty heavily armed at the moment – in a variety of ways – and maybe we should put any… personal differences on hold while that’s the case.”
“Not Gorilla Jim. What’d you bring, anyways?”
Jim looked hurt. “I’ve got my knife, and you know I wrestle. And I told you, I eat more than gori-”
“Right, right. You never stop telling that story about the chimpanzee, you know.”
“It was a genuine accomplishment! You have any idea how much stronger they are than us?”
“It could be Andre the giant and Hulk Hogan’s offspring; if it’s half your weight I’m still not impressed.”
“For your information the proportion of muscle to fat and bone in an adult male chimpanzee by weight is EXTREMELY-”
Hal swung open the gate to Jeff’s estate, then swung it closed, then open, then closed again, drowning any and all possible words in a sea of endless creaks and wails.
“All done?” he asked brightly. “All done! Right! Let’s go get Jeff.”

They fanned out into the bushes in whatever semblance of stealth each possessed. Hal was lightfooted; Tina and Jim soundless, Fred a silent thunder.
“Call in,” breathed Hal.
“Nothing yet,” whispered Jim. “Tina?”
“All quiet over here. Fred?”
“I’m FINE.”
“Sure. Any sign of him?”
Fred sighed at full length.
“Oh for shit’s sake,” said Tina.
Silence.
“Answer. The. Question.”
Nothing.
“Fred?” asked Hal.
There was a muffled thud.
It took two minutes of circling to find Fred. The back of his neck, however, was still missing.
Jim prodded it gingerly. “Snapped clean.”
“You call that clean?” said Tina. “For a job with steak knives, maybe!”
“Relatively,” said Jim.
A branch snapped near them.
“Was that you, Hal.”
“No.”
“Was that you, Jim.”
“No.”
“That was him, then.” Tina cocked her pistol needlessly. “Get ‘im.”
They rushed the nearby bushes and grappled in hand to hand combat for thirty seconds before realizing they’d grabbed each other.
“Where is he? Is that him?”
“That’s me. Is this him?”
“That’s ME. Is this him?”
“That’s Hal.”
“Sorry,” said Hal.
“Shut up,” said Tina. She squinted at the woodlands. “Where the hell’d this guy come from? He got Fred! From behind! You can’t sneak up on Fred, he has the biggest personal space bubble I’ve ever seen in a human being! WHO IS HE?”
Hal shook his head and found he couldn’t stop. “Reginald,” he blurted out. “Jeff – I remember this, I remember it now – he told me once his brother Reginald had a-”
“What’s he run, a green beret training academy?!”
Hal wracked what was left of his sanity for a reply. “A zoo, I think,” he said oddly.
“A zoo,” said Jim.
“Yes and plenty of the younger keepers are very fit and I guess when he said he’d ask Reggie I just assumed that-”
“A zoo,” said Tina.
“I suppose so ahahahaha but really that’s not-”
“You idiot, are you telling me you signed us all up to be EATEN BY A LION?!”
Jim squinted into the trees. “A tiger, probably,” he said. “They’re more comfortable hunting alone, and I doubt he’d be able to spirit away more than one animal from its exhibit for any real length of-”
“Shut up, Gorilla Jim.”
“I eat more than-”
“GorillasGorillasGorillasGorillasGORILLAS” shouted Tina. “Now, here’s the plan, since Fearless Leader here has turned into seven pounds of jelly in a four-pound bag: we stick together, back to back, and we make for the house. If it can’t see a weak spot it’ll stick its distance – they’re scared of humans – and there’s no way in hell Jeff’ll be able to take us once we’re indoors.”
“Are you sure it’s scared of humans?” asked Jim.
“It’s a wild animal. Of course it is, they’re all nervous and shy around things they don’t understand.”
“It’s a zoo animal,” said Jim. “It’s spent its entire life surrounded by us. I’d say it’d be pretty relaxed. And if he was comfortable siccing it on us, I’d say he picked one that’d had issues with its handlers before. So it knows it can hurt us.”
They stood there for a moment, and it seemed like the forest got just a little bit quieter as they listened.
A leaf landed on Hal’s shoulder. He flinched as if shot.
“Run,” commanded Jim.
“Run,” agreed Tina.
“Run?” queried Hal, who was already halfway down the path to the house.

The screen door slammed open and shut twice in rapid succession.
“You tried to lock me out,” said Jim accusingly.
“I panicked,” said Hal. “And besides, it’s a screen door and it’s a tiger.”
Jim gave him a pained look. “I know, but I’m trying to pretend otherwise.”
“Where’s Tina.”
Jim opened the door. “TINA?” he yelled. Leaves swirled.
He shrugged and shut it again.
Hal slumped a little further against the wall. “Do you think it’s full now?” he asked hopefully.
“Killing spree, more like it,” said Jim. “I’ve heard of this, but it’s usually not very well documented, happens in the middle of nowhere in places with bad records. It’s pretty amazing to watch, really.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Jeff happily.
They turned around.
Jeff smiled at them. He had an extremely large glass of expensive fluids in one hand and a friendly wave in the other and a large, aesthetically-pleasing sort of balcony beneath him that put about fifteen feet between the top of Hal’s head and the start of its railings. It had a gorgeous view of the grounds and the verandah and no obvious way up.
“Couldn’t resist the urge to get a good view of the proceedings,” he admitted. “Good job the lady didn’t make it, eh? I’d look a vain old fool standing here with a bullet hole plugged in me.” He slapped his knee and made a hearty wheezing laugh.
“You’re looking really good,” said Hal, ceding full control of his mouth to whatever entered his head.
“Amazing what a little show does for your nerves,” said Jim. “I mean, last weekend I was practically bedridden but whoops! One little phone call from you, a little action right now, and my goodness! I could just about go for a run now, you know?”
Hal glanced over his shoulder at Jim. The other man was leaning against the wall next to the screen door, sniffing occasionally and twitching his eyelids at the outdoors. He shrugged.
“His name’s Tony,” said Jeff.
Hal turned back again. “Pardon?”
“The tiger. His name’s Tony. You see, there was a contest to name him, and well, all the schoolchildren were writing in, and you know how kids are. Alliteration and commercials: catnip for the little buggers.”
Hal laughed.
“I’m sorry?”
“Catnip. I just thought it was funny, that’s all.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, it’s striking the effects this sort of situation can have on your sense of humour. Did I ever tell you about the time I was locked in a meat locker with Big David Daniels thirty years back with only a sharpened toothbrush? I was so busy looking for him I walked into a frozen cow carcass and lordy, I broke down laughing so hard he couldn’t help but join in. Bad move: I recovered first and got him in the ribs.”
“Amazing,” said Hal.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say THAT. But it was a lovely kill. Got some good spareribs off the man, too. Had a good chest.” Jeff peered critically at Jim, still lurking near the screen door. “I hope he fills up on you two. No offense, but you’re awfully stringy and Jim here’s as tender as a plank.”
“What’d you do to it?” asked Hal, with a certain aimless curiosity that he was beginning to suspect was endemic to those about to die.
“Me? Surprisingly little, my boy. He was a good cat for years – napped in the sun, played in the water, ignored the cameras – and I suppose someone threw one pebble too many at him from atop that wall surrounding their pit. Vaulted the fence, vaulted the wall, mauled the latest (and last) offender, paced in circles around the corpse until the tranquilizers came. Reggie put in a good argument for his life, the poor old soul, but he was going to lose. Fortunate timing, really – as far as anyone else knows, this lucky lad is currently breathing his last in an extremely potent lungful of ethers. This is a bit more of a holiday for him, eh? One last hurrah for the old sod.” Jeff sucked in his cheeks and puffed out his moustache a little. “Do you reckon he’s imagining you as all those lousy little children that threw pebbles and peanuts? I suspect there’s not a great deal of difference in size from his perspective. His own is considerable, of course, and I mean really what’s about eighty pounds here or there when you’re closer to a quarter ton than not.” He nodded down at Hal happily, as if inviting him to give his own theories.
Hal swayed on his feet. He wondered if he was imagining the smell of blood or if that was starting to seep out of him now that he’d run out of urine. He opened his mouth and something asked the question: “What kind of tiger?”
“Ask him,” said Jeff. He nodded again, and this time Hal realized not at him at all.
He turned around.
Jim was still there. The screen door wasn’t. The latter was dangling from its hinges; the former dangling from Tony’s mouth.
Siberian, a random bit of his brain that was still six years old told him. The largest living cat.
The colours were surprisingly vivid. Bold orange. Pitch black. A shockingly pale white neck and belly.
Except for the eyes, which were a very mild and washed-out sort of yellow, and which were both boring through Hal’s skin and into the smallest and most rodent-like portions of his soul like a heated gimlet.
“Good show!” said Jeff heartily. And the cat moved.

