Arthropods get the short end of the stick in the average fantasy tale. Oh sure, there are biting flies in the Marshes We Must Cross to Deliver the MacGuffin; a local witch keeps a few hives of Slightly Strange Bees; the heroes might defeat Scorpions Of Unusual Size now and then. But what if we developed more unusual candidates and gave them some power in the plot? Real insects provide us with everything we need for a variety of fictional functions! Consider the worldbuilding potential for:

Attacking your enemies: If you wanted to wholesale invent a weapon to target a lot of enemies at once, you could do worse than a social species like ants, bees, or wasps! Many social species evolved stinging behaviours and venom in order to protect dense nurseries of defenseless young, whereas (for example) solitary bees are likely to be stingless. What about a magical breed of wasp controlled by your military wizard with a spell keying attacks to the other side’s uniforms? Imagine how many soldiers you could incapacitate before they figure out that they have to strip out of their tunics and armour—plus, this type of insect can be easily induced to swarm in large numbers!

Also good options: Giant bombardier beetles to spray boiling, high-speed corrosive chemicals out of their butts, sort-of living armoured tanks with a gun turret; velvet worms to glue down entire battalions with ultra-sticky polymers from two wiggly nozzles; crafty bolas spiders to tangle the mounts of the opposing side in specially-crafted silk bolas.

Transmitting secret messages: Supposing your heroes need to send a message without some Dark Lord or his minions intercepting it? In my novel A Broken Darkness, I have a character genetically and magically engineer dung beetles to do just that—taking advantage of their flying ability, incredible sense of smell, and ability to navigate by multiple sources of polarized light to act as messengers who will only go from sender to recipient and vice-versa.

Also good options: Magic fireflies who can casually float through enemy territory to your captured spy and flash a coded message using their chemically bioluminescent butts; ultra-fast flying damselflies with microdots attached to the dark parts of their wings (fantastical microdots? Look, I don’t know; use your imagination. Magical runes or something).

Lunch: “Getcherself a little sweet treat,” shouts the hawker. “You’ve had a long day; you deserve something nice. Hey pal, want a snack?” You examine his tray, where dozens of enormous honey-pot ants catch the light like amber beads, each tethered with a silken leash. It has been a long shift. You pay your tuppence and choose a blueberry-sized ant, carefully sucking the sweet liquid from its abdomen and returning the emptied ant. Consider: in a world where sugar beets, sugar cane, palm sugar, or honeybees didn’t evolve, might people start selectively breeding or magically modifying these “living larders” to be a reliable source of sweetness? Or perhaps they’re a delicacy—not sold by street merchants but only found in the heavily-guarded food gardens of the Empress and served only at royal feasts.

Also good options: Tarantulas make very good eating and taste like shellfish; surely some enterprising folks in a fantasy world can breed tarantulivestock big enough to get large chunks of meat for things like lobster rolls and crabcakes. Witchetty grubs (the larval form of a moth) are packed with fat and protein and would make nourishing meals during The Long Quest to The Faraway Place . . . but beware of foraging in the lands of the Moth Deity, who will object, possibly terminally, to you eating its young!

Producers of useful things: I barely knew where to start, or where to end, with this category. But you could do worse than extracting the venom of Giant Asian Hornets to daub onto your weapons for cheating at duels or performing enhanced interrogations! Even if the victim isn’t allergic, a high enough dose of this neurotoxin and enzyme-crammed venom will melt skin and flesh. If I were a potion-maker, assassin, or just a generally unscrupulous person in a fantasy novel, I would have a supply of this stuff on hand at all times (magically harvested and stabilized, of course).

Also good options: Our world already uses snail slime as a moisturizer; what properties might you gain, aside from smooth skin, if you let a snail who’s been blessed (or hexed) by the local fairy crawl on your face? Spidersilk and silkworms have been explored in fiction, but what about giant moths allowed free range in your family’s valley until they live out their natural lifespan, and then have their duvet-sized, multicoloured wings harvested to make a luxurious cloth?

Bioweapons: If your army lacks such items as the above-mentioned swarms of stinging allies, and if you as a general perhaps lack such items as “military ethics” and “a sense of fair play,” why not launch a few plague fleas (on rats, so they have something to snack on) over the enemy stockade at night? Epic fantasy is very comfortable with plagues; it needn’t be anything so prosaic as the Black Plague. What about a magical plague cooked up by your recently-hired mercenary wizard? The enemy gates are guarded so well that you’ll never get an infected Trojan Geoffrey into the camp, but the beauty of insects is that they pass entirely without notice.

Also good options: The evil vizier’s poison garden needs to be put into its place, don’t you think? A daring midnight raid with your trained dragon dropping a packet of agricultural pests (nightshade worms? Deathberry beetles?) might solve that. A surreptitious (and very careful) hand-off of pubic lice would absorb most of the attention of the palace guards if you can’t get close enough to the walls; you would just have to wait a few days for maximum efficacy. Going for grimdark fantasy? Hideously painful long-term revenge on an enemy (or a population) can be easily secured by dosing their wells or ponds with the copepods that carry guinea worm infections.

Of course, this is just a mite-sized sample; I had a thousand candidates in each category, so the sky is really the limit for letting our chitinous friends participate in your story. Why not have magical practitioners alter a bug’s size or sentience, or incorporate them right into a magical system as an unusual familiar, envoy, or apprentice? They could be pets, beasts of burden, cryptids—what’s so great about a unicorn, anyway? Imagine the narrative possibilities if the mystical creature in the woods is a giant praying mantis. I hope I’ve made a strong case for weaving more bugs into your worldbuilding!

INTRODUCTORY READING LIST

– Dance of the Dung Beetles, Marcus Byrne and Helen Lunn

– For the Love of Insects, Thomas Eisner

– Horseshoe Crabs and Velvet Worms, Richard Fortey

– Six-Legged Soldiers, Jeffrey A. Lockwood

– Edible, Daniella Martin

– The Woman With A Worm In Her Head, Pamela Nagami

– Jungle Bugs, Bruce Purser

– The Sting of the Wild, Justin O. Schmidt

– Wicked Bugs, Amy Stewart

– Extraordinary Insects, Anne Sverdrup-Thygeson

In Karuk tradition, the world was originally populated by Ikxaréeyavs (spirit people). When it was time for the People to come into the world, the Ikxaréeyavs transformed themselves into all the features of the natural world and the knowledge to care for these gifts.

The germ of the story came from the idea, what would immortality look like for an Ikxaréeyav who refused to change? I knew she would struggle with the disconnect from her home place, but it took me awhile to figure out what would make her go back.

I do legal support on behalf of Tribes and run across this friction between tribal traditional use and non-Indian use, which could be commercial/industrial development or, as in this story, recreational use of a sacred site. Colonizer law provides for protection of religious rights, but not all religions are treated equally. Tribes lose access to or see their sacred sites damaged or destroyed. This isn’t something from history. It’s happening right now. Those thoughts inspired the rest of the story.

Having said that, the geography and issues in this story are fictional.

The story strongly centers themes of belonging, and while we get the sense that Nellie loves her tribe, something pulls her away. Can you talk about what that is?

I think we can all relate to balking in the face of a major life-changing decision. In the moment, she can’t help but run from responsibility. She’s not thinking about the consequences; she’s reacting to a future she isn’t ready for.

Is Mak based on mythology? Can you tell us more about him and what he represents?

I took his name from a place on the Klamath River that is near a roaring rapid, but he is not a character in Karuk mythology.

