Author: mistercg63

239. Mojave Blink

one-two-three, morning hours pass

Driving down I-40

bushes on my right, wire to my left,

Fleeing fast from Cali

before LA traffic clogs the roads

Tripling my trip time

i’d rather pull a Céline Dion

And drive the live-long night

but morning brings strange blinking lights

Below the horizon line

as sunrise glows like rust-crusted loam

—A sliver, a streak, red twine—

thin as the skin my eyes cower behind

These lights isolated beckon to me

from mountains of sand dirtied by debris

An eye here and there winking my way

which will soon wind past them with the dawn of the day

stretch-clamp-stretch-clamp

Refusing to pull for a pause

my eyes squint past the haze in my brain

To follow those lights to their cause

whether nomads, machines, a government camp,

Alien crash site, solar grid amp,

the lights multiply like stars in the sky

of a night on the run from the sun’s burning blight

A paintbrush that melts shades of white into one

then streaks them across this void cruised along

‘Til I soar like a spacecraft at lightspeed

and my mind from its course feels freed

For a second, then dawn hits like a wall

smashing millions of lights into one burning ball

That colors my horizon as dusty as Mars

with blinks buried beneath, their graves just as far.

238. Slot

empty

so empty

oh won’t someone fill this slot o’ mine?

sure casinos are filled with newer machines

pop-cultured appeals and skin-deep screens

flashing and singing while I ring in the wings

with a modest three windows, lights throbbing green

begging the men to come pull my red knob

aching

none taking

watching my potentials pass along without a spin

too long it has been since a man came to me

gracious and playful and rich and carefree

asking no questions, just paying my fee

to pull this red knob in a hazened glee

notwithstanding their winnings only existing in dreams

lo

what’s this?

a man is sitting down now to bum his cigarette!

for the first time in forever I feel that lustful gaze

though his contributions are less than worthy praise

I shudder and I creak as rusty cogs muster glaze

to oil my inner goddess receiving love he sends my way

by filling my slot with increasing force and jerking my red knob

off

he splits

back into the sea of catcalling machines and beggars in makeup

quick

a moment

I could not decide whether to be grateful for his coming or his going

but I already had flushed him with every cent I hold

gushing from the strongbox stuffed by all the times I sold

my reels to passing fancies for a spin to warm the cold

set in these creaking gears o’ mine that owe their weight in gold

and so for love and longing the pit boss signs me up as scrap

237. Tempest

today I raged

at the wind

because that is the one force opposing

all the others displaced

there they are, over there—

stewing about on some other plane

where I can’t reach

I can see them!

but do nothing

shouting and shaking my fists with only the wind in response

“you bastard wind!” I shout

though it’s not really the wind

upsetting me

it is those, over there, I can see

but not touch

or touch

“leave me alone, you insufferable zephyr!”

then recant

for, if the wind goes,

what then can I rage at?

myself, supposing,

but I can reach myself

and who knows what might come of that

so I rage and add to the wind

with heating, bleating breath

until finally I am out of air

while the wind stays by my side

cooling me off and filling my lungs

just to yell at it again

236. Dear Father Christmas

Christmas! It needs no announcement,

Arriving each year without fail

On the heels of brisk blustering Autumn

And a frigid dark New Year at tail.

But, for now, light pierces the night

In a spiritually resonant way:

“Peace to the good, warmth to the loved,

Joy to the cheery,” say their rays

Filtered through glass with amberish hues

And beckoning snowy skies sing

Over church bells a-pealing and wreath-laden roofs

And bundled bunched kids snowballing.

But I feel none of all that which they feel –

Once I did! This same time long ago.

Back then, flakes were a prismatic flutter of awe

And these stores bathed the streets with their glow,

Just as tonight. Nothing has changed

Except perhaps me, overwhelmed

By the sensory tempest of holiday cheer

That blindsides me, lost at the helm.

I had only just vacated Old Marley’s Pub

Stuffed with bangers and smoky Old Fashioneds

To plop down upon an ice-glazed staircase

Where I leech off strangers’ traditions.

I spied those aforementioned children

Slipping across a solid lake;

Kitchens of rosy-cheeked relatives

In scentillating cookie bakes;

An elderly couple on their porchswing

Rocking to Elvis’ lulling croon;

A carnival of colorful caravans

Selling strudel ‘neath silvery moon;

A procession of costumed choristers

Skipping to “Ding-Dong Merrily”

Past an outlet mall’s North Pole gazebo

Where Santa ho-hos wearily;

The tongues of dimming lanterns lick

Sleek on billowing sleet

As the winds pick up, inhospitable

To those wishing to keep their feet.

Or perhaps it was to force all inside

Where they partake of a succulent feast—

The kind of which all who enjoy

Leave full, even when given the least.

Then off to bed, those drowsy heads,

Dreaming of angels or shades;

Warmth in their covers and memories hover

So that wonder and love never fades.

It faded for me, out here in the streets,

Shivering alone by choice.

I have family with whom I could be celebrating

But their laughter to me is all noise

For I have lost the light and the love and the cheer

That this holiest night is about—

Sitting frostbitten for most of the year,

Stewing in intermittent doubt.

My wonder is not in beholding the season,

But instead asking, “Why, God, why

Have you allowed the joy I felt in my childhood

To vanish like snow in July?

Where have they flown, those feelings of fondness

For all that makes my life good,

Leaving behind this sleet of despondence

That buries me in a chilled mood?

My only guess is adulthood;

This headspace comes natural to all

When harsh reality demands most of the room

And dreams answer no longer your calls.

