The Slime Net

Science Fiction of the Future (The Future of Science Fiction)

2011-07-25T13:49:00.000-07:00

1. A Hologram

A half-eaten order of Walla Walla onion rings sits in a plastic basket on the bright orange tabletop. A crispy skin of breading encases each slimy ribbon of milky onion. You can feel the texture of every crumb, every splotch of dribbled grease soaking through the paper that lines the bottom of the basket. A folded gray newspaper sits beside it and you can read every word, though the date is obscured by a convenient smear of ketchup.

Something buzzes past your nose and is sucked to the edge of the basket like a clump of iron filings leaping toward a magnet. A huge bluebottle, with a yearning proboscis and glasy wings. If there was such a thing as numbers, you could count every hair on its legs.

2. Tomorrow Was Here Before We Knew It

In the future, the Vietnam War never happened. The aliens assassinated every world leader and replaced them all with robots. These robots were microscopic time-travelers sent back to harvest genetic material from mastodons and wooly crocodiles. In the future every baby was born with a computer in its skull which in turn was inhabited by a pixilated ghost prostitute. In the future, cannibalism. In the future, nuclear-powered unicycles were pedaled into the holographic wastelands where we did battle with a race of subterranean Adonises. Moons were lassoed together and flung like giant bolas across the solar system. We made love to insects and worshiped candy bars. In our spare time we gathered around the digital fires and told stories about steel-finned rockets piloted by sentient vegetables, delivering medicine and pestilence to the distant colonies. The future glittered beneath a thick layer of ash. In the future we believed that the universe was an infinitely large mote in the eye of some cosmic beast which spent eternity blinking and blinking in an attempt to rid itself of this irritating speck.

3. Supernova in a Glass Eye

On that high shelf in the pantry sat jars of pig’s knuckles, fish heads in brine, pickled vegetables that looked like entrails. Instead of getting out the step stool, I gazed up at the unreachable goodies and peeled the wrapper from a Milky Way. A marble sat on the windowsill, and reflected in it was a shrike sitting on a wire outside, crunching the shell of a locust in its beak. Deep in the ceiling beams, termites chewed, their bellies churning with microbes hard at work breaking down bites of splinters. The smoggy sunset burnt a brilliant orange. A small chalkboard hung beside the refrigerator, with the words “To Do” etched across the top. I took a stub of chalk and pressed it to the slate. The soft tip crumbled, leaving a trail of stardust to trickle down, a galaxy swirling through the particles that up until now had been content to drift lazily in the path of a sunbeam.

Hail Mary (II)

2011-07-01T09:27:00.000-07:00

Gary was right, we were stuck. So I did a little asking around and learned that there were indeed plenty of the Northern Stripeds apparently still living just a few miles away on the other side of the gorge. We figured there wasn’t any point in waiting, so we headed out to find them right away.

It took us a full day of traveling unfamiliar terrain to get to their area of the forest. One of the major disadvantages of being small is it takes you fucking forever to get anywhere. We were both pretty out of shape as well, and had to stop and rest often.

“Great Creator, am I beat,” Gary said as I took a drink from a pool at the base of a merrily trickling waterfall.

“What did you just say?” I asked. “I thought you didn’t believe in any of that creator crap.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I mean, there’s gotta be something out there, right? Things didn’t just appear out of nowhere.”
“I thought you were smarter than that,” I muttered. “Does this ‘Great Creator’ talk to you?”

“No, but I talk to it. I don’t really hear anything back though.”

“Then what’s the point?”

He shrugged. “It passes the time.”

“Well, maybe you could ask this Great Creator of yours what it would take to get some assistance with our little extinction problem down here. I mean, you and I are both pretty broke but we could be, I don’t know, its slaves or something. I mean, isn’t there some kind of favor it might need done?”

“What, like babysitting? I don’t think it really works like that,” said Gary. “Hey, look over there. That looks kind of like one of our burrows.”

We sniffed around the edge of the hole. It smelled funny, but I didn’t sense any danger. And Gary was right, It didn’t look that dissimilar to one of our own dwellings.

“Hello?” I called, leaning my head into the pit. “Anybody home?”

There was a snuffling sound from deep within the ground and then a head popped up.

“Er, hello,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Nick and this is Gary, and we're from the other side of the gorge, and we heard there were some, uh, Northern Striped girls living around here.”

“Look no further,” the head said, and smiled. I looked at Gary. He had a scared look on his face.

“You mean you’re a...”

“That’s right. And if I’m not mistaken, you look like a couple of our Reticulated cousins. Didn’t know there were any of you left.”

“Well, that’s kind of why we’re... ow! Gary, what the hell?”

“Sorry, Man, I just...can I talk to you for a moment in private?”

“I’m sorry, miss, we’ll be right back,” I said. We moved a little ways away, behind a rotting stump.

“What’s with you, Gary?”

“Holy shit, Nick, did you see the size of that thing? She’s enormous! And she doesn't look anything like us, I don't see how we can possibly be even remotely related.”

“Look, I know she’s not what we're used to, but we’re in a bind, man. We can’t hold out for the most gorgeous creature in the forest. You know what they say, beggars can’t be choosers. And we, my friend, are most certainly beggars.”

“I know that, but come on, Nick, she’s hideous!”

I looked back at the creature crouching beside the hole. While she did bear a vague resemblance to us, I had to admit, she looked pretty repulsive to me as well. Weird stripes all over her back. Clumps of freakishly long whiskers all over her snout.

“Look,” I said. “We don’t have a lot of options here. We’ve got to at least give it a shot. They might not even go for it.”

By this time the Northern Striped had gathered a bunch of her burrowmates, all females, and they sat watching us with curiosity.

“So,” I said to them. “Let me tell you girls why we're here.” And I explained the situation to them as delicately as I could. When I finished they all started laughing.

“What, you couldn’t perpetuate your own species so you want to mate with us to form some freaky hybrid just to pass on your sad little traits?” Said one of them. “I mean look at you, you’re...”

“They’re so tiny!” another burst out, and they all started laughing again.

“Who’s so tiny?” came a deep voice from behind us. A number of hulking forms emerged rustling from the bushes.

“Uh oh,” said Gary. “The boyfriends are home. And they’re really big.”

“Wow, they sure are. Well, thank you for your time, but we should probably be, uh, moving along now.”

“Hold on a second,” said the first Male Striped. But we weren’t going to hold on for even a fraction of a second. We ran through the underbrush until we were a safe distance away.

By now it was getting dark, so we decided to spend the night in a hollow tree. It wasn’t comfortable, but it seemed safe enough.

“I can’t sleep,” complained Gary, kicking at the pile of pine needles he’d spread beneath him.

“Me neither,” I said. “My nerves are shot.”

“We shouldn’t have eaten all those fermented berries. I feel dizzy.”

“Well, it was all I could find to...what’s that? Did you hear something? Shit, they’ve come to beat us up for hitting on their girlfriends!”

We froze. The entrance to the hollow tree was too small for anything too dangerous to enter, but we didn't really know what kind of predators might inhabit this area of the forest. Then I smelled something familiar, and poked my head out of the hole.

“Who’s there?” I whispered. From out of the darkness shuffled one of the lady Northern Stripeds, by far the largest, most ungainly of them.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said. “I just wanted to... well, I want to apologize for laughing at you,” she said. “It must be really lonely, being the last of your kind and all...”

Above us, the leaves were parted just enough to allow a little moonlight to peek through the shadows. Her glossy fur shone in the light, and her ears twitched in a way that was actually kind of charming.

“Look, it’s dangerous out here,” I said. “Why don't you come in for a bit?”

I gnawed at the opening in the trunk until it was just big enough for her to squeeze through. Gary had a stunned look on his face when we entered but he didn't say anything.

“I’m Clarisse,” she said.

“I’m Nick,” I said, “And that handsome fellow huddling in the corner there is Gary.”

“Nice to meet you, Gary,” said Clarisse.

“Hey,” Gary said, suddenly shy. I looked at the two of them, staring at each other in the dim light that fell through an opening in the rotten trunk high above us. I looked back and forth between Clarisse's huge, striped bulk and crooked incisors, and my friend’s smaller form, once muscular, but over the years gone soft with flab. I suddenly remembered being young and daydreaming about having a litter of kids running about my feet, squealing for attention, nipping at one another, fighting to be first in my affections.

I heard Gary ask Clarisse what they did for fun on this side of the forest. She giggled. The moon was just visible through the hole in the trunk and I looked up at it and thought, whatever you want, it’s yours. Gary looked at me. I gave him a little smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice how strained it was, and slipped out without a word, giving myself up to the silvery night.

Hail Mary (I)

2011-06-30T06:33:00.000-07:00

I know it’s trite, but it really is true what they say: everyone thinks extinction is something that only happens to other species. You never think it could happen to yours.

I mean, you look around at all the other creatures out there, many of them so ludicrous it seems like there’s no way such a thing could possibly exist, and you think, well, I'll definitely outlive those schmucks. I mean, hell, I may not be much to look at, but I’m not a fucking platypus or frilled lizard or something. But then you realize that both the platypus and that frilled lizard have been around a hell of a lot longer than you have and will in all likelihood be around a long time after you’re gone, and so then you’re like, who do I have to pay off to survive around here? Survival of the fittest my paw. Survival of the biggest kiss-ass is more like it.

And that, I think, it why some end up believing in a creator: because it’s so much easier to think that there really is something up there who actually could be bribed in order to get ahead. The idea that the frilled lizard, the sea slug, the fucking okapi have all managed to escape annihilation on nothing other than plain old dumb luck is just too depressing. I mean, have you ever seen an okapi?

What, do I sound bitter? Well, sure I’m bitter, why the hell not? I mean, you can understand my getting just a teensy bit upset once I realized my family line wasn’t going to make it. When I found out, I did what I usually do when I’m out of sorts and I went over to my friend Gary’s place. Gary has a real nice burrow, safe from predators, close to a reliable food source. Gary’s got a good attitude, too, always manages to pull me out of the dumps, even if he isn’t exactly the sharpest splinter in the woodpile.

This time was different, though. This wasn’t just some momentary mood swing I was experiencing. I had taken a good, hard look at the facts at hand and seen the paw prints on the wall.

“Face it,” I told Gary, flopping down in that nice pile of soft, dry grass he keeps for guests in his den. “We just don’t have what it takes to make it as a species.”

“Aw, come off it, Nick,” he said, offering me some seeds. I waved them away.

“I can’t eat at a time like this. Seriously, man, look around you. There are hardly any of us left.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “There’s me, you, Manny, Ned, that creepy old guy who hangs out by the pond... uh, hold on.... there’s...um…”

“See what I mean?” I cried. “And that old guy who hangs out by the pond died months ago. You need to get out more. Face it, Gar; we’re done for.”

“Well, then, I guess it’s time for you and me to hit the meadow and find us some ladies so we can do a little old-fashioned furthering of the species, if you know what I mean, heh heh, what do you say?”

“What I say is there aren’t any ladies left out there for us to find! The last female anyone’s seen or heard from, as far as I can tell, was Manny’s wife Barb.”

“Oh, yeah! Whatever happened to Barb? She was a hot little specimen.”

“She died. Probably offed herself on account of having to live with that imbecile Manny. Point is, we have no way of furthering our species. We’re as good as doomed.”

“Aw, come on, man. It’s a big world out there. There could be other colonies, we could be thriving somewhere and not know it!”

“I don't think so. You know Walt, that bird who comes through here every six months or so? He migrates like 2000 miles or something, has all kinds of connections. He says no one’s seen any of our kind anywhere else.”

“So you’re basing all this ‘end of the line’ shit on what some stupid bird says? Since when is some bird an expert on population density? Besides, how do you know he’s not pulling your leg? You know how trustworthy birds are. Remember the time that raptor told us there was that big pile of food in the middle of the meadow, and all we had to do was come out of the bushes and go get it?”

“That was different. That raptor was trying to eat us. This bird was like some kind of swift or swallow or something.”

“So?”

I don’t like to argue, so I stayed away from Gary’s place for a couple of weeks, figured the space would do us good. I felt myself growing more and more morose about our situation. I saw the future lying at my feet like an enormous gaping burrow, an endless chasm just aching to swallow me up. It wasn’t bad enough that I was going to die –and soon, considering the fact that our kind are not exactly known for our impressively long life spans- but I didn’t have any legacy to pass on, or any future generations to pass it on to. When Gary and I and the handful of others who were still around finally kicked it, that would be that. We hadn’t made any kind of mark in the world. We probably wouldn’t even be remembered, forgotten even by the few swifts and raptors who bothered to acknowledge our existence in the first place (even though in some cases we wished they wouldn’t).

Gary eventually came to see me. He seemed pretty depressed.

“Look, Nick,” he said. “I been thinking about all that stuff you were saying last time, and you’re right. I just couldn’t bear to face the truth. We are screwed. It just... it just doesn’t seem right! I mean, I know we don’t have some flashy adaptation like opposable thumbs or razor sharp teeth or anything, but it’s not like we're total losers, either! I mean, we’re little, we’re quick, we’ve got a great spot in the middle of the food chain... am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong, Gary. Maybe we're just not adaptable enough.”

“Not adaptable? What do you mean not adaptable? I’m adaptable! I’m the most fucking adaptable adaptor that ever adapted! Just tell me what I need to change, and bam, I’m changed! Whole new Gary! You won’t even recognize your old buddy!”

“Well, you could always try to change your sex. There are some fish that can do that, you know.”

“What, become chicks?”

“No, they're still fish, but the dude fish can become lady fish in times of duress.”

“What's duress?”

“Duress is what we are definitely in the thick of, my friend. This is a time of extreme urgency, bordering on catastrophe.”

“Man, I ...I wish I could switch sexes, you know? I've never told you this, but I always kind of wished I was born a lady.”

“Huh. No. You, uh, never told me that, Gary.”

“Well, it’s true. So how do those fish do it, anyway? Maybe I could... you know, if I try and concentrate really hard...”

