Fourteen, Part One

“I miss him.”

* * *

The bowl shatters across the wall and sends porcelain shards and noodles in a cascade against the tile. Each piece, as it flies away and begins falling to the floor, disintegrates into nothingness as it gets further from Jeanette. It's as if each piece flies away into pixels. She doesn't see that though, or notice it. It's not a part of the memory; it's part of what's left of it.

“How could you fuck her? How could you do that to me?”

He's looking at her from across the counter, his eyes full of a rage as vivid as the rage she feels in herself. She knows there will be hell to pay for the broken bowl but the time for that is later. She also knows that if she doesn't express her anger now there will be much more than broken bowls tomorrow.

“It just happened. You were gone and--”

Her hands fly up from the counter where she'd rested them and she pulls her eyes away from him to look out the window behind her. There is no landscape outside but her eyes don't tell her that, only that this is what she sees. A featureless landscape of a color that is less than white and more than nothing.

“I was gone for a week! While I was telling my mother how much I fucking care about you, you were fucking her! You were inside her and I was gushing over how in love we are. At the same fucking time! How the fuck is that okay?”

“Look, I know. It's not okay but you have to understand. . .”

He trails off and she looks to him and sees that he's crying. She sees that his knuckles are white against the pale brown counter as he clutches the edge and she's no longer sure who carries more rage and desperation.

She reaches across the counter to touch his fingers. His knuckles are warm.

* * *

His hand is like a white hot iron across her face and as her head cocks sideways she can feel the imprint of each fingertip across her cheek and know that there will be an outline there tomorrow. The skin stings and burns where his hand has touched her face but the pain of the second slap is far worse.

“Baby!”

The words are more squeak than shout as they leave her lips but they're drowned out by the smack of his palm on her cheek again. She can feel him pulsing and buried deep inside her, his cock seeming to move with each contact of his hand and with each searing spasm she can feel herself contract around him.

“That's too hard. Please. . .”

She presses her knees to his sides as hard as she can as she rides him and starts to squirm from the pain. The tear of her bottom lip leaves a streak of red across his palm and she sees the blood as his hands reach to her hips and pull her down harder onto him, lifting her and bouncing her body up and off of him.

“No.”

And then she's on her back and he's holding her down. His giant hand is wrapped around her wrists above her head and his body is on top of her, pushing against her. His other hand wraps around her neck and starts to squeeze as he pounds into her, pushing her head against the wall as she chokes under his fingers. She can feel his hips shaking as he cums inside her.

* * *

Each drop of blood that falls from his fingers seems to be accompanied by a tear falling from his eyes but not a single drop of fluid touches the ground. Instead each drop seems to disappear before it can land. Each splotch, red or clear, never forms on her dress or on the floor but Jeanette neither notices it or sees it. That's not part of the memory. It's part of what is left of it.

“Baby, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I made you so angry.”

He looks up at her and his brow is furrowed, his lip quivering. “My hand. . .”

His hand is a mangled mess and around them on the floor she can see the shards of the mirror, each one reflecting her terrified face. Small slivers are stuck in his knuckles and she turns his hand over in her own, examining it. The wounds are shallow and it doesn't seem broken but it seems there is more blood than she's ever seen in one place.

“I'm so sorry baby, I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to do it. . .”

She whispers to him and wraps her arms around him and gently pulls his injured hand behind her as she does. His body is wider than her own but she manages to surround him and his head falls against her shoulder and begins to weep.

Each of his tears soak into the sleeve of her top gently and with each new drop she whispers to him again, “It's okay. It's all going to be okay.

* * *

“How can you say that? After he hurt you so much.”

“But that's is. When he hurt me was the only time I felt real.”

. . . Terminate Simulation 14 . . .

Must be this Tall to Ride, Part Three

Artino looked up at the Altairian with the gun and realized that he was tall for one of his kind. Maybe even three and a half feet even without the head scarf. He'd noticed so little about him before but now he, like everyone on the bus, was very interested in what might be going on inside the shooter's mind.

Even the man who he'd shot was looking up at him, his eyes glazed over with the pain of his wound but with his brow furrowed in confusion. The idea that a Stump might have shot him, might have hurt him, seemed to confuse him as much as anything.

For a moment Artino wondered if the tears running down the human's face were as much to do with that quandary as with the spreading pool of blood. He pushed that thought away though. The only thing to worry about now was trying to salvage the situation and possibly save his own life, as well as those of his family back home.

“My name is Artino.”

The words felt flat and stilted, even in the deep baritone of his kind, but he armed them with every bit of friendliness he could. The other Altairian looked at him again then and said, “I cannot tell you my name but you may call me Fighter.”

“Fighter.” Artino let the word roll off of his tongue and hoped that his nervousness was well hidden. He had never seen the blood of a human in person and the stench was overwhelming to his sensitive nostrils. “Why is today going to be a glorious day?”

He immediately regretted the words as he saw the face of the Fighter light up in enthusiasm.

“Today will be a glorious day for many reasons.” He paused and Artino could see his eyes narrowing in a fit of rage as his four shoulders arched backward. “Today will be the day that the Freedom Fighters of Altair show how strong we are and how strong we will be.”

And suddenly every person on the bus, human and alien, locked eyes on the one calling himself Fighter, searching in his eyes for a vague hope that the day might not end with all of their deaths.

“Listen well, Whistles.” The derogatory word for humans came out with such violence from the Fighter's face that Artino started. He'd never heard anyone use the word in the presence of one from Earth, though he imagined they all knew what the word meant. “You have taken everything we have and given nothing back. Our technology, which we offered in peace, and our culture. You mix our homeland's music with the horrible noises you call entertainment and you have fattened yourselves off the plant altering techniques we brought, but what have we gotten in return?”

He paused for effect and waved the gun in air above him before noticing that the bus was slowing down and that the driver was looking back at him as well. The barrel of the pistol came across the side of her head then and the pierce of her scream followed the small spray of blood to the back of her seat. The Fighter though, seemed to have calculated the pressure of his strike and she continued to drive, though whimpering all the while.

“We scrub your toilets and we build your terrible junk products which are too dangerous for your own weak bodies. We work for you for nothing and always under the fear that we might offend. You have turned us into slaves, but no more.”

Artino noticed the blue and red lights then, circling the bus. It seemed the driver had pushed the emergency alarm after all, though the Fighter seemed to ignore it.

“But now, now we shall--”

The man on the floor interrupted him then, his words falling from his lips as gasps of breath but loud enough to stop the Altairian.

“You won't do shit. You're just a bunch of weak willed little piss ants.” The man took a deep breath and tried to lift himself against one of the seats, only to fall back into the puddle of blood beneath him with a grunt.

“You dumb little fucks couldn't do anything with that tech anyway, dying fast as you do. We've done you a favor and if any of these assholes in the back of the bus had any balls they'd take you down now. What's the world coming to that we're letting goddamn Stumps talk to us like this. . .”

The Fighter lifted the pistol then and pointed it toward the forehead of the man, barely three feet away. The man's eyes were not on it though; he examined his knee, seemingly for the first time as he trailed off and the tall Antairian tensed.

Between his gun and the body of the human suddenly stood the body of Artino, as surprising to himself as to any other on the bus.

“No. This is not the way to do it.”

Must be this Tall to Ride, Part Two

“Now, listen. You’re going to let me on this bus, then you’re going to sit down and drive like nothing’s wrong. Understand?”