It was only just as Tony began to leap – muscles uncoiling under his skin like giant springs – that Hal realized his mistake; Tony wasn’t looking at him at all, Tony was looking THROUGH him at –
He ducked. Or rather, collapsed very quickly, and watched over four hundred pounds of fur and teeth and claws and general sharp edges flow by, passing just over the tip of his nose like a beautifully-painted freight train and up up up UP.
Much of what happened next Hal inferred later, from the sounds jangled nerves had hesitantly suggested to be true as they echoed in ears that were more or less going entirely unnoticed at the time. But from what he tentatively guessed, Tony had vaulted his third and final wall.

That was all later, of course. After he’d made it to his car, considered phoning the police before remembering all the discarded weaponry they’d left strewn over Jeff’s grounds, made it home, thrown up four times, and had the longest bath of his life.
He closed his eyes and wondered how long tigers could live on four human bodies, two of which were mostly muscle or wrinkled skin. He wondered how far they could track human scent. He wondered if they held grudges – then he remembered the look Tony had given Jeff, standing above him, behind a fence and instead he wondered if they deliberately HUNTED DOWN grudges.
Then he forced it all out of his mind and stood up.
He had a lot to do. Posters to put up. Pamphlets to put out. Discreet enquiries to make. Phone calls to fill with euphemisms.
By god, whatever else this day was, it would NOT be the end of the North American chapter of the Human Taste club, least of all at the hands – paws – of a creature that wasn’t even sophisticated enough to kill solely for food.

In the end he did concede to marketing though, and put Tony on the pamphlets.

There’s a bit of groundwork I have to lay out here before I get into the meat of things.

It was a nice day, okay? A really nice day.
And nice days don’t just HAPPEN. I’m no meteorologist or climatologist or even an astrologist but even I can tell you that the sheer number of impossibly complex chaotic behaviours necessary to produce a single drop of rain or puff of cloud is almost endless.
Certainly beyond my understanding, I tell you. And that’s just the weather! Yes, we all know you can’t have a nice day without a nearly-clear sky; a warm sun; a cool breeze, and JUST the right kind of rustle in the leaves, but there’s far more to it than that.

You need to have:
A good breakfast.
A time somewhere between morning and afternoon. Not close enough to a meal that you’re stuffed, not far enough that you’re peckish.
A place with some green in it. I respect the beauties of the urban landscape, but nice weather has less of an impact on them than it will someplace where the plants are as happy as you are to see it.
Someplace to go and no hurry to get there. An excuse to walk or jog or bike or run, basically. With or without company, however you feel about it.
Some birds making noise. Doesn’t have to be HAPPY birds mind you; a lot of truly excellent birdsong comes from their yelling at their neighbours to stay away from them or something.
A good, happy neighbour or three. Nothing makes a good mood magnify like walking by someone sharing it. It’s like butter on the popcorn of the soul.
And the last one is how the trouble started this morning.

It was a lawnmower.
A lawnmower! Just before breakfast! And I take my breakfasts early, believe you me. My bagel rises from the toaster at around the same time the sun rises from the treeline. But no sooner am I raising it to my lips than do I hear the hucketa-hucketa-BRAWWWWWW of my good pal and neighbour, Barry, and his antique diesel-chewing tree-shredding mouse-mulching repurposed-tractor of a rideable lawn mower.
For crying out loud, the dawn-stain hadn’t even washed off the sunlight!
Now, I’m a patient man. I’m not easily perturbed. I am a limp lilypad on the endless pond of life. Any other day – ANY other day, funerals, weddings, birthdays, my own dear departing deathbed – and I would just smile at Barry’s hijinks, cluck my tongue – click click! Like a chicken! – and be on my way wherever that might be.
But. This. Day. Was. Perfect.
Perfect!
And that wouldn’t do at all.

Barry was a good guy. We’d had beers together. That means something, I think.
Barry was a kind guy. When I ran over his cat, and he later ran over my dog, we buried them together. And we each pretended we didn’t see the other crying.
Barry was a practical guy. When I shoveled my snow into his driveway, that fall he dumped his leaves into my yard.
But Barry… Barry was a stubborn guy. And when I talked to him about the issues I was having with his effects upon this day, this so-nearly-perfect day, WELL.
We had problems.
He said his lawn had to be just so. I said it could be just so later.
He said he had to go to work later. I said that working on a day like this was criminal.
He said in that case well call the cops on him. I said sure fine and went inside and dialed 911.
They hung up. I went and told Barry this.
He laughed at me, a harsh, jackdaw sound that mocked the gentle whisper-and-shush of the trees. I punched him in the face.