“Don’t kid yourself, man. It probably took those fish millions of years to figure out that trick. You’re not gonna evolve overnight.”

“I guess you’re right. You know something? We really should’ve mated while we had the chance, you know? Remember when we were young, and you and I would head out to that one meadow where all the girls were presenting themselves... sheesh, they were practically begging for it!”

“Sure, and I also remember us both being too chickenshit to ever approach any of those girls.”

“Well, yeah. That’s true. What a couple of saps we were. To think that here we are, facing the end, and all because we were afraid of getting a drink thrown in our face!”

“I know. What a couple of buffoons.” I sighed and shook my head. “We deserve to be extinct.”

“But hey, what were all the other guys doing? It's not like this can be all our fault. I’m not taking the rap for the failures of our entire race! We’re just two guys here!”

“I guess. It doesn’t really matter. It's too late to do anything about it now.”

“Well, maybe we could, you know, cross breed with some cousins or something?”

“That rarely works. Our kids would probably be sterile. Besides, what cousins?”

“I was thinking about those Northern Striped varietals we used to see on the other side of the gorge. Think they’re still around?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while. I guess I could find out. I don’t think it would work though. I mean, we’re totally different species and all.”

“Yeah, but it's not like we have a whole lot of other options here. Like you said, we’re staring complete non-existence in the face here, Nick.”

Free Range (IV)

2011-06-16T10:30:00.000-07:00

The body of the Nesla was well along the process of decomposition by the time the first member of its family found it. Even in this advanced stage of decay, it was evident that the creature had been murdered; huge holes had been eaten in its side by acid squirted from the pores of one of the other Nesla. Once the authorities arrived, they collected samples of the acid in special membranes for analyzing. Meanwhile, the victim's family mourned and held a funeral ceremony during which the remains of the body were divided up and broken down into their various components and distributed. After that they danced and feasted and exchanged chemical memories of the departed. The investigators traced the acidic compound to the Nesla's primary mating spouse. By the time the morning sun tinted the thick layer of mist that blanketed the planet, the killer had been caught and put to death.

After the film, the auditorium was silent save for a few uncertain claps here and there. Minnie sat in the back, mortified. Most of the audience had quietly slipped out during the feature. She wanted to leave herself but felt paralyzed, even as the man on the stage took the microphone announced that the director was in the audience and that she should stand up. A spotlight was turned on her where she sat, and she timidly rose, nodded, and hurriedly sat down again to weak applause.

She was slathered in sweat when she awoke. She already knew she'd won, and her film was receiving raves from all the important critics. But she'd been having nightmares for weeks. In each one she got booed off the stage, or eviscerated in the press. The worst one ended with her getting stoned to death by an angry mob outside the theater. She closed her eyes and replayed for the thousandth time the notes for her acceptance speech:

I'd like to thank my parents, and wish they were alive to see this today. I'd also like to thank the producers, especially Jig Jarson, without whose support this film never would have been made. I also never could have brought life to this alien world without the invaluable research of Cord Caffers. The late Dr. Caffers was a communications specialist who spent years studying the Nesla. I got the original idea for the screenplay from his groundbreaking work with these amazing creatures. I would also like to take the time to call your attention to an issue that affects us all.

At this point two assistants wheel a large tank onto the stage. The audience gasps. Inside the tank are two large Nesla, perched on a pile of damp soil. Minnie blinked back tears and continued her speech.

We eat them for dinner, our children learn about them in science class, but how many of us have actually seen one of these magnificent animals alive? Not many, I'd wager. The Nesla farms are on an unclaimed asteroid outside of any planetary jurisdiction. These farms operate outside of the law, and are thus able to escape the constraints of regulation. No one is held accountable for the unspeakable acts of abuse which take place in these facilities. They may be alien to us, but they are still living creatures, and need to be treated as such instead of unfeeling commodities for us to harvest as we please.

Minnie started and whirled around. Her husband jerked his hands away from her shoulders.

“Pat! You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry Min, you looked like you could use a massage.”

“You know I hate it when you sneak up on me like that. Plus I’m really nervous about tomorrow night.”

“You'll do great, Babe. They'll flay the flesh from their own hands clapping for you.”

“Jesus, that's disgusting.”

Her husband grinned. He enjoyed teasing her, loved to point out that she was crazy for caring more about some alien slug from halfway across the galaxy than for the creatures inhabiting her own planet. He worried about her, though. Caffers Foods, which owned 90% of the Nesla farms, was already bristling at her attempts to personify one of their most popular products. Though it had taken a long time to catch on, Nesla had become one of the planet's most important sources of nutrition. Though some still had difficulty absorbing the alien flesh, most people's bodies had adapted and, in fact, when deprived of the meat, some experienced mild withdrawal signs. Pat was sure the food conglomerate was going to be even less pleased by her increased activism. He wasn't usually paranoid, but he knew how ruthless some of these big businesses could be.

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” Minnie would say when he voiced his concerns.

But he wondered if there wasn't a part of her that secretly thrilled at the idea of becoming a martyr to a cause she felt so passionate about. Though why she felt so passionate about the Nesla puzzled even her.

“Caffers had the same problem,” she would tell him. “In his memoir, he spends an entire chapter talking about how weird he thinks it is that he spent so much of his life studying these things. I mean, at first it was a job, but it ended up being a lifelong obsession. His grandson, you know, the evil chef one, had a similar obsession.”

“And now you've got it. I'd better watch out, seems like it's catching. One of these days you'll come home and catch me in bed with a hot lady slug. Just you wait.”

“You are sick, you know that?”

“No shit. I married you, didn't I?”

Minnie said nothing but pictured herself busting into a high-density Nesla-raising facility on some desolate asteroid somewhere out in the hicks, gunning down the mad scientists with their injections of hormones, throwing open the cages to allow the Nesla slowly creep away and live their lives however they chose... free at last...

The sun withdraws and the warm mist turns dark. It never gets very cold on the surface, the thick atmosphere trapping the warm air like a down comforter. The nocturnal species of Nesla spend all night raiding the microbe colonies and plundering the gardens of their sleeping cousins. Each has its career, and there are schools in which the young learn various crafts and traditions. There are wars sometimes, though they are very slow moving wars, and there is romance, and loyalty, and betrayal. And there are stories, though to anyone but the Nesla even the most convoluted, beautiful novel seems like just a few pungent whiffs, like a subtle, unique taste on the tip of your tongue that describes an entire life, an entire world, without uttering a single word.

Free Range (III)

2011-06-15T12:43:00.000-07:00

“There is no way I am going to even touch that thing,” Minnie growled, making a face like a child.

“Fine, just eat the potatoes and cole slaw,” said her father.

“I need you to finish every bite of slug on that plate,” her mother said menacingly. “Your father spent a long time cooking that and...”

“It was frozen,” Minnie said. “I saw him take it out of the box and throw it in the oven.”

“She's right, it was no trouble,” said her father. “It practically cooked itself. Let the girl eat what she wants.”

“You're not getting up from that table, young lady, until...”

“What am I, six years old? And how many times do I have to tell you, I'm a vegetarian!”

“Well Min, maybe if you'd lived grown up watching your friends and neighbors hauled off in the middle of the night for eating meat, then maybe you'd appreciate having the freedom to eat what you want.”

“Do you even see the irony of what you're saying? said her daughter. I mean, you're totally doing the same thing to me that...”

“Nobody's hauling you off to any nutrition camp, honey.

Her father sliced the gelatinous hunk of Nesla before him. His daughter was right, the meat had come precooked like one of those ancient TV dinners King Arthur used to eat while watching the Armenian Gladiators spar at Cameltoe. He laughed as he pictured it. The past sure had been a strange place! He had always loved learning about the Knights of the Round Table, about how Sir Lancelot Link fell in love with Queen Belvedere, and later killed the poor king in a deadly shuriken battle. Those were the days when men were men and women and...

Is she still carping on that fucking Nesla? he thought, as his wife's wining voice interrupted his imaginings. I knew I should have just brought home some falafel.

“How would you like it,” his daughter was now screaming, “if some aliens came down here to earth and started harvesting us for food?”

“Twilight Zone,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “That happened on the Twilight Zone. You know, that old show narrated by Rod Steiger.”

“God, the man uploads one program on 20th Century Mythology and he thinks he's a god damned perfessor,” sneered his wife.

“Daddy, can I be excused?” asked Minnie.

“Sure you can,” Rick said, keeping one eye cautiously trained on his wife. Lena pressed her lips so tight all the color went out of them but didn't say a word. Rick knew it was going to be a long night.

The service was on for an hour that night, longer than usual, and Rick took advantage of the rare opportunity to watch the daily news program all the way through for once.

There was a news report about a famous chef dying of natural causes, and another about a couple giving birth to their third set of nonuplets.

“Shit,” he said aloud to himself. “That's gotta be rough. Of course, Ann Margaret had that beat by...” he started counting on his fingers but soon gave up, took a swig of beer instead.

His daughter came and tried to flash some images by him but he shushed her until the newscasters were completely naked and the program ended just as the service cut out for the night.

“What is it, honey?” He asked as she perched on the arm of his chair.

“I really don't think we should be eating meat,” she said. “Especially not alien meat. It's not ethical.”

“It's farmed here on Earth, dear,” he said. “Or at least close to earth. But if you don't want to eat meat, that's your choice. I'm not going to force you if you really feel strongly about it.”

“Well, it’s a start. Thanks, Daddy,” said Min, and hopped off the arm of the chair and ran to her room.

The next day at work, Rick felt a strange rumbling in his stomach.

“What'd you have for dinner last night?” asked Mrughad in the next pod.

“I made one of those instant Nesla suppers,” he said.

“Oh, those are great,” said Mrughdad. “They always give me the runs though.”

Sure enough, Rick spent most of the morning squatting on the toilet in the men's room. By the end of the day it had worked its way out of his system though, and that evening, cooking a tofu scramble, he felt fine, aside from a strong (but not irrepressible) urge to kill his wife.

Free Range (II)

2011-06-14T07:36:00.000-07:00

I often remember that conversation with my grandfather even now, years later, and not only because he died a few months after. I'd been scared by the blackout -we weren't used to them in those days, so a complete loss of power was a big, scary event, especially for a sheltered seven year old such as myself. Like he said, he wasn't used to using words -none of us were- and indeed, as soon as the system was back up he finished his story digitally, loading me full of images culled from his archives and carefully arranged in a way that taught as well as entertained.

Grampa was a master of this, after all he was an expert in communication, at least as long as it didn't involve having to open his mouth. Even though it had been years since he'd worked with the Nesla, we still didn't understand them much better than we had when he'd been in active service. By this point nobody was putting any money into research of any kind, much less to study a dull slug on a soggy ball of crud halfway across the galaxy. A bunch of them were being held in captivity, but they were hard to keep alive in our atmosphere.

All through culinary school I liked to joke that when I graduated I was going to open a restaurant specializing in Nesla. Of course by now they had been tasted, fed first to monkeys, who seemed unenthusiastic but unharmed by the meat. Life forms from other worlds have, at times, been used as foodstuffs, but like Gramp said, the Grote Incident really illuminated the dangers of dabbling in interplanetary cuisine. Still, even now, there were some extremely exclusive restaurants in out-of-the-way spots where you could order things -mostly vegetable- that had originated ...well, elsewhere. It was said you could even get Grote on the black market, if you had the money and knew who to ask. Of course, finding someone brave enough to prepare it was a whole other matter.

So even though it was not publicly admitted, and none of the scientific publications made mention of it, I figured that at least one of those scientists out on that asteroid where most of the testing was done must have, at some point, gotten curious enough to fry up a Nesla steak for himself. So even though I was really joking about opening that restaurant, there was a part of me that was genuinely intrigued by the idea. I'm not sure why, except that it seemed like something no one else cared about and therefore could be an easy way to make a name for myself in one of the most cutthroat professions left in a world that had for the most part turned away from competition to become a peaceful machine fueled by equality and cooperation. The food service industry has remained exempt from all this however. You have to have balls of steel to be a chef nowadays, we are considered some of the most ruthless and dangerous people on the planet. Highest death rate of all professions, according to recent studies.

Thanks to money my Grampa's inheritance, which multiplied impressively due to my father's shrewd investments, I actually was able to open my own restaurant after serving as an apprentice for a couple of years for experience. I opened a fine dining establishment in an up-and-coming neighborhood of a major city. The location was excellent and within a few years I had the reputation of running one of the best restaurants in the city. I opened another location across town which also did extremely well. Over the years I turned my brand into a modest franchise, supplemented by the recipe programs I started putting out on a regular basis and leading to regular appearances on all the major news and variety shows. I became known for taking extraordinary ingredients -sometimes things that weren't even considered edible, or even downright poisonous if not prepared properly.

In my efforts to obtain ever more exotic ingredients, I ended up forming relationships with a number of shady characters who trafficked in illegal or, at the very least, legally murky goods. One day one of these nogoodnicks (to anyone not in the know, he appeared to be an ordinary businessman) walked me over to his car and popped open the trunk. You've probably already guessed what was there; a large clear plastic cube, inside of which pulsed a living Nesla. The cube was hooked up to a tiny generator which was apparently helping to circulate Neslan air through it. My initial excitement quickly gave way to practicality.

I thought this was what you wanted, the fence told me in that peculiar mix of images and gestures the lower classes speak in.

One is no good to me, I snarled. Get me another one and we're in business.

According to what I'd learned through my research, it wasn't difficult to breed Nesla, provided you could keep them alive. And if I had a couple of cubes with these generators, I could string them together and keep a sort of aquarium going...

Free Range (I)

2011-06-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

They looked kind of like tongues. When the power comes back on, I'll plug you in and you'll see, but until then... wow, I'm really not used to describing things with words. Guess we've all gotten a little rusty. Bear with me here, kiddo.