Between the beads of sweat breaking out along the bus driver’s brow and the way her eyes locked onto the barrel of the gun pressing into her cheek, Artino doubted the bus driver had understood anything the young Altairian had said at all. A nervous murmur rippled throughout the bus. Was this for real? Artino could hardly believe it himself. It was illegal for Altairians to own weapons. Any human caught selling them faced imprisonment; any Altairians caught selling or owning a gun faced the rope.

Fear gripped Artino’s stomach like a vice. If the humans managed to take that gun away, there would be no arrest and no trial. His family would find his body in a ditch on the side of the road.

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

A square-jawed man with clipped blond hair rose from his seat and strode toward the front of the bus. The young Altairian eyed him warily, but the gun remained firmly planted into the cheek of the bus driver.

“This is some kind of alien rights shit, isn’t it?” The man stopped just short of Artino, towering over them with his six feet of height. “If it is, you can take your little toy gun and march your stump ass right out of here. If you’re so damn angry about the life we let you live on Earth, just go back to your own fucking planet.”

The air in front of Artino exploded. That was the only way to describe it. One second the man was towering over them, hand raised as if he was about to strike one of them; the next, there was a sound next to his ear so loud it pierced his ear drums like a knife, and the man was one the floor, screaming and cursing and gripping his bleeding knee. The murmur turned into a chorus of screams as the humans in the front seats rose and tried to flee to the back; all three dozen human clustered around the back few rows of seats like a flock of sheep threatened by an angry dog. Blood flowed in rivets from the man’s knee, following the slight slope of the bus floor until a shallow pool of blood formed around Artino’s feet.

“Any of you try anything else, and you’ll end up worse than him,” the Altairian said. He turned back toward to the bus driver, who had fallen back in her seat and given over to panicked blubbering, tears and snot dripping off her chin as she begged him not to kill her.

“Drive. Drive until you reach the Capitol building. You stop for anything, I’ll shoot you and do it myself.”

The bus driver complied, and the doors closed behind Artino with a swoosh. The engined revved and the bus eased out of the station and onto the highway, gliding swift and silent toward disaster.
Inside, the bus was full with the sounds of whimpers and sobs. The man who threatened them had finally stopped screaming, but started to let out a low, continuous moan as he doubled up over his knee. It occurred to Artino that he should have left when he had the chance, should have jumped out the doors before they had closed, should have never stepped out of bounds in the first place, but all he could focus on was the blood. Everything other thought in his head seemed vague and muted in comparison, like hearing someone shout from the other side of a closed window.

Next to him, the Altairian slipped a small, square contraption from his coat. He flicked a switch and a small display lit up and began to count down. He turned to Artino and smiled.

“Never fear, brother. Today is a glorious day.”

Must be this Tall to Ride, Part One

The Number 14A was late. The Number 14A was always late.

Artino had taken to calling it the “Number Late-Teen A” in his thoughts but the extra twenty minute wait at the stop honestly wasn't the worst thing in the world. He always left an hour early, just in case, and the extra time to himself was always a nice reprieve from the twelve hour shifts and the monotony of home. Still, it would be nice if the bus could come on time, at least once this millennium.

But today it wasn't and after an hour and ten minutes Artino was starting to get a little antsy. If he showed up more than fifteen minutes late at the office they would dock his day's pay and still expect him to finish the shift. Not only that, he'd have to speed through cleaning the first two floor's bathrooms and bins. Not something he ever looked forward to, though doing it faster wasn't that much harder than doing it slow.

If only there were jobs closer to home; the only work for Altairians was in the city as cleaners, janitors, dishwashers, and bellboys and that meant taking the bus. No one would hire one for anything else, especially out in the suburbs and honestly, the work was pretty well suited to his kind, if degrading. Standing about three feet tall on average, their race had fallen right into the roles of servants since they'd landed on Earth thirty years ago. Not that any of those from that first wave were left alive, what with their lifespans lasting only fifteen to twenty of the local's years.

Scratching his left hind ear Artino thought of his grandfather Marcina, one of the original scouts for the first landing ships. He remembered how the old one would complain endlessly of the life they'd found here. He'd talk all day about how desperate the command crew of the massive generation ship had been and how they'd picked this planet as the only inhabitable one in range as the stocks ran low. Of course even that had been many generations before grandpa; at least 100 of the Earth years.

Second Grandmother Icknaria, though, would always stop him and say how grateful they should be that the humans had taken them in at all, what with their desperation, but the First Grandmother Asnap would scream and yell and flap her four arms about how this was no heaven, how they were all slaves, etc. etc.

Sometimes Artino was glad the old cunt was dead.

“Number 14A Bus is canceled for the next two cycles due to mechanical difficulties.”

The words started to scroll across the top of the stop as Artino was lost in sight and on the second pass he noticed them, only to stand with attention. If the bus was canceled he would not only loose his pay for the shift but he would end up being docked for the week. An entire week without pay would mean he, his three parents, two di-wives, and six children would go without food for the meantime.

Two other Arturians stood up at the same time and began to fidget nervously, edging closer to the electric rails which the buses rode on, eyeing each other and looking up at the sky as if the weather might somehow affect the bus schedules. The weather on their home world, though no Arturian had seen it in millions of their own years, had harsh enough weather to imprint on their instincts even now.

Looking to his right he noticed that one of the others on the platform was dressed a little shabbier than those who were obviously here on their way to work. That one was dressed in the same humanistic clothes as the rest of them but his were festooned with little splashes of color and a head scarf of brilliant red geometric patterns. The styles of their home world were catching on with a part of the youth, Artino had heard, especially those in the new movement for Arturian rights.

What ones weren't imprisoned or “disappeared” by the humans.

The Number 14 bus though, rolled right in on time as they fidgeted and when it did the couple of humans waiting patiently on their own bench stood up and started to walk toward it, making a point to not look down at the aliens or notice their presence at all, much less their anxiety.

Artino looked at the screen on the side of the bus emblazoned with number 14 and the time, doing the math in his head as he figured that if he could somehow take this bus he would make it on time to work, but barely. Of course he wouldn't be allowed on the 14 bus proper, that was only for humans, but maybe they would listen to his plight. Maybe this once, he'd even pay double the Arturian fair. Surely they'd take that since the human buses were free.

Rushing toward the door as it whooshed open he stood behind the two humans and after each walked aboard he lifted his small left feet to put them upon the bottom step. Mid way through though, the bus driver, an older human woman with dark skin, stood up and shouted down at him.

“Hey, don't y'all see the goddamn sign?”

Of course Artino saw it though, that sign that he'd seen so many times in so many variations. Must be this tall to ride, the words emblazoned in red against a marker at roughly three and a half feet.

“But I really have to get to work and I--” His voice the deep monotone of his race, was cut off by the woman before he could finish.

“Yeah yeah, and don't be tellin' me that shit. Sign say's y'all can't get on so back off before I call the cops.”

“But I--”

“Hey, stumps, let me tell you--”

And quicker than either one could register there was the one in the shabby clothes and the Arturian scarft between the two of them staring up at the woman on the steps with her angry eyes and shouting in the same deeply baritone voice as Artino, “Who you callin' stumps, huh sec-mo fucker?”

“Y'all better back off 'fore the cops get here. I just pushed the panic button and you. . .”

But she went silent when the other one's second left arm came out holding the gun and reaching out toward her head with the barrel pressed nearly against her cheek.

“What now, whistle?”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 3)

“But it's good just to see Rachel with someone who isn't a disinterested prick. She's always ended up with these passive aggressive men who made me nervous but this guy seems to treat her well, at least. And he's very handsome.”

“You humans are silly.”

“And cat's aren't? What do you know anyway?”