The problems started around there. I wish I could recall more, but it got a bit out of hand. Barry was unwilling to apologize and I’m not ashamed to admit I found myself a bit heated up. I only cooled down once the lawnmower got involved, and even then only after I’d backed over him five or eleven or forty-six times. But after that the motor coughed and choked on Barry’s abdominal fat, and as it sputtered down after him into death I heard the morning birdsong and I felt the true peace of the really truly nice day settling down upon me like a warm cotton blanket.
It was a nice time for a walk.

You know, there’s one other piece of the puzzle that is a truly nice day that I’d completely forgotten: the dogs.
I love dogs. I love all kinds of dogs. I love their floppy ears and their cold damp noses and their big doofy grins. I love them so much.
But as I walked down the road several dogs did not behave as I had anticipated. Their tails did not wag. Their ears did not perk. Instead they made low, threatening noises in their throats and laid their ears flat like unleavened bread. My friendly attempts at ‘hey boy!’ and ‘oh aren’t you handsome!’ were replied to with savage snarls and leaps at my throat. Maybe it was the Barry residue coating most of my clothing. I would’ve removed it before my walk, but laundry has no place in a nice day. As it was I was forced to shift my walk into a run while wearing my walking sandals rather than my running shoes. This was not even a little bit idyllic and perfectly explains why I was angry enough to spend the next ten minutes up a tree shouting profanity at the dogs.
It was a nice tree. It was a cedar, a polite, well-barked, straight-limbed tree with no sticky sap coating its handholds and a lovely polish to its exterior. But the owner of the land it stood upon was a black-hearted fiend from hell who had the nerve to shout at me over my innocent claiming of refuge upon her property, and as her threats of legal action reached a crescendo that threatened to drown out the gentle babble and rush of the nearby stream in my ears I was forced to disembowel her with a fallen branch in defense of the nice day.
It still was, you know. It still was.

Of course, the dogs were still upon me, but they were all nice animals from kind households and a brief thrashing and gnawing was enough to leave them whimpering for home, leaving me damn well-exercised and a bit chuffed – although still a mite gory. Gruesome, I tell you. Still, it was fun. Tiring, but fun. So when the SWAT van came screeching up, sirens blaring and bright lights flashing, and all those big burly men in angry blunt arm swarmed out and started shouting at me, well. I was put out. I was clean put out.
So I put myself into the van and put it down the road and into town.
I know, I know, I know. I said you need a bit of green for a really nice day. Well, that’s true. But I wasn’t intent on STOPPING the nice day – not like everyone else was, oh no. I was just putting it on hold for a moment while I saved it.
Besides, I wasn’t lingering. I never took my foot off the gas all the way into town. In addition some people tried to obstruct me and were rendered unable to do so by my wise time management.
The hardest part was getting the plane, since they were waiting for me at the airport. I lost an arm doing that, but I picked out the bullet with forceps cobbled together with an inflight movie headset and cauterized the wound with the microwave. And you know what? The clouds were still smooth and quiet and few and white and puffy, and the sky was still blue.

Mind you, the wind was a bit fierce when I parachuted out. But it was still a nice day.
It was still a nice day even after I’d fought my way inside the silo.
It was still a nice day even while I held the technician’s head in the sink until he told me what I wanted.
It was still a nice day when the exhaust from the missile blotted out the sky for a few hours.
You see, a nice day is more than just a few errant moments here or there. A nice day takes EFFORT. A nice day takes WORK.
And this IS a nice day. It’s the nicest day of all, and now it’ll never end.

Well.

I could use a few new neighbours, I suppose. Polite ones.
It’s getting a mite lonely under this mountain.

Baby, why are you crying? Shoo-shoosh, no more tears, mommy’s here.
Was it a draft? Was it a sound? Was it the size of the whole world? Shush shush, don’t worry.
Was it the dark?
Oh, of course.
Mommy can fix it, dry your cheeks and unred your eyes, don’t worry. Mommy can help. See this?
It’s a night-light.
It goes in the wall here – right here – and it turns dark into bright and night into white. Owls go to sleep when it’s on; the moon hides away in the sun; the sky turns blue and the moths fly away and the raccoons drop their garbage and run.
But don’t touch the cord, baby, not even a little. Be careful and quiet and calm. Because if you touch the cord – just a little, baby – it could pop fizzle snap out the sun.

Baby, why are you still crying? Shhh, calm now, good boy.
Did you hear an owl? A coyote? A racoon?
A ghost? A gargoyle? A ghoul?
Was it a thing that goes bump or more of a thump? There’s a big difference, you know.
Don’t worry, don’t grumble or fuss. Turn that little frown upside down. Mommy can help with one of her tricks. See this?
It’s a teddy-bear.
Tuck it under one arm – right tight! – and under the other – real snug! It’s soft as cashmere with steel underhair; mouse-mild but house-sized when squeezed. Just give it a hug and whatever dares bug, well, I wouldn’t be it for the world.
Just don’t touch its mouth or eat near it, baby. It’s friendly, but we’ve all got our limits.

Baby, are you crying again? Oh no, not again, not more!
It can’t be the dark, it can’t be the creeps, it can’t be, I fixed them for you. Shh-shh, let me think.
Think.
Think.
Oh of course the classic the CLOSET.
Good boy, don’t worry, mommy can help. Look here-
A blanket: secure and safe.
Tuck yourself in with it here and there, go to sleep without a care. When the closet door swings wide, just slip your head underside.
Then you push the little button in this corner – here – and it floods the rest of the room with cyanide. Don’t put your nose out until after forty mississippis, okay?
Good boy, baby, good boy. See? Mommy knows best.

Baby, it’s four in the morning! What’s got you so worried this time?
Is it colic? Appendix? Incoming influenza?
Or is it existential angst?
Well baby don’t pout, and baby don’t worry, because I can help with that too. (Mommy knows everything, you see).
Baby, there is no point to all this. Baby, there’s nowhere after it’s done. But when your body’s all to pot we can let it just rot and put your brain in this cybernetic mnemo-dome.
See? See the pretty blueprints? Mommy’s got you all set, don’t you fret. Right to retirement and beyond!
Sleep tight, baby. Sleep tight.

Baby, please, why are you crying?
Baby, are you okay?
Let mommy help you.
I can help you so much.