When Nellie makes the choice to go with Travis, does she do so with the intent to join Mak, or is that decision spontaneous?

What a great question. On the one hand, what better way to stick it to the interlopers than use the opportunity to transform to create a PR disaster for the recreational users, losing a tribal member in pursuit of their amusement. On the other hand, it’s kind-of romantic that Nellie is ready to leave up until the moment she’s in the river surrounded by Mak; then she wants to stay home.

What are you working on now, and what can we look forward to seeing from you in the future?

Since almost forever I’ve been working on an Indigenous contemporary novel set in my home place on the Klamath River. It has a slight fantasy element or maybe you’d call it a slight alternate history element. I’m also working on some short “Indians in space” stories. I am excited to have one forthcoming in the Apex Magazine Indigenous Futures issue.

“I don’t think you belong out there.”

His group, tourists with brimmed hats and walking sticks, stopped and stared with dull curiosity. The steep slope under her feet was loose gray rock, treacherous for amateurs perhaps, but she’d been wandering terrain like this almost forever.

He did a funny wobble with his body, as if taking a few unsteady steps on a tightrope, then gestured her toward him. The consternation on his face bordered on comical.

A delicious cold burst of wind swirled around them and, without intending to, she stepped back into it and skidded in the gravel. The hikers gasped.

She waved to show, I’m fine. Move along, but the guide left the trail, his compact but muscular legs surging energetically over the rocky ground.

“Are you lost?” he called.

Nellie sighed and went to meet him, quick and sure-footed.

“Not lost,” she said, forcing good nature into her voice.

He took her elbow and guided her to the trail. Several of the hikers pointed their cameras at her. A woman came forward with a rectangular snack in a foil packet.

“So generous,” Nellie said. “Shall I join you?”

A series of emotions crossed the guide’s face: concern, confusion, a flicker of interest. She held his gaze long enough to suggest her own.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

The trail continued downhill across a grassy slope with no cover. She intended to stay back, to find her own way, but he kept her close, his fingers plucking at her sleeve if she drifted from him.

“You’re from where?” he asked.

“I’m Karuk. Native American.”

He nodded blankly. “You leave your group?”

“I hike alone.”

“That’s not safe,” he chided.

“You found me.”

“Yes, we did.”

The hike ended. The group dispersed. The guide stayed with her. “Time for a drink?”

She chose a crowded sports bar near a large tourist hotel. A look of grief passed over his face but he agreed, and they squeezed into a spot near a window.

The server set bubbly orange drinks in front of them.

“Cheers,” he said. “How long is your trip?”

“Not long,” she replied, as if there was a plan. “You grow up around here?”

“Yes. Beautiful place but—” He half-shrugged.

“Visitors.”

“Tourists. A blessing and a curse,” he agreed. Their hands touched; his hot fingers grasped hers.

This again. Last time it was a ski guide and a glorious month of après-ski. She squeezed back.

Her companion eyed the row of TVs above their heads. He mock-shuddered.

“Little boats in rough water. I don’t like it.”

Nellie flicked her eyes across the row of TVs. Soccer. Soccer. Basketball. Little boats.

“Scusi.”

The server worked controls behind the bar.

On TV a woman with a bright yellow helmet shouted, “Wild River Ultimate Warrior Challenge!” A man in a bright orange helmet stood next to her. The server fiddled with the volume so Nellie missed what he said.

Behind them, familiar dusty-green mountains stretched up into a clear blue sky. The camera pulled back to show a tumble of rock and churning white water.

Mak.

She took her hand back. Sometimes a full range of seasons passed without her thinking of him for a single instant.

The memory snapped into focus.

The two of them, hand in hand, trembling with expectation during those last days. The old world retreated into a swirling mist; their time was finished. In the distance, dogs barked and voices called across the changing landscape, “The People are coming. It’s time to go.”

Mak kept an arm around her waist and coaxed her along that very river bar, steady and sure-footed over the smooth stones. There was order in the disorder; without fanfare, one by one, the old ones transformed, creating the new world for the People.

“Here.” Mak’s breath was warm in her ear. He smelled like spring rain. “This will be our spot.”

“Not yet.” She peeled away from him. They could stay in the living world and do good. “We’ll return. Later.”

Mak gave a confused smile and reached for her.

Nellie shrunk away. “No. Come with me.”

“We are out of time,” Mak said, gently. The dogs sounded closer, yipping with joy.

“I’m not,” she said.

“There’s no place to go,” he said. “Be here with me.”

They stood in a clearing where the river poured down from a rocky gorge and into a deep blue pool. The exact spot that was on TV.

Mak’s expression was full of love and longing.

“I’ll come back,” she whispered, her heart pounding. She took a moment to memorize the sight of him, etched against the water. Then she ran, moving over the river rock and heading toward the dogs. She wasn’t ready to stay in one place, duty or not, not even for Mak. She didn’t look back.

Nellie studied the television screen as if she might spot him on the bank, still waiting.

“Our warriors will negotiate Match Falls,” the man on TV said. “Do you think they can do it?”

The woman traded a huge smile with him, her eyes wide with television wonder. “I can’t wait to find out.”

They shouted because the water pounded over rocks the size of cars. The air above them glittered with the spray. What had once been a quiet riffle was now a wild tumble of white water.

“You know this place?” her date asked.

“Home,” she said.

• • • •

First a cab, then a train, then three airplanes with a long pause in between each flight. Now, at last, a car.

The tribal administration office sent a Karuk college student named Hazel to pick her up at the regional airport. These days the river road was a paved two-lane highway with a double yellow line painted down the middle. Hazel drove fast, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a tall cup with a red straw. At this rate, the drive would take less than two hours.

“What’s it like, where you were?” Hazel asked.

“Jagged mountains, whispering forests, rivers. Like here but different. Sounds different. Smells different. Even the fruit tastes different. You travel?”

“Someday. Wait, I love this song.” Hazel turned up the car stereo and a warbling pop star sang. Hazel joined, her voice flat but fearless.

When they got closer, the road followed the Klamath River, dark green water with patches of frothing riffles. Nellie let the window down and inhaled pine-fresh air.

“First thing, I’m going to walk over the river bar and stick my feet in that water,” she said.

“Now? It’s freezing.” Hazel let her window down, too. She glanced over. “I thought you was older when you first got in.”

“Older than what?”

Hazel shrugged, “How long since you been back?”

“Hard to say,” Nellie said. She remembered, though.

Never.

She’d never been back. Seeing those TV people shouting from their river bar called up an ache she could no longer ignore.

“You run away?” Hazel of the slouched shoulders and long, bored sighs was the first person to ask her this question.

“You could say that,” Nellie said. “What about you?”

“I was glad to go away to college,” Hazel said, nodding regretfully. “It was a guy. You, too?”

“Afraid so.”

“That’s how it always goes. My friends, too. Some dumb guy, and you have to get away. But we always end up back home. You know? We belong here.”

“That’s true.” Nellie smiled at the idea that Mak was some dumb guy.

When they drew closer to town, Nellie said, “Can you take me to Mak’s Falls?”

“Match Falls?”

“They’re Mak’s Falls,” Nellie said.

Hazel laughed. “My great-grandma said it that way, too. You seen them on TV, then?”

“I did,” Nellie said.

“Mom said it’s real busy now. People coming to our spot to ride the rapids on TV.”

As they neared the dirt access road, a dozen or more vehicles lined the highway. A few people wearing bright puffy jackets stood next to an SUV and ate sandwiches.

“Wow, she was right,” Hazel said. “Funny to think of these people coming way out here.”