Some where around this time Elizabeth began to remember that she was talking to her house cat and perhaps she'd lost her mind. Still, she marveled, it's amazing how quickly a person can get used to the surreal.

“And speaking of that, how the hell do you know about Sailor Moon?”

“Don't look at me, I'm just a cat. Probably just a figment of your quickly debilitating mind.”

“And what does that mean?”

She suddenly stood up in disgust and found her hands on her hips looking down at the tabby. Elizabeth was by nature a good-hearted and quiet person but to be insulted to so effectively was enough to give rise to even her pride.

“Again, I'm just a cat.” Piddles paused to lick his genitals again, his legs splayed in the air, “But come on. You're what, twenty eight? That's like eight million in cat years and you live alone, you work at a library, and you're talking to your goddamn cat.”

The pot of water chose that moment to boil over and Elizabeth walked over to turn the burner down, her eyes narrowed and looking towards Piddles. “Well, I don't normally do that, but you're talking back today.”

Again, she thought, it's amazing how quickly you get used to these things.

“Uh huh. Remember, I've been here the whole time. As I was saying,” Again the cat paused to lick a particularly pungent part of his bum, “You live alone, talk to your cat all damn day and, pardon my forwardness, but when's the last time you had a guy over?”

“Well, there was Brad. . .”

Brad, tall and balding and never quite sure what to do with his tongue, whether it be in his mouth or other places. Brad who came over twice and then stopped returning her calls.

“Yeah, Brad. I may be a cat but that guy was a goddamn stray. And really? How many years was that in human terms? I was still a spring chicken, is all I know.”

“It wasn't that long ago!”

“Yeah, and what about Mark?”

Mark, his broad shoulders and his hairy forearms which flexed in that special little way when he slipped her the paper with his number on it. The number she'd thrown away wondering how any man could ever be so forward as to slip his number to the librarian.

“How do you know about Mark?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe I heard about him from you for like two weeks and that one night when you kept moaning his name while played with that blue vibratey thing--”

“Hey!” Elizabeth stomped her foot on the ground and yelled at the cat, her anger finally up and the sound of the knife on the cutting board a resounding whack as she slammed it down. “That's none of your business! And you chewed the damn thing up anyway!”

“Eh, I was never that interested in your damn sex life anyway and I didn't chew it up for the taste. It just kept jumping around under your pillow.”

“You little ungrateful. . . Turd!” She waved the knife at him then, slinging it around like a pointer as she yelled. “I feed you and I scoop your. . . your shit,” Elizabeth puffed her chest a little then, proud to have gotten her anger across, “and you talk to me like this.”

“Hey, I'm just a cat remember? Just a figment of your imagination, but I'm just saying maybe you should get out more. Maybe call your friends occasionally when you're not just desperate for help.”

*** All around me are familiar faces; Worn out places, worn out faces ***

“And stop listening to such depressing music!”

Hearing the ring-tone Elizabeth picked up her phone and saw Rachel's face on the screen again but this time it was her and Ian looking longfully at one another, Rachel's lips a bright red and his cheek wearing a crimson imprint. Of course she changed her Facebook picture to some sappy crap like that, she couldn't help but think as she picked up the phone and looked at the little icon, wondering if she should answer.

Looking at Piddles again, licking his privates once more, she idly picked a piece of the pineapple from its can and started to munch on it before she finally swiped the “answer” icon to the right.

“Meeoorrww?”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 2)

Elizabeth sat up with her knees to her chest, a bundle of plaid flannel as she kept an eye on Mr. Piddles on the other side of the room, clawing aimlessly at his cat-scratcher like nothing had happened. Her hands shook as she hit the icon of a young Asian woman with her cheeks blown up like a puffer fish on her phone’s screen.

“Elizabeth?” An audible gasp escaped Elizabeth’s mouth at the sound of Mr. Piddles’… voice.

“Elizabeth, I’m still hungry. Really I am.“

The phone was ringing. Mr. Piddles was still staring. Elizabeth told herself to calm down. That she was a grown woman for Christ’s sake… switch was awkward because she didn’t rightly believe in Christ. Until a few minutes ago she didn’t believe in talking cats either but here she was now. “Maybe my cat’s possessed by a demon-”

“Uh- is that you ‘Liza?” It was a man’s voice on the phone.

Elizabeth was confused for a moment, looking to the side. “Oh, that’s you Ian,” she said finally.

“Yeah, Rache is on the toilet,” he said, “She’ll be out in a sec.”

“Oh. Good. Yes,” stammered Elizabeth. “Yes. Good.”

Ian laughed. “So what’s this about a demon?”

“Demon!?” Shit. Mr. Piddles had disappeared from view. Elizabeth climbed up higher on her armchair.

“You ok?” asked Ian.

“Fine!” she blurted.

“Yeah… hey! Here’s Rache! Bye, ‘Liza!” he sounded all too glad to hand over the phone.

“…Stop making faces, Ian. Hey, Elizabeth?” This was Rachel. “What’s up?”

“L-look I need to ask you something,” Elizabeth was still scanning the room for her large, misplaced tabby, “And it’s going to sound crazy.”

“Okay. What is- hey stop it, Ian!” Rachel was giggling.

Elizabeth knew that giggle. It was the same giggle Rachel always had when she and Ian were ready to go home after a night downtown. They weren’t going to bed. “Can you two stop screwing around for two seconds?!”

“Geez, Elizabeth,” sighed Rachel, “Can you calm down?”

“No I can’t calm down! I have a crisis on my hands!”

“Meeeooorrrw.“

Elizabeth snapped around in the direction of the sound but Mr. Piddles was nowhere to be seen.

“Crisis? What sort of crisis?”

“Do you remember that show, Sabrina the Teenage Witch?”

“Yeah? So?”

“You remember Salem? That talking black cat?”

“Yeah, he was great. What are you getting at, Elizabeth?”

“… do you think cats can talk?”

A roar of laughter exploded out of the phone, so sudden Elizabeth almost dropped it. Rachel tried to talk through her gasps for air but failed. That failure only lead to more giggling her part. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she heard the panted breathing of her friend between what she assumed was Ian’s kisses. “…Ian…” she breathed.

That was enough of that; Elizabeth promptly hit the end call button and sighed. “Gross.” Maybe it wasn’t so gross. It had just been a while for Elizabeth. Too long. This wasn’t helping, especially not with her crisis.

“So are they actually a couple or just fuck-buddies?“

Elizabeth screamed, jumping up into the air and tumbling herself and the chair over onto the floor, knocking over a lamp. Elizabeth rubbed her head and was glad not to feel any blood.
“Are you alright?“

Elizabeth sat up. Mr. Piddles was right in front of her, his tail playfully swishing back and forth. Her mouth was open but she didn’t know what to say.

“Do you need more pineapples too?” he asked, “The effect doesn’t last very long, does it?“

“The… effect?” Elizabeth pondered this for a moment. “The pineapple make you talk?”

Mr. Piddles licked his tiny paw at the end of his chubby leg and wiped down his forehead. “Isn’t it obvious? What, did you think that I was going to turn you into a Sailor Scout or something?“

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. “I love Sailor Moon!”

“I know!” Mr. Piddles chuckled to himself. “But I’m too old to be Luna.”

“Ah… I see,” Elizabeth was little disappointed. Then she figured it was perhaps a little too much to hope that a woman her age could go traipsing downtown in a miniskirt fighting the forces of evil. That kind of stuff only happened to teenagers… with attitude. Then Elizabeth’s mouth pinched together in a determined pout. What was she thinking? ‘A woman her age’?! She was in the prime of her life! Living on her own and her freelance web design was really beginning to pick up! She was not only her own boss but the boss of her own life! She looked down at Mr. Piddles and smiled; heck she was more or less a teenage witch anyway.

