The Dim

By Jem Morgenstern

I was lost in the Desert of Midden Men. The Dust Raiders had chased the rest of my troupe away and I had been left behind. The sun was setting and the other sun was rising, putting an end to the day and bringing to me yet another dim. I still don’t understand how The Architects made the mistake of building a second sun instead of a new moon. The news of the moon’s dissipation was etched into every news rock and was scrawled onto every single one of the few paper news prints around and I’m sure the commissioners were very clear with their instructions to The Architects. Still, there was confusion somewhere in the process and now we’ve got a dimly glowing artificial sun instead of a fresh moon and a day and a dim instead of a day and a night. After finding myself alone in the dim, I was very grateful for their mistake. I’ve imagined how terrifying it would have been to find myself wandering that desert under a dark night sky with the nocturnal creatures roaming the sands, taking peeks at my flesh and licking their cushy lips (none of those animals exist anymore, obviously, since there’s no night for them to exist in). I knew that I needed to head West, but I wasn’t sure which direction West was, so I chose a direction and stuck with it. After a week of walking in that direction, I found that I had been walking Northward and not Westward, as I had hoped. Instead of walking directly Southward back to where I had started, I cleverly figured that walking Southwestward would save me a lot of time, so that’s what I did. About two days into walking Southwestward, I noticed that I was being followed. At first, I was worried that it might be a Dust Raider, but I was able to put myself at ease after realizing that the character wasn’t dressed in Dust Raider rags and was clearly not as tanned and musculicious as a Dust Raider would be. Inspecting the figure further, staring harder, squinting with unmatched intensity, I was finally able to identify him as a Klein. Their bromidic drab and unnoteworthy disposition makes it difficult to distinguish them from the nameless bodies in the backgrounds of memories. The only Klein anybody would be able to recognize is Hungry, who writes a monthly column of The Northern Rockface News Rock and isn’t actually a Klein. Knowing my follower was only a Klein and couldn’t possibly do me any harm, I wasn’t worried. He stuck around for a couple days and then strayed from my path, finding his own way to his own destination. With his departure, there was an odd sensation of abandonment, despite not having cared for him in the slightest and not having any interaction with him at all. That Klein was my stalker and I lost him. I lost something that was mine. Then a few hours passed and I got over it. Out of habit, I tried to evoke the emotion back from its pits because I do enjoy pitying myself, but I wasn’t able to fish even one sliver of it out of my emotional intestines. I had already shat it out of my system. Eventually, I was able to catch up with my troupe, just as they were leaving Los Angeles. Just in time to join them for the trip back home.