“This is unusual?” As they drew close, a liquid chill bubbled through her.

“This is insane.” Hazel noticed her discomfort. “You’ll feel better when you get up there. Home, like you remember.”

A big white pick-up truck with the Tribe’s seal blocked the access road.

“The Tribe has its own vehicle?” Nellie asked.

“More than one. Someone from the tribal government is up there,” Hazel said. “Sorry I can’t take you all the way.”

“I don’t mind walking.” Nellie took her bag and said good-bye.

The hard-packed dirt hummed under her feet. The steep-sloped mountains whispered a familiar song. Now that she was here, she couldn’t imagine how she stayed away so long. The sky was grey with low-hanging clouds floating through the tree tops. Faded memories leapt back with every breath of fresh mountain air. Voices echoed up ahead as she walked, but she was unprepared for the commotion she found when she reached the falls.

A big van with ‘Wild River Ultimate Warrior Challenge’ in bold letters across the side was parked in the middle of camp. Colorful domed tents lined the highest parts of the bank and were scattered through the trees. Several vehicles loaded with kayaks were parked along the access road. A bright blue canopy arched over another table covered with electronic equipment and cables. A trash can overflowed and a pair of full garbage bags sat next to it.

The river was high, and white water rose and fell over a long section of bedrock. Mak had been a steady one in the old world. What a surprise to see he’d become this. A song slipped out, part prayer, part apology. Her voice stayed low as a surprising surge of emotion pressed in on her heart.

An elder with a round face surrounded by puffy gray hair sidled up to her.

“What do you think of this giant pile of crap?” she asked.

“Which part?” Nellie asked.

“Television people.”

“How long will they stay?”

“Already been here too long.” The woman’s eyes flicked up and down. “Thought you was someone else. Are you the Johnson girl?”

She shook her head. “I’m Nellie.”

“You the one from upriver that ran off?” The woman made a circular motion with her hand as shorthand for the rest of the story. She had short, crooked fingers and rage in her eyes.

“I’m here now.”

“I’m Pearl. I was born a Sanderson and become a Hayman and later a McCann. I’m a widow again, but I’m done. I’m too old to break in another one. My folks were Mae and Shorty. I grew up down the road.” She pointed through the trees as if the spot was just out of sight.

“My grandma was Peaches. I lived in different spots up and down river,” Nellie said, hoping that was enough to discourage further questions.

Pearl nodded. “I thought so.”

Someone shouted and they turned to see two people with cameras on their shoulders hurrying to position themselves at the river’s edge.

“There they go,” Pearl said.

More and more people appeared from the camp. They came out from the trees and lined the riverbank.

When the first boat appeared, they hooted and cheered. A bright orange kayak slipped back and forth between the boulders. There was a drop about the height of two boats end to end. The kayak disappeared into the white foam at the bottom.

“Oh no,” Nellie said.

“Don’t worry,” Pearl said. “Little boat pops right back up.”

Just as she said, the kayak rose out of the water. The paddler pumped the air to more cheers. With the boat close, Nellie could see a long, wet ponytail. The woman bounced down through shallower rapids until the current took her out of sight.

“That was thrilling,” Nellie said.

Pearl made a face. “They aren’t done yet. These are the qualifications. They got loads of imbeciles who want to throw a boat in the water and be on TV. We got ’ em tramping through here every day.”

Over the next hour, a half dozen boats came through the falls while the cameras captured each run. Finally, the last boat passed; the group dispersed and the camera operators left the riverbank.

Earlier contestants returned to camp, carrying the kayaks between them or hoisted up on a shoulder.

A young man approached and set down his kayak. “Are you Pearl?” he asked the elder, his smile wide and genuine. His beard glistened with water and his sandy hair was damp around his neck. “I’m Travis.”

“I’m the elected leader of a government recognized by the United States of America,” Pearl said sourly. “Call me Mrs. Chairwoman.”

“Apologies, Mrs. Chairwoman.” Travis gave Nellie a look as if they were sharing a joke at the Chairwoman’s expense. Nellie’s gaze didn’t change and his smile lost some of its luster.

“Ma’am, can you move the tribal rig? We need full access to the road.”

“What for? So you can bring even more people up here?” Pearl made a dramatic gesture at the river. “These are our ancestors.”

“I’m not familiar with your history, but I do know this is National Forest land. Public land. We are entitled to access.” His words weren’t unkind or threatening; more like he was reminding a child.

“This is our church.” Pearl’s voice became tight, her eyes shiny. “Can you understand? My grandfather’s grandfather, back to the beginning of time, came here to be close to the Creator.”

“No one is keeping you from your religion. We can all share access to the river.” One of the camera operators shouted and pointed to the top of the falls. Travis waved.

“Let’s keep this amicable, please.” Travis ran to join the cameramen preparing for the next group of kayaks.

Pearl shot a dark look after them. “Do I look like a woman who does amicable?”

• • • •

Pearl insisted on bringing Nellie around, introducing her to tribal members, the rest of the Council, and a bunch of tribal employees. Together they waited in the big room of the elementary school, strategizing. They all had dark eyes and round faces and the weary expressions of people that were always fighting for something.

“Shouldn’t we have our attorneys here?” one of the councilmen asked.

“For what?” Pearl said. “They’ll come in here and stand around wearing creased jeans with spotless shoes and say more or less the same things those boat-faces are saying. They’ll make a bunch of mushy-mouthed statements that could mean anything and then tell us they have to go back to the office and do more research. After an unacceptable amount of time, they’ll send us a ten-page letter that no one can understand. We’ll get a giant bill and we’re no better off than we are now. We don’t need our attorneys. Our position is clear. We want them to leave.”

“Can we make them do that?” Nellie asked.

“That’s tricky, but I like how you think.” Pearl sat up and looked around the room. “Auntie here yet?”

“Her grandkids said they’d bring her down after her supper,” someone said. “They said not to expect much because she gets tired after dark.”

“She’ll be fine,” Pearl said. “Put a microphone in an elder’s hands and good luck getting it back. She’ll talk their ears off for a half hour or longer. By the time she’s done, either they’ll understand why we’re unhappy or they’ll wish they did.”

The room filled. What must have been the entire contingent of kayakers entered the room. Fortunately, the Tribe put the word out. More tribal members and community members joined the meeting, too. The place was standing room only by the time the District Ranger began.

Nellie’s eyes studied the crowd. Her people. All here for Mak. A swift stinging jolt of shame shot through her at the reminder of what she’d left when she ran.

The meeting began. The lines of authority were muddled at first, but as the meeting progressed it became clear that Pearl did not have the upper hand. As she brought Auntie up to the microphone, Travis stood.

“May I say something?”

“We’re respectful of our elders,” Pearl said.

“The discussion has veered off course,” Travis said.

The District Ranger tried to say something conciliatory but Pearl interrupted, “This isn’t even a discussion yet.”

Travis continued. “We understand your concerns about heavy use of the site.”

“Heavy use?” Pearl said theatrically. The tribal members in the audience grumbled in support.

Travis remained calm. “You might consider what good this brings your community. For example, economic benefits.”

Pearl scoffed. “So you people buy a couple of six packs at the local store. We’d rather have peace and quiet at our falls.”

“The television production won’t last forever,” he said.

“That’s what we’re talking about here,” Pearl said. “The TV show is like a big, blinking sign leading strangers, who would never know of it, right to our sacred spot.”

Travis cleared his throat. “The issue we’re addressing here is the Tribe illegally blocking our access to the river and interfering with our use.”

“We can always call our lawyers,” Pearl said.