“So what are they, anyway?” asked Mr. Piddles.

“Who? Rachel and Ian?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “They say they aren’t putting labels on anything yet, but they practically live together.”

Mr. Piddles nodded pensively. “Seems silly.”

“Tell me about it.”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 1)

“Hey, Mr. Piddles.”

Elizabeth closed the door behind her locking both deadbolts without thinking, the second and larger one closing with a solid “thunk” accompanied by the sound of Mr. Piddles yowling.

“I know you're hungry little guy, it'll just be a second, okay?”

“Meoooooooowrr.”

“Ah!”

Tangled between her feet for the briefest of moments the big tabby dodged down the hallway oblivious to its owners near demise. Stumbling, she grabbed the old railing along the hallway wall and steadied herself, grateful that the cat hadn't caused her yet another bruise.

“I swear Mr. Piddles, if I fed you as much as you'd like I would just have to clean up more of your little vomits.”

Hanging her keys on the holder by the door though she could hear the cat's scratching at the bin where she kept the food, his yowls echoing down the hallway from the kitchen. She put her big purse, the one that always felt self-concious about looking as much like it did like an old ladies, on the little table like she always did and walked there, her first stop the big plastic bin she kept the Friskies in. Mr. Piddles had a habit of chewing through nearly anything which lacked at least a quarter inch of plastic.

The tinkling of the food in the little porcelain dish sent him into a frenzy of course, his head bobbing around and trying its best to block the food from falling.

“Always hungry, huh Mr. Piddles. You silly little poody pood.”

“Crunch, crunch.”

The top priority taken care of and Mr. Piddles silent but for the sound of his chewing, Elizabeth Spiller slipped her shoes off beside the stove as she did every day and walked on to the bedroom right off the “kitchen.” Honestly, the kitchen, dining room, and living room were all just one room attached to the bedroom and a tiny bathroom but she liked to differenciate them in her head. It made it easier thinking each corner of the studio were separate. Like she had more of a real house and not such a tiny apartment.

It made it easier for her to accept the fact that she was living in such a place even at thirty two. Living in a tiny apartment and still working at the bookstore for so many years. She wouldn't let herself count how many. Not today. The last time she'd counted the years she'd had one to many glasses of wine and she'd had to be escorted from the party by a nice young gentlemen without the best of intentions.

“It's not such a bad life though; I like all this space to myself.” She paused, staring off at the window who's curtains were always drawn. “Though I really should stop talking to myself so much.”

Her shoes there in the little place reserved for them by the stove, her purse by the door, her button down blouse pulled from her shoulders and laid gently in the dirty laundry basket, never more than half full. Her slacks next to them soon and her pajamas pulled from the top cubby of her dresser and soon pulled over her soft pale legs. These were all things as they should be and comforting. The plaid of her cotton sleeping clothes warm against her as she walked towards the stove again and saw the clock above it glowing its gentle green 07:16.

“Slurp. Meeeeooorrrw.”

“Oh Piddles, you're so silly”

Opening the compartment at the bottom of the stove to pull out the little frying pan she petted the cat, scratching him behind the ears.

“Not that you would care, you silly pood, but tonight the menu calls for pineapple curry. Mindy at work said it was quite good mixed in with the sauce and so I thought I'd try it.” Scratching him again behind the ears as he tried his best to push the pan out of her hand with his head she went on, “I thought I'd take a walk on the wild side. Scandal, right?”

Chuckling, she put the pan to the eye as she turned it on and began to assemble the onions and tofu from the fridge before pulling the can of diced pineapple from the pantry. Of course the sound of the can opener would send Piddles into a frenzy but that couldn't be helped. Fighting him away she opened the can, drained it and sat it down on the other side of the stove before turning to the vegetables on the cutting board.

“Silly cat. I promise it's not tuna.”

Of course the onions make her cry though, so she went to grab a preemptive tissue before cutting them only to find the cat's head buried in the big can of pineapple chunks, his whiskers sticking out around the edge.

“Piddles! What are you doing?”

Slapping him on the back of the head as she shouted at him, he pulled his head up and licked his little lips as if he'd just had the finest, freshest tuna.

“What? You weren't eating it.”

“That doesn't matter Mr. Piddles! You can't even digest that stuff, you silly cat!”

“Who are you calling silly? I'm just hungry.”

“Wait. . .”

Freezing, Elizabeth looked at the cat and his lips moving as if in speech, the words traveling as surely through the air towards her as hers had traveled towards him. His tongue still flicking over his lips and licking his chops.

“Pineapples, am I right?”

Easy (Part 3)

But when I look to the top of the snow drift to where I saw the movement, I see only a single silouhette in the bright sunlight which beams from behind it. A person stands there at the crest, tall and regal. Staring down at me I can see only that it is human and female and alone. It is a single silhouette bathed in golden rays and for the briefest moment I am filled with something I long ago forgot the word for.

“Agatha?”

And before I even know what I've done the rope is lying in the snow and my feet are leaving ragged craters in the soft white ground as I run toward the top of the bank, my boots sinking in down to my knees. Fast as I can I am there but as I crest the top she is gone and I am blinded. There is only the golden glow of the harsh sun in this thin air and I can see nothing for a moment but even then, when it finally comes together, there is only a shape running away from me in the snow. Toward the horizon and the sun.

She is beautiful even from here and I know that she is Agatha, her skin as pale and clear as the white of the fresh snow and her body as fit and lean as one who has been forced to live in this hellish waste for years. She is running and as she does her blonde hair waves out behind her and shimmers in the light. My own footsteps fall through the snow like a wounded horse in relation and she quickly moves away as I slow, winded and hurting as her silhouette is gone from view.

It's then that I realize, looking down at my own feet burried in the white that there are no foot prints save my own. As closely as I followed her path it is only my own steps I see and none leading away. None leading toward her or toward anyone.

Since I've no way to keep time I have no way of knowing how much time has passed or how long I've been running. As I begin to follow my steps back toward the fuel it begins to snow once more and I become afraid. Without my own steps to follow and if the weather should turn worse I could die here, nearly within sight of the station. Killed by my own hopes and imagination.

But I do find my way back and the cart is still there, undisturbed. The fuel is safe, for now, and I begin the slow process again of pulling it to a new hiding spot, this time behind a rock out cropping slightly closer to the station. The entire time, how ever long it may be, I force the thought of her from my mind. Force the idea of what it might mean from my mind.

The days are long here but they do not last forever and if I am to survive another night, if I am to live to dream again, I must hide the fuel once more and I must refill the generators. I must make sure they are secure and running so that tonight, when the cloud cover is right to bounce the radio waves off of, I can contact her again. It is miracle enough that I can contact her at all with what little power the set has. It would not do to miss any opportunity.

And I will not tell Agatha tonight of what happened. It would not do to worry her. She has enough on her mind and I know in my heart that I am as much the only hope she has as she is mine.

I only hope that she is also well. Lately she has been sounding more and more bleak and I worry for her sanity. It is all too easy to lose these days.

Easy (Part 2)

The outside world is all but completely white and there's only a slight hint of blue in the sky to tell me where the earth meets the horizon. I can’t help but look out at the landscape and see an empty old house with white sheets tossed over all of the furniture to protect them from dust. But it’s pointless really; the sheets are there to stay, the house will never be a home again.