Ten Reasons Why I Love My Dog More Than Most Humans

By Leiani Brown

Number one: my dog's name is Gooby.
Do you know any humans named Gooby? I rest my case.
Number two: he doesn't talk and I don't have to.
The majority of human interaction centers around conversation. When a human meets another human, there is either a) a mutual understanding that talking will commence or b) one human expects talking to commence, either by their own uncomfortableness with silence or their counterpart's. Thus, either talking or awkward silence with the desperation for talking is inevitable. Frequent topics include, but are not limited to: the weather, sports, food, local news, music, social media, anything worthy of complaint, and so forth. Why humans are so insistent upon saying anything for the sake of saying something at the fear of saying nothing—even to the point of speaking in utter trivialities all of their lives—is beyond me. Gooby has never once spoken a word to me, neither of unimportant matters nor profound subjects, and yet, we get along just fine.
Number three: he doesn't abide by rules.
If Gooby wants to pee on my carpet, he pees on my carpet. Regardless of how badly it will stink, or how angry my mother will get if she finds out. If he wants to lick that person's foot even when it's old and somewhat yellow and smelly and definitely dirty, he'll lick that person's foot. And enjoy it too. Too many of the humans I have come to dislike—including parts of myself—are too afraid of angry mothers or smelly carpets that they don't relieve themselves when they honestly probably should. Those humans have come to look at the world as ruled by other humans. Those humans have seen that other humans walk in a certain way, say certain things in certain ways at certain times, act a certain way even if said certain way contradicts natural instinct, and have decided that such certainty is the only certain way to exist. But clearly, one can exist—and be happy—with a peeing-on-the-carpet mentality. Gooby is one of the happiest things in existence; he shakes his tail to show his excitement, and because his frail frame is far thinner than is probably healthy, his whole body shakes too. Not many humans can do that. (Granted, not many humans have tails).
Number four: he doesn't cling to stupid mistakes.
I confess, one time I accidentally hit him with my tennis racket. I was in the backyard practicing my serve because I was bored and angry and needed somewhere to channel my useless energy. It all happened so quickly. He had been watching me, but apparently I hadn't been watching him because as I swung down, the racket landed right on his head. I still can't forgive myself for doing such a horrible thing, and yet Gooby loves me still.
Number five: he doesn't wear his "heart on his sleeve."
I had heard this term a lot, but never understood it until high school. My father and I have a good relationship, or so I like to think. Most of it is composed of me chattering about all my qualms regarding society and the people around me, while he patiently listens, occasionally interjecting. I was describing to him (in long, parenthetical detail) that my friend told me everything she went through all the time. She told me every detail of her relationship with her parents, her boyfriend, the status of her grades and homework and how everything was always crashing and falling apart at the seams. All this she told with such intensity and loudness as to evoke a sense of pity and empathy from me or whichever fortunate soul happened to be nearby, giving the listener no time to question the minority and minuteness of the problems themselves.
"She wears her heart on her sleeve," my dad said simply.
Some humans carry their pain like a badge of honor stitched into their smile. Like war stories they must tell to top those of their peers. Some humans want every other human to know what every human already knows: life is an ugly, sucky mess. It hurts, it sucks, it's unfair. I get it.
Gooby isn't constantly telling me how much it sucks to be him, although I'm sure at times it does—especially with me as his "owner" (I hate the word owner; I don't own him, but I suppose I do own his collar... I hate that). It probably sucks that people are always saying he's ugly, that my roommate's boyfriend mistook him for a raccoon—something I'm still bitter about—it probably sucks that he can't go wherever he wants whenever he wants to, but he doesn't broadcast the suckiness.
Number six: he doesn't expect much from me.
That other human is alive. I hate that. That other human has wants, wishes, goals, hopes, needs. I hate that. I hate that I might interfere with them or otherwise that I might not understand them or that I might not even care. That other human has thoughts, and I hate that I might be in them. I hate that I might not. That other human expects me to talk, expects me to be something, expects me to somehow understand everything about them—where they're coming from and why they breathe in the specific pattern that they do—all in a matter of minutes. I hate that they expect that and hate even more that I can't satisfy their expectations. Gooby expects some food, an occasional treat, frequent walks, and a spot next to me. Admittedly, there's no way of knowing if he expects anything more, and rarely ever can I even fulfill those expectations, but the difference is I don't feel the pressure to do anything momentous. I don't feel the pressure to be or do or say anything or anyone but a hand to run through his coarse fur or dump food into his metallic bowl or grip tightly a leash that links the two of us together.
Number seven: he doesn't separate the people around him into various categories and treat them as such.
As a child, my Samoan mother tells me, I would frequently tell her to take a shower, that she was dirty, that somehow her brown skin equated to filth. Other humans have posited the same, on a much more globalized scale, allowing these convenient perspectives to align with their agendas and influence their actions, attitudes, and treatment of fellow humans.
I used to think words like "Austin" and "awesome" were spelled with an "o." I used to (and still) spell out words in my mind to understand their meaning. So when I first heard the word "autism" I thought it began with "o" in the same way that "odd" spelled out my cousin. He is a year younger than I, and more ambitious and hopeful and loving than I could ever hope to pretend to be. But then one human coined the term "autistic," setting him into a whole new category of existence. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw the way girls spat at him, and the way boys laughed at him, often times incited by his older brother, placing him on the pedestal of "freak" and "weirdo" because it was funny and he didn't understand that even if he was laughing too, they were still laughing at him and not with him. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw it in myself—watching him being alienated, snickered at, ridiculed—wanting to punch my tiny fists into their useless skulls.
Humans have a way of categorizing their hate, making it cut and dry and neat, giving it names or acronyms or pictures. Humans have a way of identifying what tiny inconsequential thing is not like the others, and reiterating, emphasizing, and highlighting that tiny inconsequential thing until it is all any human sees when they see that other human.
Number eight: he doesn't force his body onto others to satisfy his own sexual hunger, and then shift the blame because surely they were asking for it.
I remember the first time I learned the word “rape.” It was grade school, and I knew very little of the outside world. The class clown was a boy with long blonde hair, a vulgar mouth, and no respect for authority; everything I learned, I learned from him. We were partnered up for some grammar exercise because despite being a complete slacker, he was the only student in the class who shared my natural knack for spelling and grammar. It was simple: we were given a list of words missing key letters, which we then had to identify. As we approached what was supposed to be “grape,” my partner, whose eyes and ears had been exposed to the world far more than my sheltered existence, whispered to me in shocked, hushed tones, “I can’t believe they would put that word in here.” Confusion struck as I looked down at a word one consonant away from being my favorite purple fruit. “That’s not even a word,” I argued stubbornly. He wouldn’t explain what it meant to me, but his tone said enough.

I didn’t know for a while what it meant. Didn’t know that a human could and had before physically robbed another human of their innocence, forced their existence into that other human's body, and seen nothing amiss with that practice. That a human could and had done it on the basis of religion, to the same human, on multiple occasions in one day, declaring their actions commanded and therefore condoned, even pleasing, to God or deity or whatever maker, creator, or higher power they believe in. That some humans are not only physically forced, but psychologically and emotionally, into silence.