“I am a lawyer,” Travis said. He and the others filed out. Nellie checked and his jeans were worn and faded and his shoes muddy, just like everyone else in the room.

• • • •

The last lights of the camp went out, the fires flickered into piles of ash. Nellie made her way to the falls. She crawled down to a boulder close to the edge and sat in the spray. The steady din of water washing through the riverbed brought an unexpected pang of regret that she quickly stuffed down.

“I’m here,” she said. The water gurgled and surged up to touch her toes.

“Leaving wasn’t a mistake. But staying away so long was.”

She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. The falls vibrated beneath her, lulling her to stillness.

The night passed in an instant and light returned to the sky. She intended to get away before anyone from the camp was up, but Travis spotted her and made his way over the rocks.

“Are you here to make trouble?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” Travis sat down next to her. “Aren’t you cold?”

“I spend a lot of time outdoors.” She studied his face. “You’re younger than I thought.”

“Same to you,” Travis said.

After a quiet moment Nellie asked, “Why this place? There are falls everywhere.”

“Ah, but not all falls are created equal.” He indicated the gap above their heads. “The geometry of these falls is particularly unique. Up above this stretch, the river is on the verge of being too much but never quite getting there.”

He pointed at the large rocks and followed the water to the steep drop.

“Then right here the river narrows and the flow speeds up. The boulders are placed as if part of a grand plan to create the perfect run. Add one more obstacle in just the right spot and it wouldn’t be passable. The scenery is unmatched, even if you aren’t riding the river. Under normal circumstances it’s easy access”—he gave her a knowing smile—“and no permits needed. Plus, this is the time of year. Later in the season the river will be too low and it won’t be worth it. You’ll have your place back.”

A drift of patchy clouds covered most of the sun.

Nellie’s eyes followed a puff of foam swirling in the drift. She tried to imagine being in the falls, surrounded by bubbling water, and moved along with the current. A wave slapped up against the boulder they sat on.

“I won’t be around,” she said.

“I thought you lived here,” Travis said.

“Not anymore.”

• • • •

Nellie spent the day upriver, above the spot where the boats went in. She hiked through the forest, resting her palm on one tree trunk after the other, working her way up a tributary until she reached an ice-cold pond fed by snow melt. How many days had she spent just like this? She’d wandered through mountains and streams across the world, listening for voices like the ones in the place she’d left behind.

A buzzard glided through the sky overhead. Nellie rested against a hollow snag and watched it float in unsteady circles. When she lost sight of it, she headed down the mountain.

She stopped at the falls to say good-bye to Mak. The production camp was wrapping up another run. People hiked along the bank and shouted back and forth. Two people in safety gear walked along the access trail headed downriver.

Pearl sat in a camp chair that was too big for her, her weary and defeated face a reproach, a reminder that Nellie’s desertion had broken a trust. She resolved to return more often. Once a year. Or, once a decade, at least.

Pearl said, “I just found out what their ratings are like. There are already folks organizing tours to bring groups up here.”

“But what about later when the river goes down?”

“I guess that’ll slow them,” Pearl said. “Forest Service made us move the rig. Like that lawyer said, we have no authority to keep outsiders away from our very own territory.”

“What about permits? Limit users?”

Pearl nodded. “You know how it goes. Letters, meetings, public meetings, proposed rules, comments. Then, when we reach an agreement that no one likes, whichever side is more pissed off will file a lawsuit. They’ll be able to trample over this spot for years. Meanwhile, the bank is worn down and who knows what kind of crap gets into the water. And no peace for our religion.”

Nellie couldn’t argue with her. Travis came over and offered coffee.

“Looks like you’re taking off,” he said.

“It’s time,” Nellie said.

“Time for what?” Pearl said, disgusted. “We need you here. I won’t be around forever.”

“Going somewhere?” Travis asked, trying to be playful.

Pearl sighed with exasperation. “I’m old, if you haven’t noticed. And we got our young people running off. Don’t even know why.”

“I’m coming back,” Nellie said, swallowing back the guilt. “Really.”

“Sure you will.” Pearl shooed her away, a hurt look on her face.

“Why don’t you ride the river before you go?” Travis asked. “Make you want to stay.”

“I don’t know how,” Nellie said.

“You should do it,” Pearl said.

“We’ll go tandem. I’ll steer, tell you what to do. You can admire the scenery.”

“Not me, Pearl,” Nellie said.

“Whose side are you on?” Pearl grumbled. “Tip me out, tumble me through the rocks and their problems are solved.”

“It’s too dangerous for her, but you can do it. You’ll appreciate seeing both sides of it.”

“Get out there and see if it changes your mind,” Pearl said.

Nellie wanted to say no, but Travis handed her a PFD and helped her clip-in and zip-up. She took the helmet Travis gave her and hiked up the access trail. The sound of water slushing over stones grew stronger. The boat waited at the launch site.

“You’ve never been down the river before?” Travis asked.

“Not like this,” Nellie said. In the old world, the river was one of them, sometimes a lover, sometimes a schemer, always up to something. Now here he was, surging water, and she was a runaway.

Travis showed her the kayak and explained the basics. Nellie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the water. The river was wide here, the surface smooth, with wisps of bubbly foam zipping along in the current.

Travis kept talking: the paddle, water temperature, safety, getting in, getting out, navigating obstructions.

Nellie turned her attention back to Travis. “What was that?”

“Oh good, I thought you weren’t listening. There are places in the falls where the options are limited. Listen for my cues. We’ll be fine.” He smiled. “You’ll never look at the river the same way again.”

Travis got the boat into the water and helped her in. He handed her a paddle. The boat wobbled as Travis climbed in and she couldn’t help letting out a squeak.

He laughed. “We’re just getting started.” She could sense his paddle arcing overhead behind her. He steered the boat into the middle where the current picked them up.

The fast-flowing water took them past craggy bedrock. The air stirred her hair. From here the river smelled richer and more vegetal. If she extended her stay, she could join the prayers and be here when the salmon returned.

The boat tipped to one side, giving a clear view through the green-tinted water. She plunged her paddle in, hoping for a closer look at the river bottom, smooth rocks that she could fit in her hands, others too big to lift. The boat bounced; Travis’s paddle clacked against hers.

“Keep it up, left,” he said.

The gentle waves gave way to dips and bumpy white water. The water sloshed against the boat.

“You good?”

Nellie nodded. She rested the paddle and dipped a hand into the water.

“No need for that. The water will come to you.”

The front of the boat dropped down and the river crashed over them. She grew more comfortable with the rocking motion. White water frothed on all sides, loud and thundering. The kayak bounced back and forth. Travis expelled a harsh breath as his paddle stabbed at the water and he worked to steer them through the gorge. Water splashed her face and with it, a quiet voice.

Mak?

She loosened the helmet strap.

The boat surged up and slammed down; already Mak’s falls were up ahead. The roar of the water filled her ears. The boat shot toward a narrow gap. Travis might still be giving instructions but she wasn’t sure. All she heard was Mak.

How could she have left?

The bow plunged down again, and the boat hung in the air a split second and then dropped into the pool. In the space of a heartbeat, they were submerged.

Mak.

Nellie worked to free herself and the water did the rest, sucking her out of the boat before it popped up. Travis shouted, his voice harsh and frantic. Something—his hand? the paddle?— brushed her shoulder.

She ducked away and bobbed in the tumult. He met her eyes, his face filled with dismay as the current carried him forward.

“Feet first, watch your head,” he shouted, and tried to maneuver back to her.

