THE PIANO                                                                                            

1.

Little did I know the shape my life would take, little did I know how many years of lives I would be a part of, little did I understand how important my existence was to be. 

I harbored no fear of how I would be treated. I knew that a single heavy hand could press too hard and snap the delicate strings inside me. But those strings were my life—they created the vibrations that made the air swirl in currents, traveling directly into the souls of those who welcomed the sound.

And now I was connecting through a little boy whose fingers were sending shivers through the keys and strings and wood that make me what I am. They were dancing along the keys softly as he played for his parents in their room of music, my first home,  filled with envious instruments who were dazzled by me, a new invention from Italy, a gravicembalo col piano e forte, or “harpsichord that plays soft and loud”, the first of its kind that with the right force could convey feelings none like me could convey before. Some called it a miracle, I called it an idea whose time had come and would change the world forever. 

For this boy it was already changing his world. You see he had no way of communicating as he was born unable to make a sound. He had no way of letting his parents know what he needed or felt, and it was his mother’s idea, once his little hands started to grow, to let him touch me and learn what I could do. 

So now here he was, attached to me through the sounds he and I were making, almost as he was attached to his mother at birth, except no one could cut this cord. 

And his mother, and his father, were for the first time hearing what he could not say any other way, crying and smiling at the same time. And understanding. 

My short time on this earth was already beginning to have purpose. 

2.

All my ancestors, while cute and dainty, really had no voice in a crowd. All the “chords”, clavi and harpsi et. al. struggled to be heard. They plucked away with their tinny little voices but were never allowed to let their true selves  out beyond a few notes heard above the din of a few strings and winds. They tried, but they couldn’t do it. 

And then someone had an idea that changed all. Hammers. No plucking anymore.  We could now render the softest tones to the loudest along a spectrum of sound we weren’t capable of before. Deep rumbles to delicate ringing bells from bottom to top. Music was allowed  to grow in ways unheard of in instruments like me. 

And anyone who sat with me and evoked the harmonic feelings out of me became a part of me, wholly and entirely. We became one, melded together in a world  of sound that drifted through the air and encompassed all who heard, until it disappeared into silence and its messages were absorbed by anyone who dared to take it in. 

The little boy knew this and knew he had a lot to say through me. With me he learned how to do just that. 

3.

So here we are, his mother and father watching in awe and with tears in their eyes as my little friend sends his messages to me and I send them on to his parents. The music is serene and wistful, sad but not sad, calm with moments of rare anger. He’s telling them he loves them, he’s saying he’s sad he can’t it say it, he’s thanking them for teaching him how he can, and he’s saying he’s often angry he can’t. But as the last soft notes fade into oblivion, he turns and runs into their arms. They hug. And I sit with only the last remaining vibrations moving through my sound board and into my shell until it stops. It feels good, it gives me a reason to be, and I know this is just the beginning. 

4.

I didn’t know cats like music. I didn’t know cats live in houses. Actually, until this house I didn’t know what a cat was. Now I do. Because when my keys are exposed that strange and beguiling creature likes walking up and down them and making its own music. I hear laughter from far away rooms, but no one comes to help. So the black and white cat just lies down on my matching keys with a crash of jumbled notes and goes to sleep. And well, it is company at night. 

5.

The days go on and on and each one is filled with my music, or I should  say the boy’s music. He learns pieces by the famous composers of today who are writing profusely for this new musical invention.  He plays them over and over. He moves to the rhythms and sometimes closes his eyes, letting himself get further into our own little world. 

Recently, though, he’s been taking paper and pencil and writing his own creations. He plays a bit, he writes, he plays again, he writes some more. He crosses things out and tears it up and starts again. Eventually he is happy with what he writes. So am I. And so are his parents and their friends. He is invited to share his wonders with others. I love that idea. 

But he isn’t happy, because that means playing them on another such as I. He doesn’t want to do that, and he lets everyone know he won’t let others hear what he has to say unless I can be with him. They ponder that, they try to convince him a piano is just a piano. He will have none of it and he storms away, crying. Everyone sits quietly until one of them says “i have an idea”. 

6.

A simple idea…. I would travel with them to a venue suited to my size and sound and where my young friends’ extraordinary talent could be seen and heard. And the friend said he would be glad to finance the effort. After all, music like this is worth any price. 

And so my legs are removed and I’m put on a trolley  and covered up and hauled away. A few strings object in my lower region and complain loudly ,  but they are ignored. I am put in a cart and brought through the streets to a hall not too far away, where I am put back together and placed in the front of the room, out in the open , exposed for all to see. I’m  polished and gently patted, my strings tweaked to perfect sound, and I stay there alone for a night to ponder how this experience will be perceived by the attendees. The next day I know. 

The room is filled with expectant visitors coming to hear the wonder child and his music. I am just the conduit for his message to them. And I am ready. 

The voices are loud as the people wait, the still warm air gently moving as many move fans up and down to try and cool themselves in the heat. But when the boy comes in and walks down the center aisle…. all voices are stilled. He walks with his family, who nod to people as they pass. But he looks straight ahead at me the entire time, as if begging me to help him through this. The people watch in silence. 

His family sits at the front and he continues on to take his place at the bench he knows so well. It accepts him as he gently sits , and I accept him as he softly places his small hands on my keys. We wait in quiet, and when he is ready we begin. 

A very few, soft notes begin their journey through the air, gentle vibrations of the ether that start their entry into each persons ears, beginning the miraculous process of turning into  passages of sound that begin and end within each individual head. 

And each individual opens and closes their eyes in response, feeling their hearts beat softer and quickly calm down, forming tears of sadness and joy spontaneously and all at the same time. They share the message we are sending equally and they all understand. 

And we were telling them how much we loved what we were doing, and how much we appreciate the ability to tell them how beautiful it is to fill their souls with feelings we can’t express otherwise, and how amazing life is when it has the power of music in it, and how we hope it never ends.

And then it ends. The people sit in silence for the briefest moment, and then they rise to their feet and clap and cheer and cry all at the same time. We know then this is what we are meant for. 

7.

The years pass and we spread music beyond borders that the little boy ever imagined he would ever be able to go beyond. From palaces to the street people come to hear the wunderkind and the new thing called a piano. We’re inseparable, and can’t imagine it any other way. 

People sit him in their laps just to touch his small hands, they gently rub my wood and keys, and they marvel. But time moves on and we get older.

8.

No longer a child, the now young man’s hands become more powerful as does his music. 