So yeah, the biggest adults of the species were about so big, and like I said, they looked sort of like tongues, most of them having little bumps and fleshy growths on their backsides. They looked kind of like something you would have seen in one of our oceans a long time ago, like a sea cucumber or something. There were no oceans on this planet though. Oh, there was plenty of water, but most of it sat in these huge, shallow lakes full of soupy goop. The whole place was a lot hotter than what we're used to, I'll tell you that.

Observing from some light years away in our ship, The Leviticus, the only life we could see were those tongue-things and some smaller, insect-like creatures which were hard to make out with the equipment we had at the time. Later we found out that the place was teeming with microscopic life as well, but the dominant life forms were the Nesla, as we called the tongue creatures. What? No, we came up with it. We still don't know what they call themselves, if anything. The Nesla don't communicate through sound, the only senses they have are of touch and of something which is sort of a combination of taste and smell. Their bodies are covered in two kinds of pores which either exude or absorb substances. They seem at first to operate as simply as a sponge, but when you cut one open you see how complicated they are inside. There are thousands upon thousands of species of Nesla, all of them only distinguishable by the types of chemicals their organs produce.

Science has never really been my strong suit, but I worked very closely with the biologists to get some basic grasp of how they operated, so we could try to communicate with them. I know, right? Here I am now, so out of practice I can barely talk proper, but let me tell you kiddo, at one time your Gramps was one of the most sought-after inter-species communications experts on the planet. Well, not this planet.

Anyways, by the time I arrived they'd been studying the Nesla for years, and had finally determined that they were, in fact, sentient beings, though it was still kind of mysterious as to how that actually worked, seeing as though they possessed a complicated nervous system, there wasn't anything that resembled a brain or control center or anything like that. There were discernible patterns in the way they acted, and reacted to one another, but we were a long way from figuring out the meanings behind their actions. It seemed like there was a possibility that some of their actions were ritualistic, that is, not strictly necessary for survival. For instance, the dancing.

Now, like I said, these creatures had no sight organs that we could tell, so what would be the point of one of them making complicated, repeated movements, sometimes when there were no others present? These "dances" (the term is misleading, since the Nesla, while strong and very flexible, are extremely slow-moving) had been recorded and analyzed and broken down into patterns of movement, but any reasons behind the actions remained strictly guesswork. We started keeping specimens in captivity -the Nesla are remarkably easy to capture, having no defenses that are harmful to humans- and analyzing their secretions and watching how they exchanged them with one another. They don't have sexual organs, but they do reproduce by exchanging...

what's that? Are you serious? I don't know what they taste like, we didn't eat them, for Christ's sake. We're not savages, this isn't the 17th century, where we just go traipsing into the wilds like we own the place, eating anything that crosses our path and shitting it back out all over the goddamn landscape. This is a whole other inhabited world! It doesn't belong to us! I mean, after all these years, we haven't even set foot on Nes's surface. Besides, we learned a lot from that whole thing with the Grotes. What a... what? You don't know anything about the... well what do they teach you kids these days? The Grote Panic wasn't even that long ago. I'm going to have to take a look at that program, I can't believe they wouldn't... I agree, this is the longest power outage we've had in a long time. I assume you've been programmed for pinochle, at least? Well thank God for small favors. You want to deal?

The End of the Affair

2006-08-14T21:57:00.000-07:00

He’d had his suspicions for quite some time, but he considered himself a fairly level-headed human being, so he didn’t say anything to her about it. She’d grown distant, like there was something –or someone- else on her mind.

Are you ok? he’d ask. Is everything ok?

I’m fine, she’d answer. Everything is fine. Why do you keep asking me that?

You think she’s cheating? his friends would ask.

I have no proof of anything, he’d say. But yes, I think she’s cheating on me.

She had never been a large girl but she put on the typical pounds after the marriage. Now though as the months wore on her once tight slacks hung loosely from her belt, her dresses hanging like sacks on her diminishing frame. She was eating more than ever though, and her diet became more carnivorous. Slabs of pork, hunks of roast beef; meals seemed to take forever as she heaped seconds and thirds of the fattiest, greasiest flesh he'd ever seen onto her plate. Where’s it all going, he thought, watching as she carefully chewed every morsel. The same place her affection had, maybe. Some deep hole like an endless well inside her. He felt like he himself was standing on the edge of it and could not see the bottom.

I’m going to pack it in early tonight honey, he’d say.

I’ll be there eventually she’d say without looking up from her book.

She never left the house nights. If she was seeing someone else, it had to be during the day, when he was at work. He made a mental list of all her male acquaintances and friends and one by one dismissed each as being too unlikely. It had to be someone he didn’t know.

Finally one night he could take the tension no longer.

There’s another man, he said to her at the dinner table.

No there’s not, she said calmly, as if she’d been expecting the statement. Her voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. He believed her.

You seem depressed, he said, trying another tack.

Actually I’m not, she said, helping herself to thirds. I’m not depressed at all.

That night he went to bed before she did but in the middle of the night got up to use the bathroom. As he passed the living room he could hear her whispering.

It’s alright, my love. He doesn’t know.

He stepped into the living room. She looked up at him from the couch. She wasn’t on the phone and he couldn’t see anyone else in the room.

Oh no, he thought. She’s talking to herself. She’s gone crazy.

He felt strangely relieved.

Honey, he asked gently, squatting on the ottoman, is there anything you want to tell me?

Her face was hard, her eyes cold and angry.

I’m leaving you, she said.

He was taken aback. He had expected some kind of outburst, the kind that spews from lunatics in the movies, but he hadn’t expected this. Her voice was too quiet, her words too calculated.

What are you talking about? he said with a nervous little smile that he couldn’t help.

I’ve found someone else, she said. He noticed that her hands were placed protectively across her stomach, as if she was pregnant. He knew she wasn’t pregnant though.

Wh-who is it? he asked, not sure if he really wanted to know. You said there wasn’t another man…

There’s not, she said quietly. It’s not a man.

His mind raced. So she’s become a lesbian… well, it happens…

She seemed to read his thoughts and shook her head.

It’s not a woman, either. I know you won’t understand and that’s why I didn’t want to say anything.

She paused as he sat there in dreadful expectation. She sighed then spoke with reluctance.

You see, I’ve got a tapeworm. I don’t know where I got it from, probably on that trip we took to Venezuela for our anniversary. Anyways, I can’t explain these feelings because it sounds really weird and messed up and it doesn’t make any sense I know but… well, we’re in love.

She was insane. Obviously.

You’ve got to be kidding, he said thickly. You’re in love with your tapeworm. She just looked at him and smiled weakly.

I know, it really sounds crazy doesn’t it? At first I was just annoyed, knowing that thing was growing in there, without my permission. But… I can’t really explain what’s changed. Just having someone so close… someone who’s always there… inside of you. It… he… doesn’t hurt me any. And you know, they can live for twenty years. I… I want to try to make this work between he and I. I really am in love. She paused and looked him in the eye for the first time.

I’m sorry.

She stood up and went into the other room and when she returned she was holding a manila envelope. She undid the flap and slid out the doctor’s report and handed it to him.

I’m not crazy, she repeated. As if a doctor’s report could make it any less crazy. All the report said was that she had a tapeworm. The doctor had given her some medicine to kill it but she hadn’t taken it. She’d flushed the medicine down the hopper instead.

They sat and talked about it as if it was a completely normal problem: as if she had banged up the car, or had lost her purse with all her credit cards, or had to have her appendix removed. He urged her to seek psychiatric help and of course she refused. She was calm. They were both calm. The next day, she said, she was leaving. She didn’t need much. He could keep everything.

As dawn’s weak blue light began to glow through the curtains, they finally retired. They both felt they had done all they could, said all there was to say. She curled up on her side of the bed facing away from him and promptly fell asleep.

This is our final night together, he thought as he lay there, trying to make the knowledge sink in. He knew in his heart that nothing he said would change her mind. Crazy or not, she was really leaving.

He thought of the thing that was living inside of her, feeding off of her. He knew it was irrational, that she was just really crazy (how could someone love a worm? Especially one that is busy feeding off your very body?) but he still felt angry at the worm; for making her so cold and remote, for making her turn against him. For making her leave. That little fucking parasite… the thing doesn’t even have the self-respect to grow itself a real body with functioning organs… no, it’s perfectly happy to feed off of a poor defenseless woman…

He looked at his wife lying beside him, her lovely smooth shoulders, her pale form heaving gently. She’d kicked off the covers. He felt himself aroused by her for the first time in months. A worm. I’m competing with a fucking worm. He almost laughed at how ridiculous it sounded but instead he slipped off his pajama pants and snuggled up against her.

Mmmf, she mumbled heavily from her sleep. What are you doing.

He was pulling up her nightgown.

Quit it, she muttered, pushing him away.

She tried to pull her nightgown back down but he grabbed her wrist tight. She was suddenly awake. He cupped his hand over her mouth. He shoved her onto her stomach -not that gently because she was tense and struggling now- and thrust himself into her from behind. She tried to cry out and he pulled his hand away from her mouth to let her; no one was around to hear anyways. And even though he knew it wasn’t true, even though he knew it was a little bit crazy to even think it, he imagined that if he went deep enough he’d feel that little worm, he’d surprise that fucking worm where he lived, and when he did he was going to give the little bastard the pounding of his life.

Agents of Change (The World According to Toxoplasma Gondii)

2006-08-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

(Note: Toxoplasma gondii is a parasite similar to the one that causes malaria and its life cycle also involves an interspecies method of transmission. Toxoplasma spreads itself using mice and rats, who become carriers by accidentally ingesting its spores. The hatched parasite changes the rodent’s brain chemistry to make the host less responsive to the scent of cat urine. At the same time the parasite causes increased physical activity and manic behavior in the rat, improving the odds that it will recklessly run across the path of a feline and therefore get eaten. Once the mouse is devoured, the parasite lives in the cat’s guts where it releases its spores, which are then shed with the feline’s feces.

Humans can become infected with Toxoplasma through contact with the cat’s feces. Though the parasite is usually harmless, pregnant women and people with immune deficiencies such as AIDS are susceptible to toxoplasmosis, which in its most acute form has been known to cause hallucinations and symptoms of schizophrenia.

It is estimated that at least 40 to 60% of the world’s population is infected with Toxoplasma gondii.)

I.

Yeah, I know it’s a mouthful. You can call me TG for short, all my friends do. Now you are probably wondering what kinds of friends could a guy like me have, anyways? Not many, to be honest. I’m not the most popular intracellular parasite on the block, I admit. But since I’m here, we may as well do our best to get along.

Besides, we can help each other. Oh, I know what you're thinking; “I’m the one providing the room and board, what could this guy possibly offer me in return?” Well, judging by the looks of things around here, I'm going to guess that you don't entertain too many visitors. It must get pretty lonely, living in a big place all like this by yourself. Oh, I don’t count the cats; even you know in your heart they’re not much comfort when it comes right down to it.

I've been around for quite a while, you know, and in all that time I’ve amassed quite a few stories. It might be nice to have someone else to talk to other than yourself for a change. It's not like I take up much space. And you won't have to spend anything extra on groceries. You’ll hardly even know I’m here.

And I suspect we have more in common than you think. We're both motivated by the same thing: neither of us wants to be the last of the species. That's why we keep reproducing; continuing even when there doesn't seem to be a reason to continue. I mean, look at you: you must be due soon. And I assume there’s no man of the house. So why are you having this baby? Loneliness? No, you're just like everybody else: you're programmed to continue the species. It's natural. Well, that's all I'm doing too: following my programming, continuing my species. So what if I don't have a body like you do, made out of cells and all. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, I’ve done fine without one. But who are you to be so stingy? You've got millions of cells, surely you can spare a few. I mean, you have cells you're never going to use. I mean, I want to have kids too... not too many mind you, a few hundred million is all anyone should ever have, what with overpopulation in the world today. There really should be stricter rules on such things in this country.

Actually, I wonder sometimes if there isn’t more to life than just this “Go Forth and Multiply” bullshit. In fact, there was a long period where I just wanted to give up, I mean, really give up. It's hard when you're nearly indestructible though. Hurling yourself off a cliff only helps if you have a body to get smashed at the bottom, and starving oneself to death is harder than it seems when you don’t' really EAT anything. I decided the best thing I could do was just not reproduce, stop this stupid cycle once and for all. I felt useless. I thought what the hell do I contribute to the world other than population control? Besides, seeing how hostile the world was turning out to be, I didn't think that overpopulation would ever pose much of a problem. Well, what do I know?

This is where I have to give you humans credit: you gave me a reason to keep on living. Everyone needs a purpose. You guys gave me the challenge I needed. Of course, you guys didn’t pose many problems at first, you were just another bunch of stinky apes (no offence). You even had some charming qualities, like your insatiable curiosity, and your tendency to tell stories. And overpopulation wasn't really an issue until recently. We were pretty much content to ignore you. Oh, sure, from time to time we’d initiate a plague or two, but that was more to keep you from getting cocky than anything. I’m sure you understand. It’s nothing personal.

But then you started trying to wipe us out. I mean, with your science, your antibiotics, you were the first ones to really fight back. At first we were taken by surprise. I mean, here was this relatively soft, easily manipulated creature that all of a sudden was packing heat… we recovered though, and in fact some of us were pretty excited by the prospect of finally having a worthy adversary. It meant something we hadn’t seen for billions of years: It meant war. And just like you, we love a good war.

Your resilience forced us to find a million different ways of breaching your defenses. Your medicines and antibacterial soaps and healing ointments and whatnot all just meant we had to buckle down and get creative. I’ll admit I’m rather proud of my own little method of infiltration, convoluted though it may seem. No, I won't tell you how I do it! …Who do you think I am, the villain in some bad spy picture who gives away his secrets just before trying to kill the agent? I don’t think so! Maybe when we know each other better, maybe then I’ll tell you. Oh, don’t be afraid: I’m not implying that I’m planning on killing you or anything. You’re much more valuable to me alive. I will tell you that my modus operandi involves a rather ingenious series of species-hopping maneuvers… zoonosis, I believe you people call it. But I’ve already said too much…

Oh my, look at you; you look exhausted. I must be wearing you out with my droning on and on; you should really lie down, get some rest. After that we’ll have some supper; after all, you’re eating for two now. I mean three.