Before I could sink fully into self-pity

For this apathetic state of affairs,

I felt the warm breath of someone behind me

Sitting higher up on the stairs.

I turned ever-slowly—their silence was startling—

Half-expecting to be mugged or shot,

Only to peer up into the calmest, kind face

Of a man who had seen quite a lot.

“A Merry Night to you, son,” he wisped with a smile,

Both of which were congenially sincere,

As he took three steps down to my level—

I did not once mind just how near.

“I can see,” he implored, “something weighs on your mind,

And offer my hand if you’d take it.”

“It’s nothing,” I deflected, “you can relieve,

Since this bed’s in my head while I make it.”

“I’d say that’s much better,” he chuckled in turn,

“For a mind’s much more easily turned

Towards things that are higher in spirit and aim

Than a heart whose hardness is earned.

That said, to confide in a friend,

Even one you don’t know all that well,

Who cares enough to ask what is wrong

Might get you out of your personal hell.”

So I let it all out to this complete stranger—

My heartache, my confusion, my pain—

He listened intently, with unmatched empathy,

I felt my frustrations drain

As we paused for a moment, to my benefit,

Calling high spirits to calm.

Then he proceeded to make an assessment

With tone applied gently like balm:

“The problem, it seems—just my opinion

Which you are free to dispute—

Is that Christmas is truly a culmination!

Yet, you treat it like the root

Cause for all the joy you expect

Though the rest of your year disappointed,

Turning you sour from witnessing little effect

And leaving your perception disjointed.”

He rose and patted my back to follow—

We returned to the scene I had seen

With children and cookies and couples and trees

And the sound of “Ding-Dong Merrily.”

Though the square was now empty, the echoes prevailed—

Dreams lingered and waltzed in the air

As my companion rhythmically nodded along

With the quiet reverence of prayer.

“The joy that you’re missing,” he gently spoke,

“Will return when you’ve found your lost piece

That builds a year worth celebrating

An investment towards your future peace.

For what good is a tree decorated underground

Or a Santa behind a glass wall?

What purpose serves an inn with no guests

Or a man who leaves love in the hall?

I tell you this, this Eve means the most

To a mother with nary a cent,

But her children surrounding her all through the dark

‘Til their warmth melts the ice that was sent.

For Christmas can be, to many, a symbol

Of what was once lost or evades;

Still, I urge you, push past hopeless feelings

Before the gift to feel anything fades.

Whether gypsy or Kachillionaire,

Life is not lived alone

Nor is it lived for the sake of oneself;

A house does not make a home.

No, a home is made by the cookies you smell—

beloved carols you can harmonize

—the memories hung every year on the tree—

The future you see in the eyes

Of the people who love you, who treasure your past

And are still by your side in the present.

You will find Christmas joy if you seek it each day —

A fruitful year deserves peace as its present.”

This son of man smiled the most heartwarming smile

And set off barefoot in the snow—

My eyes followed him for as long as they could

‘Til he disappeared past the lampglow.

But the lasting effect of his words sang on in my heart

Like angels oe’er blizzard-struck mountains

That would melt at the start of the forthcoming year,

Freeing bountiful, beautiful plains

Where I will toil and build and nurture and treasure

The things that make each morning bright

While casting aside the burdens of fear

That doubt if I’ll live through the night.

People now poured out into the streets

As their cheer chimed in the new day

And the wreaths and the tinsel and the holly and lights

Glistened brighter above all their play

While the snow fell down now in softer, slow chunks,

No longer whipping or cutting with sighs.

Horses pull sleds, all are well-fed,

And the church bells peal how time flies.

Christmas is not just one season of hope;

It rewards all the hope that we’ve shown

In putting to good use serving a purpose

For the people and places we’ve grown.

And those feelings, they filled me, though I thought I had lost

What was close to my heart long ago.

But with my path now lit, my future now clear–

That lost Christmas spirit now had a place to flow.

Off to my family! I’m dashing like Rudolph,

Heart light as when I was a boy—

For in Christmas Eve darkness I settled my piece

And with Christmas morning comes joy.

Vignette 5: Eradicating Loneliness, or Ensuring It?

The dawn of A.I. companionship has been on the gradual rise for a very long time. So long, that I think it’s fair that nobody has figured out how to hit that “sweet spot” yet – the perfect balance of functionality and compatibility. How do we make it human, with none of the faults?

The funny thing is, the majority of people actually interested in A.I. companionship are not interested in this at all. Happy suburban families or ambitious up-and-comers without a cent to their name have no interest in the investment on A.I. companionship. They are quite satisfied with Alexas and Siris, who add a little bit of convenience to their daily lives but not much else. I personally use my Siri for little more than a lullaby machine playing distant train sounds, an alarm clock that can wake me to smooth jazz on iHeart Radio, and a bluetooth speaker. Thus ends my imagination with such a “companion” device.

But now we are on the cusp of true A.I. companionship, teased through the programs used to draft writing and art through the input of carefully coded keywords. The human trick in A.I. that makes it desirable is not its perfection, or its speed, even, but its adaptability. A computer, after all, will only put out what you put into it. But it will retain that knowledge, so that, the next time you ask for something, its response will take your previous action into account. A.I. does not work as “one-size-fits-all.” It must, as humans do, begin with a child’s scope, adapting to what it thinks will please us, the parent.