She kicked off her shoes and unclipped the PFD.

“I’m staying,” she said.

Travis yelled again but his voice was lost as the water bubbled up in her ears. This was all Mak; everywhere around her was Mak.

The current pushed her around, nudging her into place. Mak’s voice never left her ears. Already she was changing, more like she was before. The memories of the old world blazed through her mind.

In the time before, they’d lived lifetimes preparing for this. The light of the new world faded as she sank into Mak’s embrace; flesh and bone rearranged into stone. What senses remained were filled with the People’s prayers. All their prayers through all time, up to the present moment, where Pearl watched from the riverbank.

Like all constructed things,
none satisfied; all were shadows
cast by light, a pantomime
of the extinctions which
birthed them.

Look, you living, to those who
lived and are gone. Dream,
if you can, their onerous
weight, their limitless absence.

It made no sense. Emily didn’t want to run away from home. She had no museum to run to, no little brother to travel with. She had two older brothers, but she knew they wouldn’t want to go with her. Still, the what-if imp said, “You must want to run away.”

Days passed. At school and in her room Emily pondered running away from home, though she couldn’t imagine going farther than a few blocks. It would not be an adventure like in the book. It would be no fun at all. She tried to figure out what to pack. She only had a few dollars. She grew more and more miserable.

Finally she told her mother. “But why do you want to run away from home?” her mother asked.

“I don’t want to!” Emily said. “I just can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.”

Her mother smiled and patted her shoulder. “You don’t have to run away. It’s okay.” After that, she teased Emily about how she’d liked a book so much, it made her think she had to run away. Her brothers found out and teased her too. No one understood. Still, telling her mother had broken the spell. Emily thought the what-if imp was gone. Instead it curled up inside her and slept.

It slept a long time. Ten years later it sprang forth fully grown. “You’re reading about a woman who stabbed her lover with a knife,” the imp said. “What if you wanted to stab your boyfriend, or maybe one of your friends?”

Emily looked up from the paperback she was reading on her dorm room bed. “But I don’t want to do that. I know I don’t.”

“But what if, what if, what if?” the imp sang.

“I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!” The more she protested, the more agitated she became. Was there a way to prove she wasn’t a danger to those she loved?

“There is a way,” the imp said. “If you ponder for a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Emily pondered. Her mind filled with squiggles of misery. She felt sick inside with counterfeit danger and genuine shame. Deep down, she knew none of this was real, but by now she had spent so much time thinking about it, surely it had to mean something? She had to be a horrible person to think such things.

“That’s true,” the imp said with a smirk, as it tied her into cobwebs of nonsense that tightened when she struggled. “You must be a horrible person.”

Finally the imp fell asleep and left Emily in peace. She thought it was gone. Months later it popped up again, stronger than before. Traitorous what-if imp, ugly twin of her imagination! Emily knew she had to do something.

Dr. W. gave Emily pills and told her to think of the imp as a brain burp, which Emily found vaguely comforting and made the imp feel insulted. The pills didn’t help, and the imp returned after flouncing off and sulking for a few days.

Dr. X. thought the imp came from Emily’s repressed anger. The imp preened at its increased importance. Emily didn’t think she had any repressed anger, and the imp never showed up when she felt angry.

Emily read in a book by Dr. Y. that she could get rid of the imp by snapping a rubber band on her wrist whenever it appeared. Her smarting wrist only made the imp more lively. It played jump rope with the rubber band and sang “What if, what if?” in time to its skips.

Then Emily found Dr. Z’s website, which described another tactic. She resolved to try it. One day the imp was doing a wild dance, juggling knives and chanting, “What if you used these, what if, what if?” The knives flashed and glittered in the air.

Emily lunged for one of the knives. It vanished before she could catch it, and the imp, startled, dropped the others, which disappeared before they hit the ground. Emily took a step forward. “More, more!” she said. “More phantom knives, more hypothetical horrors, give me more!”

The imp stood frozen, as if it had stage fright. Then it crept back inside her so quietly she couldn’t detect its presence. “I know you’re in there,” Emily yelled. “Come out and show me what you’ve got!” But the imp hid.

The next time it issued forth with its what ifs, Emily laughed. “Is that all?” she jeered. The imp spun faster with its knives and its terrible visions. It was trying so hard to impress her. It all seemed a little pathetic. The imp began to shrink. Emily loomed over it. Out of breath, the imp retreated inside her once more.

Now that the imp was so small, Emily had more room in her mind to spin words and stories, even the convoluted plot of a novel—although she suspected that the imp, bored with nothing else to do, was helping her to juggle plot threads. Still, Emily knew the imp was lying in wait, hoping to batten and unfurl at the first sign of weakness.

Emily and the what-if imp coexisted more or less peacefully. She knew she would never be rid of it. From time to time she had to dance with it until it grew tired. They whirled together amid the phantom knives. Then the imp curled up inside her and slept, and Emily went on with her life, until the next time.

I lived in Harlem in an upscale, new building for a year. I loved the apartment’s layout; it was the nicest place I had ever lived in NYC, and through a series of circumstances and roommates, I was able to afford it. And yet, it was strange to move to a neighborhood where I finally could be around other black people (after living in the Upper East Side in subsidized student housing) and yet, the majority of black people who lived in the neighborhood were quite separated from the building. There was a disconnect between the populations of buildings like this and the other residents of Harlem. There was also the disconnect between myself and the mostly white, upper class residents of the building, with occasional micro-aggressions and a strange sense that I and other black residents did not quite belong. I had a sense that I was part of a larger gentrification. At one point in this year, a group of white people took up residence in the park outside our building, visible to us at all times of the day. The hill became their home. The reality of their presence “ruined” the view for many residents in the building. It was bizarre, bringing up issues around entitlement, disparities, race, and more. I began to think about the possible repulsion the residents felt, and that I was part of this building and what it meant, too. I wanted to raise the fear, the conflict and the contradiction of these circumstances within a speculative story, taking this kernel of experience and morphing and heightening it.

The apartment’s windows struck me as a core aspect to the story: allowing observation without danger, almost like a zoo, until they prove to be more penetrable. What factors led you to put so much emphasis on the windows?

Exactly this. I was inspired by the windows of my real-life apartment, which were massive and took up the entire wall. The view of Harlem was beautiful; those windows let in all the light of the morning, and we could see the park, the brownstones, the view for blocks and blocks, but we were insulated from the usual chaos and pressure of the city. We were high up, able to see everything but above it all. There was a sense of luxury, decadence, extravagance to it. And then, a sense of exposure. We didn’t have curtains and could be seen from the outside. We were observable, our privilege in being able to be there also exposed. In reality, I didn’t mind that exposure. In the story, the windows represent many things: how the character is unable to hide from her own participation in gentrification, a white world observing her and thinking she doesn’t belong in this place, and also how she is not able to shut out parts of the real world she doesn’t like.

I found this story to be awash in colours, with the narrative emphasizing reds, blues, oranges, greens—everything except for the climactic tomato, it seems. How important was colour in your conception of this story, and the situation around it?

I did find myself focusing on the taste and feel of the tomato, as something eaten, finally, in the dark, but did not focus on its obvious redness. In particular, I wanted to include the blue and red of police car lights. These colors felt elemental, frightening, and symbolic of the way neighborhoods like this are policed, how the privileged might weaponize the police against those of lesser privilege. There is also the contrast of the park itself, its lush greenery in the midst of city life, and how the unhoused residents of the park live in “nature,” now part of the view that the building’s residents wanted to enjoy. Their presence “intrudes” on the illusion of nature in the city, the sense of exceptionalism and peace away from thinking about the particular situations of gentrification or disparity. And yet, the park is beautiful, lush, and for everyone to enjoy.