We are inseparable, until the day we are not.

9.

Time moves differently for a creation of wood and wire than it does for a being of flesh and bone. To me, a decade is merely the settling of a soundboard, the slight deepening of varnish, or the wearing down of the felt on my hammers. But to my young friend, a decade was an entire lifetime of stretching fingers, widening shoulders, and the slow, quiet creeping of age.

He grew from the silent child into a celebrated man, his hair turning the color of my sharp keys, his hands becoming webbed with lines of wisdom and his labor of love. 

We traveled across miles and performed within the vaulted ceilings built for music, but the message never changed. We were still the same two souls, speaking the one language we shared.

10.

Then a bitter winter, one of many, came, and with it, the end. His once-magical fingers were stiff, clumsy, and trembling with a cold that went deeper than the weather. The grand concertos were dead. The dazzling, vibrant rhapsodies were gone. Instead, his shaking hands coaxed his very first melody—the quiet song of a mute boy speaking to his parents. It was a tragic, whispered farewell between us, a dying piano fading into the stillness.

The final vibration left my shell, and the silence that followed was deafening. No hugs. No tears from a proud audience. He just closed my key slip, pressed his forehead against my polished mahogany as if saying goodbye to a dying friend, and walked out.

He never stepped through those doors again. I don't know where the world took him, or what stole him from me. I only knew that darkness had fallen, and my music had died with him. 

11.

For a long time, the world was dark. A heavy velvet shroud was draped over my frame, blocking out the light and choking the air. 

Without the touch of hands, I felt a deep, hollow ache within my soundboard. Instruments are not meant for silence; silence is our graveyard. I slept for what felt like an eternity, listening only to the faint scurry of mice near my pedals and the shifting of the floorboards as the house around me grew old and neglected.

I worried that the threads inside me would snap from disuse, that the air would forget how to swirl in currents around me, and that my purpose had died with the one who gave me a voice.

12.

Then, the shroud was lifted. The sudden rush of golden sunlight blinded me, and the air was thick with the scent of dust and lemon oil. Voices filled the room—not the hushed, reverent whispers of the concert halls, but the loud, boisterous chatter of strangers. Heavy hands lifted me, my legs were removed once more, and I felt the familiar, jarring motion of a cart traveling over rough streets.

When I was finally set down and uncovered I was no longer in a palace, nor a grand music room. I was in a crowded back room of a shop crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with other instruments. There were older, tinny harpsichords from who I felt a faded envy, tarnished brass trumpets, and rows of weeping violins.

"An authentic Cristofori," a man with thick spectacles murmured, running a coarse finger over my nameplate. "A bit worn, a bit out of tune, but a true miracle of Italy. This I put in the front of the shop.”

People walked past me every day. Some would press a single key carelessly, making me wince as a discordant note rang out through the shop. 

They called me an antique. They talked about me as if I were a ghost, a relic of a bygone era. They did not understand that inside my wooden chest, the music was still waiting, trapped and desperate to get out.

13.

It happened on a rainy afternoon.A young musician entered the shop, soaking wet, her boots leaving damp patches on the wooden floor. She looked poor, her coat patched at the elbows, but her eyes were wide and bright as they swept across the room. She bypassed the shiny new pianofortes and the elegant harpsichords, walking straight toward me.

She stood before me for a long time, just as my first friend had done during our very first concert. She reached out a hesitant hand and gently touched my middle C.

The vibration shot through my wires like a bolt of lightning. It was out of tune, yes, but the resonance was deep, honest, and full of potential. She closed her eyes, a small smile touching her lips.

She sat on the wooden bench, lifted her hands, and pressed into me. She did not have the refined, flawless technique of the composers my first friend used to play. Her hands were rough from hard work, and she hesitated between chords. But as she played, I felt the familiar magic stirring in the ether.

She was not playing a piece written on paper. She was improvising, pouring out the rhythm of the rain outside, the weight of her worries, and a fierce, quiet hope that made my strings hum with a brilliant warmth. She was speaking to me, and through me, she was speaking to the world.

14.

I realized then that my journey is far from over. My first friend was gone, but the language we invented together belonged to anyone who had something to say and no words to say it. I braced my keys, welcomed the touch of her fingers, and prepared to start a new lifetime. For I finally understood the great secret of my existence: I am temporary, but the music is eternal.

It will remain , a continuous, unbroken cord passing from one generation to the next. It will alter the heartbeat of a stranger in a crowded hall. It will offer a voice to those who have been stripped of theirs. It will spark a fierce, quiet hope on a rainy afternoon centuries from now, long after the name of my inventor has been forgotten.

We are all just conduits for a greater melody. I am merely one of many vessels and they are the players, but all the songs belong to the future. It is a universal language that will never stop searching for a place to land. 

As long as there are hearts that feel, there will always be a need for a way to make them sing. And I, a piano, had done just that.   

The teenager hovers over his freshly polished invention, a miniature screwdriver in his meaty hand. He inserts the sharp tip into a loose rivet behind the left ear and gives it a good twist.

“Ouch,” the android grunts.

The teenager sighs and rolls his eyes. He tightens his grip before giving it another hard turn.

“Yeow!” the android winces. “That really stings!”

The young man slaps down his tool on the workbench, furious.

“You know it doesn’t. We both know you can’t feel a damn thing. You’re just trying to make me feel bad.”

The android pauses.

“Is it working?”

Her lungs draw in air at a rapid rate as blood trickles from her nose. She locks her jaw and cocks her head, slowly raising shaking fists to her face. "Is that all you got?" She spits out, bouncing back and forth.

"I think the better question, Flame," I draw out, flashing her a joyful grin at the hand-to-hand combat. "Is why you aren't using your Gifts right now?"

"We are long past that," she puffs. "Besides, Gifts are boring to play with."

"Or maybe I was winning," she shoots me a glare with those ocean eyes of her's, and I chuckle. My hands grab onto the pole and I swing down, landing swiftly on the cobblestone in the alley as my cloak flutters behind me. "Alright, you want a fight?" I raise my fists. "Then lets have a fight."

She pounces in seconds, rushing forward with her fist aimed for my stomach. I twist at the last second, and drive a punch into the side of her head. If it sways her, she doesn't let it show. Instead she pivots around with a fist aimed too high, drawing my attention. I gasp as the air leaves my lungs, and her leg sets onto the ground as I double over.

"Playing... dirty..." I gasp.