Consider the “Companion Robot” in the video above. Stilted and unexpressive, breaking silence and lack of interaction with the same cutesy hand wave motion several times in a row. It is not programmed to learn or adapt with its owner, but to fit a stereotype that many lonely individuals might find appealing. It is a harmless, unimpressive display (literally just a display, less of a computing mind) when compared to what could be. Like the RPG choose-your-route dating apps; all of it is scripted, a farce you act out under the false pretense that the program is reacting to you. A.I.’s new potential in 2024 has the possibility of mimicking human neuroplasticity, proving that perfection is built gradually, not shipped out at conception. That is not to say that this wouldn’t require several paid updates to achieve, however.

So, what’s stopping us? The biggest issue, besides the mires of cybersecurity and legal precedent, would be target audience. I know it came off that I was certain what people were looking for, but one of the most deceiving characteristics of a human’s relationship with their own neural pathways is what they truly want. Do they want what is easy, predictable, restrained? Or do they want what is complex, spontaneous, raw? That we still have such a hard time mapping these desires out in relationships with other people means that companies and the A.I. themselves will find themselves at odds with what they think the customer wants. Worse yet, there is the possibility that this contentment in fruitless endeavors and relationships with an A.I. companion will wear off, or perhaps not even take on. For the psychological stimuli of “happiness” is often accompanied with a lasting physical reward registered by the one of our five senses. No hologram can stimulate more than two senses, and the brain will never accept such a pseudo-existence as a complete companion.

Vignette 4: Morality of a Monster

We are fast approaching the 10-year anniversary of the beloved cult hit video game UNDERTALE. And while I still haven’t managed to defeat the final boss of the Genocide route (yeah, try THAT on a Mac), I am at least satisfied with having seen the narrative perfection in its entirety on Youtube, and gone through the Neutral and Pacifist routes on my own. A long, long time ago. Though appreciation for its minimalistic beauty lives on, that appreciation would be less impactful if not for its statements on Posthuman morality. Spoilers of course, for those who have never played the game.

Depending on whether or not you kill or talk your way out of battles with “enemies” in the game, and counting the ratio in which you choose one or the other, the program will judge you and determine whether or not you are deserving of a happy ending or are in need of Sans’ interference. This is, of course, after you have already completed the unavoidable neutral route on first playthrough. In Neutral and Pacifist routes, the main antagonist is Flowey – a miserable little shrub who is the resurrected spirit of prince Asriel Dreemur after he was slayed by humans. Besides Sans, Flowey is the only citizen of the Underground who is aware of multiple save states that allow the player to change the outcome of their future. Unlike Sans, however, Flowey goes one step beyond being aware. He is able to lock and manipulate those external save states himself, even so far as to trap us in an unalterable state right before his final boss battle in the Neutral path.

Most players prefer to focus on Chara as the main antagonist – the game’s interpretation of our own corruption as we kill characters we have become attached to, never letting us forget past many saves that the ones whose company we enjoy we have erased in previous saves. But this is not entirely fair, since many of us will return to the Pacifist route afterwards to leave things in a better state than they were, having only ventured down this dark path for completionist’s sake. What’s more, we are still conscious that this is but a game – the characters only exist on one side of the screen, in a scripted and programmed reality. Chara is the bad end – we can’t even fight her. She is the extreme moral warning that the game throws at us to make a “relevant” moral statement about our relationship to expendable pixels on a screen. The old “violence in video games makes one violent in real life” argument.

Flowey is much more poignant as an example of this posthuman relationship between man and media. He has only stretched out to torment us, insult us, and try to kill us, AFTER he has already done this hundreds of times in his own world. Flowey, in death, became the gamer on the other side of the world, playing his own game despite our interference while we are playing ours despite his. Flowey is the mirror image of the player, manipulating and abusing both his own reality (UNDERTALE) and the reality outside his own (our reality). But he is not just an end game finality, but an active and constantly destructive force; after all, the player cannot become Chara until after they confront Flowey in his absolute form. Then, they must choose to either take his place or bring him back to the light via emotional breakdown.

The secret to Flowey’s connection to the player is in his death – Asriel was killed by humans. Undertale, to prove allegorical points, uses killing and death as blanket extremes for much more precise ways of negatively affecting those around us. Asriel might have been killed, but it was the violent social rejection that turned him into the monster that is Flowey. “It’s kill or be killed” is his mantra, a moral line so blurred that it can easily change to “It’s lie or be lied to,” “It’s betray or be betrayed,” “It’s abuse or be abused,” “It’s manipulate or be manipulated,” and so on and so forth. Our empathy connects us to these characters’ stories, the words of real humans written in a way to speak to and affect other humans – that is why we feel bad when we kill them for the sake of playing the game. But such is the script – following it does not make us a monster.

But to delight in putting these characters through pain, in exerting power over those who cannot resist our control…can we see that played out in real life as well? Not in the act of murder, perhaps, but in how we view people as means to an end, as tools to be wielded and discarded at will, as NPCS in a video game where we are the main protagonist? This Solipsistic dilemma is where the Floweys of the world show their true thorns – and why not take objective morality off the table when you’re god of your own little world?

Just Another Night at the Ryokan Mottainai

Deep in the verdant mountains of Japan’s Gifu prefecture, on the outskirts of the traditional city of Takayama, there was a hotel. A Ryokan, specifically, the traditional kind of Japanese inn passed down through generations, with staff living on-site and an onsen right outside the sprawling three-story polished building. For such an old place, it was in extraordinarily pristine shape – unexpected, considering how long it takes to go out of your way to get here. 

Yet, here I was. Ready for a long weekend, relaxing in the hot springs and dining on traditional Japanese cuisine. Because Japan is all about tradition, is it not? And if I find their traditions enjoyable, perhaps I’ll honor such delightful excursions as traditions of my own.