Throughout the story, the group of homeless people are portrayed as something “other,” with no dialogue and descriptions braced with threat. What led you to approach the situation from this angle?

Living in New York City for so long, in neighborhoods like the Upper East Side, yet in subsidized student housing, and then living in Harlem, I was always struck by the apparent modernity of NYC contrasted with its stark class and race disparities. There was so much privilege and poverty, and a racial divide that struck me as very distinct. I don’t know why I was surprised by that, but I was. There is a way, in particular, that living in NYC makes you callous to others, including the unhoused. Everyone minds their own business, ignores the throngs of people around them, and also ignores the many unhoused people they encounter day to day. To be able to do this, there is a degree of dehumanization and shutting down of normal emotional processing that we do. We other those who are unhoused. Within the story, I wanted the supernatural beings to represent our own wrongs, our projections, as well as an element of racism butting up against class privilege (in them being white and the protagonist being black).

Is there anything you’re working on now that you’d like to talk about? What can our readers look forward to seeing from you in the future?

I am working on the final drafts of a sci-fi psychological thriller which I will be submitting to agents soon! I am also running another workshop on mental health and writing, so look forward to that on my social media. Hopefully more speculative stories to be published soon!

Insulated glass dampens the screech of taxi honks and sirens below and gives us a great view of the nearby park: a huge swath of hilly green in the middle of the city, where evergreens reach up like pining lovers and silent figures walk along its paths. And yet one morning, while sipping my cinnamon coffee, I see her. Knit hat, skinny pale thighs exposed, sparkling jeans crumpled around her ankles. She squats on a patch of dirt. A thin liquid line darkens the earth around her feet, and her shoulders relax under her dirty orange hoody. I look away. Afterwards she rises and leaves so quickly I can’t see where she went.

My roommate and I are young black women, two professionals moving into this new development. The shining complex was built last year, in a neighborhood of brownstones and old walkups. In a historically black neighborhood like this one, these buildings bring white families in droves. My roommate and I bring balance, help diversify the complex. The light floods in every morning over our ivory walls and cream couch, glints off the copper legs of our TV stand.

I start seeing her and her friends every morning. These drifters occupy a grassy enclave surrounded by rocks and nestled into the hill. The police walking below on the sidewalk can’t see them. The park employee with his leaf blower above can’t see them. They occupy our vantage point every time we look outside. Shifting, sliding, disappearing. They drink from Styrofoam cups and litter them in the surrounding bush. The white cups glow even in the darkness, eyesores, just like the clothes they hang off the trees. The grass becomes trampled and brown.

Can the leaf blower man blow away the refuse?

Soon, they are staying later, showing up earlier. They lay their sleeping bags on huge pieces of cardboard. I never see them arrive. They are always there. In our living room, we are surrounded on all sides by large bay windows. We see them at 6am before work, at midnight after we finish a movie. Do they scramble up the rocks in the middle of the night?

The weather gets colder. Leaves turn towards aching reds, falling, dangling off the branches. When I open my eyes in the mornings, I face my window and see them there. I start staying up later, scanning the park and the new inhabitants below. Waking up, I rush to get ready for work. If I can see them, can they see me? I cover my half-dressed body. The coffee I’m brewing in my new percolator has a rich, toasty aroma.

That same person circles the hillside below. Today, she wears a torn purple windbreaker, the same sparkly ripped jeans, and creamy yellow shoes. I slow down to watch her, even though I’m late. She’s staring at the rock face along the hillside, examining it. I lean forward. It’s like she’s looking for the faintest trace of something, like she’s studying an ancient, faded cave painting. I only see traces of blue, illegible graffiti. She presses her hand on the rock. Maybe she’s searching for a way around. A way in. The hidden, dark interior of a secret cave. She flips her floppy, dirty blond ponytail. Turns her pockmarked face and lights a cigarette. Even from here, I can see her bloodshot eyes, how she picks at her left palm. Is she doing drugs? I don’t want to see her doing drugs, but I can’t look away. Like the dead, flattened pigeon I keep passing on the way to work this week. Each day I can’t help staring at its withering body; first, eyes gone, then maggots, then ribs, then just feathers and tiny bones. She sniffs and she turns her head upwards. We lock eyes and I spill my coffee as I bounce up, skittering back and away. I’m not sure what I saw in that split second, but a flash of something scurried up and over the boulder. When I look back, she’s gone.

By the evening, the police are removing the new inhabitants. We didn’t call them. I try not to look. After this clearing out, only their Styrofoam cups and cardboard remain.

I lie in bed that night and think of her red, glistening eyes staring back at me. Burrowing deeper under my comforter, I clear my mind. I finally fall asleep.

A sudden noise jolts me back into alertness. A tap tap on my window. My heart beats faster. I squint towards my window. I see the tops of trees swaying in the night breeze. Red and blue lights flash from a police truck parked below. The occupants of the building have told me that they don’t feel safe in this neighborhood. I don’t like that they are like that. Everyone makes me nervous; my neighbors, the cops waiting below, the people that had been living in our otherwise lovely park. I am about to close my eyes. For a wild moment, I see a pair of red eyes in a flash of red light. But I see nothing after, and I know I am just too tired, seeing things that aren’t there.

The next morning, I need two coffees. I leave quickly after gulping them down. Work is busy, and by bedtime it takes me an hour to calm my tumultuous thoughts.

Tap tap.

Confused, I sit up in bed. My phone reads 2 a.m., and everything is dark.

Tap tap tap.

I can’t see clearly and rub my eyes. I squint at my window, but I see nothing in the blurry darkness. I wobble out of bed, move towards the wall of glass. It must be a bird. Or sounds bouncing up from the street below. Gripping the sill, I look down.

A pair of red eyes stare up at me.

She is there, the same one from the park, clinging to the side of the building. I don’t understand what’s happening. My hands tremble and my body is frozen in place. Bloodshot eyes hold my own, and with her dirty fingernails and bare pale feet she’s stuck to the brick façade like a filthy Spiderman.

Lunging, she rises level with me, hands pressed against the window. We face each other and she licks the glass. My ears buzz with the rush of blood and adrenaline. Scraping, shuffling noises come from below, and her fellow drifters emerge out of darkness, scaling the walls. Their collective sweet and sour smell wafts into my room through the window’s cracks. They surge upward as one, disappearing over the rooftop ledge.

I don’t move for a long time. None of this is real. If I don’t move, if I don’t touch anything, then maybe I’ll just wake up.

The morning is cloudy and my eyes burn with fatigue. The tops of the high rises and church spires are submerged in fog. The park looks like a gothic heath. In a rush, I remember last night. A tight energy fills my body. It was too vivid to be a dream. Stumbling out of my room, I knock on my roommate’s door. She’s startled, raising an eyebrow as she turns from her desk.

“Sorry to bother you!”

“No problem. Just working.”

“Right, of course. Did you notice anything…funny last night?” Our homeless park dwellers climbing our walls like evil zombies?

“Nope. Slept like a baby.”

I am losing it, then.

I stop by the roof before leaving for work, looking for evidence of their presence. Nothing there. Only the garden where the top floor tenants grow fruits and vegetables, like fresh heirloom tomatoes. My roommate and I are planning to sit out here in the summer and have a barbecue. No dirty clothes, dirty footprints, flattened cardboard. Nothing damaged, nothing missing. I don’t know what I’m really looking for. Before I leave, I spot a few half-eaten tomatoes in the dirt, and the leafy remnants of strawberries.