Number nine: he doesn't bring death to masses of people, innocent and not, young and old.
Humans have cited a plethora of reasons for killing other humans: for sport, for political reasons, for justice, for order, for victory. I remember the first time I saw a dead body not sitting in a casket. Someone had shot a guy in the head, then left him in a parked car on a street in my neighborhood. Our neighbor found the body the next Sunday while walking his little girls to church. I sat in the back seat of our car staring at the body in the car next to us, listening to our neighbor tell my dad that the man in the car had a bullet hole in his head. All humans are born sure of really only one thing: every second from then on is a second nearer to their death. Sometimes I like to think I've come to terms with and accepted that fact, but finding out that said death could come at the hand of another human, possibly one they loved at one point and time, for reasons that really don't make sense, is no comforting realization.
Number ten: I can't think of a tenth reason.
Well, I probably could. Like the way some humans have exploited other humans' homelands to gain a monetary profit for themselves then told them they need to participate in the greed or they'll be crushed, but before the money, those humans would have had no say. Like the way some humans whip out their phones to take a picture they'll probably never look at again of some breathtaking view they could otherwise experience with their eyes, a brilliant human technology that doesn't usually cost as much money, but is quickly losing popularity. Like the way some humans declare their existence of car exhaust and plastic so loud that it squeezes the life out of everything around them. I could go on.
But I don't want you to think of this as me just railing on human existence, so much as it's just me really loving my dog. My dog who, yeah, looks a bit like an old man mixed with a piranha mixed with a rat—not a raccoon!—but whose existence has always brought me joy. From the time I first returned from camping and found out my sibling had somehow got hold of a creature (yet another) and brought him home to our already cat-filled house, to the time my friends were so in love with him that they spent the whole visit petting and loving him but completely ignoring me. My dog who has his own Twitter account. My dog whose upper lip sometimes curls to reveal his overbite in the most adorable way. My dog who can't be described in any other way than "such a Goob."

I often tell people that my dog is the most adorably ugly creature you'll ever meet. I say it confidently as if his ugliness is part of the reason to love him. I suppose in this way I'm a hypocrite: I could never love the ugly in human the way I love the ugly in Gooby. But two people just passed by me, who left me smiling. There goes a third. And every time I think of Gooby, it is accompanied with a memory of who he made smile. My mother, with her wide glimmering row of perfectly straight teeth. My brother with his goofy dimples. That short, Edna-from-The-Incredibles look-alike who called him "Mr. Happy-Happy," and couldn't keep herself from beaming. So really it's not that I think so lowly of the human race, or even that I think so highly of my four-legged friend. More so it is that I love it when people smile—why can't we do that more?

Suitable

By Late Night Writings

Letter One: Looks
I never liked you for your mind, your personality, or talents, but you're pretty hot, so I figured "hey, I may as well settle for this." I do like you, don't worry about that. I just like you for reasons that I don't particularly care about. Your looks aren't all that you have, either. You're so tolerable and I don't mind spending time with you. I could see myself not minding spending the rest of my life with you. Your flaws are very easy to look away from and you are really hot. Besides, I couldn't get Jude Law no matter what I tried, but at least you have similar cheekbones.

Letter Two: Personality
You have a wonderful personality and I can't find a reason to like you beyond that. You are such a nice person and I love that about you. You're not the cutest or the smartest, but you are genuinely the most kind of all my suitors. Why shouldn't I choose to be with someone like you? You would never hurt me or lie to me. It's just a flat roller coaster with a nice scenery. Although the scenery is a bit lacking here and there. The point is that you won't complicate things and that's worth having.

Letter Three: Smarts
At times, I can't even believe how smart you are. I've never found anyone else who I can go on and on with about the most profound topics. I deeply enjoy the conversations we share. I'm impressed - very impressed - so please stop trying to impress me. You've already got me hooked! You are so smart, yes, I know. You must know something about dating, beyond theories and trivia. You must have some actual how-to after reading so much Jane Austen. It's time to tie me down! Get to it!

Courier Troupe Ten

By Jem Morgenstern

There I was, riding my buffalo into the ocean with my companions close behind me on their varied steeds. My favorite - apart from my own - was Theodore’s; a giant pitbull imported from China. When my buffalo’s first hoof hit the water, I could sense his worry. His teeth were chattering, hairs sprung up, pace slowed to a cautious slink. I did my best to reassure him, but he would stay that way for about the whole way through the Pacific. He was far from being the only of our animals to be so worried. That pitbull stubbornly sat at the shoreline for a good two minutes before she would be coaxed into diving down. The birds were especially put-off, for reasons that you can certainly imagine. Although its surreal nature was so intimidating, walking under the ocean was likely the easiest part of our journey. Under there, the Dust Raiders were nowhere to be seen, the Gullmen never dove deeper than six feet into the water, and the Horrible Centipedes had lost our scent miles before. The one thing we had to worry about were the regular creatures you would find in that part of the ocean, which are mostly non-intelligent and harmless. We did have an interesting encounter with an octopus hybrid about halfway to our destination, which is just about the only noteworthy thing to have happened during our ocean travels. I’ve described the details of that encounter to a dozen people before, but I’ve gauged from their reactions to the tale that most people are clearly not interested in hearing it. A few miles away from there, we did catch a glimpse of some sort of shark, which was mildly exciting, considering they’re so rare these days. We hadn’t accounted for the fact that trudging through water would so noticeably slow us down, so we were a little short on supplies near the end of our journey, but we made do with what we had. In about two weeks, we finally arrived at our intended destination, Los Angeles. We were able to finish our business ahead of schedule and the rest of our week there was spent relaxing, as if we were on vacation. Then, we stocked up on supplies and another journey began. Six more months of walking, but we would know what to expect and we would be prepared.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part IV