I have a feeling that you and I are going to be very, very close for a long time, my pet. In the words of some famous human actor (forgive me, I don’t have much of a head for names), “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Agents of Change II

2006-08-14T18:14:00.000-07:00

“Don't eat it,” Ezra said. “I think it's bad. Besides, we don’t know where it came from.”

Since when did that ever stop you? I thought bitterly. I figured he just wanted it for himself, would sneak back here after dawn and nibble away. I loved Ezra, but he was pretty selfish, and not the brightest mouse on the block. Fuck that, it wasn't poisoned. Sure it smelled a little rancid, but I could overlook that. Food had been scarce lately, ever since that guy had started coming over, spending nights with our dear landlord. She seemed to be keeping the house cleaner than usual, no doubt in an attempt to impress him. Hell, I did the same thing when I was courting Ezra.

So I ate it the rancid, rotting piece of whatever it was. Ezra just shrugged and scampered off.

"See you back at the hole," he called as he left, his whiskers twitching.

That night I had a dream. I don't dream often, and when I do they're usually pretty simple affairs: the snap of a trap, being caught in an endless maze...this one was different though. I was lying in my nest of shredded paper in the bedroom of the burrow when E. came in. His whiskers were bright and quivering and his tail was sleek. He had a seductive twinkle in his eye and when he kissed me his breath smelled like gorgonzola. We made love frantically. In the dream I awoke the next day and nudged E awake. He turned sleepily towards me but instead of his lovely little pointed nose, he had the face of a cat... I screamed as he showed his teeth and snarled, but instead of eating me he just nipped me playfully and before I knew it we were at it again...

I awoke squeaking frantically. Ezra tried to calm me down but I couldn't get back to sleep.

The following night we went out foraging again as usual. Ezra found a nice little chunk of something and we set to munching. Suddenly he lifted his nose and sniffed the air.

”I smell something,” he said. I sniffed too; faint but familiar. He started to shiver.

”It's a cat,” he said. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

Usually the scent of cat was enough to send me scampering for the hole without a second thought. This was a strong odor, to be sure, pungent and slightly sweet, but it aroused no fear in my brain. That’s no cat, I said, but Ezra was staring at something behind me. He seemed to be frozen in place.

I turned around. Sure enough, there was the cat, across the room, standing stock still and staring right at us, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“RUN!” Ezra squeaked. We made a dash for it and the cat unfroze. Luckily we were close to the hole and seconds later we were safe inside, our lungs heaving.

The following night Ez was too scared to go out. “It’s still out there,” he said. “I can fucking smell it.” I could smell it too but instead of fear I felt a strange sense of exhilaration, of excitement. I paced manically around the burrow.

Ezra just watched. "What the hell has gotten into you?" he asked irritably.

I told him I just didn't know. I didn't. I couldn't stop moving. I was fidgety, manic. I suddenly started to laugh and grabbed him by the ear.

"Come on, let's go for a run!" I squealed.

"Oh, well you know, I'd love to, hon, but there’s that little matter of there being a fucking CAT out there, and I'm really not feeling all that suicidal right now, thank you very much..."

"Oh, come on! There's nothing to be afraid of, scaredy cat!" I ran to the edge of the hole. The feline stench was overpowering.

"Don't do it. Please... " he made as if to stop me but just stood there looking helpless. He looked so forlorn, my heart went out to him.

“Okay, Ez. I’ll stay in tonight.” He was visibly relieved and he immediately perked up.

“I think that’s a good idea, really. He’ll get sick of waiting. We’ll forage tomorrow night.”

We tried to stave our hunger with a few stale rinds stashed away for just such an occasion. Although I didn’t say anything, my stomach rumbled with dissatisfaction all day.

The following night the cat smell was stronger than ever: the beast had apparently marked his territory, spraying all over the outside of the hole. The combination of the smell and his own hunger put Ezra a little bit on edge. I felt more wired than ever.

“What the hell has gotten into you!” he finally snapped as I dashed for the twentieth time from the nesting area into the main burrow.

“I don’t know!” I said, trying to hold still. The truth was, other than my hunger, I felt better than I had in my life. “I’ve just got all this energy. The cat’s gotta be asleep by now, don’t you think? I’m going out for food. You’re afraid, you stay here. I’ll bring something back for you.”

He was silent for a moment; I could tell he didn’t like it. But he was hungry. And I was driving him nuts.

“Ok, go. But for pete’s sake, just be careful.”

I laughed again, ran up to him and gave him a peck on the cheek with my snout.

"I'll be careful, hon. I promise." And without another word, I dashed out.

Agents of Change III

2006-08-14T18:13:00.000-07:00

III.

I hate people. I mean, who doesn't? Even most people hate people, why should I be any different? I know what you're going to say: that I'm a hypocrite, that I spend all my time around people and have become totally dependent on them... and if I protest, you'll no doubt mention the purring and the rolling onto my back to provide easy access to the soft fur on my belly... mmm, that would be good right now... but bellyrubs or no bellyrubs, canned food or no canned food, most humans are idiots.

Take the one I live with for example. She drives me nuts. At first it wasn't too bad, just her and me sharing this big old house. But then she started seeing this guy and he started coming by all the time, taking up all her attention and horning in on my territory. He didn't care for cats too much; claimed to be allergic or some such nonsense, so she started spending her nights at his place, dumping piles of food in my dish to tide me over until morning.

And then to make matters worse, she would sometimes forget to feed me altogether. I had no choice but to fall back on my admittedly rather neglected hunting instincts. Which brings me to one of the reasons we've always stuck close by you humans: you really know how to attract the vermin.

Well, not surprisingly, the relationship didn't last long. He dumped her, and who can blame him? She was well past her prime looks-wise, and tended to be a little obsessive. When she began crocheting for example; she spent all this time and money on books, classes, only the most expensive yarns. It was all she would talk about all day, ideas she had for gifts for people... and there were so few people in her life, I can only imagine. Before he came along she rarely even left the house.

She was miserable for a while, poor creature. For my part, I did my best to try to cheer her up; I mean, what greater comfort can there be than a cat curled up behind your neck as you sleep? It didn’t seem to help much though. It wasn't long before she began collecting kittens. Every week there’d be a new little ball of fur to compete with, share food with, and try to teach to stay the hell out of my way. Whereas I once had been king of the castle, I now became just another inmate. In just a few months the feline population of the household skyrocketed from one to 23. It doesn't take a psychoanalyst to figure out that she missed him and was trying to compensate for his absence.

I also noticed that even though she didn't seem to be eating much (of course we try to pay close attention to the humans’ eating habits... ah, the table scraps! Sweet manna from heaven!), she seemed to be getting larger. I'd never had it happen before but I knew what it meant: she was going to have a litter. Just great, I thought. As her belly expanded, it was harder for her to get around, especially to clean up after us. The whole house was a mess. There was even a brief outbreak of fleas. God I fucking hate fleas. And as much as I love my own smell, even I have to admit, those litter boxes got pretty rank after a couple of weeks of neglect. They don’t scoop themselves, you know.

I wasn't feeling all that hot myself at the time. Although we were getting fed with more regularity, I'd apparently never mastered the transition from eating game back to kibble. I'd been just about to swear off live food anyways, after that one mouse; it'd been acting crazy, dashing around between my legs like it had no fear of me... it freaked me out, something wasn’t natural about it, but eventually I let it wear itself out and with one swipe ended its antics. I had barely finished eating when I started to feel a little queasy. My head started to spin and my bowels felt like they were going to explode. I’d never felt so sick in my life. Right then and there I swore off mice, and luckily for me (perhaps seeing the awful mess that was emanating uncontrollably from my nether regions at regular intervals on the carpet) the very next day she initiated a regular feeding schedule again, to my great relief.

So soon she’ll pop out her kittens, and let me tell you, if there’s one thing I hate more than humans, it’s baby humans. They’re like fucking parasites, just laying around helpless for months, screaming to be fed… let me tell you, if my kittens tried to get away with that, they’d be dead within a week.

Don’t you worry your little head though; I’d be perfectly able to fend for myself even if the kibble fountain ever stops flowing for good. I’m a terrific hunter. Don’t believe me? Why, I could leap right off this pillow and go catch you a fine specimen of whatever small rodent you pleased right now, if I really wanted to. I don’t feel the need to prove anything to YOU, though.

Me need humans? Don’t make me laugh. I could give them up any time I wanted to. Seriously.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a box of litter awaiting my undivided attention.

Agents of Change IV

2006-08-14T18:11:00.000-07:00

IV.

"Please Kay, please just leave me alone. I'm fine. Really. I'm fine, the baby's going to be fine, everything's going to be just fine. I'm just really emotional right now and I need to be alone for a while."

"But El, I can’t help it. I’m your sister and I..."

"I know, I heard you the first time: you love me, you care about me, yadda yadda yadda. But I'm asking you, please. Leave me the hell alone."

I slam down the phone. Instead of feeling angry I feel exhilarated, like I've had ten cups of coffee. Of course I haven't: the best thing about this whole situation was that it got me to give up caffeine and alcohol. Despite this I feel like a basket case. Hormones, no doubt.

If only Jeff hadn’t left. The son of a... no, don't think about that. I look down and notice that my hands are clenched into tight fists.

I take a deep breath and exhale, smiling. Ivan is standing at me feet, looking up at me with a quizzical expression. I reach down to scritch him under the chin and Dmitri instantly jumps off his stool and rus over, jealous, and curls himself around my calves. I gently toe him away and head for the kitchen cabinet to get the kibble. Multiple thumps echo from the other rooms as the others, hearing the rustle of the bag, stamped into the kitchen. The feeding frenzy. This is my favorite part of the day; there's something so comforting about standing in a sea of furry bodies, all of them dependent on you. I don’t' know what I’d do without them.

The funny thing is, I’ve never really liked cats all that much. I never hated them as much as Jeff did; he could barely stand coming over because of Ivan, said he creeped him out. He claimed that he’d wake up in the middle of the night and Ivan would be sitting on his chest just staring at him. “That fucking cat’s out to get me, El,” he’d say. Oh, if he could only see the place now!

I smile and automatically rub my hand over my protruding tummy. I am rewarded by a tiny kick from inside. Thump. Thump. Thump. I need to lie down, I suddenly feel a headache coming on...

The ringing phone wakes me up. It's Kay again. I let the machine pick it up.

"Hey El, it's me again." A long pause. "I'm sorry, I know you need your space and all. I'm just worried about you is all. You know how big sisters get. I..." I pick up the phone.

"El, I 'm sorry. I just wanted to bring you some groceries. I won't stay long, I promise..."

I sight. “Ok. Come on over. But do it now before I change my mind!” I hang up the phone and lay back down.

Our other sisters were smart; they moved halfway across the country to get way from this town we grew up in. Not Kay and I; she got married and moved into a house a block away from the one we were raised in. I didn't get much further than that myself, but I comfort myself with knowing my zip code at least is different.

I get off the bed to await my sister. I pick up Fyodor and kiss his little paws. He spreads his clawless toes, though whether in annoyance or acceptance I can’t tell. I think about my own hands, how much difference it makes having just that one opposable digit… what mischief Fyodor would get into if he had a furry little thumb! Maybe cats would rule the earth instead of us humans…I release him and he runs off to attend to whatever mysterious business it is that cats attend to when we’re not watching. Probably just a nap.

I gaze down at my own hands. They look old. You’re getting old, Ellen. Their backs are crisscrossed with faint scratches and scars from the times I spent attempting interfere in various feline squabbles. I should know better by now to just let them sort things out for themselves...

I think about how Jeff used to run his fingers over my hands, tracing the bulging blue veins, saying they reminded him of rivers. I’ve got to stop thinking about him. I don’t know how to.

An hour later Kay comes in, her arms loaded down with brown bags. She refuses to let me help beyond opening the refrigerator door. I smile weakly but don’t say anything, struggling to seem more grateful than I feel for her unsolicited charity.

When everything’s put away we stand there awkwardly in the kitchen. I can tell she wants to talk. I desperately want her to leave.

Finally I break the silence.

"So, umm… do you want some iced tea or something?"

She looks both terrified and relieved by my offer. "I'd love some iced tea, thanks."

She sits carefully down at the table. I notice that she keeps wrinkling her nose; I’ve left the basement door open a crack: I guess the smell for the litter boxes down there is pretty strong. I hardly notice it anymore. I shut the cellar door and make a big production of rummaging around in the cupboards to look for the powdered iced tea mix that I know must be in there somewhere.

"I'm worried about you, El," she says. "I know you don't want to hear it, but I had to say something. Mom's worried, I'm worried... I mean, I know it's hard, I know you miss that prick Jeff...”

"Jeff who?" I break open a packet of tea powder and pour it into a jug of water. Slowly I start to stir it in with Grandma’s big wooden spoon.

Kay sighs. "It's not going to be easy raising this little guy on your own, you know. You need to remember that Cal and I are here for you if you need any help. Really."

"I know." I do my best to keep the exasperation from creeping into my voice. Stirring, stirring. The powder stubbornly swirls into floating clumps on the surface of the water. I keep trying to get it to sink, to dissolve.

"This is really hard for me to say, El, but... well, Cal and I think maybe you should get some help. You know, professional help. Mom and I have talked about it too; you know how depressed she was when Dad…"

As she’s going on and on about the benefits of psychotherapy and antidepressants, I think about all the things I haven’t told her about. The mood swings, the thickness in my head and throat, the dizzy spells. The shortness of breath. The blackouts. And I certainly haven’t told her about the voices.

It’s usually late at night that I hear them. Sometimes it's dad talking to me, though it's been fifteen years since the crash. One time it was Tommy Gladstone, who I had a crush on in the 3rd grade; who knows why he was suddenly in my head, but there he was, with that lisp of his as strong as ever.