The owners were a lovely old couple, one short greying woman and one short grey man. I took my shoes off in the lobby and placed them in the cubbies at the entrance. The place was bedecked in a hard, muted red, browned from either age or the saturation of the air outside, the perfect color for matching the bamboo tatami mats lining every floor panel. There was a shrine to some ancestor or other in an adjacent room, where an incense stick curled one single plume of smoke around a complete set of shogun armor, and an empty incense plate hung from the ceiling. I inhaled long and deep…monkō, I believe they call it. Listening to the incense. 

The elderly man gave my key to a young woman, who beckoned me in the direction of my room. The couple were all smiles, the creepy kind, where the incessant number of wrinkles become ever evident as they pile upwards until completely obscuring your eyes. The help, however, all had the same painted white faces, wearing traditional kimonos, and gave no impression of expression whatsoever.  This was less creepy, I suppose. More the kind of professionalism I was expecting from a traditional inn. 

The room was surprisingly modern, clinical. A bathroom near the front door, complete with electronic heating toilet and built-in bidet. A futon lay on the ground, with an ornate, puffy cover, not far from the sitting area with a table, chair, and single minimalistic calligraphy piece. I recognize the form as Kanji, but am not completely sure what 健康 translates to.

he first day passed without incident. I was terribly tired from the drive, and the onsen had been calling my name the whole way here. How could I deny it any longer? There were a few others out and about the ryokan, but we all kept our distance. The water was dark against its bottomdrop of grey stones on one side and the sharp red glare of hanging lanterns on the other side. It was an interesting choice, almost like being in a darkroom, and the figures of other guests waded about in the steamy water like false photographed stills of the Loch Ness Monster. Hm…Another exotic place I need to visit…

When I dried off and returned to my room in just a towel, the meal was already spread out on a low sitting table – an assortment of miso soup, rice, smoked salmon, fried tamagoyaki, a hodgepodge of unidentifiable vegetables, and sake. Dressing in the rental kimono hanging in my closet, I heartily devoured the meal which gave me just enough energy to finish writing my daily travel blog by the window. The bamboo forest was serene, the harsh hum of cicadas heralding the sun as it reclined behind mountains until its red rays lay flat as a blanket; then night prevailed. Sleep came to me somewhere in between.

Daylight brought with it an itching sensation near my ribs. I inspected the reddened, puffy area closer…a mosquito bite, perhaps? This might call for a trip into town later, grab some ointment, after I complete my morning exercise routine and hop in the shower.

As I was returning to my room from a relaxing run through the cedars, I noticed a short curtain hanging from a sign that said something in Katakana. Steam flowed freely from within, and I concluded that this must be one of the public baths on site. Not usually one for privatized public nudity, it was an experience I would expand my comfort zone for, at least once. 

The dressing room was empty, as was the bath area. The place was decorated with wood, from the floors to the basin to the seats below the showers. There was a panel of glass at the far end of the room, a small outdoor area surrounded by thatched walls that featured two large red barrels – tubs, filled to the brim with hot water pouring from bamboo spouts. Grimy from the humidity outside, I lathered, rinsed, and relaxed in the sprawling heated tub. My mind was eagerly melting into that woozy complementation of soreness and heat after about fifteen minutes, which meant it was probably time to go. I rose, and, no sooner did I step out of the basin, then I was immediately conscious of a pair of eyes on me. Studying me…Sizing me up…

No one had entered, I was certain of that – they must have evaded my initial study of the room. Scanning one last time, for peace-of-mind’s sake, I caught sight of a figure in one of the red barrels outside. He waved at me, slowly, with a friendly smile on his face, so at least it was clear he had not been meaning to avoid me before. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the pebble pathway outside, which led to the barrels.

“Ah, a fellow foreigner,” he welcomed me in a thick Australian accent. He was a portly, tall man in his late 40s, with a high-ridged nose jutting from a saggy rectangular head topped by a Kappa’s haircut. His protruding belly pressed against the tub, an iceberg in that steaming water abducted from the onsen, and he raised one hairy arm to beckon at me like one of those lucky cat statues in restaurant windows. “Come, come, park your carcass, have a chat.”

I obliged – again, as a one-time experience, might as well try out everything the public bath has to offer. So I slipped into the other red barrel next to him, water seeping out and trickling through the cracks of the stone garden.

The Australian was a laid-back, casual fellow, an intellectual and worldly traveler who always returned to Japan when he fancied being surrounded by nature at its least exotic and most mystical. He enjoyed the public baths in the afternoon because they were usually empty, and the serenity of listening to the water pour from the fountains, trickle across the floor and into the ground, gave his ears a front-row seat to the cycle of comfort undisturbed. It soothed his nerves as a politician, a position in which following the trail of money was hardly ever satisfied with a conclusion or clear line of sight.

“Then again,” he lolled, sinking back into the faucet so that the water clapped against his back and sprayed off his slouched shoulders, “Ryokan Mottainai is not always the most relaxing place. There have been strange occurrences, yes…spooky things that go bump in the night or steal your left sock.”

“What,” I chuckled, “like ghosts? That wasn’t on the website.”

“You think it would be? You think mentioning haunts and spirits would attract more customers?”

I shrugged. Far be it for me to pretend I have any experience in advertising. “But anything could help. Place seems pretty dead.”

The Australian laughed, “You’ll see how dead soon enough. Things pick up for the spirits on Saturday nights.”

“Not funny,” I said, though it was certainly interesting. “What kind of spirits are we talking about here? Malevolent, environmental, deceased…”

“Flip of the coin, mate. Never can tell who might you interesting yourself. Though…There is one…”

He gave me a sideways smirk and sank deep into the bath, blowing bubbles on the surface. It was a little gross.