I venture out during the day out of habit mostly. Sight is just as difficult in the white of day light as in the the near black of darkness. Though it is safer in the day, it is only a bit. Markers I left in the snow, sparse breadcrumbs to ensure I didn’t lose myself in the tundra, are barely visible now. New snow white sheets draped over the old furniture hide them.

I had tried to hide the cache in a way that would be too difficult for others to find, but not so difficult as to where I would not be able to find it myself. The first marker meant to travel west for a hundred paces. The second was east for fifty. The third was west again, for twenty-five. The fourth marker in the in the snow was the location, but a fifth and six marker were placed in the distance to lead anyone who might have attempted to follow the trail astray.

As I dig, her words echo in my head. She’s right, it is not easy. I’ve reached the point where I can’t remember how many days I’ve been here. I kept time for a while with my watch, but the battery eventually died. Honestly I've no idea how long it was dead before I noticed. After I did though, I kept with the clock at the station, but as I began to run lower on fuel, I killed all operations unnecessary to survival. And after that, I attempted to keep time with the passing of the sun. It moves slower here, the days and nights are hours longer than I’m accustomed to. I did the math to count the hours for a while, but eventually it grew tiresome and I deemed it pointless and ceased.
Actually, everything seemed pointless, after a time. Survival is our base instinct, our one true purpose, some would say. However, I found, the more I was forced to struggle, to persist, to revert to the base instincts of survival, the less I truly wanted to. I determined that was what separates us from animals. They seek simply to survive. We wish to live.

Then I found her voice, the voice that saved my life.

I play out different scenarios in my head; vivid and intricate day fantasies to carry me until the night when I can sleep and dream proper. In my mind, I've shaped her form as if she were molded from the sun. Carved out of gold, in my mind she radiates with enough warmth to melt the snow that's covered this world four times over. She is my hope, my fuel, and the only thing keeping me from shutting down and having a white sheet tossed over me like everything else in this forsaken house that is my world.

I pull the cache from the snow, four fuel canisters covered by a tarp and tied together on a rudimentary sled. It is not incredibly hard to pull; I had the forethought to hide it up hill, getting the difficult part over with early. Though now, finding somewhere better to hide it will be much more challenging than the first time.

Of course it's then, while I'm struggling to pull the sled from where it's lodge in the snow, that I see something out of the corner of my eye. A fraction of a second really, something streaking across my vision, disrupting the infinite white. I keep pulling, trying to tell myself that it was a bird, though I had not seen a bird in all my time here, or a mouse, though I had only seen them scurrying about the nooks and crannies of the station.

Then another something darts by in my peripherally and it becomes nearly impossible to convince myself that these are not the larger vermin that stole the fuel from the generators. Impossible to convince myself that they've not tracked me down to find the rest.

Easy (Part 1)

“I never said it would be easy.”

The sound of her words have barely left the ether that is the space between us when the gentle sound of the power stopping reaches my ears. I can hear the transistors cooling with the loss of energy and I know that I've lost her again. The generators have failed and again, I am alone.

As long as there is gas in the generators there is hope, or so I've told myself these last few weeks. If I can keep the power on for long enough there will be hope; not enough hope to assuage my fears, but more than I've a right to have. More hope for the future and more hope for her.

Walking from my workshop and down the dark corridor though, the little flashlight showing my way before me, her words echo in my mind and I feel the aloneness as a tingling in the air and a depth in my heart. The aloneness that comes when her voice is gone and it is only the idea of her and the dreams that keep me moving. The dreams that I tell myself come from her somehow, through the ether and through the space between us. The dreams are what keep me going as much as the idea of her light out in the darkness.

When I get nearer the door though, I notice that the light is gone from the sky in the window and I look to my watch to find the time is long past when I'd thought. It is night and with the night I hope that the generators have stopped themselves from lack of fuel, from only the lack of my attention to them and not some other force.

I am wrong.

There is a scurrying when I punch the little plastic light by the door and I see the mice moving away from me. Two of them, it seems as if they run together. Even as small, alone, and emaciated as they are I can see they have each other and through that they have strength. One of them looks up at me and pauses, the light of my flashlight glinting off its little pupils and I swear there is an understanding there. He is secure in his companion and I am not.

Looking away I open the door and I see that there are other vermin out, and larger ones. It hasn't been my lack of attention that's killed the generators, it seems, but something else. I silently hope they have found only the generators themselves and not the store of fuel I've hidden away as I click the door softly shut along with the dimming of my light. I hope too that perhaps they haven't seen me; hope is all I have these days, at any given moment.

Quietly listening though on the other side of the door it seems I've been lucky tonight. The steps of many feet move quickly away and I quietly step outside with the quick beating of my heart the only sound to fall upon the snow beneath my feet.

The generators are still there and what's more they are chained securely. It is only the half empty gas can I'd left beside them that are gone, along with the fuel from each tank, siphoned by the thieves. The vermin were thorough tonight but they were quick and they've left my power sources at least. The cache of fuel was beyond them as well and is safe but when the sun rises I shall have to hide it all again and better than I have before. I know that I have been lax in that, so focused on my work these past few weeks.

Focused on my work as well as on the dreams. The dreams of her.

Rabo's Rambles, the Tumblr

This is a Tumblr where I post a different kind of ramble. A ramble full of real life stories and not just those in my head. Enjoy:

http://rabosrambles.tumblr.com/

When It Rains (Part 3)

The cafe down the street is called Lox and Love and it's part of the reason we loved this apartment so much when we were looking for a place. David's Jewish and he said that only this place had any decent lox in the whole city but really I just liked the quirky décor and the odd people that came here. Of course I haven't been since he left. It's only been two months but I might as well have never been here. The tables are different and everything seems way more modern. It's funny how things change so quickly—all you have to do is look away for an instant and it's a different world.

The puddles on the street are still giving off that kind of happy aroma and I'm almost smiling while I walk. Almost, even though I'm screaming and crying and gnashing my teach on the inside. Almost, even though I know that what's about to happen could overcome the happiest thunderstorm ever. I have to focus on the anger to keep it pure so I don't even begin to think of forgiveness.

But there he is, sitting at our old table in the corner. He's wearing a beard and I've never seen him with one. When we were living together I always marveled that I'd never seen a man who was so fastidious about shaving. There was never a stray stubble before but now he's sitting there and he looks like Grizzly Adams. He's a mountain man with bags under his eyes and shaggy hair. Just look away and maybe he'll change back.

I stop of course before I walk over to him and go to the counter, each step up the funny little ramp they have hitting with a loud report, I'm putting so much force into them. Everyone looks up but him. The few people who are in the shop today have smiles on their faces left over from the rain and my anger seems to quell that a little, even as silent as I am. David though, is just staring down into his coffee.

He looks up though when I walk over and I see that his hand is shaking a little as he holds his half empty cup of black coffee. Black coffee. He used to always fill it full of so much soy milk it looked like a vanilla latte but now, it's black.

“You're looking good.” The words kind of croak out of him like he's been silent for a long time but I know that we just spoke on the phone.

“You're not.”

“I know. Listen, I--”

“No!” I slam my cup down on the table hard enough that in a different state of mind I might be shocked it didn't shatter. Instead I stare at him with fire in my eyes and I sit down, willing him to silence with my mind. “You listen.”