Hey now, hold on a minute, wait up, give a friend a break, eh? Just help me, help me out here – I’ve got a story hard on my heels and my head and I’ve been trying to outrun the blowback day and night for a long time. Wait up a moment, let me empty it out from my lungs and into your ears so I can catch a breath for the sake of all that’s me.
It’s Lalie. It’s about the only time she ever lost a fight.

So one day Lalie woke up in the worst mood in the worst place. A grey, broken sky. Ground a mix of mud, blood, and rocks. Not a tree left standing. The only animals were bones, and the only bones were the ones too little to bother splitting for marrow.
“Just as I left it,” she said with satisfaction. And she sat up and scratched herself real good because she was proud, but as she scratched she shivered and got cranky because she could feel the gurgles starting up in her stomach again.
Those gurgles! Time and time again she thought she’d shut them up for good, but they were never gone for long. Lalie was a growing girl of eight years old and eight feet tall, and no matter what she did she kept growing, growing, growing all out of proportion and sense. If she’d had her druthers she’d have quit long ago. It was getting harder and harder to find things big enough to feel worth punching. Or eating.
“Boooo—ring,” she sang out over the land. Then she stomped off. That was a nice part about being bigger, really. You got a better stomp.
Now Lalie came to the banks of a stream, and as she was draining it dry for breakfast – and using her teeth as a weir to pick out fish – she spied across its bank the most amazing sort of place she’d seen since the last castle she’d kicked over. A glorious great green park, with trees the size of mountains, mountains the size of trees, and hills the size of hills. More importantly, it was crawling with animals of all shapes and sizes that she barely understood.
“Now THERE’S a place to get a punch and lunch,” she said to herself with satisfaction. But herself shook her head at this, for Lalie was a child of hag-giants, and theirselves speak when spoken to.
“Don’t go there!” she said. “That’s the marvelous land of the great sky-dragon Cymm, last and largest of her kind (and by far the worst-tempered). If you go there, you’ll end up in such a state even I won’t be able to help you.”
“Says you, me,” said Lalie good-naturedly, for she was never one to abide caution from anyone or anyher. And she strode over the streambed at a stride and rolled up the tanned carcasses and bones that made up her sleeves.
The animals stared at her.
“Come on,” she said. “Winner eats the loser.”

Man, that was a real mess. A real mess. It was the biggest brawl Lalie’d been in for a year and a day and about an hour and a little under four and a half minutes. A hundred wolves jumped on her right arm and a hundred lions jumped on her left arm and a herd of elephants stormed her legs while a thousand eagles clawed at each of her three eyeballs. I can’t hardly describe the violence, I don’t really know what to say of the carnage, but I can sum most of it up in as short a word as possible so we don’t have to dwell on it:
Chewing.

When Lalie was done chewing she looked around and saw that the marvelous land of the great sky-dragon Cymm, last and largest of her kind (and by far the worst-tempered) looked pretty much identical to where she’d woken up that morning. The mountains were mud, the trees were toppled, and there weren’t even many bones left this time. She’d been hungry.
“Time for sleep,” she said to herself with a yawn.
“Don’t sleep here!” said herself. “The great sky-dragon Cymm, queen and king of the clouddom, thunderer of renown, and last and largest of her kind (and by far the worst-tempered) has her personal lair not far from here at all! You’d better be long gone before she arrives – and anyways, it’s far too earlier in the day for sleep, lazybones! See how high the sun rests in the sky?”
“Ah, who cares,” said Lalie. “I’m tired enough to snooze through an a-bomb. I’ll lie under this tree and put my hair over my eyes and that’ll set me right as rain.” And she ambled over to the tree and did just that, snoring like a brigade of soldiers with megaphones.
But the sun was strong that day, and the sky was still clear enough. And the beams of light snuck down the long blue air and stole through Lalie’s wire-thick hair, twitch and toss and turn in her sleep as she might, until all she could do was wake up snarling, time after time.
“Shut off your nonsense!” she shouted at the sun.
“Turn off your nightlight!” she snarled again.
“GO. AWAY.” she requested politely.
And at last she just tilted back her head and screamed loud enough to blow all the dirt out from under her nails and the lashes from her eyes. Then she picked up the dirt and lashes, rolled them right ‘round her palm lickety-split, and hurled them at the sun in a hard ball, WHAM.
And down it went, out like the light.

Now, at first Lalie was okay with this. She’d been trying to get some shut-eye after all, right? And she did, and she did. Snored bigger than ever, too.
But when she woke up in the middle of the ever-night with icicles on her toes and under her armpits and in her big mouth, well, even she thought this was too much of a good thing.

“This is LOUSY,” Lalie complained. “I just wanted the sun to shut up for a minute and stop glowing at me, but now it’s gone and made me all chilly. This wouldn’t happen if people listened to me. I’ll have to replace it.”
So Lalie walked around in the dark sunless world with arms outstretched – tripping over the odd tree-trunk or smashed mountain as she went – until she found something new and smooth and strong; the body of a great tall fruit-tree that had withstood all her bluster and violence so far. She shook it gently and heard the soft, full rustle of ripe, swaying fruit above her.
“Huh,” she said to herself. “I bet I could use this.”
“Don’t you do it!” herself warned. “This will be the final straw. The great sky-dragon Cymm, devourer of all flowers, cousin of the far stars, queen and king of the clouddom, thunderer of renown, and last and largest of her kind (and by far the worst-tempered) lives in that very tree, sleeping at this very moment! If you disturb it, she will emerge ready to kick ass and take names and you don’t want to be on that list!”
“I worry too much,” she told herself. And with that she kicked the tree hard enough to split it in half, caught the biggest and ripest fruit as it fell, swore at it so hard it burst into full flame, and lobbed it into the sky, where it stuck like a fly in a web.
“There!” said Lalie proudly, shaking her right hand free of flames (it was charred bone-deep). “Better than ever!”
But as she stood there, admiring her handiwork, a roar filled the air. The new sun shook and shimmered in its place, and its skin bulged as a sinister form erupted from its surface, coiling down to the earth as fast as lightning and three times as fierce. It was the great sky-dragon Cymm, ender of evil, smiter of the timid, devourer of all flowers, cousin of the far stars, queen and king of the clouddom, thunderer of renown, and last and largest of her kind (and by far the worst-tempered)! Her eyes were fiery red and her scales were blinding blue and her crest was a rainbow, and she was just a little tiny bit longer than your thumb, most of her body being her beautifully plumed tail.
“Is this the lout that has defiled my marvelous land?!” she asked indignantly, body swollen to half-again her normal breadth with the force of her peevishness. “The chump that has knocked down my forests, stamped in my mountains, hummocked my hills, and consumed all of my animal pets and companions in the most indecent and voracious fashion?!”
“Yup!” said Lalie, grinning all the way around her head four and a half times. “Look at you! How are you so tiny? You’re not even the size of my snots! If I hold my fingernail to my eye, you don’t exist! Are you a dragon or a dragonfly? Hah! Hah! Hah!”
And as Lalie rolled back her head in pure, endless delight, the great sky-dragon Cymm, ender of evil, smiter of the timid, devourer of all flowers, cousin of the far stars, queen and king of the clouddom, thunderer of renown, and last and largest of her kind (and by FAR the worst-tempered, let me tell you) shot down her britches like a speeding bullet. And before Lalie knew what was happening, she fixed her teeth around the largest boil on Lalie’s buttock, and she bit down, hard.
The great sky-dragon Cymm did not have big teeth, but they WERE very sharp.
“YOW!” yelled Lalie, and before she’d even finished that one she’d moved on to “OWW!” because Cymm had found the second-largest boil on Lalie’s buttock. And so on to “AWP!” and “EEP!” and “YAH!” and “AIE!” and “HOI!” and “AGH!” all on through every combination of every damned syllable, because the moment Lalie tried to swat Cymm she just moved on to another boil and another bite, faster than a greased pig and a little more than a hundred times as angry. By the time the great sky-dragon found the smallest boil on Lalie’s buttock all she could do was moan, and when her teeth sunk home there well… she shouted pure nonsense, butted her head on the moon, shook herself every which way all at once and just before, and ran back across the river she’d emptied so fast she filled it up again behind her, along with a lot of very surprised fish.
The great sky-dragon Cymm, for whom titles hold no import, was still very cross about the desecration of her home. But she’d retained her intruder’s pants, which gave her both some satisfaction and the makings of a new home until her tree’s saplings grew fresh fruit.