Most of the time I’ve been hearing the voice of this one guy I don’t know. He calls himself “Toxic Gandhi” or something. He talks about all kinds of deep stuff I haven’t thought about since I stopped going to church years ago: the beginning of time, the creator, the meaning of life, and most of all, death. He’s obsessed with death. He's interesting, though, and he tells me weird stories, and sometimes I forget that I'm just lying there talking to myself, that there isn't really anyone else there at all.

“I mean, come on, El,” my sister is saying, “even you have to admit that you’ve been acting just a teeny bit crazy lately!”

Clutching the jug with both hands I hurl its contents at her. The cold tea water hits her right in the face with what seems like a deafening splash.

She stands there looking shocked and gasping as icy water streams from her hair and down her cheeks, darkening her sweat suit.

"You... what the... what the fuck, El! I mean… what the fuck! What are you.. why do you... I'm just fucking trying to help you! I'm just fucking trying to help!"

She starts to cry. I grab a towel from the sink and gently pat her hair dry with it as she breaks down.

"It's just that you've been acting so... so fucking crazy! I don’t know how to help you! I don’t know what’s wrong with you!"

From every room of the house, the cats have arrived and have started lapping at the spilled water drips from her clothes into a puddle on the linoleum.

"And all these fucking cats!" she screams. “Why the hell do you have so many fucking cats?”

She starts kicking them gently away but they keep circling right back undaunted. I just keep patting her hair with the damp towel. Something inside me kicks, kicks again. It’s ok, little one, I think. It’s ok.

Finally I can’t hold it in anymore and I burst out laughing. She just stares at me and grabs the towel out of my hands, roughly wiping her face. She throws it at me. I just keep laughing and laughing. It’s not that funny, I hear him say, and as usual he’s right but I just keep laughing even though I don’t know why. Eventually I hear him start to chuckle too, and then all of us are laughing together, one big happy family, and I feel like we’re never going to stop.

2006-07-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

2006-07-17T14:30:00.001-07:00

2006-07-17T14:30:00.000-07:00

Fast Food Chain (Are We There Yet?)

2006-07-13T15:34:00.000-07:00

The high beams are on but they hardly cut through the wall of pounding rain. The windshield is a solid blur. I'm driving much too fast, counting on the straightness of the highway to keep me from flying off the road into the night. It's been miles since I've seen a town or sign or even another car. I feel like I’m starving and I curse my own weakness: the croissant I had for breakfast is ancient history as far as my stomach is concerned. Gone are the days when I could go weeks without feeding. Now I can hardly get through the day without gorging myself three or four times.

The car heater is broken and I am sprayed with water dripping in through the lowered window. I had to roll it down a crack; the smell from the body in the back seat was overpowering.

The body. Every time I’m reminded of it I instantly try to swing my mind away. The drive is numbing, it's easy to lose track of time: I feel like I've been driving for days instead of hours. The rain. The body…

Think about something else.

The rain and damp remind me of the days of the great death, or one of the great deaths I should say. Not the worst one but by far the most sudden and dramatic. We had grown so big by then, that when the bodies started falling, the very atmosphere grew thick with the stench of rot. The weather patterns had been drastically altered by The Accident and it was always raining; a foul, poisonous discharge that seemed to burn one's hide. There was meat everywhere but it was diseased, so those of us poor predators left alive were always starving. There was no guarantee that the next meal you ate would not be infected.

Trying to escape the pestilence as well as the stinging rain, I reared up on my hind legs and headed for the coast, following it south. The sky was always dark with ash and icy winds blew in from the ocean. I survived on fish (who seemed immune to the plague) until finally they retreated to warmer waters. Crazed with hunger, I barreled along mindlessly through the rain, just like I am now, hoping to, desperate for some morsel, no matter how foul.

Then I saw it; an enormous sea creature, even larger than I was, beached in the filthy surf. Its eyes were closed but its belly was still heaving slowly in and out. I was too far gone to worry about the risk of getting sick ; I tore into its belly with my long sharp incisors.

I immediately began to spit and gag: instead of a mouthful of juicy organs I had bitten into a mass of fat pale worms. Thousands of them. They poured out of the fresh gash and spilled onto the wet sand, wriggling madly. I recoiled in disgust; the poor reptile had probably been eaten alive from the inside by these repulsive parasites. I shambled away from the corpse and continued on into the stormy night, my appetite forgotten.

I am broken out of my trance by a thousand eyes suddenly staring at me from the dark; a single pair of headlights has become refracted by the one thousand droplets edging their way down the windshield. Like the tiny creatures that used to hide in the bushes when I'd thunder past, thinking I couldn't see them, when in reality I just didn’t want to bother with so insubstantial a meal. Besides, those little buggers were fast; you could give yourself a heart attack trying to chase down what barely amounted to an hors d’oeurves. That was back when food was plentiful, when I could afford to be fussy. Back when you couldn’t hurl a bone without hitting some stupid lumbering entree in the head.

A sign glows in the darkness; the rain has slowed, though my driving has not. It’s the first sign I've seen in miles: gas food lodging. I take the exit and find my self in the midst of a small cluster of buildings; a motel, a fast food joint, two gas stations. The brightly lit Brontosaurus stares down at me reproachfully from the top of the Sinclair station. I give it the finger and pull into the drive thru of the fast food place.

“Can I help you?” a pubescent voice crackles from the tinny speaker. I scream my order into microphone and glide up to the pick up window. I’m the only one in line this time of night. Parking in the farthest corner of the lot, I open the paper bag and pull out my burger, wrapped loosely in greasy waxed paper. Ravenous, I tear into it, barely pausing to chew.

I suddenly feel something other than meat or bun or pickle slip down my gullet. I instinctively start to gag. Something small and sharp lodges itself deep in the back of my throat; I can neither swallow nor spit it out. Bastards with their cheap processed crap meat… I feel myself losing air; I try to slam myself on the back…

I glance into the back seat and see that the sheet has slipped from your head. Your dead eye is staring right at me… “Can’t you see I’m fucking dying here!” I try to yell, but all that comes out is a choked gurgle.

With one final whack on the back I burp deep inside and the foreign object comes flying out onto the seat beside me. I sit back onto the vinyl and heave deep breaths, filling my lungs with sweet, sweet air.

After a few minutes I’m breathing normally again. I pick up and inspect the tiny object I’ve dislodged. It’s not a bone as I’d expected but a U-shaped sliver of plastic, an unidentifiable part to some nameless machine, perhaps. I think about marching right in there to complain to the pimply teenager working the counter, or demanding to see his paunchy, middle-aged supervisor who would no doubt stare at me with barely-concealed contempt and apathy… ah, what good would it do. I flick the plastic U out the window and stare out through the windshield at the rain, which has slowed considerably.

In the back seat the body stirs, or I think it does, and I could swear I hear you murmur, “Are we there yet, baby?”

I turn around; your head is propped up on your elbow, your hair a rat’s nest from sleep.

“Not yet, baby,” I say. “You hungry at all? We’ve still got a long ways to go.”

Smiling, you shake your head and pull the sheet back up over your face. Once again the body is still. The smell is unbearable. I turn the key in the ignition and we drive off once more into the insatiable night.

2006-07-10T16:44:00.000-07:00

2006-07-10T14:48:00.000-07:00

2006-07-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

The Starfish

2006-07-10T00:17:00.000-07:00

Hi, I’m Tim Huxley and tonight on Hollywood InSight we’ll be talking to actor Seth Urschleim, star of such films as "The World Explodes on Sunday" and "Flubber BC". Always good to have you back on the show, Seth.

Thanks, Tim. Before I begin let me say hi to the most beautiful woman in the biosphere, the love of my life, Shelly, who's stood beside me through sickness and health. It's good to be in the states again, Tim. I feel like I haven't been in California in a stone's age. It's great to see that LA hasn’t broken off into the ocean yet.

No, we’re all still waiting. Now, I understand you've spent the last few months on the Australian coast doing some post production work on your latest film, 'The Slime Net" which is due out by Christmas.

If all goes well, yes, we've got a Christmas release planned.

Let’s talk a little bit about how this project evolved; this is your first shot at directing, is it not?

Yeah. I wrote, directed and am starring in the film. So, you know, if you hate my work, you'll really want to miss this one.

First of all, tell our viewers about the title. What the heck IS a "slime net", anyways?

Well, you know, a long time ago... there are probably a few old timers out there who remember... many of us lived in these loosely-connected communities called slime nets. We’d float along in threads in the stagnant water, more than individual cells but less than…

I hate to interrupt, but when you say "we", who do you talking about?

Oh, I don’t want to name any names. Like I said: old timers. You know who you are. Anyways, this film is based on my own childhood memories of growing up in this seaside community. Oh, and it's also a love story. So bring a date!

So it really is a return to your roots.

Well, roots hadn’t developed yet back then, but I get what you're saying and yes, it's a real slither down memory lane. So to speak.

Now this film is being billed as a "science fiction romance". Care to elaborate on that at all?

I think it's pretty self-explanatory. For now let me just say that I think there’s something in it for everyone. And yes, there’ll be sex.

Speaking of which, I've heard a rumor that your lovely wife, Shelly Blight, who of course plays opposite you as the romantic lead gets pretty, er, exposed in one scene...

Yeah. There’s some pretty graphic mitosis to be sure. We had to tone it down a little to get the R rating, but it's still pretty racy. I won't give away any details but I don’t think you’ll be looking at Linckia laevigata the same after seeing this film.

So there are some pretty juicy scenes left on the cutting room floor is what you’re telling me. Are we ever going to see any of that footage? Or do I have to beg?

You’ll just have to wait for the DVD release to see if we decide to add any of the “extras”.

You bastard. Now, there are some pretty high expectations surrounding this picture. Are you at all worried that it won't be well received?

Well, fortunately I've been much to busy to obsess about stuff like that. I think if I really thought about it I'd probably have a nervous breakdown. And any time I do get worried I just think about how lucky I am to have the most beautiful woman in the world standing beside me through all of this.

You've always been very open about the fact that you started out your career in... well, in let's just say an industry that's not as well respected as the one you're involved with now...

It's alright, Tim, I don't mind talking about it. Besides, I think just about everyone knows by now that I started my career in the porn industry. They used to call me "The Starfish."

I'm almost afraid to ask, but I'll bite... why "The Starfish"?

Well, you know how a starfish has five appendages. Well, the idea was that I had my two arms and two legs and... I'll let you guess the fifth one.

No wonder you were so successful. And I know that your involvement in porn goes way back, back before anyone else I know can remember. So I guess what I'm really curious about, and again tell me if I'm overstepping my boundaries here, but I've always been curious about what the porn industry was like before… uh…

Before what?

You know. Before...

Oh! Before sex! No, it's a good question because a lot of people assume that before sex there was no porn, and it's just not true. It was a lot different, though. First of all, regarding reproduction in general: since there was only one participant involved, it was a lot safer than it is now. None of this worrying about AIDS and other diseases; the diseases obviously didn't exist, and even if they did, there was no way of transmitting them. A lot of us were viruses anyways. Second of all, there was a different international distribution system than there is now, but I won’t bore you with the details.

And this was when, back in…

The Protoerozoic eon. Some people call it the “proto erotic” eon. For obvious reasons.

You know, I thought you were kidding when you used to say you've been around since the dawn of show business, but now I see you meant it.

Listen, Tim. The entertainment industry has been around a lot longer than you and I, and will be around long after we've gone up to that big old Petri dish high above our heads.

You mean the Hollywood Hills? Hell, last time I was up there I ended up puking my guts out into Tonya Reynolds' begonias. What a nightmare. But I digress… was there ever really much of a market for asexual pornography?

Oh yeah. Even now, I mean it's a small audience but they still buy a surprising amount of meiosis video. Budders and Splitters we call them. There's all kinds out there, as you and I both know.

Which leads me to a rather awkward subject… you were surprisingly open about your own deviancy hearings last year. Someone would have to be living under a rock not to have heard about the charges leveled against you by the media, charges of... well, you know...

You can say it, Tim. By now everyone knows I was found guilty of a number of charges including Invertebraphilia.

So is that what they call it when…

Right, it’s exactly what you think it is: sex with an invertebrate. Or as in my case, a large number of invertebrates. I won't try to defend myself but I will say that it was all by mutual consent and it was always safe. And that I’ve sought professional help and been through rehab and the whole nine yards. I’m really trying hard to put all that behind me now. It was a real dark period in my life.

You've received quite a bit of for this little, er, “habit” of yours. In fact you had a lot of trouble finding a studio to back "The Slime Net" because of it. How do you explain your… condition to people?

Well, you know Tim, I just explain that it's an addiction like any other. I hope people can forgive me and don’t hold my mistakes against me. My friends have all been great (a shout out to Martin and Frankie, you guys are the best!). Being in the porn industry for so long, let me tell you, you see all kinds of crazy things, and I think you get kind of immured to things that would previously have turned your stomach. As for my critics, you know I never let them bug me, even when they accuse me of being washed up. I have the philosophy that if somebody cuts something off of me, it’ll just grow back twice as strong, and so far that’s proven to be the case. I’ve always believed that a person should be judged by his art and not by whom or what he or she or it chooses to have sex with. I've also been extremely lucky to have the most beautiful woman on the planet beside me through this whole thing. I owe everything to Shelley. She knows how difficult this has been for me, and how hard it is to kick old habits.

Well, you’ve seen that firsthand, and have survived to tell the tale. As usual I applaud your bravery, Seth, and I wish both you and Shelley the best of luck. Anyways, that’s all the time we have for now. Thanks again to Seth Urschleim whose directorial debut “The Slime Net” will hopefully be entertaining audiences everywhere this holiday season. I’m Tim Huxley and you’ve been watching Hollywood InSight. Stay tuned, the news is next.

2006-07-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

2006-07-08T15:03:00.000-07:00

Full Fathom Five

2006-07-06T15:53:00.000-07:00

And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on ; and so did I.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

”I think we should move in together,” you said one day out of the blue.

”Mm,” I muttered distractedly. I was cleaning some algae from my antennae and wasn't really paying attention.