Liquid Evergreen
By Jem Morgenstern

The desk is littered with ink bottles, neatly organized by color and by shade. The drawers are filled with pens and pencils, meticulously arranged to look beautifully cluttered. A small silk blanket is draped over wooden chair that sits next to the window. The feining sunrays highlight the dust in the air and land on a large chest across the room, which is filled with spare blankets of various materials, weights, and sizes. One of the more regularly used spare blankets sits neatly folded on top of the chest. Another lays sprawled at the foot of the bed with a corner draping over the edge, nearly touching the floor. A small pillow rests next to that blanket, for the dog that sometimes wanders in for a change of scenery after a long day of lounging on the armchair in the next room over.  In that room, along with the armchair, there are three identical bookshelves that are all mostly filled with books (not all of which have been read), two small tables (one holds a lamp and the other holds a vase of dried eucalyptus and miniature roses), another armchair, and an intricate rug that is vacuumed every Tuesday and Thursday. The rest of the house doesn’t follow the same studious theme. There are three rooms besides those two: the kitchen, living room, and bathroom. The kitchen is large enough to fit everything a cooking hobbyist would need and enough storage space for a casual wine enthusiast to keep a fair supply. The fridge is currently stocked only with the basics, besides the small plate of pulled pork that will be fed to the dog in two nights. The living room has a small couch, a glass coffee table, and a television with a thin silver frame. The bathroom has a classic blue color scheme and is well-stocked with any toiletries a person may need. Daniel (the third most popular name in this city - behind John and Jon) is sitting on the small couch in the living room, sipping from a glass of a disappointing-but-not-bad glass of madeira, and watching a show that only interests him a little, but he enjoys watching it anyway because he forces himself to. His dog lays next to him.

Back in the bedroom, two tickets have been casually set next to the ink bottles. Rather than being two tickets for two to attend the same event, they are two tickets for a singular person to attend two events. Daniel doesn’t know anybody else who would share an interest in attending either of these events, so he has no choice but to go alone. This is despite how peculiarly common these interests are in this city. One, in fact, has inspired a dedicated structure that wouldn’t be found in any other city. Of course, it is used for many other things besides the purpose it is named and built for, and hosts a variety of events that are similar to or not similar at all to the personal interest from which it is named. Daniel is primarily going to the event for what is implied and all else the event entails, but the other aspect of the event (which for most others would be the primary reason for attendance) also intrigues him. While he only considers himself to be a casual why-not sort in regards to that specific interest, others may consider any interest in it at all to be extreme and many do consider his interest in it to be extreme (because he does have more than a casual interest in it, no matter how he tries to deny it). The other event he plans to attend is more widely accepted and the venue in which it will be hosted is no less common in cities outside of this one, however, the design of it is much less practical than most you would find elsewhere. Although an interest in events such as this one are common in most places, it is slightly more common in this city. In Daniel’s small pool of friends and acquaintances, there is not one who shares this incredibly common interest; a nearly supernatural oddity, considering 99.5% of the established social circles within the city’s boundaries contain at least three people who share this interest and 80% of the remaining .5% contain at least two people who share this interest.

Since Daniel had been sitting on the small couch in his living room, five hours have passed. He was very pleased by the first event of the night and he plans to attend more events hosted in that rare venue of entertainment in the future. He is now sitting comfortably at the second event. It has been one hour since it began: the person sitting to his right has his legs crossed and is shaking his foot, the person sitting on his left has her knees pressed against each other and is clutching her thighs in mild discomfort. He recognizes several audience members from earlier that night. Three more hours pass and it is now time for the audience to leave. Seeing that the crowd seemed so rushed and knowing that he had no reason to hurry, Daniel kindly let the others leave before him. He was the last to turn his back to the stage.

One hour later, Daniel found himself on an impromptu date with a man he met outside of the building of the second event. It’s uncommon for Daniel to speak to strangers, especially to this extent, but here he is - answering the typical questions to be asked, asking those same questions, and listening to the answers:

“If you have one, what’s your favorite color?”

I don’t really know. I kind of like most of them. All but orange, maybe. What about you?

“Same here, but with yellows in addition to oranges.”

Yeah, I’m picky about my yellows. Sometimes I like yellow, but not usually.

“What do you like to do?”