So that’s the story of the only fight Lalie ever lost.
Just don’t tell her I told you, eh?

He was a hairy-knuckled, hunchbacked fucker, the old primate, the old perv.  Mould grew in between his teeth and his arms were worn and stretched from years of late-night brachiation.  But he nodded his head and let me in and gave me a drink I didn’t trust while we squatted there, talking and rambling and justifying himself six times over before I’d even got comfortable.
“It was just my job, see?” he whined through the gap in his big canines.  “It was only ever my job.  You don’t have to single me out, like, you don’t have to pick on my any.  Anansi, Iktomi, and Yahweh had me dead to rights and my kneecaps ready for an’ intimate talk with a bat, and then I says ‘hey slow down there fellas, there’s gotta be sumthing I can do to help,’ and after they ‘d done laughing and kicking my ribs a bit they said ‘sure, show us what you got.’  And I was in a rush, right, and I was in pain, right, and so’s under the circumstances I can’t hardly be blamed, right, can’t hardly be blamed at all.  You have any idea how hard it is to make a spine sober – which I wasn’t, on account of the pain.  Or how hard it is to rig up an eyeball that’ll stay seeing straight for more’n half your life – which I couldn’t, on account of the rush.  Really, you’re luck to be upright and breathing and making those funny noises you make at all, right?  Outta be thanking me.  Not too bad a job, right, for a pawful of spit, snot, and semen, I mean, HAD to use what I had to hand.  Had to use what I had to hand.”
“Hey, you’re not writing this down, are you?  It’s a nice trick, but it ain’t mine.  Never got the hang of all that kind of stuff, I’m hands-on but always moving, can’t afford to stand still and wait.  This job’s just killing time while I wait for my next big break.  It’s coming, just you wait.  Whine all you want about basic design flaws, but you guys look great on a resume, dead on.  I figure you’ll get me into planets.  Been practicing that – seen that little red one?  That’s mine.  Forgot the magnetosphere – amateur work, won’t make that mistake twice.  But just you wait now, and just you watch.  This’ll be my next big break soon.  Then I can get out of this dump and go big-time.  Cosmoseses, ewwn-eye-verses, maybe a few of those dye-menshun thingies.  I’m on my way, just wait.  And it’s, it’s, it’s all thanks to you, y’knowwhaddImean, all of you.  Y-O.  Y-o.  Y-o-o-o-o—-u.”
And he slumped over, drooling, and I looked at that warm stream of spit that spawned us all and I felt disgust brewing in my brain.  And resentment.  And anger.  All things your parents teach you how to deal with, or not.
And so I did it, smothered him like a baby on his own distended mucus and vomit.  He went out whimpering and I can’t offer a word in my defense that isn’t pride.  I didn’t ask to be as I am.
But I’m sure if you asked the poor bastards yet to be, they would’ve said ‘no thanks.’

Arrhythmic: A walk that takes place over rolling, bouncy terrain. Carry a sturdy walking stick or can and wear a safety helmet to prevent whiplash. Distinct from tall.

Bag-along: Any walk on which you are accompanied by an animal that can and will produce fecal matter (e.g., dog, cat, parakeet, infant, spouse, etc).
-Bastard’s bag-along: A bag-along, but without any provision taken to collect fecal matter for later disposal.

Blonk: A normal, everyday walk around the block that is so relaxing that you add another block and another block and another block and.

Crunch: A walk after a heated argument with a spouse or partner, characterized by three distinct parameters: the unnecessary stomping of the feet; the ferocious pounding red behind the eyes; and the increasingly loud screams from inside the very depths of your throat.
-Chop: A crunch that ends with the walker throwing themselves into a nearby deep, cold body of water, legs still juddering and striding all the way down to the icy bottom of mortality itself.

Dent: An unpleasant stretch of terrain smack in the middle of an otherwise lovely walking route. Examples include: road work; open sewers; vicious dogs barely restrained behind rickety wooden fences; playgrounds.

Epilogue: The stringing-on of a second walk along a different route after the completion of an initial, intended walk.

Granny: A walk characterized by a mindless repetition of the same looping pattern over and over again rather than adhering to any sort of sensible planning.

Hike: A close cousin of a walk, taking place almost exclusively in natural surroundings and with far more uneven terrain. Unlike walks, hiking demands specific footwear, namely boots. Common hiking hazards include bears; aggressive landowners with shotguns; and Lyme disease. A fuller examination of hiking is beyond the scope of this book, but can be found in its companion piece, Abrams and Behr’s Complete Dictionary of Hiking, 3rd Ed. (Pocket), also from Blottoham Books.

Jaunt: A saucy sort of walk taken for the purposes of extravagant display of a walker’s adornment, adored by young upstarts, macaronis, gadabouts, and vagabonds. Common points of display include wristwatches, hats, artfully adorned hairstyles, and tattoos.