“Did you hear me? I said I think we should move in together!”

I stopped grooming and looked you in the eye.

”You're joking.”

”I'm not joking. We've been mating for what, almost five hours now. I think it's time to, you know, take the relationship to a new level.”

We’d met earlier that day; both of us had been feeding on the bloated carcass of the same shark. I’d come crawling around the bulge of its fat belly to find you perched on its head, nibbling at the eyes, your favorite part. I was enamored of you immediately. The way you'd coyly slither back into her shell when I approached drove me crazy. And what a shell you had on you back then! Long and tapered, with such a tight curl at the end...

I said I'd think about it.

”I don't want to have to wait until I'm 3 days old before I settle down!" you whined. I turned back to my algae.

It was a whole 15 minutes before I finally made my decision. I crawled over to where you sat, sulking theatrically.

"Well, I've given it a lot of consideration," I said.

You tried to look apathetic but your twitching antennae gave you away.

”And... well, you're right. We’re not getting any younger. I don’t see any reason to wait any longer. Let's do it. Let’s move in together."

"Oh... you sweet...!" You threw yourself at me and we made love until we were spent.

The next morning we started looking for a shell that would be big enough to contain the both of us. The market was bad; a tropical storm had churned up the waters and the resulting currents had swept up most of the detritus that usually littered the reef. The realtor showed us a few places but they were all either too tight a fit or too badly cracked to hold up against the jaws of a predator.

Finally we saw it; wedged amongst the coral, a smooth pink opening gaping wide, just begging us to explore its cavernous interior. The realtor seemed nervous when we expressed our interest and tried to call our attention elsewhere.

“Oh but darling, it’s PERFECT!” you cooed. I had to admit, it looked good: spacious, with a beautiful perfect spiral. Its surface shimmered like a pearl in the dim light.

“We’ll take it,” I told him.

“Well, er, you know, it’s not really that great a place. In fact, I think if you look over here, you’ll see something a little more to your liking…”

“Why what’s wrong with it?” I tapped the side of the shell with my claw. “It sounds sturdy. No chips or cracks.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with it per se…” The realtor glanced around then leaned close to us and whispered, “It’s just that… well, the place is cursed!”

You and I both started laughing.

“Cursed! Well, is that all? What is it, haunted by the ghost of some old trilobite?”

“There was a… a murder… weeks ago, before your time.” The realtor’s face had turned dark, his voice gone dead. “A whole family of brachiopods. Parents had just moved in temporarily, needed a place to keep their kids safe from a storm that had been raging. The shell was definitely empty when they moved in; I’d inspected it myself. So in they moved.” Though the water was warm he shivered. “Over the next couple of hours the neighbors reported hearing horrible sounds coming from within. The next day I investigated. All that was left of the family was a bunch of eyes and tentacles. All but the father. He’d eaten them all.”

You glanced at me, worried. “Did they catch him? What did they do?”

His eyes narrowed. “They found him later, floating nearby. Dead. He’d chewed all his own tentacles off.”

You gasped and went pale. I just laughed.

“You think you can scare us away, don’t you? Probably saving this sweet place for yourself,” I chuckled, tapping his own rather shabby dome. “I don’t blame you. Come on, don’t make us beg. How much do you want for it?”

So reluctantly he sold us the property, and we moved in immediately, neither of us having much baggage. We traded in our old shells and as he was scuttling away with them the realtor muttered, “Good luck in there. You’ll need it…”

That night I was awoken by your screams. We had fallen asleep in each other’s claws back in the curve of our spacious new home, but now you were nowhere to be seen. I scrambled up to the mouth of the shell. There you were standing out on its lip. You grabbed me and pointed out into the dark water.

There, floating a few feet away, was the ghost, glowing as if lit from within. Its shining skin seemed to hang in rags from its form.

“Gooo from this place nowww!” the ghost moaned. “Go from this currrrsed place and neverrrr rrreturrrn!”

You started blubbering that we had to leave, that we should swim away as quickly as possible and never look back, but I smelled something fishy about the whole deal. I propelled myself towards the ghost with my back legs, and surprised he floated backwards away from me, until I had him backed up against a trunk of coral.

“This is no ghost!” I cried down to you triumphantly, as with one claw I pulled off the kelp and algae disguise that, filled with tiny phosphorescent creatures, glowed as it floated away in the current. Standing there before me was of course the crustacean who had sold us our home. “Explain yourself!” I barked, brandishing a pincer menacingly.

“Careful where you wave that thing!” he cried. “I’ll talk! It’s just such a sweet place… I don’t make enough at this job to afford such a house… my wife’s been pressuring me to move, all the little ones are hatched and gone and you know how some women get, she’s restless and irritable… I just thought… if I could scare you away… ”

The poor schmuck started weeping. I felt disgusted and drew in my claw.

That all seems like such ancient history now though, doesn’t it, my love. We’ve lived here for these many long weeks and I’ve told my little ghost tale to litter after litter of hatchings (of course I embellish the story more every time, to their delight). We are no longer young, and soon I will crawl back into the deepest recesses of our home and leave this barnacled body behind as I depart for the next world. No, don’t cry, my dear; when you follow, I am certain we will run into one another there, perhaps beside a tasty carcass floating like a spirit in the gloom, and if I get there first, my love, I promise to save you the eyes.

The Uprising

2006-07-03T19:50:00.000-07:00

It was that whole standing upright thing that started it, really. I think Ray was the first one I saw trying it, at least in the gorge. He'd rear up a little bit on his haunches, and balance there as long as he could before toppling over into the dust. He was just showing off of course; Ray always was a bit of a clown, always had to act like an ass. He also liked to pretend he was in charge, even though I was the alpha male and everybody knew it.

After awhile he got pretty good at the whole balancing on two legs thing, and I admit, it did make him tower over the rest of us, which really kind of pissed me off. I could see that the others were impressed; they started going to him for advice instead of me, even though he was the stupidest one not only in our tribe but probably in the entire fucking gorge. I tolerated it, though; never was prone to being reactionary. It got to me more and more, though. I'd shamble on by Ray and he'd be swinging his free limbs around tauntingly... it filled my brain with thoughts of murder.

One day, when I was laying in the shade doing some light grooming, I felt something hit me in the back of my head. Someone behind me laughed. At my feet lay the rock that had bounced off my skull, leaving a rapidly rising lump. I turned around to see Ray just as he drew back his foreleg. In his hairy paw he clutched another stone. I rolled out of the way just in time; the rock missed me by a hair. And then Ray did something even more extraordinary: he started running towards me ON HIS HIND LEGS. I couldn't believe it. And as he ran, he scooped up another stone from the ground and cackled wildly as he prepared to hurl it.

And then, he went down. He must have stubbed his toe on something. I saw him trip and crash face first into the shale. He still didn’t quite have the hang of it yet. I loped over to him and immediately started tearing into him with my teeth, kicking and stomping at him with all four feet. The dust turned red and still I didn't stop, ignoring Ray's gurgled pleas.

At one point I happened to look up from my murderous task, and that's when I saw them.

Every member of the tribe stood in a surrounding circle, staring down at us.

Standing. They were all standing.

I opened my jaws and Ray's head thumped to the ground. I rose up to my full height and looking around at my subjects, prepared to address them. Before I could emit a single grunt, a stone smashed into the side of my mouth.

I spat teeth and whirled around to see who had hurled the missile, and was instantly pelted in the ear. My head rang. Stones hailed down on me from every direction. I dropped to my belly and covered my head as best I could with my limbs. The last thing I thought before I lost consciousness was, this is not good, this freeing of the limbs, the idling of these paws. This is definitely not going to be good.

Clean Freak

2006-07-03T15:48:00.000-07:00

ONE two three TWO two three THREE... oh, hey there. You startled me. I didn't hear you come in. Yeah, you caught an old man dancing with a mop. I must look ridiculous. Here, let me slop this into the bucket and we can go somewhere to sit down. Watch your step, it's still slippery there.

Let me just get these gloves off... there we go. Have a seat; I was just about to take a break anyways. Boy, it's not often I see anybody from the old days anymore. I guess I'm kinda out of the loop. You still in plastics? Wow. Well, you can see that I'm still doing what I've always done. It's so much easier than it used to be, of course. All these modern cleaning agents, synthetically produced chemicals. Smell that piney scent? Isn't that nice? Reminds me a little of the old swamp with all those coniferous trees shedding their sappy needles in the water. That's when it all started, I think, my obsession with cleanliness.

I remember you were so excited to get out on dry land while I was perfectly happy rooting around in the marshes for food. What the hell do you want to go out there, I said. It looks filthy. But you insisted.

That first time you ventured out, you didn't come back for days. I remember how excitedly you splashed back into the water, eager to tell me all about your adventures. But I could hardly concentrate on your tales; I was too distracted by the clouds of dust that billowed from your scales into the water.

“Oh that,” you said when you noticed. “That's nothing. Just a little dirt. There's dirt EVERYwhere up there you know.” You laughed at the look of horror on my face.

“But where'd it all come from?” I asked.

“Oh, you know; mountains get broken down into rocks, which get broken down into crumbs, dust, sand. Billions and billions of tiny particles. The land is covered with them. You know, just like on the ocean bed.”

“Yeah, but down here, you can just swim up towards the surface and be away from all that... that filth!” I exclaimed. “It looks like you’ve been rolling around in it! You’re completely covered in filth!”

You laughed again. "Guilty as charged," you said. "And let me tell you, after all these years of always feeling slimy and wet, rolling around in that dry dust feels GREAT!"

Well, we didn't talk for a while after that. You'd come to visit from time to time, always trying to get me to join you out in the great brown yonder, and I'd always find some excuse not to go.

Finally you did get me out there, of course. All the marshlands were drying up; I found my home dwindling until it was little more than a puddle.

You came by one day and I finally said, okay, get me out of here. I was terrified and was glad to have you beside me as I took my first tentative steps onto land.

The first thing I noticed was that a chalky, dusty substance stuck to the soles of my appendages as I crawled out onto the bank.

“What the hell is this?” I screamed. You just smiled indulgently.

“You'll get used to it,” you said.

“The hell I will,” I muttered under my breath.

As I walked, I did notice that some of the dirt flaked away, but it was immediately replaced by even more dirt. But when we got away from the banks there was some grass, and I found if I stepped in the grass, it kept my feet relatively clean, and it actually felt pretty nice to walk on.

Giant ferns arched overhead, shading us from the sunlight. I stepped from grass to patches of moss and finally onto a carpet of pine needles that tickled my toes.

“Hey, this really isn't so bad,” I said.

“Didn't I tell you?” You answered with a smile.

Then I saw it.

“Wait a minute! What the hell is that?” I yelled.

“What?… oh." Your snout drooped. "That was Eryops. He was a buddy of mine." The body stank horribly. Flies buzzed around its purple hide. I stared in disbelief at the rank corpse.

"Where's the cleanup crew out here? You can't just leave that kind of garbage lying around."

"Well, there's the flies. And the microbes'll eventually eat away at it. Usually takes a while, though. You just wait and see, in a couple a months he'll be nothing but bones."

"And what ABOUT the bones?" I screamed. "Who cleans THEM up?"

"Uh, I dunno," you said sheepishly. "You know, it's not like it was when we were kids in the ocean, with all those little fish and trilobites taking care of the dead, cleaning up after you all the time. There's nothing like that out here in the frontier."

"So you're ok with having this... this filthy, worm-ridden THING sitting out here for MONTHS?"

You shrugged. "You get kinda used to it, except for the smell." You gestured around us and I saw that the grass all around was littered with corpses of all shapes and sizes... giant insects, even bigger amphibians, even a tiny lizard or two, bloated and rotting in the sun. I looked around me and saw that the whole world was filth, was dirt, grease, and grime. He was right: this wasn’t the ocean. I had no place there any longer. The terrestrial world, with its stinking smelly piles of waste was where I was needed.

"Well," I said resolutely, "It looks like the only one who really cares about appearances around here is me. If you want something done right…"

And as you stood passively by shaking your head at me just like you are even now, my old friend, I marched right up to the nearest carcass and, holding my nose, took my first bite.

Homo Erectus

2006-07-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

"Morning, Bug."

"Morning, Roog."

"Bug up early today?"

"No. Bug not sleep much last night."

I grunted and sat down heavily on a rock. Bug paced back and forth before the mouth of the cave, obviously agitated about something.

"Bad dream again?"

Bug just shook his head. His formerly muscular figure had become little more than a hide strung across his bones. I could see clusters of fleas crawling through his thick fur.

"Sit, Bug. Me groom."

He just growled and kept on pacing. I wondered what could be bothering him so. Things had been difficult at first, right after the pack booted us out. It's hard for two lone hunters to make a go at it, and while Bug was strong, fast and a good shot, I have to admit I am none of those things. Finding this cave was the only thing that saved us; having a safe, warm place to come home to at the end of the day makes all the difference.

Because I proved to be more of a liability than an asset when it came to making a kill, Bug started going out to hunt alone, while I stayed near the cave and foraged as best I could. He'd return home by dusk, usually dragging some slaughtered beast behind him which I would then skin and prepare for our supper. Things had been good lately, until Bug started waking up every night bellowing like a wounded mammoth.

"Dream," he'd say. "Bad dream." I would gently stroke his dear sweaty brow and comfort him until he'd fall back asleep on our bed of skins.

Finally he stopped his pacing and flopped down next to me. I absentmindedly started picking nits from behind his ear but he shook my hand away.

"Stop. Leave Bug be." I handed him one of the fat nits and he grudgingly took it in his teeth and crunched down on it, chewing slowly and methodically. I continued my picking and pinching until I had a good handful of the little beasties. We shared them as the sun rose over the icy plain. I felt him shiver beside me.

"Fire." he said.

I sighed. "Fire."