Later that night, I’m watching TV with my roommate and ask her what she thought happened to the homeless people in the park.

“They moved to another park?” She laughs and shrugs the question away.

Maybe nightmares are unsettling my head again, like when I was a child. Maybe I saw it all wrong. It was the middle of the night, the details obscured in the dim streetlight. Maybe my memories are merging with my dreams. It doesn’t make sense. I didn’t see any harnesses around their waists, or a single dangling rope. Earlier, I passed by the refurbished façade of my building and saw no easy footholds or ledges.

“What do you think they want?” I ask my roommate, although I’m really thinking out loud. She doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t hear me; maybe she’s absorbed in the reality show we’re watching, I don’t know. Leaning back, I stare out of one of the windows, lost in thought.

After she’s gone to bed, I stand watch by my bedroom window, clutching my phone in my hand. The cold seeps in. I can’t sleep anyway. And you have to call the police right away for this sort of thing, for people trying to break in or cause harm. Their purposes are unclear, but they are a disturbance, most likely up to trouble. I don’t want to wait here, past midnight, but I have no choice.

The clock glows in the dimness, reading 1 a.m.. I’m slumped against the wall. I drink an ice mocha to stay awake, stay vigilant. My head is heavy with fatigue and my forehead almost hits the glass before I hear anything. 2:15 a.m.. I am awake, not dreaming.

The sound is muffled, scratchy reverberations that I realize are coming from my living room. My thoughts go flying and I rush to get there. At first, I only see our furniture, outlined in the faint green glow of our WiFi box. Then I turn to windows.

They are waiting for me, perched against the glass, limbs at odd angles. Their greasy fingers smear the panes.

Their bodies perch motionless. I step forward, drawn in by their silence, like I’m sneaking up on still, wild creatures. Now I should be able to see how they climb, what their tricks are, and shake off this surreal veil. The hardwood is cold. My eyes are wide and my chest squeezes in on itself.

Their leader is perched in the middle. She shifts, glaring, slowly unsticking and re-sticking her hands and feet.

I wonder if I can call 911, or take a video for evidence. No one will believe me otherwise. Only documentation will prove the danger we are in. I won’t believe myself in the morning.

Reaching for my phone, I move my arm at a glacial pace. It’s as if they sense my thoughts. They snarl, exposing brown teeth, red eyes widening, angry or maybe fearful. Their leader squints then lurches, up and out of view. The others follow.

This time, I have to follow them. We’re being … harassed. Terrorized. I have to get to the roof before they disappear again.

I scurry out the door and to the elevator. Running through these hallways still in my house slippers, with my head wrap on, I realize I’ll look disturbed on the building’s security cameras: one of the new black girls causing trouble. I get out at the top floor and climb the last steps to the roof door. I fling it open. It’s freezing cold outside, and the moist, fine gravel burns through my thin slippers like a coating of hard snow.

She stands in the middle of the group, her face wrinkled and dirty, half-shrouded in the darkness. One of them rummages through the vegetable garden, picking and dropping tomatoes into the earth. At first, they don’t see me. The door crashes closed behind me and I flinch. They all turn, and start walking toward me. I’m outnumbered, and I don’t know what they are capable of. My hands begin to tremble, and I can’t feel my toes. Running would make me a coward. I came here to get evidence. They walk with their backs hunched, their movements fluid. My legs are stiff. They surround me. Their exhales rise, visible in the night. The smell of musk and tang fills the air, along with the ragged sounds of breathing.

“What do you want from me?”

I glance at the door, but the garden thief slinks behind me and blocks my escape. He bites into a tomato, its juices bursting down his chin.

A wild energy fills me. I want to fling my arms around and make myself larger, scare them off. Instead, my hands rise to clutch my forearms. Goosebumps have popped up along my arms.

The garden thief shuffles from side to side before the door, dangling my escape before me. I step towards him and then stall, turning back to their leader. I have the strongest urge to be warm and safe in my bed, and yet I’d hate myself for leaving.

“What are you doing up here?” Instead of a demand, the words escape from my tight throat in a whisper.

Her hair is undone, falling in oily blond waves. A questioning expression flashes across her face. The skin around her eyes is soft, loose. She looks lost, confused. The next moment her face tightens. Lifting a dirty fingernail, she summons the thief. He hands her a tomato.

She steps forward and holds it out to me.

I don’t move to take it.

She places it on a metal table and points to it. I glance at the door again, before picking it up. The tomato’s skin is night cool. I take a bite. Flecks of its garden dirt hit my tongue, as well as its acidic juices. The savory flesh bursts in my mouth. I chew and place the tomato back down.

With a flick of her head, she summons the others to follow her as she turns back to the roof’s edge. Her legs swing over the metal barrier and she disappears. The others follow, vanishing over the edge. Up close, I can see no equipment, no tricks. Gone, as if they’d never been there.

A gust of wind brings me back to the moment; I am shaking, teeth clenched. My limbs are stiff but I force them forward, slippers crunching on the icy gravel. I feel disconnected from my body. The wind picks up as I get closer to the edge of the rooftop. The leaves on top of the park’s trees are a muted orange, twisting and falling in the dark. Vertigo washes through me as I look down. Shadowy figures are already climbing the hill into the park at its steepest point. My heart drums into my ears, and the spinning accelerates. Crouching down, I grip the metal poles of the short barrier. One shadowy figure turns back to me and waves their hand in the air. It’s her. I don’t wave back but keep watching until they all disappear.

I need to get inside. I shuffle towards the roof door. I touch the frigid handle before remembering it locks automatically, realize I’ve left my keys downstairs. My roommate is fast asleep. I can’t wake her. She’ll think I’m weird. I pat my pockets; I have no way to wake her—my phone is downstairs too. No one can hear me up here. I settle, sliding onto the ground, my back against the garden’s small wood fence. Looking at the tomato on the table, I grab it, brush off the dirt, and eat the rest. I wrap my pajama top tighter around my body.

Just a few hours until dawn. I can survive a few cold hours. Like that I time I went camping, communing with nature. My limbs feel heavy and light at once, like I’m spreading in every direction. Pulling my head wrap off, I wrap the pink silk around my shoulders for added warmth. I re-examine her face in my mind: the bloodshot eyes, the blue tinge to her lips. I wonder what she thinks of me. My skin hurts in the night wind, and the gusts drag like long, ragged breathes. The night is longer and colder than I realized. My eventual sleep is restless and confused.

The sun wakes me at dawn. My roommate peeks a worried face from the rooftop door. “You . . . ” She stalls, taking me in. “The apartment door was open. I thought you’d been snatched or something. You look like . . . ”

My cheeks tug my mouth open, as if they don’t belong to me. A casual yet manic smile spreads across my face. “I just came up a few minutes ago.” I give an awkward wave of my hand. “To see the sunrise. Got locked out. So stupid.”

She raises her eyebrow and shakes her head. We walk back to the elevator in silence.

After she leaves, I take off from work and collapse in my bed.

• • • •

On Saturday morning, I walk into the kitchen and my roommate turns to me. “Our neighbors are back.”

I walk to the window. They lie scattered under meager coverings. Families and runners are already roaming the sidewalks and park paths. My roommate grabs our picnic blanket and brunch basket, full of white wine and cheese I bought in Park Slope and bread she picked up from the new bakery down the street. I see a mother yank her child back from the steep slope of the park’s hill; below, the park’s dwellers are nestled away from view.