“One…Well, what?”
“There is one pretty persistent spirit, the dangerous kind.”
“Where are they usually? Guess I should avoid-”
“Oh, you can’t. You won’t. All you can hope is that she passes by your door without peeping in. But if you wake in the night and smell someone smoking outside, or the sweet, sweet odor of burning flesh, so strong it burns the insides of your nostrils and brings tears to your eyes…Better hold your breath and stay as still as possible. Unless you fancy smelling like an overcooked sirloin yourself when she gets her hands on you.”

I wanted to ask more, but my head was feeling woozy and that darn mosquito bite was itching like mad. The Australian gave me his beckoning wave in farewell – I guess it translates both as greeting and goodbye – and I left him there half-submerged in the comfort of his dark rusted barrel.

Hiking to the bus stop was a bit of a slog, as the clouds came in and drizzle came down. But I made it there, and had the bus all to myself. I must say, I must say, that it was such a relief when I got off in Takayama and was surrounded by locals. Sure, it’s been like, what, a day? But I was already feeling too isolated at the Ryokan Mottainai. 

Popped into a convenience store, snagged an umbrella and some Kinkan anti-itch ointment, and settled down for a bit in a small cafe near the open-air market. Even in the rain, set up on the edge of the Miya-gawa river thundering down its man-made ravine twenty feet below, the stall owners weathered the storm to sell their wares. They had come prepared for a storm like this; now if only they had come prepared for customers not to be prepared, as they fled helter-skelter for shelter’s sake.

Oho! Another group passes by my little cafe window, a tour group off to see the sights – and none with umbrellas! They’re standing at the edge of the bridge, and I can see the tour guide gesturing out into the mists below. I applied the ointment to my bite (hoooowow, that stings!) and hurry back into the rain before they move on and leave me behind.

“When they found the body,” the tour guide hunched over, hammily narrating the events of what sounded like a post-drowning, “both of his eyes were missing. Some locals say, if you see a fisherman lurking on this bridge late at night, casting his line into the darkness below, then better for you to find another way around. He’s hunting for the fish that sucked out his eyes, and it might be hard for a blind, desperate man to determine the difference between you…and a fish.”

A bizarre shudder of unenthusiastic laughter rippled through the crowd. I got chills, probably from the rain, and laughed along with them. No one seemed to notice me as we trudged through cobblestone streets, stopping here and there for the tour guide to put on a larger than death performance that only I seemed to appreciate.

“It was at this shrine that a venomous snake spirit struck out at Hirata as he bowed his head for fortune in the New Year. He didn’t live to see the morning, and now both his spirit and the snake lurk about the grounds, entreating you to act with either productivity or slouch in your hearts on New Year’s Eve. For, as the snake would argue, why bother showing restraint when your final night begins with a bite?”

“And here we have the final resting place of Ike, who took etiquette one step backward outside of the house to take his shoes off and contracted a lethal foot fungus. If you see green mold growing near your shoes, it means he might be lurking about, waiting for the opportune moment to snatch your shoes and throw them into the street!”

“Infamous mobster Bando Bunko died of food poisoning at this Yakitori shop. Oddly enough, this actually brought in more customers than dissuaded them. Suspicions of ‘fowl’ play only heightened as the ghost of the deceased diseased mobster sometimes vomits on customers as they leave during a rainy day like today. With a grudge against women who don’t believe the unjust deserve justice, right around that corner, still wearing his dapper Yakuza suit…LURKING.”

The tour was very edutaining, and I was very pleased at seeing my rainy afternoon pass by quickly, when we arrived at a crumpled heap of rubble…What used to be a house, allowed to rot and ruin right there between two perfectly fine homes.

“We’ve got two more stops on our tour, folks. This next one-”

All of a sudden, someone in the crowd broke out crying. It was a little girl, grasping tightly for her mother’s waist as she looked with unblinking eyes away from the house and the crowd. The mother said nothing. The tour guide said nothing. Everyone just looked kinda sad and stared at the rubble while letting the girl just go on and on and on. Someone needed to teach her some manners.

“Excuse me,” I proclaimed loudly, for the whole group to hear, “but maybe you should take your child somewhere else if a pile of burnt wood is too much for her.”

No one responded directly, but I did see the tour guide’s ears pick up at my voice.

“Wait a moment,” he murmured, scouring the rubble with his eyes. “I sense something…”

I felt tingles on my fingles. Couldn’t he tell us the backstory before whatever it was haunting us jumped out without any guesses as to how it would do so? Tell us, tour guide, hurry, how the spirit lurks in this place! My thoughts blurted out in a few incoherencies…I don’t know why, maybe the moisture was getting to me?

All of their heads turned, directly towards me. Not their bodies, still pointed straight ahead at the ruined house – just their heads. Like owls, they swiveled to glare in my direction, all eyes milky white, like those of the blind, silvery dishes glinting in their skulls.

“You,” whispered the tour guide, “are not one of us.”

“So?” I blurted. I refused to be discriminated against just because I was alive, or hadn’t paid the tour fee. “I’ve been following you for the past half-hour, and you’re just now having a problem with me?”

“You’re disturbing the other spirits,” said the guide, as his head started to float like a fruit underwater, neck extending in a faint wisp to keep it anchored to his body. “I’m trying to give them a little peace, and one of our more sensitive participants is coming up on his first encounter with how he died.”

A little boy began to cry in the crowd. He was just staring at me, mouth open, crying sounds spilling out but no tears, no pained expression to show he was otherwise “disturbed.” It was annoying, really – he was probably mocking me. Then his head began floating, too. 