Oh, I don’t know. I like to do a lot of things. What about you?

“There has to be something you like to do. What do you do with your free time?”

Not a lot, honestly. I like music, art, movies.

“What kind of music do you like?”

A pretty big variety. It depends on my mood. You?

“I have terrible taste.”

That last answer evoked Daniel’s lips to curve slightly upwards into a mellow smile. He was thoroughly enjoying his time with his new acquaintance. Already, he excitedly looked forward to spending more time with him. He was also very pleased with the food they were eating and he was excited to have a new place to suggest to his friends and brag about having been. Their conversation continued. Although it never grew from its mundanity, it was intensely pleasant. More time passed, Daniel’s smile became a prominent feature on his face, and the stranger’s warm personality began filling the cracks and crevices in Daniel’s skin and bones. They left the restaurant, continuing their conversation until it was time for them to part ways with each other’s names and numbers in hand.

Forty minutes later, Daniel found himself back on the couch in his living room. The uninteresting show was playing again on the screen and Daniel was paying less attention to it than he ever had before, with all his thoughts on Scott (the fourth most popular name in this city - behind John, Jon, and Daniel). The last thing on his mind that night would be Scott, and the first thought in his mind the following morning would be the same. That day, everything had gone as well as it possibly could have. He was in love with that day more than any he could remember and he was in no hurry to let it end, pushing him to stay awake hours later than he usually would, basking in that temporary, precious, and wonderful feeling. The mediocre madeira was down the sink and a new bottle was opened, a polished lambrusco with complex floral notes. The dog trudged through a tired slog into the bedroom, lept onto the bed, pawed at the sheets until they were maladjusted to her content, and curled into sleeping position: tail tucked away, jowls hanging limply, eyelids gradually closing. In two more hours, Daniel would fall asleep on the couch, despite how strongly he dislikes sleeping there. The bright television screen will continue to illuminate his face throughout the night and the sounds will seep into his subconscious, provoking unusual dreams.

Seven hours later, Daniel is awake. He feels rested and is looking forward to his day, although he has no plans to look forward to.

I Love Lucas

By Late Night Writings

“Wait, you said no? Why? Haven't you been together for, like, eight years?”

“A few more than that.”

“Ten?”

“Add a few more.”

“You’ve been together for more than ten years and you said no.”

“It didn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean? It sounds like he put a lot of effort into it. If anyone did that for me, I would have said yes. You’ve been a package deal for as long as I’ve known you. What’s that about? Do you just not even like him? Why?”

The conversation continued for about half an hour before I could convince her to drop it. She had always looked up to my relationship with Lucas and she would have given anything to have something even reminiscent of our relationship. She grew up yearning for her dream guy and to be happily wed after a two-year relationship. Marriage has never been one of my goals. It doesn’t appeal to me and I don’t see a reason for it. Sure, there are some great financial benefits and all the free toasters and towels might have been nice, but we didn’t need any of those things. We’re well-off on our own. I’m happy with my insurance plan and he’s happy with his, so we don’t need that. We make enough money to live comfortably and we can easily afford the occasional luxe pampering. We don’t need more toasters; I like the one we have. We don’t need any more towels; only I know what I like in a towel. For us, getting married wouldn’t have meant much. I already know how much he loves me and (I hope) he already knows how much I love him. Though, honestly, I hadn’t put a lot of thought into why I’m so strongly opposed to getting married, until I had that conversation. The fact that it changes nothing is an argument that can be used pro-marriage just as well as it can be used for anti-marriage. It’s not like we would have to switch over to one insurance plan. It’s not like we would have to receive useless wedding gifts or even have a wedding. I thought about it for awhile and after hours spent pondering, I could only come up with a few reasons; they might not be the best reasons, but here they are:

Marriage is a social construct and not giving into society’s expectations for a young woman makes me feel powerful. From such a young age, women are force-fed the idea that the absolute pinnacle of their life will be their wedding day. For some of them, it might be, but it’s not even close to being that way for most people. I want young unmarried women to be just as accepted as young unmarried men are. In fact, I want people to stop differentiating between men and women completely. I don’t even want gender to be a concept because that’s a social construct too and we don’t need that shit. I want us all to just be people with different parts that do different things. If at all, it’s going to take centuries to eliminate unnecessary social constructs, so I’m not going to hold my breath for it, but I hope it does happen eventually. Anyway, yes, the first reason for me not wanting to get married is that breaking free from societal boundaries is highly empowering and I hate that people are branded by their genitals.

My second reason is that it would be much easier to just break up rather than have to get a full-out officializing divorce, if we ever do decide to part ways. That’s not something I’ll be telling him, of course. Saying that to him might be a little concerning, as if saying directly to his face, “I have no faith in our relationship and I would rather it be as easy as possible to abandon ship when things go awry.” I have a lot of faith in my relationship with Lucas. I feel safe around him, I feel like he loves me, and I feel the same love for him, so I’m not worried that the ship will sink anytime soon or ever. However, if things do start going downhill, I want to get out as quickly and effortlessly as possible. I firmly believe that a relationship going sour should just be abandoned. Rough spots are totally fine - those happen with every couple - but a consistently unhappy relationship is unsalvageable and abandoning it would be the better option for everyone involved.