My roommate and I head downtown, but I stop after a block and walk back to the park near our building. My roommate calls after me. With the picnic basket slung over my shoulder, I run up one of the paths, then scramble down to reach their spot. People stare as I make my way down, but I quickly disappear from their view. The same musk and tang, familiar and now almost sweet, rises from the settlement. Their leader rolls over on her blanket to look up at me. Reaching into my basket, I offer her the still warm loaf of sourdough bread. She tilts her head and doesn’t take the bread. The others are still asleep. I put the bread back and place the entire basket down before her. She stands and spits onto the ground between us, just missing the basket. The side of her mouth jerks into a lopsided smile, and she grabs the straw handle.

After days of clouds, this morning the sky is clear and the sun is unrelenting, pulling our eyelids open, coating our throats and insides with burning gold.

CY: And there are just as many ways to be a reader! I recently joined an SFF book club for the first time, and it’s been an illuminating experience. There are eight of us, all of whom have read broadly; the discussions are wild! There is definitely no consensus on what makes a “good” story. What I thought was a totally gripping narrative, another person described as a “dystopian slog.” It often comes down to a simple difference in taste, and what elements of a story a person connects with.

AS: That really resonates with me. I think we often forget that “good” is subjective, and we often talk about it as an objective Truth. Picasso is a great example: before he went wild, he mastered realism; then he went wild and many people couldn’t understand what he was doing, they didn’t think of it as “good.” I think that with pretty much most types of art, where you will find critics, experts, and fans lauding one piece of work, you will also find detractors of that same piece, including other critics, experts, and fans.

CY: Writers often ask us, “What are you looking for?” Readers similarly ask, “What can we expect from you, as editors?” My answer is always the same: I’m looking for a story that I haven’t read before. Barring that, I’m looking for a story that illuminates the human condition, that helps me understand something about what it’s like to be someone who is not me.

AS: Agreed. So, sooooo agreed! And I think when you read broadly, what that looks like can be incredibly varied. I mean, for movies, for example, my favorites include The Adventures of Baron Von Munchausen, The Color Purple, The Sound of Music, Blade, Brazil, Do the Right Thing, The Matrix, Alien and Aliens, Cabin in the Sky, The Silence of the Lambs…. And I read just as broadly. I also think that things which were at some point fresh and new get redone, over and over, and quite often aren’t as fresh and new as the authors (or movie producers!) think they are. Then again, sometimes a different perspective can really breathe new life into familiar ideas.

CY: Thinking more about that book club — I now live in a med-school town, and most of the other members are people with advanced degrees in medicine and/or psychology. Intimidating, to say the least! These are very smart people who read a lot, and who look to genre as a way to escape and explore ideas in a safe space, where lives aren’t actually on the line. Would you believe these people—who literally save lives—were intimidated by me, because I’m a “professional editor”?!

What I told them is this: A genre pro is just a fan who took it too far. In the end, we’re all here for the same reason—we love to read.

• • • •

In this issue’s short fiction, Pamela Rentz takes us on a journey of place and identity in “Obstruction,” and Zebib K. A. explores the complexity of being and feeling strange in “Heirlooms;” in flash fiction, Allison King asks what happens when a rabbit wants to be a dragon in “Breath of the Dragon King,” and Gwynne Garfinkle’s “Emily and the What-If Imp” gives voice to an undesired darkness; for poetry, we have “Halsing for the Anchylose” by Stewart C. Baker and “Twilight Mind” by Jennifer Crow. Plus essay “Worldbuilding With Legs” by Premee Mohamed, author of And What Can We Offer You Tonight, The Annual Migration of Clouds, and The Void Ascendant. Enjoy!

The second great tragedy was that she had been born a girl. Maybe some people wanted a dragoness, but certainly nobody wanted a rabbit-ess.

Still, her parents were creative and sly (both snakes) and so they told nobody about Drea’s birth until the next day, the first day of the New Year. They declared her the first Dragon of ’88, and in honor of that, she would be named Dragon King. It is written clearly on her birth certificate in proud bold letters, followed by a smudged date—a straight-backed seven forced into a bent eight. And so we’ve come to the third great tragedy of Drea’s life, which was that her full name was the same as that of the restaurant next door, which served greasy pork topped with wisps of broccoli.

Drea hung out with the other Dragons of ’88, as she was expected to. Her parents taught her to lie and misdirect, to convince the other kids that not only was she one of them, but she was their leader. Her parents knew she had to be the first one to achieve her breath of fire, so she was signed up for sleight-of-hand classes, weekend classes all about deceiving and convincing. And she was good at it—her flourishes precise, her memory impeccable, her palming quick and clean. Rabbits are quick, she reasoned, or maybe it was that rabbits and magic have always been associated via top hat.

In any case, the first time she showed off her breath of fire she was thirteen years old and waiting for the bus after school. The Dragons of ’88 crowded around her while the other students, as usual, ignored them. She tossed up three colored scarves, then four, then five, juggled them easily, then clicked her tongue. She tasted the bitter fuel and spat it out while waving a match in front of her face. Then she palmed the match. The scarves, pre-laced with fuel, caught fire so a circle of heat framed her. When they fell to the ground, she stomped the fire out amidst cheers from the Dragons. She was immediately sent to the principal’s office. He understood nothing of dragons or personas. He was probably a rat.

The other kids stopped teasing her for her restaurant name. Whenever one got too close, she would inhale sharply. They scrambled.

Still, it was strange to be the first with the breath of fire. Age fourteen, fifteen—none of the other Dragons of ’88—the real ones—had it.

“It is something about this country,” was the rumor that circulated among the parents. “It does not have the power of the old one.”

Her parents continued to push her.

“You are the first of the Dragons of ’88,” they reminded her, a lie they did not even remember as a lie anymore. “You must forge the way for them.”

She perfected her breath of fire. She ran to improve her lung capacity—she became captain of the varsity track team. She learned to mix steam into her breath—she excelled at chem lab. She built small steam-powered animals made of popsicle sticks and paper clips. They ran around her when she breathed into them, little rabbits who hopped with lives of their own and won her every science fair.

Teach us, teach us, the Dragons of ’88 begged, desperate to have their own breaths of fire, something that would make their difference worth it.

But they were the real ones—she was the fake. They were scared, she realized, to be separated from their old country and to be freaks in their new one. Many of them leaned into it— marked their skin in scales of green, wore jackets with wings printed across their backs. She wanted to help, but she did not know how to breathe wind beneath their wings.

With steady breaths, she began to forge new materials together. She replaced the popsicle stick and paper clips of her rabbits with bits of metal, melted together at careful angles. She gave her rabbits wings and breathed into them, watching them fly around her room.

When nobody else achieved their breath of fire, she turned to the budding internet. She found nothing about Dragons of ’88 or breaths of fire, as if it were something that only existed in their small town. She confronted her parents, who slithered and shrank until they shed their second skin, revealing the truth.

“Just something to motivate you all,” they explained, “and to unite you. An agreement between parents—for kids to succeed, and feel belonging. Drea, our little Dragon King, do you see how mighty you’ve become?”

She lay down and sighed, one long, warm, breath.

At night, she toured the neighborhood, staring up at each of her fellow dragons’ windows. She held up her latest creation—a rabbit, given scales to defend itself, wings to fly, and a stomach of fire to keep it warm and loved. She whispered into each rabbit—you are here, you are real, and you belong. She watched her breath propel their little wings into the sky. Each rabbit landed on the window of a dragon in a strange land, twitching its nose at them, reminding them of how far they had already come.