The Pack had fire, of course. When we were so unceremoniously thrown into the wilderness, we begged them to let us take just a little piece of it: a burning branch, a single twig. But no. We were cursed beings, we had broken natural law. We were the end of the line, and thus we did not deserve to take with us even a hair plucked from the hide of the great burning spirit. So for the first time we found out what cold was. The cave provided some protection, and we wrapped ourselves best we could in furs and hides, which I cleverly fashioned into garments. But we were still cold. We were always cold.

Bug narrowed his eyes, squinting out at the horizon. I lay my head on his shoulder and he didn't shrug it off.

"Bug," I said.

"Roog."

"Tell Roog bad dream."

He sighed.

"Okay. Bug tell. In dream, Bug in place filled with flowers, trees, plants. Warm."

"Forest?"

"No. More..." He wrinkled his sloped brow, searching for the word. He scooped up a handful of cold pebbles and arranged them on the ground in a series of concentric circles. Not like a forest. More organized, intentional.

"Ugg. Go on."

"So here many, many trees, much fruit. Bug hungry. Bug hear voice from beneath ground. Voice say, 'Bug, go eat fruit from trees. But one tree Bug no eat fruit.' And Bug see one tree not like others. Tree glow like fire." He sighed at the thought of fire. I rubbed my hands together as if before a flame.

"Glowing tree filled with big fruit, but Bug listen to voice. No eat this fruit. Eat other fruit. Then Bug see... "

He shook his head in wonderment.

"What? What Bug see?"

"Bug see big beast on ground. Beast with no hair. No legs."

"No hair? No legs?" Something stirred in my memory, something old, coiled deep in the recesses of my brain.

"No hair. No legs. Like tree branch. And... beast speak to Bug.”

"Beast speak? Beasts no speak!"

"Is dream, Roog! In dream beast say, 'Eat. Eat from tree that glow like fire. No eat fallen fruit. Pick big fruit. Give to Roog. Roog like fruit.' And when Bug look at glowing tree, Bug's mouth make water. Fruit look so good, big. And Bug want Roog be happy."

"Oh, Bug."

"Wait. So Bug pick fruit, find Roog."

"In cave?"

"No, no cave. Roog in grass, warm in sun. No ice like here. Bug give Roog fruit. Roog eat fruit."

A few distant specks moved slowly, slowly across the horizon. Bison or rhinos, it was impossible to tell from so far away. Their herds seemed to be dwindling all the time.

"Roog and Bug eat fruit. It so good, Bug want more, but big voice come from ground. 'BUG! ROOG!' it say. 'You eat fruit me say no eat! Why? Why when me say no eat?' Bug scared, look for tree branch beast to blame. Too late. Ground shake like thunder. Crack open up in earth. Bug fall..."

"Roog?"

"Roog fall too. Down, down..."

He started to shake. I put my arms around him, held him tight as he rocked back and forth. "So far down. So far down, Roog."

The specks on the horizon had grown into blobs, and another group of specks, no larger than gnats, had appeared, following them. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. The Pack. Bug saw them too but said nothing.

"Then what, Bug?" I asked quietly.

"Then what? Bug wake up." The blobs began to move faster, followed by the little specks, all of them getting larger and larger as they approached. From our vantage point we could now see that it was indeed a herd of wooly rhinoceroses, kicking up clouds of icy dust behind them as they fled the hunters. It looked like they were headed right past our rocky hill. I turned towards the cave, preparing to hide, but Bug laid his broad hand on my shoulder.

"Wait," he said.

I was nervous; this was the Pack, the same ones who had driven us away a mere two full moons ago, threatening to kill us if we returned.

"Bad for Pack," the leader, Bog, had decreed. "Two he no mate. He, she mate. Make young. Two he no make young. Bad for pack. Bug, Roog, go." And there had been great waving of spears and axes, and thus we were driven away to wander the frozen plains until we found the cave.

The figures were close enough now that we could make out their features. There was Bog, right in front as usual, his powerful muscles rippling as he ran. There were Wug, Stag, and Greg. And all the other strongest hungers. They were just about to heave their spears into the hide of the hindmost rhino, who seemed to be tiring, when Greg gave a shout and pointed up at us, high on our rocky outcropping.

All the others looked up at us and came to a halt, surprised. The rhinos thundered past and disappeared into the distance.

The members of the Pack started shouting and talking amongst themselves, clearly unsure what to do.

Finally, letting out a great angry cry, they started up the hill, waving their spears.

"Bug, come!" I yelled, tugging at his arm. In a kind of daze, Bug followed me into the cave. We had never really gone too far back into its dark recesses and had no idea how deep it might be.

It was dark back there and we followed the wall with our hands, spurred on by the battle cry that was growing louder and louder as our former brethren neared the cave's mouth.

Our passage narrowed to nearly a crack. Our murderers entered the cave, their war whoops echoed among the stalactites.

It was too dark to see Bug’s face, but I felt around in the blackness for him. He was there. I reached up and touched his cheek. It was wet.

I took his hand.

Without a further thought we sucked in our breaths and squeezed our emaciated bodies through the narrow opening, plunging blindly into the complete darkness on the other side.

Hotel Problematica

2006-05-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

(Note: Problematica is the scientific label for enigmatic fossils that cannot be classified, due to the fact that they closely resemble no other creature, living or dead.)

I get up early, before the sun has a chance to scorch the desert. Go downstairs for weak coffee and a tiny bite-sized bagel in the motel lobby. No one smiles or even so much as nods hello in the cramped reception area so I go outside to smoke in the parking lot as I watch the sun inch its way up over the edge of the cliffs. A cloud of dust in the distance glows as a sunbeam cuts through it. As the cloud approaches I can see what’s causing it; a red land rover barreling along at a great speed. It slows down only slightly and veers suddenly into the lot, skidding to a stop just a few feet from my boots.

A young, deeply sunburned man with a thick beard gets out of the car. You must be Dr. B he says, grinning. I’m not a doctor, I reply. He looks puzzled but shrugs it off. We don’t get many strangers out here he says, I figured it must be you. Need help with your bag? No I say as I swing my sack into the back seat of the rover where it lands with a heavy metallic clank.

*

This desert isn’t really so different than the floor of the shallow sea we used to haunt, back in the day, with its shelves and ridges and cliffs with plenty of caves and hiding places to escape a larger predator. We thrived in those times; fertilizing everything we could, including ourselves. We’d spew eggs out of every orifice, it seemed, and the eggs that escaped our gluttonous clutches would burst open and spread multitudes of wriggling life into the already teeming sea.

*

My young guide and I speed across the plain in the rover, away from the cliffs. The sun follows us in the rearview mirror. We chat pleasantly; I’m perfectly capable of making small talk when necessary. I allow him to ramble on; it gets lonely out here, I imagine, and so desperate is the need for friendship that one quickly becomes comfortable with whomever one comes across, no matter how reticent and queer they may seem. I just nod and stare at the sky as he rambles on about his professors, his family, a girlfriend in Tacoma. There are no clouds.

*

There was a gang of us back then that used to swim together along the maze of reefs where food was always plentiful and the current mild and warm. We all had names that could only be spelled by the gesture of a claw or antennae held at a certain angle against a fin or shell; for though we had not yet learned how to calcify our wastes into bone, we had nevertheless developed a seemingly endless geometry of shells and armors to slither into when threatened. We had learned to be hard.

*

After an hour’s drive there appears in the distance a dark line against the pale red landscape. As we get closer it’s apparent that the line is actually a crack in the earth, a fissure maybe 50 feet deep, at the bottom of which a thin trickle of water sluggishly flows, thick with silt. We park alongside a metal rod of rebar that’s been stuck into the earth, an orange plastic flag knotted tightly near its skyward pointing end. Driven into the ground next to it, on the edge of the crevasse, are two metal loops. My guide reaches into the back of the car and hauls out a rope ladder, wound into a tight bundle. Fastening the end to the metal loops he throws the coil out over the edge, where it knocks against the rock wall and splashes its end into the little stream at the bottom. I sling my sack across my back and follow him down placing my boot soles carefully on each rung.

*

And oh the parties we threw back then! The glow of incandescent plankton lit up the sea floor like light shining from a disco ball. The water was filled with bacterial stimulants which once filtered from the water would strike our primitive nervous system with an immediacy and intensity greater than the most powerful line of powder or puff of smoke. Nights, weeks, months of nonstop swimming, eating, and fucking, and sometimes all three at the same time. Those shallow seas flowed pink with blood and sperm. We lived and died hard. Pleasure and pain were inseparable.

*

We splash through the creek a little ways until we reach a bend in the crevasse. Just around this corner he says, and suddenly there it is: the entire rock face is completely covered with tiny bumps and ridges, thousands of them, an entire wall formed of fossilized shell, bits of scales, impressions left by exoskeletons. How about that, the young sunburned man beside me says, I told you it was quite a find. Mostly fragments, it looks like, but they say you’re the best at identifying the bits and pieces. The sun is shining directly overhead and I shield my eyes from its glare. Yeah, I guess I am, I say.

*

Of course, most of us didn’t make it beyond that era. It was easy to burn out, and tempting to just give into the primeval debauchery that swam rampant. And out of all my friends, I was the one who always said I’d be the first to check out of this cheap hotel we call life, the one who wasn’t going to make it out of the Precambrian in one piece. They all laughed and agreed; I lived harder than any of them, swam more recklessly, bred more furiously, fought more savagely. I stare up at the face of the cliff, reading the hieroglyphs left in the stone, the broken bodies of my friends and snacks, my lovers and desserts, and as I open my pack and take out my tools, my pick and my chisel, my hammer and brush, I wonder how I’ve made it this far, why I was the one to survive while all the rest of them were consumed by the quickly setting mud of time.

To Have and To Hold

2006-05-20T16:46:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I saw you, my pet; I was hungry, no, strike that; I was starving. Literally. My form was shriveled, my protoplasm sluggish from being deprived of the nutrients it needed to flow properly. I could barely move through the rancid broth of the pad I'd been crashing in for some time and which over the years had gradually become depleted of all sustaining chemicals. I had watched my friends leave town one by one and was about to try to make the move myself when I saw you. You remember, don't you? Even from a full millimeter away I could tell that you were beautiful. Your cilia wiggled hypnotically and your innards still somehow rushed energetically within your membrane. But what really drew me to you was that nucleus, teeming with coils of beautiful, delicious chromosomes... with what little energy I had left I undulated closer. You were shy but you didn't recoil. I even thought I saw your nucleus wink provocatively as if it were a dark, lustrous eye pulsing within you. You, uh, come here often? I asked, not yet having evolved the art of witty repartee. You giggled and said well, I just moved here from a nearby creek. I couldn't believe my luck: any organism from such a fast moving body of water would no doubt be filled with nutrients caught from the surrounding current. Of course, I didn’t bother to question why anyone would leave such a lush environment but merely wriggled closer. To my surprise you didn't back away. I could see your insides pulse, your mitochondria jiggling and dancing around. If I had been a more complex being, say one with salivary glands, I would have salivated. Remember, I was famished and to be honest close to death, and you were so luscious, so plump and curvy and utterly delectable...

I decided to make my move and was just about to lunge when all of a sudden I felt myself immersed in a warm, thick substance. It was you. What the crap I yelled but it was too late; I was engulfed in you. I struggled but there was no way I could escape; starvation had weakened me. I felt you start to drain me of what little strength I still had before I passed out.

When I came to I was still miraculously alive. You hadn’t killed me; not completely. You’d decided I could serve you better living within you, an unwilling parasite within an aggressive host. It took me a while but I realized that I'm better off this way, my love. We are so perfectly compatible; I live off your waste products and you live off mine. None of my other relationships ever made me feel like this; I can honestly say that I've never been so close to anyone in my life. Living inside you has made me happier than I ever could have imagined. And I’m not just saying that because I am completely surrounded by you. Although I am. And I love it. Honest.

Assisted Living

2006-05-04T00:44:00.001-07:00

It’s really not bad here. The walls need painted and the staff seems constantly put out about some petty thing or another, but I like the sense of community. My room is small and I share it with a nearly comatose guy who by all means should just fucking give up. Humans are the most stubborn fucking creatures, let me tell you. I like that the room is so tiny; I’ve always likes small places…the world is too vast. Space is just too fucking big. I like a small, well-lit grotto or cubby hole. I love the high rise; all these little beings crushed in together, it’s marvelous. I know they talk about the isolation of the modern world, about overpopulation (I read the papers, Scientific American, all that stuff) but you know, you don’t really understand what isolation is until you’ve lived as the only living being floating in an icy vacuum for thousands of years, surrounded by nothing… well, almost nothing. Of course, it’s all relative; back then, even the void seemed crowded. When you’re used to there being just two things, or three, and then all of a sudden shit, there’s a fourth thing, or a fifth, and you start getting a little claustrophobic. So, really, I feel comforted by having all these warm little creatures pressing close to me. Lice and silverfish are still better company than lichens and mold, let me tell you. Nothing against molds, some of them are quite charming, but you know what I mean… not such good conversationalists… same jokes over and over again…

Call me crazy, but I like the cities. Of course, they’re a little more isolating than the cities of the Middle Ages… oh, those were the centuries… vermin and livestock and humans and wild beasts all living in basically the same space… now THAT was variety, now THAT was fucking community!

No, I don’t blame the kids for putting me in here. I could’ve fought it, of course, but really I figured, what’s the use. All my needs are met here. Besides, I tire quicker than I used to. Sometimes I even feel old. There are things that slide right through me; my cells don’t mutate as fast as they used to. It seems as if the faster the world around me changes, the slower I change. Faster and faster…it doesn’t bother me, though I can see that some kind of collapse is inevitable. It’s about time. A lot of people worry about the end of the world. I talk to the so-called old timers out in the lounge and a lot of them are very fearful. I tell them not to worry. I tell them I’ve seen worse trouble than this. They just kind of stare at me before turning back to their soaps. I don’t take it personally. I just head back up to my room, and, pouring another glass, sink back into the cushions of my deep, soft easy chair, and reach for the remote control, even though I’ve been around long enough to know there’s never anything on.