My third, final reason, is that I’m just afraid. I’m afraid of what it might do to my social life and of what might change in my relationship with him. I don’t think I’m ready for it. Even though I consider marriage a waste of time that means absolutely nothing, I feel like it will change everything. I feel like I’m not good enough for him to marry and I’m afraid that he might realize that, if we go through with it. I can’t accept that he would love me enough to legally declare himself eternally dedicated to me. I don’t know if I could handle being the one wife he gets to have. I can’t wrap my head around how much he must love me to say to me, “there is nobody else I would rather have as my wife and, if you choose to be, I will forever onward be as glad that you said yes as I am today.” I’ve never felt so loved before and part of me is trying as hard as it can to deny that it’s true. I don’t know what it would take to convince me, but I want to be, and I hope that I will be. I want to feel the love he tries to give me and I want to be as happy as I know it should make me.

Snakehead

By Jem Morgenstern

Like anything that isn’t lizard tails or cat food, green beans are a delicacy, especially the ones harvested in the farmers’ fields. Not many people are fortunate enough to eat anything besides the remnants of the pre-nuclear preserved grocer’s goods that early landers were careless and picky enough to refrain from scavenging or the post-nuclear mutated fauna of the scourged lands. Even fewer are fortunate enough to taste even one small thing grown in the fields. Only a handful live lavishly enough to eat daily meals made with the fields’ crops. I was invited to dine with one of those so fortunate, Blessed Admirable. She wasn’t eager to waste any of her”genuine crop” on a common lander like me, but she was courteous enough to share one of her favorite dishes with me; made with what is now a rarity in the scourged lands: snakehead green beans. I remember once scraping at the bottom of a can of green beans that had been opened maybe a week before I had come upon it and was nearly emptied by whoever was lucky enough to have come across it in their own travels. All that was left were scrappings and a thin coat of the beans’ fluids that had dried up in the heat, leaving a cracking crust on the bottom of the can. From the fact that the can hadn’t been completely licked clean, I could tell that it must have been left there by somebody of the upper-class travelling across the scourged lands. Driven by the hunger most are so familiar with, I finished the job for them. It was divine. As soon as the last particle had been cleaned from the tin, I knew that I would ache for a return to such delightful flavor. When I first received my invitation to dine with Blessed, I immediately recalled that can and hoped for something that would finally sate my craving, and I left her home completely satisfied. Snakehead is a fairly common ingredient in the food of travelling landers, given their abundance in the scourged lands. I have eaten more than enough snake to become familiar with its sinewy flesh and its often bland flavor. When Blessed’s chef, Will Burns, announced the dish he would be serving us, the first two syllables made me wince, but the second two filled me with excitement. The two named ingredients were baked together with spices and an assortment of other ingredients in a casserole dish to create what among the upper-class is known simply as snakehead green beans. Although the snakehead is usually the least desired portion of a cooked snake, I found myself craving more. Burns prepared the snake in such a way that made me rethink all of what I had previously learned from my experiences eating snake and inspired me to give what I thought to be a hopeless scourged lands meat a second chance as a pure ingredient that could achieve grandeur. It’s difficult for me to imagine that snakehead green beans are thought of by the upper-class as a low-class meal; even more so difficult to imagine after it was revealed that the green beans used were only canned. The only ingredients used that were grown in the fields were the spices. Despite the upper-class considering it a lowly dish, I consider it the most delicious thing I have ever eaten. I am invigorated with a yearning to someday discover what the royalty of the scourged lands eat when no peasants are around to bother.

-The Hungry Klein

Brandon, OR/ID: Part III

The Noted Palace

By Jem Morgenstern

She walked onto the stage. The audience remained completely silent and listened to the click of her heels, as she sauntered to the cello that stood waiting for her in the center of the stage. John watched, like a dog presented with a plate of pulled pork, intently and excitedly with a heart readying itself for impending joy. John listened, as if her heels knocking against the stage were the music they had been waiting to hear. Although she hadn’t started playing, he could already feel the vibrations of the music that he had become so familiar with in the weeks and months of listening to her practice. He was as excited to see her perform, as she was to play. The clicking of her heels stopped, she sat on the chair, and she looked out into the audience for what seemed to her like many seconds, but it was really just a few. She felt nervous, but she wasn’t. She knew she could do this and she had no worry that she might make a mistake. The auditorium was completely silent, except for the echo of stillness and quiet. The walls anticipated the long, deep bellows of her cello.