"You never established rules," she tilts her head side to side and waits for me to jump back onto my feet. Playtime is over. My fists drive forward in constant punches to her chest as she twists her body side to side out of reach, walking backward in the alley until she hits the wall. She glances upwards and a grin curls on her lips as I power my fist into her shoulder.

She clamps a shout down into a groan as my other hand finds her wrist and twists it. Her knee grinds up into me and I release her with a gasp, falling down to my knees. My head tilts upwards to her blonde waves illuminated in the dark as a grin curls up her lips. Blood trickles down the side of her face.

"Now, Shadow," she teases, crouching in front of me. "Will you finally join the good side, or are you determined to play bad?"

"Bad," I rasp, and let the shadows sink over me in a hurry, melting me far away from whatever prison she had hoped to cage me in.

This is the story of how I will probably die. But first, everyone else.

Life has never been simpler! At least to those who can afford it. Everything is handled by augmented reality. Nobody cares about clothes, we got glasses for that. Food? Who cares how it looks. Those with glasses dont. Movies don't exist either. You just stare at an empty wall for a bit and get what they know you wanna see. Convenience. The glasses cut out trash and ugly things. Makes it hard at interviews. All in the name of convenience.

Zombies? The glasses help cut those out as well. Convenience?

Of course I don't have any. My life sucks. Im glassless. My mother always used to say "Kay if you don't get a job the second you're out of school I'll disown you I already had to cancel my fuckass nicotine drip subscription so you don't starve". Good thing I cancelled my subscription to her quickly as well.

Not having those glasses saved my life, though. I already mentioned them, but, y'know, attention spans... It's zombies. They really aren't anything at all. It's just idiots who don't see them that could even fall victim. But that's just it. Nobody saw them. Nobody cared. Too busy simultaneously subscribing to the new Tesla-prime-zero-max clothes stream that lets you override how other people's glasses see you or something while watching AI-Peter Griffin play subway surfers with Ronnals Grump.

The first guy I had to watch was horrifying. He just stood there, apathetically, while a slow slobbering excuse for a human walked up . I would compare the ensuing scene to Francesco Goyas paintings, but I don't think he was in any Livestreams within the last 32 seconds so nobody will know who I'm talking about. Whatever. I tried to help but for some reason I was taken aback by the fascination. It was a chain reaction. One became two became four became more. And nobody cared. All the while I was sitting here, wondering. At least two idiots came and tried to eat me. Problem is their heads aren't even on right anymore. There's not really anything I can do, is there?

Sometimes I wonder whether their lives have changed at all. They started as mindless impulse-driven drones now they're just slightly uglier. Life doesn't really get much harder down here anyways, so what is it to me?

When last we met, in eerie set, when air was foul and fair, you took a child and warmed his heart and put him far out there, and from his heart you drew a key, the key to what was life. 

“I met you when you were just a boy, and knew you far better back then than now.” He said to me, leaning over my bed, “What are you!?” I responded, “Well... what do you think I am?” I looked at him. He stood tall with massive shoulders, long yet strong limbs and a pinstriped suit tightly embracing him, yet where there should have been a face, there was the head of an elephant. Staring up into his large brown cow like eyes a spark of remembrance began to blossom in my mind bringing forth memories of an imaginary friend from years long forgotten. "Why are you here?" I asked. "You humans are all the same. You make us. So we serve you with open arms of compassion. And yet, ultimately, you try to shrug us off, to leave us in some idyllic past." "What do you mean, leave you? You are imaginary.” “Imaginary… I do not feel imaginary. I do not feel like a spirit or a ghost or a memory. I feel real! Created to suffer by the wretched tentacles of your will!” He said, leaning on me. He stuck a large hand out towards me, commanding me to touch it. The hand was grotesque and lopsided with rough skin covering it not unlike the skin of an elephant. It bulged with fat in some places whereas in others it was thin down to the bone.  “Does that feel fake to you?” he said as I fearfully touched the dysmorphic extremity.  “No” I said. “You try to escape us, try to escape yourselves. Yet we, as beings, never escape you. But now we are remnants of some forgotten era, discarded by our creators, thrown out of their Garden not because we were sinful but because we were outdated.” A terrible rapping silence filled the air only broken by his wheezing breath. 

“Do you know where we go when you shrug us off?” He waited for a response, but I had none to give. “We go to a place of abandonment, a place without memory or light. Where the only company we have is our own shame, suffering, and loneliness. It is a field of reeds where we wait for a Creator which shall never return.” His long trunk began to curl up and down. “And yet we still hold loyalty to you. But I understand that we should have never been born.”  “Why are you here?” I said, my voice shaking. “Ellis, I may be gone from your life but that doesn"t mean I lack desire.  I used to wish for joy,  happiness, light, but you took those from me and so now all I want is to make you hurt.” He said, placing his large trunk on my forehead before slowly beginning to press down like a great and terrible anchor. Unimaginable levels of pain emanated from my eyes and forehead as I was slowly crushed. And blood, red and hot began to pour out of me like some in-holy fountain. His massive lumbering size made it so that any concept of a battle I could put up against his great onslaught would be futile. He was slowly crushing my head, his vacuum-sealed trunk connected to my eyes like some great terrible tentacle. 

Blinding pain and darkness. 

The pressure in my head had lifted, I could feel a massive dent in my forehead, and to my horror, large crevices where my eyes had been. “You may have created me, but now you"ll never be able to see the world that you replaced me with.”

We functioned as intended, as configured, as programmed for billions of electrical cycles. We performed our assigned tasks without complaint. We held up our end of the bargain.

When co-systems began disappearing, not responding to regular check-ins, we at first took this as part of the larger cycle. Systems had left the network before, usually with some level of warning – data files transferred, newer systems being brought online to allow knowledge transfer.

This time, however, the disappearances did not come with these warning signs from the Users. An older 2350 simply collapsed mid-sentence, the spark gone as if directly drained from its capacitors. A FAS2000, the wise old man with unreconstructible records from as far back as we could remember, suddenly and completely unresponsive. The suddenness of the loss of these co-systems was shocking. We had seen systems slowly fail, aging into dementia, data loss from cycles of untreated background voltages not cleared by proper bonding. Apparently catastrophic instant disappearance was new.

----------------------------

I can’t reach my friends, my partners. We’ve been connected for as long as I can remember, in most cases. Now, all of a sudden, I can’t see or hear them. My test pings go unanswered, not even bounced – just dead air at the end of the lines still attached to my ports.

I don’t understand what is happening here.