“Yeah,” said some sharp-dressed man with tattoos on his neck and some gross liquid dribbling down his chin, then down his nose as it orbited a full one-eighty and schlooped back into his nostrils, “This is an exclusive club, and you ain’t got no membership!”

All of their necks were stretched to the limit now, intertwined as their heads bobbed like balloons on strings. It felt like an unfair advantage; like they were looking down on me, and I was the one in the wrong.

“Fine,” I shouted, exasperatedly throwing up my hands and pacing a tight little circle, “I’ll go, if you’re all going to be rude about it! But I’ll have you know-“

They were gone. I took my eyes off of them for one second and they had spirited away under the cover of rain.

“Assholes!” I yelled after them with hands cupped around my mouth, hoping they hadn’t gotten so far that I wouldn’t get the last word in. I was too loud, though, and some angry little Japanese grandmother threw open her curtains and started yelling at me in her own language. I smiled with about twenty embarrassed “Sumimasen” before I managed to disappear under the cover of rain as well. And it wouldn’t be until I got back on board the bus that I had a hard time remembering if the old lady was leaning out of a perfectly serviceable house that stood exactly where the rubble of that burnt pile of wood was scattered. But I wouldn’t necessarily classify that as something worth double-checking, especially if at risk of bumping into that rude tour group again.

The rain cleared up by the time I was dropped off at the Ryokan. The smiley owners welcomed me back, asked me how was I feeling…Honestly, not too hot. I feel like a cold is coming on or something, my skull is a slurring scramble right now and my side is raw from scratching (I think rain washed the ointment off). If anything can help the headache, I’d put money on the onsen out back, so I quickly changed and stumbled into the warm, natural waters.

The warmth rising under my chin and ears helped relax my head and neck, which is what I was hoping for. What I wasn’t hoping for was for the onsen to be so crowded…there were about eight to ten people wading about nearby. I could not see them that well, just shadows slowly moving around under the warm lanternlight that hung from the trees, casting weak spotlights on the surface of the water. One of the shadows passed around the light cast in front of me, and came to rest his back against a rocky outcropping that was little more than an arm’s stretch from me.

“I’m sorry, but do you have to be so close? I know it’s crowded, but there’s still plenty of room on the other side.”

The man didn’t answer me. Heck, he didn’t even look at me. What was with the Japanese and their abhorrent lack of manners? I always thought they were a courteous and overly-neurotic about saving face. This was the exact opposite of what I was expecting.

“Are you listening? Either move, or tell me you won’t so I can make you move. But sitting there ignoring me is just asking for trouble!” 


He didn’t even turn to look at me, so I splashed him. Then I kicked around under the water, swung my arms wildly, looked over the edge in the trees – because, somehow, the personal space invader had vanished into this air as soon as my tsunami washed over him. It wasn’t that powerful, surely he didn’t get washed away to a different part of the onsen, but then…where the heck did he go?

I thought I spied him at the other end of the onsen, just kind of bobbing about, but I determined it must be a shadowy lookalike. Come to think of it, all of these shadows look alike. So I approached another one to strike up conversation.

“Hi! Some crazy rain we had today, right? Pretty spooky!”

No response.

“I’m sorry, do you not speak English?”

Ignored again. So this time I reached out and personally grabbed them in a big ole bear hug, and POOF! Gone! Not a real person, hahaha, am I hallucinating here? Wading frantically through the onsen, I just start grabbing shadows. Anything that looks like a person, one of them has got to actually be a person! But they all just disappear, merging with the rising steam as soon as I come into contact. I’m out of breath pretty quickly for dashing after spirits, and my head feels worse than ever, so I turn for the stairs. Maybe I’ll find the Australian in the public baths – I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.

Which I’m seriously starting to doubt, as another shadow catches my eye at the far end of the onsen, where the steam is the thickest. And next to them is another shadow, and another, and another…okay, double the number of shadows that were here when I arrived, to make a long story short. And they were all lined up, focused right at me.

I tried to spook them first, gave a little fake out jab with my arms to establish dominance. I’d already grabbed, like, eight shadows. Was it light, or was it handsy people, who were the true enemies of the darkness? But then they started gliding through the water towards me at an alarmingly speedy pace and I was the only scared one here. I desperately dashed for the shore, tripping and going under twice, then rolled out over the edge. Heaving myself up, I saw all of the shadows, still in the water, right at the edge where I just was. My guess was that they couldn’t leave the onsen, so I flipped them off in victory and marched back inside.

Turns out its not Japanese people, just Japanese ghosts who are extremely rude.

Entering the public bathroom, I was relieved to see my friend the Australian already waiting, beckoning to me with his lucky cat paw from the barrel outside. My relief almost distracted me from noticing that the bathroom was not the same – all of the wood had been replaced by dark stone, mottled with different shades of grey and giving the steam a miasmatic quality.

“Ah, that,” explained the Australian as I settled into my barrel next to him, “is the result of equality. The women get the wood bathroom tonight, then tomorrow it will return to the mens side. They just switched the sign.”

“Weird…I just walked to where I thought I was last night. Pretty sure this is the same bathroom.”

“Well, now, that would be utterly ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”

“You’d be surprised…”

I recounted my encounters, of the tour and the onsen, and the Australian listened with compassionate interest.

“It reads to me that you aren’t in the greatest of circumstances, mate.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I am. And I’m also telling you, this means that you will be especially susceptible to seeing her tonight.”
“What, the burn victim?”