My voice is low but I know he can hear every word; his eye twitches that way that it always did when we were having one of our rare, really viscous arguments. “I woke up alone on a Tuesday morning with a cold bed and two cats scratching at my face to be fed. I called you and called you and went to your work and looked for you and called every goddamn person we knew and screamed and cried and punched holes in the walls and had to take fucking Milo to the vet because he ate a bunch of hair ties and when they asked where you were 'cause they remembered you from before I had to say I didn't know and then I burst out crying and my mom told me to go see a therapist and they put me on meds and then I tried to fucking overdose and had to get my stomach pumped and,” I take a deep breath and start to go on but the fire has died inside me and suddenly I don't have anything to say.

“How are Bootsy and Milo? Is he okay?”

“They're fine, but no thanks to you. The surgery cost $2500 that I didn't have. I had to get a credit card. They have these special ones just for pet emergencies and. . .”

Suddenly I'm tired and I just wish this was over. He looks so sad and it's even worse than it would've been if he were angry. I can see in his eyes that this is as hard for him as it is for me. He's also silent and suddenly I remember that he called me here, not the other way around.

“What do you have to say to me?”

“It's a long story.”

“No, it's not. Now tell it.”

“That morning--”

“It was a Tuesday. The twenty fifth of March. I woke up at 9:27. That morning?”

“Yes. I left early for work because I was trying to beat the rain. They were calling for a lethargic shower and I didn't want to get caught in it. I was still trying to impress them at the firm and I thought if I showed up and got a lot of work done when everyone else was listless then they would--”

“Shut up!” Suddenly the fire is back, for an instant, and I notice that clouds are turning dark again outside. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I was hurrying down the street; hell, I was practically running because the sky looked so terrible and you know what the rain does to me. I've always been sensitive to it.”

“Then why the fuck did you want us to move up here where it rains every fucking two days?”

“Please?” He's begging me with his eyes and no matter how much I want to stop it I feel bad for him. “Thanks. I was running and when I was going past the front of the Starbucks a girl came out with a coffee and I ran right into her. We both fell on the ground, our arms and legs all tangled up like something out of a movie. When I looked up and started babbling apologies she screamed and I realized it was Monica.”

“Monica?” I don't know a Monica and I've never known a Monica. What the hell is he talking about?

“I never told you about Monica. It's a long story.”

“I've got time.”

“Monica and I were. . . We were engaged. We lived together for a while. I never told you but she was part of why I wanted to move far away. I hadn't seen her in years but she looked exactly the same and then well, it started to rain. Hard.”

The tears are running down my cheeks and if I were paying attention I'd be able to see the faces looking over at me and the rain pattering on the windows outside.

“It wasn't a lethargic rain that day. You know how the news people always get it wrong. It was a nostalgic, hopeful rain. Do you remember? It probably passed by the time you woke up but for a while there it just poured and poured and well, you know how it is here.”

“You both got caught in it?”

“We were soaked. I don't remember it all but then we were in her car. She was here for a conference. She had no idea I'd moved here. We went back to her hotel and . . . We caught up. There was another rain later that day. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do. I'll never forget that day, even if you do.”

“I know. The weather was bad that week. It came and went so fast and it was so hard in little down pours. First it was nostalgia and then hope and then that strange sense of adventure that sometimes comes and then--”

“You fucked.”

He looks at me and he's crying too. I know what I said is true and all he can do is look at me with those sad eyes that have so many more wrinkles than they did just a few months ago.

“Where have you been since then? Your job, our cats, everything. I thought you were dead.”

“She. . . We both just kind of took off. She was leaving that night and I just left. All this seemed so mundane and I just kept thinking about--”

“Stop it.” The rain is coming down harder outside and I'm so wrapped up in my own emotions I'm impervious to it, whatever it may be. “I'm going to leave now and I don't ever want to see you again.”

“But, my things, Bootsy and Milo. Listen, I'm sorry, that's why I came here, to say I'm sorry.”

“No. It's not that easy.” And it's not. Everything makes sense now and it's all over. “You ran off with her and then she dumped you again, right? And now you've come back and you're going to tell me it was all the goddamn weather's fault and you're not to blame. You're going to say you couldn't help it and you'll try your damnedest to beg me back.”

I look him in the eyes and I can see it all acting out between us. I can see all the different ways it might go and I know I have to leave now. “Well, no. I'm leaving now and if you want any of your stuff I'll tell you were you can find it. I put it all in a storage unit on the south side of town a month ago.” I grab in my purse for a pen and while he's still looking at me in shock I jot down the address on a napkin. “I'll call them and tell them it's yours. The cats are mine.”

And then I'm walking out of the cafe and I'm not looking back. The rain is falling, of course, and it hits me in heavy drops that cascade off my hair and my shoulders. I know by the time I make it home I'll be soaked but I don't care.

Thank god the rain, for the first time since we moved here, since I moved here, doesn't bring anything with it but water and it feels so nice to be washed clean.

When It Rains (Part 2)

A happy rain falls on the day David calls. Like everyone else, I’m outside, though unlike the rest I take cover under an awning; even just being outside in a downpour like this is enough to catch the buzz of euphoria caused by the rain. There’s a warm thermos of tea in my hand to ward off the chill, but it looks like I’m the only one who cares. The kids are honest-to-god frolicking in the streets, their peels of laughter ringing through the neighborhood. Their parents mill about on their front porches or on the sidewalks, chatting and joking, and every once in a while a group will erupt in laughter loud and wild enough to match the kids’. Everyone’s in too good a mood to care about politics or petty neighborhood fights.

We all know the joy isn’t any more real and lasting than a drug high. The real world and all its grand troubles and little anxieties will come rushing back with the sun, and with a downpour like this coming back down to reality is going to be pretty miserable. Still, it’s hard to resist the draw of a dose of happiness, even a shallow one like this. And it’s a strong rain, too; I feel myself grinning even though I’m mostly dry. I don’t even check the number on my phone before answering it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

My heart freezes, and everything around me – the patter of rain and the confused hum of voices – slowed to a crawl, and all I can hear is the roar of my blood rushing to my head.

On the outside, of course, I’m still smiling. The happy feeling hasn’t gone away even as David’s voice dredges up every last minute of sorrow and rage and despair I’ve felt in the last six months. The emotions rage like a storm inside me. One second, I’m on cloud nine, the next I want to run screaming through the streets. The world goes lopsided as my head spins and takes my stomach with it. They call it Precipitation-Induced Emotional Conflict Syndrome; the rest of us call is rain shock, when someone has an extreme emotional shock that conflicts with whatever feeling the rain is causing that day. Learning your dad died on a happy day, for example, or getting that promotion you’ve been working toward for years on a melancholy day. The conflicting messages sends the brain into a panic.

I tear open the door to my building and stumble up the stairs to my apartment . I slam my door shut and lean against it. The only thing you can really do is get out of the rain and wait for it to go away.

“Are you there?”

The urge to scream at him bubbles up in my throat like bile, and with it comes another wave of dizziness. I half-stumble, half-fall onto my couch before my knees do something foolish like buckle. The euphoria feeling’s fading, thank Christ. My stomach’s still tearing itself apart, but my mind is clear and anger is slowly winning out against the effects of the rain. Thank god I wasn’t actually out in the rain, or otherwise I’d have had an aneurism.

“What do you want?”

My voice is steady, but it still lacks venom. Still, I figure even David’s bright enough to know I’m furious at him.

“That’s harsh.”

Or not.

“I don’t want to hear that from you.”

“Look, I want to talk.”

“For fuck’s sake, David.” Now exasperation joins the mix of emotions swirling in my breast. He wanted to talk? Now? After leaving with no note and disappearing? I tell him as much, and I hear him sigh over the other end of the phone.

“It’s…Look, it’s not something I want to tell you over the phone.”