Blank Check

2006-05-04T00:44:00.000-07:00

The phone rings and the machine picks up. I don’t answer much anymore; what’s the point. It’s my son; the one who’s still alive. I run to grab the receiver. I know what he wants; he needs cash again, but is of course too proud to say it. Takes after me, I’m afraid. He hints and edges around the subject but will not come to the point. Just like always. I don’t mind giving him money, but I wish he’d just come right out and say it. Such a waste of time. You’d think, having been around as long as I have, that I wouldn’t worry about wasting time. I never could stand waste. I mean, when the giant lizards went, I just about cried…not to see them go, necessarily (though they weren’t as bad as some) but because there was all that excess meat just lying around rotting with not enough scavengers to clean it all up. Imbalance is one of my pet peeves, I admit.

So I let him ramble on a while and finally, hiding my irritation as best as I can, ask “How much do you need.” The father’s mantra. Of course he gets all self-righteous and indignant, how dare you, do you think I only call when I need something etc…I sigh and let him blow off steam for a little, knowing that he will eventually wear himself out and just give me a figure. He’ll make vague references to a gambling debt, a backfired scheme, a wild woman…I know that part of him wants to confess, wants to just tell me everything; but I discourage this. I don’t need to hear it. I take out my checkbook and repeat: HOW MUCH DO YOU NEED. He gives me a low figure, knowing I will send more. Thanks, pop, he says, suddenly sheepish and grateful. My heart will inevitably melt. I write the check.

The Horror in Clay

2006-05-04T00:43:00.000-07:00

A buddy of mine, Bill, used to say that consciousness is a virus, a disease, a terrible mutation that was never supposed to occur in nature but that in fact originated on another planet and is part of some type of alien invasion. Of course he was talking about HUMAN consciousness, which gives you a rather limited perspective, in my humble opinion. He had a lot of crazy ideas. He was queer and used to say that women were aliens from Venus here to enslave the male population or some such ridiculousness. (Everyone knows that life on Venus is sexless and consists of inorganic, sentient vapors.) He also believed in the concept of evil; ancient evils from before the human era, from before time. That kind of talk reminds me of good old Lovecraft and his visions of old, evil gods…that guy always cracked me up. I mean, come on. Evil is such a recent, naïve concept. Creatures of the earth have always killed and eaten each other; evil has nothing to do with it. Hell, I’ve eaten more friends than I can count; it’s never anything personal. The only reason I’ve escaped being consumed myself is that I’ve been around long enough to have figured out a few angles. See, humans are always trying to define you as a predator, prey, scavenger or parasite; as soon as you get pigeonholed like this, your options are severely limited. And then these people cast judgment accordingly. This is just fucking idiotic. The bacteria know this; they know better than to judge, than to define themselves too narrowly; and they have never starved. Most of what I’ve learned I’ve picked up from hanging out with them. Not that we see eye to eye (so to speak) on everything; but, you have to admit, they’ve been around the block a few times. I mean, they’re still in charge, despite everything this planet has thrown at them. They still call the shots. They have no need for evil, or for gods. Cthulu can kiss their asses. Er, in a manner of speaking.

Carbon Dating

2006-05-04T00:42:00.001-07:00

Thousands of years later, left alone and unable to stop thinking about her, and trying to find new ways to torture myself, I dug into the mud, searching for evidence of the time we spent together. Yes: see, there, charted between the layers of sediment? That little speck of amber was from our first date, spent slithering arm in arm along the shores of some nameless sea (we hadn’t started naming things yet; we didn’t need to. There weren’t that many things to keep track of: shore. Light. Dark. The waters. Unformed stinky things wiggling around in the waters. Us. That was about it.) Little chunks of petrified wood, fossilized friends. Twisted, unrecognizable objects: a fossilized pen, perhaps, or the stem of a rose or lizard tail I gave her. I read the striped rows of earth like the guest book of a motel filled with indecipherable scribbles and false names. The trash we carelessly left behind; a brochure for a long-closed tourist attraction, an empty take-out container, sandwiched beneath the rock and pressed into pulp. I know what you’re thinking: you’re curious as to what became of that most important relic, the symbol of our eons together: our wedding ring! Ah, that black stone set in a primitive loop of gold; (not that she really had fingers per se to wear it on); that huge hunk of coal I had dug up and polished until it shone like obsidian, like her eye...it was a chunk the size of a moa’s egg, I assure you. Ah, I see you start to salivate, thinking of what time must have done to such a bauble, how that Stygian stone must have become compressed after all these millennia into what would no doubt now be the world’s largest diamond…I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit of spiteful glee in informing you that the ring is gone, nowhere to be found amidst the bones and shale. Like her, gone without a trace.

The Many Deaths of George Mallory

2006-05-04T00:42:00.000-07:00

People always me asked the same question: why did you guys decide to leave the oceans in the first place? Well, don't for a millennium think that it was a casual decision. There was much deliberation. There were meetings, conference, calls, presentations of the pros and cons...surveys were taken, research was done, data was crunched, reports were filed. In the end a vote was cast; something that was rarely done, especially considering that in the grand scheme of things it was a relatively minor decision. I mean, compared to developing the process of photosynthesis (which also won by a very narrow margin), this was nothing. On a molecular level, the air was nothing but a less dense ocean. Sure, we'd need to work on the whole breathing thing; gills probably wouldn't cut out there. But we'd done more difficult things. You think mitosis was a fucking picnic? So we decided to give it a shot. Just a few of us, mind you. The most desperate, or perhaps unhinged, of us, with very little to lose if we didn't come back. It was pretty much guaranteed suicide; not only did we have to get out there and figure out how to breathe pure air without separating it from the water first, but we’d have to figure out a way to move around, too. Those flimsy little fins were just not gonna cut it. So again you ask, so why did you bother? Was it just, as the climber of Everest would finally famously declare, "Because it’s there"? What was to be gained by the conquest of the land? Were we just bored? Was it mere curiosity? It’s not like we were overcrowded or in need of anything we couldn’t get in the seas. No one was twisting our arm (so to speak). I’ll tell you the truth, though I’m not that proud of it. It was the same reason we'd later try flying, or cannibalism; we needed the attention. I mean, can you imagine the buzz beneath the brine about what was going to be attempted? The first one to make it out would be an instant celebrity. They’d be the envy of the invertebrates; maybe even have a reef named after them. "Hey’d you guys hear about earl? He made it out! What? Well, yeah, of course I been drinkin’; how else can I stay alive under here? …He came wading back in and he was wiggling one a those things he done grown... no, I don’t know what it's called, it's like a fin but, I don’t know, solider or something... he pulls himself along with them, like he was walkin on the sea floor, only there’s no water up there! You gotta see this!"

Dearly Dehydrated

2006-05-04T00:41:00.001-07:00

It was just a mere miscalculation, a single tiny wrong turn that branched off into a million paths, each one a lost evolutionary road leading further and further away from the original point of divergence, that took her away from me. She disappeared. She was not really gone, but seamlessly integrated into the whole of the organism. Of every organism. I could not touch or see or smell her but she was there. I could feel her presence in every blade of grass I crushed, every pebble I sent skipping across the surface of the swamp. I could not escape nor forget her. It was hell. The map out our future life together had seemed to hold possibilities, branching out wildly like a fan sponge or the roots of a baobab. That was all changed now; it was just me, alone with only every living thing in the world to keep me company. The pain was unbearable. Just as she had become absorbed by the earth, I separated myself from it. It was all I could do. I needed my identity kept intact. She’d sacrificed hers. She was never as insecure as I. She did not need that ever dividing body, that shell…as I leapt from the driving force of evolution that had so far propelled me forward through the millennia, I cried out, feeling genes freeze, feeling my DNA solidify without all the wild experimentation that had gotten us this far…and I realized that death is not actually losing your physical body; death is living without change. And so I died.

Junior Wormwood

2006-05-04T00:41:00.000-07:00

When all this started, I didn’t believe in such concepts as “the inevitable”, “the inexorable”. Now I’m not so sure. I feel a little fuzzy about the whole thing. There is no way to plan out something as complex as life. There are too many random elements…

In the beginning, she started to feel sick. Every day she’d drip some new liquid from some new orifice I hadn’t even noticed before. She didn’t complain at first and her basic form seemed to be intact so I didn’t worry too much, figuring she had some kind of bug. Physically she looked more robust and healthy than I’d ever seen her, except that she was dripping and squirting all over and was obviously in a state of mounting discomfort. I found it revolting but by this time my cells had been so completely consumed by the sub viral imposter called love that I felt nothing but concern for her instead for revulsion, which would have been more natural under the circumstances.

And she was growing. At an alarming rate. She had started to consume an enormous amount of food; her appetite was insatiable. I did my best to provide what I could but it was soon apparent that my efforts were not only inadequate but unnecessary; she herself had become a monstrous food-gathering machine. She devoured everything within reach that was even remotely digestible (or at least ingestible). From time to time I would even catch her looking at me with a suspiciously hungry look in her eye. I didn’t sleep much during that time. Her moods fluctuated wildly. She would throw tantrums that would give way to tender warmth and sweetness. She was totally unpredictable. More than usual, I mean.

Finally, I decided I could take no more. I swore I would leave the next morning. When I woke up that day, however, a transformation had taken place. She had awoken before me and was cradling something, hiding it from me in her arms. When I pressed, curiosity winning out over dread, she finally showed me.

Holy shit, I remember thinking as I saw my son for the first time. I’d better eat that thing. As if she could read my mind, she pulled him quickly away, saying “Now don’t eat him”. As if I’d been the one devouring everything within reach for the past how many months! She held him close to her bosom and, would not let me near until I’d assured her I would not try to devour the little creature. When I approached, he looked up at me and I saw my reflection mirrored in his compound lenses. He made a disgusting sound and mucous started gushing from one of the holes in his face.

Although I tried to fight such an obviously unnatural impulse, I eventually came to love this little parasite as if he were my own flesh and blood. Which he was.

It still didn’t seem natural.

The Age of Machines

2006-05-04T00:40:00.001-07:00

…started millions of years ago, of course. Food factories started pumping out their product deep in the oceans, back before there was land or even air. Raw materials taken in, processed, and released for the demanding public. And how those first products sold! Talk about successful marketing. Ah, those were the days: back when everything was food, back before we had taste buds to let us know just how rank much of it was...light transformed; sustenance squeezed from every atom. I was never good at it, myself; not the production or marketing ends of it, anyways. But boy could I consume! And even the food itself was a machine in itself as well as a cog, and we’d eat the machines, and machines would eat us. Light and space, supply and demand. A watchmaker, they say, tinkered with some cosmic watch. That’s just poetry, though. The watch gets buttered. The tablecloth gets yanked out form under us, revealing millions of tiny machines just waiting beneath it, napkins tucked beneath their hungry little chins. Wriggling in agony as the daylight dehydrates them. Flap A into slot B as production speeds up and wham you suddenly get unwittingly crushed to death in the ever quickening gears. The self perpetuating machine is no myth, it exists and you are it.

The Dominant Gene

2006-05-04T00:40:00.000-07:00

Feeling was not encoded in our DNA; it was not, as some believe, a natural part of the evolutionary process at all. No, it was thrust upon us; a tight square collar constricting our round necks, the leash held by some invisible master without a face or name or even any mythology attached to it. A virus born in the bowels of some wayward bacteria, destroying its original host before spreading like wildfire through the microsphere, infecting everything it passed through. We were not immune. This microscopic monster, though possessing barely a billionth of our intelligence, nevertheless infiltrated our one trillion cells so stealthily that we never noticed its arrival. Humiliating, but not unusual in this ravenous world. Just as germs brought down the mightiest of beasts, so this speck enslaved us: strong enough to eat through the tightest knots in our nervous nets, leaving a trail of itself behind to fill the holes it made, spinning a web that could not be cut nor unraveled. It was too small to even be considered physical. It was neither alive nor dead. Passing from cell to cell, devouring and changing the information encoded there, burning through all obstacles while leaving their basic functions intact. A dead host is a useless host. We ate, we moved, we breathed; but we were no longer free. We were under alien control. The creature controlling us was not only arrogant enough to think itself our intellectual as well as moral superior; it considered itself immortal. Of course, such arrogance came at a great cost, but we were the ones who ended up footing the bill. We were slobbering, unthinking, fucking shells…and we were unbearably happy. We wanted this, needed it. After a while, we would not be able to live without it. We could no longer even remember what life had been like before we had been forced to love.

The Precambrian Shuffle

2006-05-04T00:38:00.000-07:00

Nothing should have been heard; not a single word should have been uttered…
…but one was. I don’t remember hearing it, but it was said, and could not be unsaid.

“In the beginning…” a new blankness was born. Not life but a parody of life, a sham consciousness. A shadow of shared chromosomes was rapidly passed from hand to hand, from pseudopod to pseudopod, leaving a little bit of itself behind each time, until everything bore a slight resemblance to everything else. Loose strands of DNA trailed from our rudimentary fingertips, their influence already starting to seep in through our cells. We reluctantly began to transform…

As the days/millennia passed, the temperature gradually/suddenly rose, but still I shivered beneath the familiar ringing bell of freezing air. I tried to replace the tightness of the vacuum with a soft mask of oxygen, teaching myself to breathe. The pain was unbearable. I cried out, lungless, listening earlessly for a reply that I knew would probably never come.

One day
she answered.

Her very existence surprised me, as did her beauty. Her smile was like a layer of bright algae covering a dark pool. At once we merged, submerged, divided, separated, recombined, drawn magnetically back to back and belly to belly in biological bliss. One and one and on and on and one on one and one then done was our proto-fucking: we pulsed simultaneously, subcutaneously, a circuit of skin covering our spawning. Things that were almost insects spiraled into our flesh, to our infinite tolerance; their little eggs would hatch to become food for our future family. We licked larvae from each other’s tongues. Our eyes were clusters of independently writhing cells whose wiggling cilia made our gazes wobble constantly, though they would always come back to rest upon one another…

In the beginning, something stopped dividing. For a little while, anyways.