Jog: A kind of obscenity, practiced by the depraved, the deviant, and the under-sexed. Can and will cause obesity, bulimia, and genital shrinkage. Not to be spoken of in polite company.

Mangle: A walking route with gorgeous scenery (often natural) paired with gruelling terrain. Many mangles are perilously close to becoming a hike.

Murgatroyd: A walker who perishes in the line of walking. Named in honor of Marian Murgatroyd, the great Scottish stroller of the 1920s.
-Murgatroyd’s march: A solemn memorial procession along the favoured walking route of a Murgatroyd, conducted with black-heeled shoes and the attachment of little bells to the coats of the participants.

Pickle: A walk with a clear destination through unclear terrain that culminates in a state of being completely and totally lost.
-Half-pickle: A pickle, but upon becoming lost the walker finds a nice local restaurant and has a good lunch as consolation.

Plod: A walk undertaken as a favour to another against the subject’s will. Characterized by sullenness, silence, and excessive stumping.

Quibble: A walk conducted purely on a whim because it’s nice out there and the walker is restless.
-Quibbleplex: A quibble undertaken with such force that the walker leaves their coat/keys/shoes at home.
-Quobble: A quibble spurred almost entirely by alcohol consumption.
-Que Quibble Quibble: A quibble in which the walker never comes back. Also known as ‘the Abrams.’

Ramble: A walk over familiar terrain conducted in such a manner as to sway erratically from one ‘standard’ walking route into another with little rhyme or reason beyond personal whimsy of the walker. Also known as a ‘meander.’

Run: Don’t say that.

Sprint: you disgust me

Stout: A walk after a big meal, on the cusp of becoming a waddle yet defying it with every heavy, ragged-breathed step.

Stroll: A meandering walk for its own sake and for the purposes of intellectual and emotional fermentation. Can be sweet (country), salty (city), or sour (industrial park).
-Slog: A stroll, but taken between the months of November and March. Popular ingredients include mud, snow, and muddy snow.

Stumping: Walking with the shoulders high and the head tucked low and forward, an essential adaptation for inclement weather and moody humours.

Tall: A walk that takes place principally over vertical terrain, consistent in one direction (either up or down). Not to be confused with arrhythmic.
-Wide: A walk that takes place principally over horizontal terrain, with a fixed horizon, clear weather, a warm sun, a light breeze, no sooner in the day than eleven AM and no later than two PM. Also known colloquially as a ‘Meek special.’

Neriss brushed the pebble with her toe and watched what happened.
It bounced off her left ankle,
down through a crack in the rock,
skittered over a smooth boulder,
and then it went off and down,
down,
down,
all the way over into the air where it got smaller and smaller until it was even tinier than the broad lazy Calo syruping its way along far away, so small that she could cross it by blinking.
Thinking of that made her blink, and in that moment her pebble was lost, making her swear and sweat.
“Language,” said a voice at her elbow, and Neriss nearly lost her footing altogether, as she hurled herself about to confront the speaker.
It was a burnt-up, shrivelled-up woman who was twice her age and about one and a half times her size in all dimensions. Just looking at her made you want a drink of water.
But Neriss was here for a reason and so she bit her tongue and gave her most apologetic bow and followed the burnt-up woman back to her home, which was an overhang with three inches of headspace and four inches of kneespace to either side over a three-mile drop, with a little rug made from the outside of a goat who didn’t need it anymore to keep out the wind.
There was a small fire. The burnt woman lit it, and Neriss tended it. The burnt woman made them some tea from frighteningly spiked plants, and Neriss drank it.
“I apologize for my words,” said Neriss. “They were ill-chosen.”
“As well you should,” said the burnt woman firmly. “You need to put a heavier accent on the last syllable. It crisps it properly and gives it a bit of a snap.”
Neriss spent a moment trying to decide how to process this advice and decided it was best to just barrel through it. “Illustrious and aged Ket, apothecary of greater note than any musician, there is an ill person down at the base of the cliffs, too ill to climb. I would beg of you that you-”
“You may beg, but you won’t get it,” said Ket.
“-give a-”
“Try again tomorrow,” said Ket. “Go back down and come back up in the morning.”
So Neriss bit her tongue again – it tasted like copper and frustration – and slid back over the edge of the Sor cliffs, which were so high that birds born on them would appear seasick if they were placed on level ground.
Then she climbed down, ate a very late dinner, and passed out for two hours before beginning the trip back up.

Halfway along, she kicked a loose root a little too hard, and watched ninety tons or more of rock slip away like a loose feather. It looked like it was about to start floating at any moment, but never quite managed it.

The overhang was empty. Ket was out and about.
Neriss hunted along the heights of the cliffs, through gullies and over rubble, finding all kinds of exotic plants with too many pointy parts – usually firsthand, or firsttoe – and in the end, exhausted, she sat on a rock and found a new and amiable kind of spider, which was about the size and shape of a full-grown thistle and eager to say hello.
“Shh, shh,” said Ket.
They stood there, side by side, watching the spider get smaller and smaller – though not small enough for Neriss’s liking – and by and large they returned to Ket’s shelter, which was somehow closer than Neriss had remembered, and they had a new kind of tea, which was made from plants which had no spikes at all but instead a kind of peculiar pustule all over their leaves which looked and smelt almost exactly like human blisters.
“Revered and illuminated Ket,” said Neriss at last. “I have a humble and meaningless request: a dear member of my family is down at the base of this cliff, too sick to move, and would you kindly –”
“Kind or no, I will not go,” said Ket. “Your request is denied. Return to the bottom of the cliff and try again tomorrow.”
This time Neriss sucked both her lips into her mouth and bit them instead of her tongue. It gave her a ghastly sort of white-and-red face, but by the time she stood on solid soil again the bleeding had nearly stopped and she was ready for her evening meal of whatever she could scrape together, just in time to go back up.

Near the top of the cliff, a bird flew by. It was a yard away but might as well have been at the other end of the world; hovering on air as if it were a trick even Neriss could manage, if only she would stretch out her cramping fingers and try hard enough.