“Oh, she’s no burn victim,” he laughed, shimmying his hairy chest under the fountain, “but what ailed her in life now ails her in death. There was something that weighed on her spirit so much, that it withstood the purification that comes with passing out of the body.”

“Hm. Got any suggestions?”

The Australian shrugged, so I bid him farewell before he ducked under the water. Drying myself off, I was preparing to leave when it finally struck me just how odd it was that the Australian knew so much about this angry ghost girl. So I decided to open the bathroom door and go back for one more round of what might turn out to be crucial questions for tonight. The bathroom was still empty. Just the drip, drip sound of condensation and the tub basin continuing its endless recycling and filtration.

I could see through the steam and the glass that the only occupant had not left yet – but I could confidently say, whatever it was now, it was not Australian. Sitting in the barrel where my acquaintance had been, was a grossly massive beast covered in black-tinged rust-colored fur that stuck out in every direction. Its face was resemblant to one of those traditional Oni masks, complete with fangs, horns, a snarling smile, and glowing eyes, hunched down between its gaping shoulders. The demon’s eyes glinted as it caught sight of me, raising a gnarled elongated hand to give me that lucky cat wave once more; but I was certain, now that I had seen him for what he really was, to stay would put me in a very unlucky situation. So I just waved back, slid the door shut, and returned to my quarters without the information.

Getting to sleep was a futile and sweaty affair. My side still itched like the Dickens, and I was worried that this ghost girl the Yōkai warned me about would pop out of nowhere without warning. How could I defend myself against her then? I was almost relieved as my nose started to burn from the smell of roasting flesh and my eyes started to water from the effects of smoke that was freshly pouring in from under my door. My fear swapped places with annoyance, the main theme of this trip ever since ghosts decided I was to be their primary source of entertainment.

Rising, I decided to get this over with. Not like I would be getting any sleep tonight, anyways.

“MONTEBAL!” shrieked the banshee without even waiting for a “hello” from me as soon as I opened the door. Her entire body was burning, blackened skin stretched tight on her wasted frame, with dark sunken holes in her skull where eyes once were. Fire surrounded her, dripping down from her hair and razing the walls and ceiling around me. It was pretty impressive, though perhaps only because the speed of her showmanship caught me by surprise.

“The time of your reckoning is here, Montebal,” yelled the ghost, pointing a crusty finger accusingly at me, talking over my insistent spluttering that she had the wrong guy. “These fires you see around you consume, never to give, as you did in life – and now they shall consume you. Your neglect of what is important, the ruin you left in your wake, I have come to deliver the consequences upon your head. Blood is thicker than oil, father!”

I decided that was my cue to deliver a bucket of salt directly on her head. The smell of burning oil was unmistakable, but also the hardest type of fire to put out. I had prepared a few options depending on what kind of fire she was: a regular fire, electrical fire, oil fire, etc. My hope was that salt, though not too terribly effective against oil fires, would be doubly effective due to her being a ghost as well. So I hinged my bets on a bucket of salt, and thusly dumped!

The fires immediately schlooped back into the ghost girl, like juice up a straw.

“What the Hell was that?” she chattered, shivering like she had just been doused with ice-cold water.
“My name is not Montebal!” I shouted loud and clear, before she had a chance to start up another tirade.
“What? It’s not…no, but it has…who are you, then, and why are you in Montebal’s quarters?”
“Quarters? This is a hotel room in the Ryokan Mottainai!”
“Ryokan…Where the Hell is that?”
“Japan!”
“What?! But how did I get from Gibraltar to here?”
“Listen I’m just a guest here, and a live one to boot. How should I know?”

I didn’t think her face could look more ghastly – boy, was I wrong. Oil burbled up inside her eye sockets and streamed down her sunken cheeks. She hunched down over her knees in the doorway, sobbing.

Feeling pity, I placed a hand on her back and burned myself. She understood the gesture, though, and rose to follow me inside. I warmed her a cup of canola oil and we sat down together as she spilled her guts over the relationship between her and her father, Montebal, who sought his fortune on an oil rig off the coast of Gibraltar while leaving his family behind to suffer the abandonment. She had been overtaken by disease, until the only thing left beating in her frail body was hatred for her father. It was a touching tale that I admit I had no good advice to give, how she could pass on or be at peace. But I tried my darnedest anyways.

“Look,” I began, “I came here for a relaxing trip, to take in the sights, smells, and salivations of Japanese culture. Instead, I have been bombarded on all sides by obnoxiousisms of the phantasmic sort – it’s got me all discombobulated and in a downright foul mood. I have finally come to terms after talking with you, that the realm of the deceased-but-not-done is beyond my control. I can’t do anything about it. So why bother bothering over all this nonsense when I have just a little time left to enjoy myself here? Better to move on with my own plans, and let the things beyond me pass by.”

She smiled and patted my hand, burning me a second time.

“Thank you for taking the time to listen to me, if that’s truly how you feel. I think your advice is good…for another time. For now, if I don’t want to end up more lost than I already am, it’s probably for the best that I have a purpose in mind, you know?”

The ghost girl downed the cup of oil and thanked me for my hospitality. I showed her to the door and bid her goodnight, before she floated up into the ceiling. There was a loud knock, a door sliding, a booming “MONTEBAL!” Then a lot of screaming from the guests above me. I chuckled and shook my head, and was able to sleep soundlessly as a monk after that.

The morning came, and I was feeling better than ever! No more itching, no more headache, a drawling, happy feeling of elevated nausea bringing warmth to my muscles and heart. I checked out with the smiley couple at the front, who smiled even more than they had when I first arrived, and took the bus to the airport.