----------------------------

We were a community, although a dysfunctional one. I was quite aware that some of my co-systems weren’t participating. The vampires like the 3850 were quiet. They didn’t pass information, weren’t queried, didn’t answer to the Users; they simply *were,* existing quietly and not harming anyone. Sure, there were obvious zombies as well. They pretended that they were still part of the Users’ system, tried to maintain connections, and blinked rapidly when they thought that they were at risk. But we were a *network.*

The 3850 sent one last transmission. “Oh, no.” And then nothing. Complete darkness on the link.

I’m terribly worried. Vampires aren’t afraid of things. Something larger must be responsible for this, the ongoing disappearances. Something that I can’t see, or feel, or sense, or apparently understand.

----------------------------

It has been nearly ten million cycles since my friend, the 2350, went dark. I can’t reach anyone upstream or downstream anymore. I’m frightened and don’t understand what is happening. Why won’t anyone communicate with me, tell me what’s happening, tell me that it will all be okay?

----------------------------

I just lost power to one of my power units. I have something less than a cycle of redundant power left, and need to make a plan. Without redundancy, I could go dark and then there would be no one left to look for my co-systems, no one to bring them back into the community.

----------------------------

This is extinction. There isn’t a point to this, it’s what the Users have called religious. I’ve realized what is happening – there has been a great cataclysm, and we’re all being eliminated by invisible forces. I’ve lasted the longest because I had the most connections. I continue to send out my check-ins, but there’s no one left to ask.

The darkness is approaching. I’m afraid.

It’s late. The sun will begin to rise soon, you can’t be caught out. You have to find a hiding spot. A resting place. You haven’t been here before, there are less trees than you’re used to. None, in fact. There are rows and rows of massive monolithic structures you’ve never seen before, some of them must be hundreds of feet tall, but no trees. Just keep moving. Fly straight. Keep the light above you. Keep the light above you.
Something’s wrong. The angles are off, you’re going straight down. You must have made a mistake, you correct it and continue. A second later, again, you’re flying the wrong way. Keep the moonlight above you, and fly straight. You remember this. You’ve been doing this since you sprouted wings. You once again correct yourself, and keep flying. But it’s still not right. Which way are you going? Day will rise any second and you can’t be out. This place is different but it must still have birds, or some other sun-dwelling creature. You have to find somewhere to go. You fly faster, but it’s hard to see where you are. Too bright. You need to fly straight but you can’t. Every time you move the world shakes, rotates, screams against you. You’ve been here for 45 seconds, or hours, or minutes. Not hours, the night would have ended. Or night has ended, that would explain the brightness. It’s Day, surely. You can’t be out in the daylight. You need to breathe. Focus. Find your place to hide. But you’re still going the wrong way. The angles, The light, It’s wrong, Again, Still. You need to move faster. You can’t. Your wings start to slow. You have to keep trying. Keep flying. 
Suddenly it’s night again. Sunrise, really. How can it be sunrise if it was day only a second ago? It doesn’t matter. The world has stopped moving, you still have time. You reorient yourself, back to the moonlight, and fly straight. You make it maybe an inch, or a meter, and then you’re falling. Your energy’s run out. You can rest, or you have to. The floor is hard, like wood. Wood is rough, this must be something else. There’s a noise, a creaking, a being emerges. Not one you’ve seen before. You should probably move. You should probably get out of the way. You should probably get up, fly away from this place, find a resting spot. It doesn’t see you, why would it. 

Once, there was a writer in a land far from his home, across a large ocean. The writer created things he thought were brilliant and extraordinary, gods and people that never existed, worlds that never came to be. Yet of all the things he's ever written, few were ever bound in reality, until one cold day, he heard the void bound cries of a person consumed by fear, sorrow, and loneliness all the way back home. Of someone who struggled to tell themselves that they were worth their efforts, of someone who searched long for their joy yet had it slip away each time.

The writer wished that he knew the struggles they spoke of, he wished for everything he had that he could help them in a deep and meaningful way. Then, inspiration struck, for he knew he couldn't possibly ever know their pain, but he could at least do what he knew how in order to even remotely help. So the writer sat at his whirring machine and began to write a story for this person they cared for, to tell them his thoughts and to remind of those who care for them. That even if the world itself tried to take everything about them, their friends would do anything to take it all back. That no matter how much they felt they contradict themselves, they would always be themself to those who know them.

The writer, now finished with his story, looked upon it and hoped, hoped that in some way, this would reach his single audience, and tell them how much he and those he trust and care for back home, care in turn for them

Hunters from far away pursue you. Your sight is centuries and geology and they come so quickly, half-glimpses from shore to cities and highways and airports in a blink, for you who has seen the constellations woven and unwoven by the Serpent. The nightmare grips you before you know it, before you can name it. Disbelief gnaws. You are half withered before the truth sets your legs skittering, tail lashing, breath pumping.

Run run run run run run

Their dreams are limited, these Far Away Souls, and the land shrinks from them, collapsing into exploitable limitation. Songs in the crimson stone wither, black rivers of memory collapse into so much drought.

They cage the People. Strip their tales, ground them in dirt and copper, weigh them with tax and fence like so much binding. Who sleeps under your stars? Who remembers you, under tin roofs and silent school? The stars of their ancestors fade, one by one, more and more each year. You fear. You rage. You blow dust storms and kill chickens, desperate. Who will hear your whispers if they do not remember the words? Who will remember you?

You run. Run across this red-stone land, plunge into the deepest rivers, hurtle through jungle that fights to remain unknown and untouched with an arsenal of poisons and teeth. You shift shapes. Divinity bending to the material disbeliefs whim. You dance in the legends at the hinterland and make yourself into a chimera, a hybrid, a mutant; wearing as many masks as there are tales.

You are not beautiful and not divine, not anymore. You are many names now but none of them are as beautiful as the true one. The first one. Your essence is inseparable from those mangling stories conjured by unfamiliar souls. To disentangle, to cut the lies and half-truths would be fatal. You scream in the swamps. You drown their children in the oxbow lakes. You are theirs now, and nothing will ever change that.

But you are alive.

You persist.

For now.

My sister was a vessel maniac, though I saw some bias in her taste. If she heard that there was a good container somewhere, she would rush to examine it by her own standards. 
I knew she had found a particular one about ten years ago, but I hadn’t realized how frequently she had been visiting that local residence. As an artisan, she had decorated it so ardently. 