Ket wasn’t home again, or the overhang wasn’t actually Ket’s home. Or both.
Neriss found one of the higher outcroppings – a little taller than her uncle Jenn on his tip-toes – and sat down on it. From up here she could see everything, but at such a size that it all looked like nothing. Hold up your hand and boop there goes home, there goes your friends, your friend’s friends, your enemies, your neighbours, your strangers, and everyone else you’ve even heard about. All erased in a finger’s-width.
“Careful there,” said Ket. “You could harm your eyes that way.”
Neriss hopped a little, but not too badly, and they sat there for a while on the slender stone, watching the sun grow and grow until they could see everything around them, everything everywhere, and still not see a fraction of it for what it meant.
“Ket,” said Neriss, “you will not help my family.”
Ket scratched her nose and cleared it for good measure. “No,” she said, “I won’t.”
“But from here,” said Neriss, “I believe I understand why.”
“You should,” agreed Ket.
“From up here we are all so small, smaller than even the tiniest bird on the highest flight,” said Neriss. “I could squint and stare and glare and stamp my feet and try as I might I would never see my home, never see anyone. What difference does one person make against this sight, however loved, however hated, however human?”
“Well, that,” said Ket. “But mostly it’s a damned hike and a half.”
Neriss stared at her.
“What? You’ve done it. Three times now, up and down, and that’s hard enough when you’re young and flexible. Who wants to travel that? Not me.”
Neriss stared at her, but only for a moment. A long, long moment.

Six feet and six inches is a small height, a very low altitude. Relatively speaking. There are few profundities associated with it.
But it’s still a notable enough drop, nonetheless.

Neriss took her time coming down again; her pack and every pocket was filled with every kind of spiky, angry plant she could find plus a few curious spiders, and her irritation was making her clumsy.
But it felt good, to watch the ground swell near under her, and the trees unclump out of the green mass. And there, so very near, was the little lean-to, with her mother making tea.

280 Marston Flats
Apt. Shopping List

Mon.
Greg
-Milk
-Eggs
-Potatoes

Sam
-Eggplant
-Arugula
-Feta
-Kale

Cass
-milk
-bread
-toilet paper
-‘Smackles’

Tues.
Greg
-Tomato sauce
-Mozzarella
-Flour

Sam
-Bell pepper
-Spinach
-Yogurt

Cass
-milk
-deodorant
-2x ‘Smackles’

C: You haven’t finished your last yet. -G

Weds.
Greg
-Bread crumbs
-Chicken breasts
-Pepper

Sam
-Unleavened bread
-Filtered water
-Light butter

Cass
-milk
-toothbrush
-2x ‘Smackles’

C: Seriously? –G

there’s a prize for 5x box tops ok. i’ll eat it later.
-C

Thurs.
Greg
-Spaghetti
-Olive oil
-Garlic cloves

Sam
-Carrots
-Raw milk

Cass
-milk
-toothpaste
-3x ‘Smackles’

S: I think that’s illegal. You want to get TB?
C: If I find where you’ve hidden these I’m throwing them out. Stench is unbearable. –G

it comes tomorrow.
-C

Fri.
Greg
-Oatmeal
-Half-and-half cream
-Honey

Sam
-Toilet paper x 2 3 4 5

Cass
-x2 milk
-x6 ‘Smackles’

C: I had to sign for your stupid prize this morning. The delivery man ran away before I could return it. I’m not buying another speck of that stupid cereal for you. –G

ftaghn.
-C

Sat.
Greg
-Bacon
-Bread
-Butter
-Flamethrower
-Machete

Sam
-Apple x1

Cass
-6 ‘Smackles’
-6 ‘elkcamS’
-6 ‘CklesSma’

C: I’m going to assume the predatory fungus sprouting through the kitchen floorboards is your fault. This is the last straw; I’m telling the landlord. –G

land rots
lords rot
you rot
Smackles endure
Smackles ERODE
Smackles erase
-C

Sun.
Greg
-Bagels
-Cream cheese
-40 oz. whiskey
-Whetstone

Sam
-Bag chips (sour cream & onion) x6
-Box donuts (choc. dip) x3
-Chicken + wedges + fried sticks valu-combo
-Large 4-cheese pizza w/extra cheese
-Onion dip x5
-Tub ice cream (butterscotch) x2
-Choc. sauce x2
-Raspberry crate x2
-2L cola x4
-Choc. bar (any)

CasSmacklesSmacklesSmackleSmackleSmackle
-Sma
-ckle
-Smackles
-666666
-CTACTTTAATCCA

S: I’m not sure I can get all that in one trip; remember, I’m on a bike, not a car.
C: I’ve called the national guard and I’ve got the attic sealed off. Come and get me. –G
PS: I’ve burnt out the stairwell.

Mon.
Greg
*

Sam
-Wreath (floral) x2
-Card (‘sorry for your loss’) x12
-500 ml mouthwash (strong) x3
-4L bleach x3

Cass Mushroom monster Smackles Cass
*

Im not really sure what happened this week but uhhh wtf guys.
-Sam

PS: Can’t find landlord. 3 wreaths???

It was her phone.
Sam had tried everything else first. It had been a part of the background noise of the crowded bar, then a hum in the voice of the alligator pretending to be her aunt, then just another speck of the fuzzy static filling her ears on waking. But now she was opening her eyes and it was still there and now it had become Doctor K telling her to come up over to Vertebrates, there was a problem that needed her attention. Again.
There was a shower first, with water that smelled of freshly-scrubbed salt. It stung her skin and cleared her eyes but left her head fogged and thickened. Then she took a mug and filled it with whatever liquid dregs were still in her personal fridge and wandered there the long way, up the staircase, because it was better to be five minutes late when it also meant five minutes more awake.
The staircase was nicer, anyways. It had the windows.
Blackness fading into blueness as she went up and up and up the winding corkscrew, watching the pale sheen and shimmer in the water from the nutrients and hormones and bacterial cocktails the station was disgorging into the long-wandering currents of Thalassa.
Sam didn’t like the name. Regurgitating earth genes, earth organisms, wriggling, thriving, multiplying earth life into the planet’s waters was one thing, but shoving earth mythology on top of it seemed wrong somehow. She’d never mentioned this to anyone and knew she never would and she thought about it every third day or so.

Doctor K was waiting for her there in the lab, looking cross. Doctor K always looked cross; it seemed to be part of her face. Sam knew she shouldn’t think things like that and she knew she was too tired to not do it. She was too tired for a lot of things, including listening to precise words. So instead she nodded and bobbed her head and let her hooded eyes stand in for concern instead of confusion and let the information drip in through the back of her skull.
The new fish were reacting badly to the delta-stage planktons; their skin was wearing in places and flaking away into raw flash. It was unprecedented, but unsurprising.
So she nodded a little more, for good measure, and went to her station, and pressed a button and tried, really tried, not to vomit.