The Philadelphus Lewisii Music Hall was built to stage massive musical performances with hundreds of people playing on the stage at once. Structurally, it was very unique. Instead of being built with depth, so that musicians could be placed row behind row behind row, it was built so that one-thousand musicians would fit on the stage with only two very wide rows and enough space between the individuals for each player to be comfortable in their skin and have the space for the instruments themselves and the movements required to play them. The architects paid no mind to the effect the arrangement would have on the sound emanating from the orchestra’s instruments; their goal was to design the most aesthetically intriguing display within the city, rather than the most technically profound orchestral stage. Because of its width, the music would always sound less harmonized and synchronous than it would on a regular stage. After the construction was complete, the architects realized this and advertised the less-than-perfect stage as a modern artwork with supposed commentary on how a person’s physical location affects the way they perceive events and time, how one person will experience an event one way and another the other way, and how a person could experience something once and then return to experience it again from a slightly different perspective and find themselves witnessing something that is completely different to what they had experienced before (this would help drive their argument that everyone should come see each performance at least twice, which would greatly increase their monetary gain for some time). Their brilliance in marketing their ineptitude as exceptional intellect paved the way for a few of these architects to move to careers in advertising.

The length of the stage made the woman’s walk to the center more exciting than it would have been, if she had walked across a regular stage. She didn’t want to seem rushed, nor did she want to take up too much time with her walking, so she practiced for hours to find the perfect measure between a brisk walk and an elegant saunter. The walk was as much of a performance as the music she would play. Her walk would preemptively define her character and personality, affecting the way her music would touch the audience’s ears. If her walk radiated confidence, it would be beautiful and subtly erotic, which is what she had hoped for (she had caught a glimpse of the audience beforehand and hoped her gentle sashay would land a few dozen scraps of paper in her dressing room, leading to more scraps of paper, plastic, and rubber in the coming nights of the week, which would be disposed of pridefully in each of the following mornings). If she reverted back to her most well-known form, a delicate arch, her music would only result in mediocre reviews and sympathetic thank-yous from women in their mid-forties, who would be reminded of themselves by the gentle innocence of a gifted and unconfident young woman (who they all feel they once were).

Still, the walls anticipated the bellowing voice of her cello. She was still sitting and in three seconds, the lights flood the stage, as had been rehearsed. She could feel the heat and the eyes latching onto her, now unobstructed by a wall of shadows. His eyes pierced her skin and she felt that, too. She barricaded herself with a deep breath, clutched the neck of her cello, and took the bow across the strings - a heavy moan. This wasn’t the song that he had heard her play before. The same notes, order, length, and tempo, but the intent had changed. It didn’t exist for him, as he felt it did while listening to her practice. She consciously made the decision to ignore his presence, which resulted in the creation of a miniscule, yet soul-altering void in his chest. Like a rash that ate away his positivity, it spread upwards and downwards, slaughtering the energetic tingling that came with his excitement to see her play her song in front of a begging audience for the first time and replacing it with an aching pulsation of worry, anxiety, and a hollow hopelessness. With the decision to disinvite his gaze, she radiated a confidence that warmed the room.

Fours hours later - no intermission between them, no pauses, and no interruptions - the music finally ended. Originally, the performance had only been set to go for two hours, but she was so pleased with how well she had been playing that she made an independent decision to extend the performance’s time by two hours. The audience, of course, was confused, but they sat still and graciously endured the additional two hours of singular-cello orchestral music because they didn’t want to seem rude. Not once during the performance did anyone leave their seat, out of respect for the confident young musician on stage. Anyone who needed to pee held it in, no matter how badly they needed to. Considering that at least half of the attendees went to the performance directly after attending the Kamen Drinking Water Convention, during which they drank a grand multitude of the booths’ samples, and that another large portion came directly from the grand opening event of the Archimedes Artisanal Water Bar next door, there was an understandable amount of uncomfortable shuffling that started about one hour into the performance and lasted for the entirety of the remaining three hours. The only audience members who didn’t seem to be in dire need of urinating were those who came directly from the event at the Bravo Watersports Arena across town. After five minutes of heavy applause, the audience shuffled their way towards the rows’ ends, into the aisles, and out the doors. She stood at the center of the stage until the last person turned their back, and then she made her exit.

She stood in the connecting hallway and buried her lungs in a deep breath. In her mind, she was rapidly pacing back and forth but - although beginning to wilt - her figure was still. Her confidence was beginning to dim and bleed into the air, but she vacuumed it all back in through her wide nostrils and pushed it back into her body, letting it spread into each corner of her body, like cotton filling the deflated skin of a stuffed animal.

She used this moment to say to herself, “Anne, it’s not going to work,” a sentence she had been hiding from herself. She knew this moment of self-honesty would dissipate and that she had to take advantage of it. It took four seconds longer than it should have for her to find her coat and bag. Luckily, her phone was lying dormant in the first pocket she checked, which saved her an indeterminate (because of the multitude of possible search-and-not-find scenarios) amount of time. It had grown cold in the hours it spent without the heat of her body keeping it warm, but it wouldn’t take long for it and her hand to rekindle their friendly bond. With only fifteen swipes of her finger, her life had changed for the undeniable better and her mood had sprouted from a horrific seed into a flourishing bouquet. A pleasant smile grew from the corners of her lips and her eyes rose from sunken pits. The string connecting him and her was cut.