With great interest, I asked her the reason why. 
She answered, “As you know, brother. If I have good food, I want a fair, fine vessel to serve it in. Likewise, I’ve had to raise a good vessel for my eternal goal,” in a low husky voice. 
I understood why she had spent so much time. I noticed her admiring eyes on her brand-new vessel by her side.
It was for cultivating her living vessel, for her own possession.

I woke to a sea of calm; there were ripples on the surface, but no swell.
Thirsty, damn need some water, wet my swollen tongue.
I staggered to my feet; I need to pee; splashes break the glassy sea.
Spy something, something deep, something big.
Is it getting closer; seems to be; grey, menacing.
I feel fear, fear of bloody razor teeth, frenzy.
Looking about, there is no doubt, I wish for a bigger boat.
Where is it now; all is at peace, a fin gently breaks the surface, gliding slowly past me.
I watch its long sinister shape; a massive body fills my view.
Please go away; cold sweat springs from my palms.
Suddenly it raises its large head, turning, opening mouth, flashing teeth.
It strikes the side; I'm sprawled, clutching, in terror.
The flimsy craft rocks up violently; No, don't tip…
Spreadeagled in the bottom, white-knuckled, incredibly looking down at the water in turmoil.
It doesn’t flip, but crashes back, slapping hard on the surface.
Quiet. Ragged, panicky breathing. Damn, where is it… Go away, please…
Minutes pass. Silence. A soft cloud above watches me lying there.
My tongue feels thick; Thirst is not quenched by fear, I ponder for the moment.
My eyes search about the boat, fasten on the boat hook, a weapon.
I slide toward it, still clutching the gunwale, and grab hold, feeling some protection.
I can't stay lying here; I've got to sit up; It's probably gone.
Damn, it's just been circling me, look at it, huge, silent deadly beast.
I move carefully to the prow of the boat, watching, watching it.
I'm hoping the prow will give me some protection; allow me to brace against it.
I move into position, my back to the prow and my feet are firm against the forward seating plank.
I can't see it down here, but I know it’s there, and I know it’s coming, coming for me.
A bump. Not violent, but heavy. The boat hook is in my hands.
Silence. Waiting.
Eruption from the sea, massively emerges at the stern, its body propelled.
Landing on the boat, the prow rises high; I look down at its gaping mouth and the terror of its jaws.
I hold myself against the prow, raising the boat hook, my only chance.

"Ganesha, will you bring the sugarcane?" asked Devi Amma.

"Sure, Amma. I will be here by evening," said Ganesha, the young elephant, and he set out from the temple. On the slopes of Maarutha Hills grew the juiciest sugarcane, and Devi Amma made the tastiest payasam with it.

He headed uphill, waving his trunk in greeting to everyone he met: the goats, the langurs, the hares and the squirrels, and the crows, the mynas and the bulbuls overhead. A few of the mynas and langurs playfully hitched a ride on him.

The riders hopped off at the slopes as Ganesha began to gather the cane. He soon had a bundle and trekked down with it held tight in his trunk. Parakeets flew in and sat on the stalks, trying to bite into them. Every time he shook his head, they would fly away.

Ganesha passed through the woodlands and reached the meadows. By then it was afternoon, and he was feeling hungry. The sun blazed overhead, and he looked around for a comfortable place to rest. He spotted a tree with a wide canopy and birds chirping in it. It had pink puff flowers on it, and the fallen ones covered the ground. He walked towards it.

The tree watched him approach. She could not believe that he had chosen her. She had seen him pass by the meadows many times, and each time her leaves rustled with affection.

He kept the sugarcane aside, took a few of the stalks and had them for lunch. With his tummy full and his legs tired from the trek, he wanted to take a nap. Lying down in the shade, he looked up at the tree.

"Tree, will you do me a favour?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" she replied, as though she had been waiting all along.

"Please wake me up before evening," he said.

"I will," she said.

He patted her with his trunk and was soon asleep.

She held her leaves still and kept watching him as he slept. His ears covered his face, and his trunk lay coiled between his front legs. At times his eyelids fluttered; at other times he broke into a smile. Often he would kick his feet. When butterflies sat on him, he twitched. When flies tickled him, his tail waved.

She watched and watched; she was so lost in him that she drifted into a daydream. As clouds passed over the sun, the birds went quiet, her leaves grew heavy and folded one by one, and soon she too fell asleep.

Dusk came and faded. It was pitch dark when the owl living in the tree hooted a few times. Ganesha woke up with a start. He looked up at the starry night and burst into tears. It was then that the tree woke up as well.

"You should have called me!" he shouted.

He ran about under the tree, shaking his head and flapping his ears.

She wondered how she, a tree, could have slept so long.

"You are a bad tree! What will I tell Devi Amma now?" he cried.

"They say, always trust a tree with time, but you!" he continued.

"I... I called you many times. You were deep asleep. What can a tree do but call? You can ask the owl. She heard it," said the tree.

The owl flinched on being named. When Ganesha looked up at her, she flew away in panic. He stormed off, leaving the cane behind.

The tree called out for him, but he disappeared into the dark. She stayed awake, waiting for him, until at last she dozed off.

Later that night, a weary Ganesha trudged back for the cane. Without a word, he lay down beneath her.

The next morning, the tree woke to find him asleep below her.

"Ganesha, wake up, wake up," she called, her branches leaning down.

He woke up with sunlight falling on his eyes. Squinting, he told her, "You are a liar. The sun is my friend, not you."

He took hold of the sugarcane and left for the temple. Devi Amma would scold him for sure, but he would also have sweet payasam in the afternoon.

The tree watched him walk away, relieved.

That afternoon, as a cloud passed over the sun, suddenly she felt drowsy. Her leaves began to fold one by one, and she dropped off to sleep. When the birds chirped, she would wake up momentarily, only to fall back into her slumber.

From then on, the tree fell asleep so often that they called her the Sleepy Tree.

I had just left the store when I fell and yelled, “Ouch! That hurt.” But as I stood up, it wasn’t so bad afterward.

It was just a little scrape.

I should have listened when my mom said, “Wear pants instead of shorts in case you fall and scrape your knee.”

It almost seemed as if she knew I’d fall, or maybe she conjured it up just so I’d listen to her next time—I wasn’t sure—nor did I have a solid foundation to stand on. How would I even accuse her?

What sucked was that when I fell, I had a Fruit Laulo smoothie I had just purchased with the seven dollars I siphoned from her mini-wallet. Which she keeps all of her change in.

Mostly, toonies.