She’d long ago decided it was the eyes that disturbed her so much when she worked on vertebrates. It was unsettling, the way they didn’t follow you around the room. A black glassy sphere turned flat as a penny in her grandmother’s collection.
An eye – a proper, socketed eye, an eye in a solid bony skull – should follow you. Instead, it seemed like all her projects followed her with their mouths. Their little jaws hinging and unhinging, gasping for water that wasn’t there, that they didn’t need as they rested in the gene cradle.
Sam tried not to look at it, looked at her notes instead. Abrasion, that was the thing. Abrasion. Chemical, mechanical, but always abrasion. Thalassa’s waters were unkind; the fish were being wire-scrubbed just swimming.
Thicken the dermis. Harden it. Harden it. There, maybe.
She’d done this four times already, each for a different reason, and she knew there’d be a fifth.
File, save, pull over the wastebasket and heave until nothing came out at all.

Sometimes, in her more tired hours, she’d imagine a coworker, helpful and kind and with a nice cup of coffee (not tea; she hated tea) would stop by late at night when she was tired and alone and nobody cared about her as usual and they would ask her, Sammy, why DO you work on fish when you hate them so much? Why dedicate your life to something you dislike? And she, smiling despite the deep exhaustion, would explain the words she’d rehearsed a thousand, thousand times, about how DNA was DNA and ninety-per-cent-plus of any species was ninety-per-cent-plus of another species, and the tools didn’t change too much, and prior subaquatic living experience counted for a lot in these postings. She’d worked on corals, she’d tell them, admiring the suppleness of their fingers and the softness of their smile, and plankton. Small things, with well-defined borders and elegant shells. Clean things.
And then she’d remember the things that weren’t clean or small or elegant and she’d come crashing back in to the world as it was, with the little paralyzed fish lying flat on its side in front of her, its genome unzipping into her computer, and all her lunch trying not to rush back into her mouth.
Doctor K was standing there at her side. Sam could almost feel her there, resisting the urge to tap her foot. Trying to remember how to look concerned while not accidentally asking something like ‘are you through.’
“Yes,” said Sam. Her voice felt tight and tiny.
“Pardon?”
“It’s all done.”

The walk back downstairs was longer and slower. Her workday didn’t start for another three hours, and she needed the sleep. But her feet dragged as she went back down into the dark levels, and the bed felt too warm and too stifling and the floor was cold and so she sat in her chair and read her notes without reading them and let her mind drift instead while her eyes boiled in her skull. She looked out the window, at the calm clouds of invisible life, and she tried not to think about fish.

It was the end of the week and the end of the day and every single thing that had been in Sam’s gene cradle had a backbone. Her mouth tasted like acid and her coffee tasted like ash and all the base pairs were starting to look the same to her and all her subjects WERE the same, the same problem. Too thin, too thin, too frail, too ephemeral. Delicate flesh and wafer-thin scales rotting on the fin, bruising under life.
They shouldn’t be here, she thought. They shouldn’t be here. Why come hundreds of lightyears and put things somewhere they shouldn’t be. Let the planet sit here on its own for a billion years or so until it figures itself out. Let it make its own namers to make its own myths and name its own oceans. Let it make its own life, if it wants to.
Doctor K was telling her that she needed to try harder.
So Sam breathed deeply but a little too quickly, and she thought of corals, and shells, and calm, clean surfaces, and she looked a VERY long ways back through the genome of the little fish, and she retrieved a few things and improvised others, and when she was done they released a trial batch. Tiny armored plates glinted in the station’s lights as they swam away into Thalassa’s long twilight.
Harder worked.

It worked so well, they did it four more times next week.

Three the next.

Seven after.

Sam felt calmer after the eighth, the ninth, maybe. There was something about ringing the bulbous little eye in bone, about covering the softness with smooth plates. It made it farther, safer. Extra layers between her and it, farther away. Bulkheads. Bulky heads.
Some of the newer ones were so thickly armored it was getting awkward for them to move. Not a problem of the plating, she told Doctor K, but the gross morphology. Muscles had to be moved, bones reworked, planes of symmetry jiggled.
They looked like bullets, thought Sam. Or maybe torpedoes. Their sides were so encased she could barely see their muscles tense. It had been hours since she’d thrown up.

It was the end of the fifth week and there were spots in front of her eyes and shaking and finally she put down her computer and went to the bathroom and realized she felt fine. She felt so fine she couldn’t blink, eyes locked tight.
That night she stayed up late, doing anything but sleeping. Staring, coughing, shivering, making coffee and throwing it out again.
Finally she went for a walk. Late shift, an inch from early shift, when the last of the night owls had gone to bed and the early birds still dozed. The halls were quiet and in that quiet all the softly mechanical noises that kept the station full of air and warmth and humans were loud and hard on the ears.
The lab was dark, calm, and cool; thirty metres below the surface and feeling like it. Sam’s hands shook as she turned on her computer; maybe she should’ve put on more clothing. Maybe she should’ve taken off yesterday’s clothing. Maybe she should, maybe she shouldn’t.
Maybe she shouldn’t do this.
The gene cradle was empty, but its memory was full. Sam scrolled through, looking at familiar patterns, proteins, pictures, plans. It was amazing how far they’d come in just a few weeks. The seas were awash in infant neoplacoderms, growing fat fast and furious on the enriched waves pulsing out of the station’s guts. They would be obsolete soon; they were a holding pattern, a temporary measure. When the waters were made tepid and tolerable, they would be repurposed, reprocessed. Their armor would fall away and their bodies would wriggle and gasp in calm cool waters that rocked them gently in its grasp.
She’d seen enough here, not that there was much to see. The computer was just a little local terminal; its powers began and ended at formatting: a typewriter for organisms.
But Doctor K’s computer was far more than that, and its password was far less than it should’ve been, and it had the authorization Sam needed and more to pump the planktonic tanks full of a transgenic blend that had been sitting quietly, very quietly, at the very back of her head for what seemed like her entire life but had surely only been just now.

Sam sat in her chair – in Doctor K’s chair – and leaned back until the springs complained in strident voices, and she thought about clean things, about smooth angles of shell and bone and horn and eyes that were so small against a skull that they were pinpricks, barely there at all. About well-measured borders and the kindnesses of surety, and certainty, and the discreet masking of the indiscreet and grotesque underneath the coolness of calm steel.
She thought about the picture books when she was very small, with their pictures of octopi, and eel, and shark, and sardines that had made her cringe. And the one her sister had liked, with the dinosaurs and mammoths and apes that weren’t quite apes any more. At its very beginning, there had been squids with spiral shells and scorpions that swam and just after that there had been a fish. A fish with bony eyes and a bony skull; a body like a bullet with a mouth made of blades, all flat and blank like a mask.
The door was ringing. Security would be coming in. She wondered if she would go quietly.
She wondered how big they would be when they grew up.