A small paper - only two inches wide and one inch tall -  laid on the rug; like a primitive business card, it displayed a handwritten name and phone number. Its surface was unscathed by anything but the pristinely black ink in which the letters and numbers were written. The handwriting was nearly perfect: pronounced curves, sharp angles, and calculated length, yet it was uniquely human. It caught her attention the same way a particularly attractive ghost might. She picked it up from the floor and slipped it into the pocket of her coat, along with her phone. She left her dressing room, and The Philadelphus Lewisii Music Hall, and returned to The Property. Pushed by her excitement and general impatience, the fourteen minute drive only took her eight.

Xue Ch'en: Part One

By Jem Morgenstern

Although the voices were gentle, they startled Xue, and woke him with a jolt. He slowly became aware of his surroundings: a slight chill, quiet chattering, an uncomfortable metal surface. A pulsating headache. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, knowing the he had been captured and worrying that his captors might be waiting for him to awaken to torture him. Xue realized he hadn’t been hiding his awareness very well and attempted to calm his body before anybody could notice, but it was too late.

“We’ve waited too long. Look at the scanner,” the voice was feminine and sweet.

“We’ll just have to give another dose of sedatives and wait a few minutes. It’s fine,” this voice was also feminine, but deeper and monotonous.

The sweet one replied, “we’re running low. Do we have some in the box?”

“No, but I know we have some more down in the supply room. When we’re done with this, I’ll go get some.”

Xue heard the click of buttons and then a whispery release of air. He could feel a mist fill the room and he began to drift away again. The headache faded. The voices grew distant and low. Becoming less and less aware of his surroundings, every sense weakening. His brain tripped over thoughts and became unable to form new ones. Xue could no longer contemplate the situation and he soon fell back into a deep sleep.

A drop of rain woke Xue from his deep sleep. He was kneeling - thighs not quite reaching his calves - and leaning forward, held up by his wrists tied to a tall wooden pole behind him. A dark-haired man was crouching next to him. He was mostly dressed in black and grey, the only exception being the thin bright-yellow frame of his glasses. His eyes were the same green as the meat of pistachios. Xue craned his neck to get a better look at him, he hadn’t seemed to notice Xue had awakened until then. His eyes flashed with surprise. Their eyes met and they both paused.

He reached back and took a knife from his pocket, then brought it to the ropes holding Xue to the pole and began rubbing its blade against against the strands. Before he cut through, he stopped and pulled the knife back.

“You may not run away, walk away, touch me, or harm me. You will follow me, until I instruct you to do differently. If you ignore this and do any of what I have just specifically asked you not to do, there will be consequences, and you would not like those consequences”, his voice was deep and sounded as if he had just recovered from a sore throat.

At first, Xue was at a lost. It took him several seconds to think it over and reply, “Why? What is this? Where am I? Please, I need to know.”

“This is what you signed up for, Ch’en. Further explanation can wait”, he took the knife back to the rope and continued cutting.

“Please, tell me where I am.”

He glanced upwards at Xue, ignored his words, and looked back at the ropes. He cut him loose, took his hand, and helped him to his feet. They stood in an a small cylindrical stone building, dead leaves covered the floor, the roof had deteriorated enough for the outside weather to penetrate the building. The doorway was arched and pointed at the top. The man settled his knife back in his pocket.

“My name is Paul Ellery, I am your Pathfinder and Representative Councilor. You are not the only Cast Member under my supervision, so do not expect me to always have time for you. Welcome to The Ring.”

The Ring - with its vast walls stretching across the horizon and towering over the sky - was built by the morose and savage Nameless Necrosian Nobility. Contained within, is a synthetic collection of our world’s most dangerous landscapes. It was first built to serve as a destination for thrill-seeking tourists, who would climb the rocky cliffs, walk for days in the barren desert, and flee from fierce predators. Seeing that The Ring itself was not overtly grim, many people questioned the motives of the NNN. The Ring stood and served its original purpose for twenty years before the NNN publicly announced its true purpose, in a way that was grimly satisfying for the rest of the world. All those inside at the time were left there to survive or rot away and their struggles were broadcast for the world to see. After a year, those remaining in The Ring were each given a list of challenges they would have to complete in order to be released back into the real world. Since then, those in the ring have been referred to as Cast Members and are heavily marketed to the public, as if they are contestants on a gameshow. After the first Cast Members had either died or completed their lists, recruitment has mostly been voluntary. With each Cast Member who completes their list, the NNN adds a new component to The Ring that makes it more difficult for future Cast Members to complete their own lists, which has since progressively made it nearly impossible for Cast Members to survive long enough for them to complete their lists. Because of this, The Ring is now mostly filled with people who already wish to die. Xue Ch’en is not one of these people. He did not volunteer to enter The Ring.