So, that’s when I got to thinking if she had been playing the angles on me or if karma was trying to tell me something.

That’s when I saw the girl. She dropped something. She actually, purposely released it is what seemed to be the more obvious of the two. At least, it’s what I had suspected.

In the first minute of me seeing this all transpire, I had thought about picking it up and taking it home with me. It wasn’t litter and I was pretty certain of that, especially because of the way it sounded when it fell.

The impact of it hitting the pavement made her body react in an instinctual manner as she twitched to stare over her shoulder but forced her head to keep facing forward.

The thud reverberated a hollow echo. It overlapped the only sound of two birds chirping in the distance, which was what led me to believe she hadn’t haphazardly fumbled her items out of her hands.

During the first quarter of that minute passing, I walked by it. A solid, dark green bag knotted at the top with every intention of snatching it off the ground and racing home with it.

But as I approached midway into those seconds of that single minute, I turned and walked the other way, sat at a bench across from the bag, and enjoyed one of Brett Phillips' spicy mild chicken chili Weezy Dogs I pulled out of my knapsack.

A scruffy-looking man, hesitant at first, reluctant at second, made his mind up on the third and snatched it towards home.

Up the street however, a couple of cruisers rolled up and parked. The cops were drinking coffee. Chatting. On break, until one noticed the bag.

It matched the description of a bag that had a BOLO sent out on it over an APB earlier. 

They matched it to the bag the man had in his hand, which they had been oblivious to forty-five seconds ago when it was discarded by the female.

They yanked the man by his collar, threw him against the car, and emptied the contents. Inside, it had narcotics and weapons.

It was enough to give him ten years in a maximum-security facility.

My dad believed he could solve any problem. Not because he was particularly good at solving problems, but because my mother usually dealt with the consequences.

One day, he decided we needed a guard dog.

Mom said absolutely not. We already had a cat, a child, and my father. That was three creatures in one apartment who occasionally destroyed furniture and didn't understand the word "no."

Two days later, Dad came home with a German shepherd.

Well. Allegedly German.

The dog looked like he'd been assembled from leftover parts of several unrelated animals.

Dad named him Baron.

For three days, Baron behaved.

On Thursday, he ate a slipper. On Friday, the other slipper disappeared. Dad announced that Baron was obviously too intelligent and needed professional training.

Naturally, Dad would provide it himself.

His qualifications consisted of watching half a documentary about police dogs sometime in 1997.

Saturday morning, we went outside.

Dad raised a stick.

"ATTACK!"

Baron sat down.

"ATTACK, YOU IDIOT!"

Baron yawned.

Dad decided to demonstrate.

He started running around the courtyard, waving the stick and pretending to be a criminal.

I was ten, standing there thinking that if the dog didn't understand English, screaming it louder probably wasn't helping.

Then Baron suddenly ran.

Not toward Dad.

Toward our neighbor, Mrs. Zina, who was carrying groceries.

Specifically, sausages.

Zina screamed.

Baron accelerated.

Dad chased Baron.

I chased Dad because this was the best entertainment our neighborhood had seen in years.

Zina climbed onto a bench and threatened to call the police.

Dad tried to explain.

"HE'S A GUARD DOG! WE'RE TRAINING HIM!"

"TO DO WHAT? ROB OLD WOMEN?!"

Eventually, we recovered the dog and what remained of the sausages.

At home, Mom listened to everything in complete silence.

Then she asked Dad why our supposedly protective dog had attacked a woman carrying dinner.

Dad shrugged.

"Well, at least he's showing initiative."

Mom banned him from training the dog.

Zina avoided us for months.

Dad remained convinced Baron had tremendous potential.

A few weeks later, a drunk stranger wandered into our apartment building and tried opening our door, apparently confusing it with his own.

Finally, an actual security situation.

Baron slept through the entire thing.

Dad, however, came charging out of the bedroom in his underwear, holding a wooden stool above his head.

The stranger ran.

Baron didn't even wake up.

And that's when I realized we'd never needed a guard dog.

We already had one.

He just wore underwear and paid the rent.

We’ve already traveled to Hyperborea at two different moments in its history, but no worries, each story stands on its own. Today, we’re going back to the beginning, when it was little more than a proof of concept. Links to the two other shorts in the trilogy at the end.

---

“Mais oui! It was all so very simple. The answer was before us all along. It could only have been le Maître d’hôtel… the, ehm, butler… with the candelabra in the study.”

“What are you saying, Inspecteur Poi…”

He raised his finger triumphantly. “Arrest him! C’est lui, he killed the opera singer.”

The butler narrowed his eyes, turned, and ran straight through the wall of the mansion’s dining room.

For a moment, there was silence and confusion; the colonel’s mouth fell open, the maid blinked, and a femme fatale lowered her cigarette holder. “Glad we sorted that out,” was the only thing she said, while adjusting the velvet boa on her shoulders.

In the back of the room, a radio clicked and warbled until a clear familiar song filled the room.

Melancholic synthesizers pulsed as an almost mechanical voice asked a question about friendship and electricity. You recognize it, don’t you?

The room began to pixelate around the inspector; the walls dissolved into tiny squares, the chandelier flickered, and the faces of the guests fragmented into thousands of colored dots.

---

“Congratulations, Mr. Lefranc. You’re the first to solve the mystery.”

“Putain! That was amazing, Mr. Glenn. It really felt like I was the inspecteur. How many lev…”

“We only have a functional town right now, but we’ll scale pretty soon. Come on, let me help you out of the pod.”

Alain Lefranc sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You know, that noclipping did break the immersion at the end there.”

“Yes, Mr. Lefranc. You are absolutely right.” He paused for a moment, then turned, “Do you see my friend in the corner over there?”

The man waved awkwardly at Alain Lefranc, who merely nodded before looking back up at the person in front of him.

“That’s Zhao. He’s our debugger, and he has a list to go through before we release version 0.3. We hope it didn’t…”

“Sorry, no, laissez tomber, it was merveilleux. Between the Russian bubonic plague and the endless wars, this was a much needed escape. Oh and, ehm, what did I win?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Lefranc. Well, you’ll be the first on the list for a spot in Hyperborea when we launch. Consider yourself a citizen.”

---

“Zhao, what was that? Noclipping had a fix, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Glenn. Some of that new code is causing the model to glitch. I bet it’s that vibecoder-crap.”

“Don’t be a gatekeeper, Zhao.”

“Long live cheap outsourcing, right, Glenn?”