“It’s something you should have told me before you left, David. You left me in a strange city in an apartment I couldn’t afford by myself with no note, no notice…Shit, I thought you were dead until you bothered with the courtesy of a voice-mail message telling me you were alive.”

“I understand – “

“No, you don’t.”

“Alright, fine. Look, I want to talk. If you want to talk to me, I’ll meet you at the cafe down by the intersection.”

“And why should I?”

“Because I owe you an explanation. And because I want to tell you I’m sorry. Meet me there after the rain stops.”

The phone goes dead. I nearly chuck the thing out the window; my arm actually rears back before I come back to my senses. Of all the presumptuous, uncaring, bastard things a person could do. Where did he find the gumption to call me out of the blue and say he wants to talk?

Outside, the clouds move on to reveal the sun, and the rain slows to a slow drizzle. I grab my coat and slam the door behind me.

When It Rains (Part 1)

“Rain drops keep fallin' on my head. Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed. Nothing seems to fit. Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head Keep a-fallin' . . .”

It's always a gamble when the weather calls for rain. Regardless of what the weather man says, you never quite know what it's going to do to the world or what it's going to do to you. Of all the things we claim to be masters over, it's the weather we still haven't figured out how to control.

What was it Mark Twain said, something about everyone complaining but no one doing anything about it? That's about right. Everyone complains and every time the skies are dark and the little pitter patter of rain drops start the DJ's all over the world play that damn song.

And until those raindrops come you never know what it'll be; never know how you'll feel. No matter how much you look at the weather reports, it never seems to matter and it's infuriating. It's like they just can't figure it out. They just can't tell you what the rain drops are bringing with them today, or if they're coming at all.

And even when they're happy it's still the darkness, the dreariness, that gets to you. When they're happy it's like you're on Zoloft, like under the skin you can feel that you're sad but on the surface everything is fine. It's just like a it was a sun shiny day. Only it's not.

The medicated rainbow of weather, that's what they call it, and it's pretty close to the truth. But I guess that's what I get for moving to the North West and making it worse, here where it rains every day. I thought it would be exciting and God knows David was into it. He said it would be wonderful here, even with the rain and everything, and lord knows I'd believe anything he says. Or did, back when he was still here. Back when our little picturesque apartment, the one that was “perfect for a young couple who works from home,” was still the home for a couple. Not just me and the cats.

Funny, it never occurred to me to wonder if the cats get affected by the rain. They only have two emotions anyway, hungry and sleepy. I envy them. Instead I get to run the whole gamut, even though I stay inside, and especially when it rains. Maybe this one will bring something exciting like the other day when the president got caught in some of it on the way to a press conference and it was an angry day. I'll never forget him screaming at the camera, usually so composed, and hoping against all hope that he wasn't about to start world war three.

“I don't give a fuck what they say! They fucking invaded Ukraine and that's what it is, their goddamned ballots be damned. We'll bomb the shit out 'em and for fucks sake I don't give a shit what the EU thinks. Bunch of pansy assed fuckers trying to boss us around.”

Of course about then, a Secret Service guy swept him off the podium, bringing him down as he yelled for a “god damned, mother fucking” cigarette. It's funny how we build up safety valves. Funny how we adapt. The press secretary begged for forgiveness after that and I guess it came. People kind of get it I guess; I mean, everybody gets rained on occasionally. Luckily Moscow was being hit by a melancholic sort of rain and they didn't feel like they could fight back. Things have a tendency of working out that way.

An angry rain might not be so bad anyway. At least it might let me get out some of my anger at David. Anger at him bringing me here, where I don't know anyone and then leaving me with the cats and the bills. Leaving me all alone. The angry rain wouldn't be so bad and anything would be better than another horny rain. God that's worse than any other, especially when you're alone. It does make me glad that I can just stay inside though, that I can just sit here squirming and work in PhotoShop. Those aren't good days to go out in the cities, that's for sure.

“Raindrops keep fallin' on my head. But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. Crying's not for me. Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining.”

Names (Part 3)

The stars know what I've done.

The trial, the prison. The called it self defense. It didn't hurt that the trial was in Russia and the other girl was an American.

The claw marks, they didn't explain. How, I don't know? It's over now.

Free, to run across the forests, to think I even could've been locked in that ship. The intricacies of the plants and the moss like the circuits and wires on a computer board.

The stars know what happened up there and how I took their child but do they understand the fear?

There is prey ahead, a girl. She's blonde

It reminds me of Sophie, before she changed.

The hand on the hatch's handle is not a hand, though I feel it at the end of my arm. There is fur there, and it is matted and greasy, hanging limply over the claws which shine in the harsh light of the LEDs. The shape, so much like a hand, is still mine and as I flex the claws I feel blood rushing from my heart and a pulsing in my mind. A hunger.

“Sophie? What are you doing in there? Just calm down, okay.”

I move my lips to speak, to calm her so that she will be easy prey, but there is only a grunt which come out in spurts. Like the laughing of a wolf ill accustomed to the way's of speech, it can't help but have the opposite effect.

“Sophie. . . are you sick in there?” She's breathing heavily and I sense it for the first time. I can smell her fear, even though the sealed hatch. I can smell her more than I ever could before and suddenly I remember those scents in the bunk, of fear and of frustration. “Those noises. . .”

She's whimpering a little now, though she doesn't realize it, and something makes me look in the mirror on the wall above the toilet. There's the creature again with it's blood red eyes, looking out at me and smiling. Grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, it's fangs hanging and dripping. It mouth's a word at me and though its lips were not designed for such, I know what it's saying. It says, “Go.”

And I do.

* * *

The warmth from the rocks soothes me and I look away from the stars. They judge me for what happened amongst them, but the earth knows what is right and what is wrong. The earth accepts her children and understands their hungers and their needs. She created us so long ago and she always calls us back to her, no matter how far we may stray.

But the stars, they will not stop staring down at me. They know I took their child, but it was not my fault. Not my fault that the earth sent one of its own to them.

The courts called it self defense, though they didn't attempt to explain the claw marks and the deep red blood sprayed against the ship's windows. They didn't wonder why the girl might have attacked me and why I would need to trap her in the air lock. They did wonder at the flayed skin of my arms and postulated how she might've done it. I didn't tell them of course.

When I made it back, after bringing the ship in those last few weeks, they found her there still in the airlock and they said she must've had some weapon she'd hidden aboard. Some weapon which had been sucked out into space, for nothing on board could have left marks like that. Her body was still lying there covered in my blood when they found her, though by then the hunger was creeping up on me as well.

It didn't hurt that the courts were in Russia and the girl an American. Of course I was suspended without leave, but I'd stopped caring at that point. It let me go home, to the forests.

The moss under my skin is so intricate; to think I even could've been trapped aboard a ship up there with nothing but the judging stars. The weave of the lichen is like the circuits I treasured there and the wirey strands of moss like the insides of a computer. How much better here though, the circuitry which heals itself.

The reflection in the water of the stream beneath my perch is clear and in the moonlight I can see myself. The fangs, dripping and glistening in the dim light of the uncaring moon, the fur matted and white on my shoulders. The creature stares back at me and I am it. No wonder the other one felt she was going mad on that ship. This creature need's her mother earth to live. If only I had known then I might not have killed her before she passed on her gift.

But tonight I understand and my prey is before me, walking back to her house under the cover of the moss coated oaks. She cannot see me but I can smell her, can smell the hint of freshness which always comes with the young. Can smell that she is unaware and will be an easy kill.

I do wonder what her name is though. She reminds me a little of Sophie.