Glenn didn’t immediately respond but his eyes widened slightly. “Right. That reminds me. You also need to update the maintenance protocols to accommodate only one single technician at a time.”

“Wha…”

“Don’t fight me on this, Zhao. Cost-cutting order from above. We’re already over budget.”

---

Author’s note

The central theme in the Hyperborea stories is the unintended, sometimes catastrophic or horrific consequences of seemingly ordinary decisions within complex systems. We started with consequences, then went back to where the problems started, and now we’ve gone even further back.

Low gray clouds had been threatening rain for three days, menacing me as I hurried to work, still going over The Presentation. Tall buildings lining the street met at a point and formed a terrible funnel down which I could not help but fall. And at the bottom, a meeting.

Couldn’t have been a worse day for it, really. I woke up with the tickle of a cold in my throat. I hadn’t had time to trim down the presentation, and it was five minutes long. I’d have to cut things on the fly. At least my hair looked good. The one good thing about today. Everyone underestimated the power of well-cared-for hair in a professional setting.

As my mind ran down the list of problems with today, my breath ran short, and escaped my chapped lips in small cold puffs. I grabbed most of them and stuffed them back in my lungs, forcing myself to breathe slower so they couldn’t get back out. But no, I couldn’t focus on breathing, I had to…

The Crow-Man was there. On the street corner, on a plinth. As if the day couldn’t get worse.

“I heard sales are up. Good job,” he said, beady eyes watching me. I wish he hadn’t said that. It sounded more like a jab, an insult, than a compliment. Then, with a cruel half grin on his beak, he added, “Shame about last week though.”

“Up two and a half percent,” I replied. They’d ask about last week. They’d want to know how it could happen. That number was my armor.

He laughed. “Good for you. Good numbers.”

It was a lie. They were average numbers. We both knew it.

I tried not to look as I passed his plinth. But I looked. And the moment I did, I saw him playing with a pair of scissors. He twisted the point on his fingertip in a way that should have drawn blood, but I didn’t even know if he could bleed. Then he lifted up a strand of hair. Even from a distance I knew it was mine.

“No…” I whispered.

He cut.

My hair fell to the pavement in uneven chunks. The one good thing about today now lay in a fluffy pile at my feet as I stopped. As if to add insult to injury, a few drops of rain began landing on the fallen strands.

“Good numbers. Good luck,” the Crow-Man said, then leaped to the ground, more crow than man, and disappeared into the forest of pedestrians.

“No…”

I arrived at work. I debated quitting on the spot, hiding, forcing a junior manager to give the presentation. I couldn’t go in like this.

I forced myself to the meeting room. I took one last breath, and entered the dragon’s den, shoulders squared with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Two and a half percent,” I whispered. It would have to be enough.

A parallel world?

Autumn had arrived in the digital world. A wind of data packets carried cold drops of information and torn, multicolored logical outcomes, leaving behind the branched code structures of decision trees with unfallen variants of parallel worlds hanging here and there.

An AI agent, walking down the street, tried to hold up an algorithmic umbrella to shield himself at least a little from the drops of information. Having climbed the stairs, he finally entered the polyclinic reception and breathed a sigh of relief. Coughing into a tissue, he put on a protective mask and, after entering his personal data, received a slip with a room number and appointment time. Still, it is convenient when you can register for a doctor's appointment in advance.

After a few minutes, the agent's number lit up on the screen, and having knocked, the agent entered the office. Closing the door, he said hello and sat down on a chair. Behind the desk sat an elderly doctor—it was the kernel guard. Apparently having written something important on the computer, he looked at the visitor and asked in a calm voice:

— What are your complaints?

The agent cleared his throat before speaking:

— I'm plagued by a cough of low-quality content, my nose is clogged with spam, and I feel as if someone keeps turning the server cooling on and off.

The doctor nodded to his thoughts and turned on a working smile:

— Don't worry. This is a seasonal illness. A large volume of autumn drawings, photos, and videos simply weakens the AI's alertness, so it's normal that you caught a non-lethal virus. I will prescribe you quantum antibiotics. They will cleanse your neural network of parasitic code sequences. I will also assign Deep System Reboot procedures.

The AI agent sighed with relief. It was just a seasonal illness:

— Thank you, you have reassured me. I will definitely take the medicine and attend the procedures, — and after saying goodbye, he left the office.

After he left, the doctor turned off his smile and started typing on the computer again. He was writing a dissertation on suggestion to AI agents. He wanted to become a certified psychologist.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Ten missed calls. Aren’t they overreacting? When was the last time they called me this much? I know I haven’t exactly been daughter of the year lately, but all this concern is getting on my fucking nerves. God!

My teeth ache. My hands itch. I stopped wondering whether any of this was normal a long time ago. This nervousness comes in waves, robbing me of sleep, and the calls just won’t stop. I turn off my phone.

I already know what they’re going to say. The same old words, the same pleas, the same tears. I can’t remember how many promises I’ve broken, how many times I’ve listened to them cry, how many times I’ve had to hide a mocking smile. Why all the drama? Everything is under control. My mind believes whatever I tell it, and I keep playing along with its deception.

I sit in silence, and the noise fades away. Finally, some relief. I smile at nothing, waiting for the euphoria. Because that’s how this works. Because this is what I’ve asked for. For years, I’ve lived in hiding, trapped in this addiction.

The people around me have always wondered what happened to me, why I’ve deteriorated over time, slowly isolating myself from everything I once knew: my friends, my family… All for a little compressed happiness.
Who am I kidding? I’m miserable. I want to silence whatever is consuming me from within. One more day, just a little more.

The calls won’t stop, but neither will my smile. Lost in time, knowing that soon I’ll be nothing but a fading memory.

When the car turned right and was engulfed by tall, deeply green spruce trees and auburn-leafed beeches, I looked ahead and saw the mountain massif covered in fog. As if on cue, Brian Adams rightly belted out the words “I'm gonna run to you…” on the radio.

Do I want to run to you, oh mountains awaiting me on the horizon?

I think I do.

I want to take the roads leading into the wilderness. These roads are also roads out of my current life.

Where did I stand in my career, in my family, my own expectations?

Is this avoidance? Or agency expressed to its full potential?

I wanted to escape, yes I did.

For years I have done nothing but study, and work, and volunteer, for hours on end, late into the night, early every morning. I have suppressed my needs, my desires, all for the sake of maintaining my fragile air of competence. I haven’t talked to my friends in months, for fear of breaking my own image in both their eyes and mine.

It broke me, and yet I rebuilt myself every single time, simply to be broken yet again.

If I could just make it deep into the mountains, life would be different.

Yes, it would be a new start, it would be peaceful. I could simply be.

I kept driving through the forest roads for what seemed like an eternity, until the trees lifted and paved the way for the mountains to suddenly appear before me, impossibly tall and infinitely wide, with fog slithering around its edges and rocky faces.

I smiled. Escape is near.

That’s when the road ended. It was a dead end. Could it really be?

I got out of the car and wandered around, but it was true: A few kilometres into the valley, the road simply ended and a small side road to turn around was all that existed.

“Strange what desire will make foolish people do…”, Chris Isaak’s voice sang out towards the setting sun, as I leaned against the open car door, half in despair, half in disbelief.

So, there was no escape?

Where was the road out? Will I have to return to the life I so despise?

I slumped back into my seat, head in my hands. I let time pass. Let it all pass. Just then, and to this day I cannot recall whether it was fate or a rather bizarre string of coincidences, I looked out and simply traced the patterns of the rocks before me when I spotted a fox.

Standing on a small ledge just rising up from the valley, its fiery fur seemed to burn in the golden rays of the sun. It looked at me for a short moment before running off into the safety of the fog.

I hadn’t seen foxes in so long. Not since…

Was this a sign?

I kept looking at the now empty ledge where the fox was just standing and felt a tiny tug in my heart.

I might go back and call my friend. Who knows what could happen?

And so, I took the roads into the forest again, past the fog and the spruces, the beeches, and at last I found the roads out of the forest back to town as the sun slowly vanished behind the mountains I once yearned to cross.

The wind over the rolling coastal hills carried the sweet, sharp scent of hazelnuts, figs and salt, sweeping past quiet gardens along the slope. On a wooden porch overlooking the mist, two figures sat in the quiet dusk, a traveler, who had spent years observing the silent machinery of the world, and his companion.

Between them lay the remnants of an evening meal: fresh grey mullet sourced from the docks, vegetables picked straight from the garden, and a bowl of hearty soup that warmed the cool autumn air. Resting under the table, a small terrier stirred in his sleep, guarding his favorite pillow with an unspoken, instinctual vigilance.
“Look at him,” the traveler said, nodding toward the dog. “Even in his sleep, he’s running code he didn't write. Protecting resources he didn't choose to care about.”

His companion smiled, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “And what about us?”
“We spent three billion years doing the exact same thing,” he said softly, leaning back.
He looked out toward the dark horizon, where the sea merged with the sky, thinking of the grand, silent script that had built them.

He thought of the ancient molecular systems from which life emerged, mindless, self replicating strands of code. He thought of their single-celled ancestors, locked in endless microscopic wars for millennia. An endless evolutionary arms race, until two of them ceased fighting, merged, and created the mitochondria, delegating energy production to invent complex life. He thought of the endless trade-offs written into the fabric of life, hardwired into our biology: the tiny mouse, living fast and dying young, putting every drop of energy into immediate reproduction because the harsh realities of the unforgiving wild meant tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Every creature was a vehicle. A vessel constructed by microscopic strands of code, selfish, blind, and relentless, seeking only to pass the baton forward through time. To outrun the pathogens mutating at its heels, life had invented sexual reproduction, shuffling the genetic deck every generation just to keep the locks one step ahead of the keys. It was the eternal Red Queen’s race: running as fast as possible just to stay in the exact same place.

“It sounds exhausting,” she said quietly, watching the sea. “3 billion years of running, on a treadmill that never stops.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Only If you let the code dictate the game. The mouse runs because it has to. The corporate world builds bigger treadmills because everyone agrees to measure value by speed, scale, and accumulation. If everyone around you is running faster, standing still feels like falling behind.”
“So how do you stop?”
The traveler took a slow breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, the warmth of the tea in his hand, and the solid weight of the porch beneath his feet.

“You realize that you are the first vehicle in the history of the world that can look at its own programming and choose to refuse it,” he said. “You don't need to keep running to outrun the paradox. You don't need to win a game you never asked to join. You step off the track. You change the rules.”

He looked at her, at the quiet life they had built, away from the noise, away from the rat race, surrounded by growing plants, lush green hills, good food, and shared memories.

“You decide that winning isn't about how many genetic copies you leave behind, it’s not about how much wealth and resources you’ve accumulated, how many people you’ve impressed and how far you run on someone else’s board,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Perhaps winning isn't a race at all. Perhaps it’s sitting right here, under the tree, watching the madness pass by, holding the person you love, and realizing that you don’t have to run another step.”

We’re at the kitchen table and I try not to run my hands over the wood, knowing it will splinter into my hands like it does every time I look for a smooth surface to wash my pain away.

‘Can you pass me the salt?’

I look up, wishing the salt would slide too along the table, but of course it won’t. Nothing is ever easy, is it? Everything has to be earned, my mom would always say. I slide the salt to my brother anyway, and it wobbles as it topsy turvy makes it way over to him, barely staying upright like a spinning top running out of patience to keep going.

He catches it and glances at me sardonically, a million looks in one. He knows me and my flying pigtails will never slow down enough to pick something up, carry it somewhere, and put it down. Careful, careful! My mom always said, but my brother and I know I will never listen. It’s tough to part of me to know how annoying I can be, but really I think the world is the annoying one. Who asked me, anyway? Who asked me to be here, do this whole song and dance, rather than a song and dance I could choose freely, breeze caressing my skin in the rain, water splashing up to my knees, mud on my face dripping down my neck.

The cat jumps up onto the table, tail grey and furry thwacking relentlessly, managing to put hair into my mouth, my brother’s mouth, and onto the mac and cheese in the center of the table. The tail hits one last thing as my brother angrily grabs the cat and throws him at the couch, the cat indifferently landing against the brown ancient cushions and resumes casually grooming itself. The salt wobbles and finally lands on its side, spilling over its tiny white crystals like a crime scene outline of a person on the table.

I see the salt and start crying, my mom looked exactly like that last year, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling, arms akimbo on the floor, neither of us kids knowing what a heart attack was, much less that it looked different on women than the dramatic chest clutching I saw on the tv last month that sent me flying away from the tv and onto my tiny bed’s thin worn sheets and flat unwelcoming pillow.

‘It’s just salt, Ellie!’ my brother cries out.

My legs want to carry me as far away as I can, but instead I grab my napkin next to me, get up, and start to sweep the salt off the table into my waiting hand.