Names (Part 2)

“Scaring you? I was just…” I turn toward Darya. Her pretty blue eyes are a mix of concern and fear.

“Just needed a minute, that’s all.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down? Your face, it was…” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know how to describe it. You’re so pale.”

“I’m fine, Dar.” I glance back at the mirror. The creature’s gone.

“Darya,” she insists. “My name is Darya. If you’re sure you’re fine…”

“More than sure, Dar…I mean, Darya.”

“Alright, then. Make sure not to over do it on your shift.”

“Yes, Mother.” I roll my eyes in jest, and it seems to work. A smile twitches at the corners of Darya’s lips before she sets off to the bunk for some rest.

I stand in front of the mirror, searching it. Darya’s right. My face is pale, almost skeleton-white, in the mirror’s reflection as I trace my fingers along the mirror’s edges looking for any sign of the creature. There’s nothing but a sense of dread, a faint heat emanating from the mirror’s surface. I run to my Evo suit and put it on in record time,and throw myself into the work in hopes of banishing the creature from my mind. It doesn’t work. The creature’s eyes follow all through my shift and stare down at me as I fall asleep.

* * *

Over the next few days, Darya watches me closely. At first I think it’s as much out of self-preservation than anything. A sick partner can make so many things go wrong; one wrong decision outside the ship can leave a partner dead or incapacitated; either way, your trip gets cut short and your pay cut with it. Darya, though, she cares enough to look after me, or as much one can do on a ship like this. It’s a moot point in the end. The creature dogs my steps on the ship like a poltergeist. I see it in the corner of my eyes when I’m by myself; it flashes across the mirror when I wash my face in the morning. Every night it’s the last thing I see as I close my eyes. On the few occasions I find myself staring into its eyes, I feel the dread, evil feeling that curdles my stomach and sends the blood rushing to my head. I’m losing my mind, but I can still do my job. It doesn’t matter how much I lose it so long as I can do what I’m being paid for. The end of the job is only a month out. I can make it. I can make it. I can…

“Sophie? Are you alright?”

No, I’m not. I try to tell her, but nothing comes out but a hacking cough. I can barely keep myself standing; my knees keep threatening to buckle even as I lean against the wall.
Darya places her hand on my back.

“It’ll be alright, Sophie.”

I want to to tell her to leave and run as fast as she can from me. That heat, that poisonous feeling, surges and falls like a wave in my stomach, and something – or someone – else skirts the corner of my mind, thinking thoughts that can’t possibly be mine. My vision blurs.

“It’ll be fine, Sophie,” Darya says again. “Just lie down, you’ll see.”

“No!” I can’t believe a voice so high and so scared, almost to the point of screeching, belongs to me. I push her away, and I hear her gasp as she stumbles and falls; by that time, I’m already running, panicking, with no better sense of direction than a frightened deer. I find myself in the bathroom. I lock the door.

I stop in front of the mirror. My reflection’s gone. In it’s place is the creature, its eyes burning hot, its lip curled into a sneer. It laughs, a low, guttural, booming sound, and I feel the last bit of myself slip away.

“Sophie! Sophie, are you in there? Answer me!”

My hand reaches for the door, but I’m no longer the one in control.

Names (Part 1)

The rock is cold and smooth beneath my fingers and after awhile, despite the chill, I start to feel it pulsing slightly. I feel the smooth stone moving under my fingertips ever so gently and through it I imagine I can feel the entire planet reaching up to me, touching me and soothing me. Telling me it will be okay. Willing me to be silent and calm.

The stars though, they tell a different story. As I feel the gentle pulsing of the stones beneath my hands and even my bare feet, the smooth cool surface of the broad river rocks under my naked calves and the gentle moss under my arm, I can also feel the stars looking down on me with a different pulsing. One altogether more ominous and not so comforting as the earth beneath me.

The stars know what I've done.

* * *

“Sophie, watch out!”

Darya's voice calls out from the earpiece in the slightly static way that everything has up here and I look up to see the girder drifting gently towards me. Silly Darya, always clumsy when she's in an Evo suit and always nervous about it.

“I see it Dar, don't worry. I'm a big girl.”

I hope she can sense the smile through my voice but I know it's hard for her. She is so sensitive to the smallest slight or displeasure. It's amazing how quickly one can become attached to a person in so few months. It is easier when there is only the two of you, especially if you occupy one bunk by turns. After a while you come to understand the scents left in the pinned down sheets when the other leaves. Come to know from the smell of their sweat if they are happy or discontent.

If they are nervous because a micro meteorite hit part of the rigging for the solar collectors. If they are nervous because they know they'll have to spend time outside the cabin with you.

“I'm sorry, Sophie. I just have such a hard time with these big gloves, you know? I was really designed to work on electrics, not this big brutish stuff.”

“Well don't think for an instant I'd ask you out here to help if I could do it on my own! I'd hate to put those delicate little hands of yours in danger.”

But she's right. Her hands really were designed for soldering connections on circuit boards and constructing tiny apparatus, not for moving three thousand pound girders around the perimeter of a spacecraft. Not that we can feel the weight of those girders. And those hands, so delicate. So unlike the big Russian farm girl I expected her to be when I found her name on the crew allotment. A shame—she would've been much more useful out here if she had been that Russian farm girl instead.

“I can handle this, even if I'm not a big bear like you. I'm just a little clumsy, that's all.”

“I know, I know. I'm just messing with you, Dar. Don't worry.”

She's silent for a while then, hovering on the end of her tether about twenty feet away, watching me as I slip the new girder into place on the solar arm and then pushing the damaged one off and away from the ship. I wish I could see inside that helmet of hers and know what she thinks in there. As many times as I've done these stints, I've never been so intrigued by the oddities of another worker like this one. Usually they are big thoughtless cows who have no thoughts besides the pay off at the end of the trip, not scared little girls with blonde hair and shifting blue eyes.

We shall see how we feel in another three months, at that. By the end of the out-solar run everyone reaches a point where they no longer care for the other worker, only for the voyage to end. I cannot wait for that time.

* * *

“I really wish you wouldn't call me 'Dar,' you know.”

“And why not? You call me Sophie.”

“Yes, but you introduced yourself as Sophie. I told you my name was Darya.”

“Oh, but that's such a silly name, Darya. So indiscriminately Russian and harsh. Dar has such a nice ring to it, though.”

“Maybe. I just like my name, that's all. Couldn't you respect that?”

“Meh, who cares. We only spend a few sentences together each day. I could call you anything and it would make no difference.”

“But Sophie, it would. Our names are all we have that make us human.”

“All we have? All we have?! And this spacecraft? These mining tools which we use to harvest the asteroids a million miles from our home planet? This doesn't make us something special? Something human?”

“No.”

“And what does, at that?”

“Our souls, Sophie. Our souls and the names they wear.”

* * *

It's staring at me, and in its eyes I see a fire burning. The flames lick up in little tendrils from around the deep orange pupil, licking the edges as if testing for a weakness there. Flicking out toward the edges of the eye as if each one carries the burning heart of a glistening sun. Solar flares of evil running out from the thing's brain and poisoning the world outside.

The eyes like worlds surrounded by the matted black fur that glistens in a way no fur should glisten. Fur that doesn't float outward in the weightlessness but instead hangs flat and dry, but glistening all the same. And why should a space faring creature have fur at all?

Fur or fangs, which glisten with the light from the ship's LED lights. Fangs which send tiny little globules of moisture floating in any direction away from them. Why should a creature in the night of space have fangs and fur at all.

“Sophie, why are you staring in the mirror like that?”

“What?”

“You're scaring me.”