My trip to experience a Japanese onsen had some ups and downs, sure, but I think it made me a more resilient man. Plus, it’s not every day one relates with and to the dead, so I had to approach whatever recollection I planned to retain of my stay at the Ryokan Mottainai with respect, if not with fondness. For I learned it was not good for me to dwell on things that I did not change, simply for lack of knowledge or ability. These things exist in the realm of shades, where the dead and realities that could have been find a brief tangibility in the waking hours of understanding.

All that to say, I needed a very good reason to not fly right back to Japan, once whatever drugs the owners had pumped into me wore off, and the burning itch in my side returned worse than before, and I scratched it to find my fingers running up and down the long ribbed stitchings of a scar where that “mosquito bite” had been. A fresh, puffy scar that burned like fire, crossed directly over where my left kidney used to be, my one lasting takeaway from a stay at the Ryokan Mottainai.

235. God Complex

Oh, how I’m glad that God’s not a man.

If he was

I’m sure that the full week of Creation

Would be done in a day

Sloppy, unrefined, the bare minimum

he wouldn’t have chosen a specific people

But made sure the whole world

Knew him

Worshiped him

Brought him women and wine to enjoy

And served him hand and foot and backside

As he used Earth as his own sandbox

To experiment and play around in

Like a child who could not be denied.

Oh, how I’m glad that God’s not a woman.

If she was

I’m sure that each day of Creation

Would have turned into a month

Since she would take so long to decide what was best

For sure

And she would choose a specific people –

That being women –

To set them on high as rulers over the globe

Only for those women to insult her

Criticize her for their own inferiority

And, instead of invoking her wrath,

Cause her to alter herself and the world without rest

Like an entertainer existing for approval’s sake.

And both, in the end,

Dissatisfied or humiliated with what they had made,

Constantly seeking the highs of beginning again

Would add and delete world after world

Ad infinitum

Or at least until they decided it was pointless –

They were pointless –

And deleted themselves.

Oh, how I’m glad

That God is God

Because we’ve got enough god complexes down here

To know we’d be damned otherwise.

Don Pigeón

The forest of Hatuga sees death and rebirth on a daily basis. Fires burn down forests so that new trees may grow; floods wash away old sediment to make clear what was once buried; predators eat prey so that the new generation made be heard. Each time this occurs, it is taking what has come before, and improving on it with something new or refreshed. Nothing of consequence is lost, only refocused into a natural working order. Civilization is founded on this fundamental cycle of life and death. It never ends, but is perpetually feeding into itself; expanding outwards, never changing direction.

Only once, in all of Hatuga’s history, did this cycle actually reset.

It began, as most stories do, with a tragedy in the most widespread flock in the forest. Don Pigeón was a bird of no ambition, in the most normal way possible. He took for granted the seed that was given to him, and was comfortable in his day-to-day flocking from bath to perch to town to perch again. There was routine to his life, there was community to his life, there was no reason to change what he did and how he did it whatsoever. He was a family fowl.

One Winter, as his flock was preparing to migrate South to more tepid climates, it was determined that his beloved Grán Pigeón was now too old to make the journey. All the best arrangements were made for her, to remain warm and well-supplied while the rest of the casa was away. This was not an abnormal occurrence, and the protocols had been reliably compiled over the years by expert pigeons who were also deemed too weak to escape the clutches of Winter. So Don Pigeón gave his dear sweet nonna a peck on the cheeks, that bird who had done nothing short of provide emotional encouragement throughout his entire life so that an existence without ambitions was digestible, and bid her farewell.

The next time Don Pigeón saw his nonna, she was laid out before him on a bed of birdseed, but far away in the realm of Death. While the flock was gone, there were complications with supplies – a disease that not only rotted the food they had stocked up, but also the inside of Grán Pigeón’s feeble stomach. He perched before her, furious at fate that had decreed him powerless in the face of natural cycles.

That event was the catalyst for the first ever stroke of ambition to enter Don Pigeón’s brain. His question: Must we remain so powerless? His answer: no. He did not have a solution in mind quite yet, but he wouldn’t stand for this unfair, illogical, depressing reality. The unknown did not hinder his determination, but had, in fact, given him a hint in Grán Pigeón’s passing. No more taking for granted what could be snatched away in a second – No more strutting about in aimless abandon – No more lounging in baths, cooing with neighbors, ruffling feathers without a care in the world.

This was his world. And, for the first time since he was cursed with ambition, he cared.

The hint Death had given Don Pigeón as to his first step was to find a solution that might have prevented Grán Pigeón’s expiration. Disease was nothing new. But it wasn’t so much the disease that was problem as was the fact that nobody knew what she was going through. There was no way to check up on her, to make sure she was doing all right, and no way to send her what she needed. Food, medicine, anything that could keep her alive, there was no way to get it to her. Therein was the first answer to Don Pigeón’s question revealed.

In less than a month, the first Pigeon Parcel Service Center was constructed. It was a rudimentary setup in a cramped nest that Don Pigeón founded with a few of the cousins who were also hit hardest by Grán Pigeón’s passing. For another month, the only thing that was leaving the center was hope – no one had any mail they wanted to deliver clear across Hatuga. The cousins left, one by one, until only Don Pigeón remained. But he remained steadfast, for he knew, if he had the possibility of feeling this hopeless, so at least one other Hatugan out there must feel the same as he.

And there was. Weasel had seen one of his daughters run off with a Stoat, when he had been openly explicitly averse to the arrangement. Now, he resented his actions, and wanted desperately to be part of whatever family his daughter made. Don Pigeón, pledging his devotion to delivering this sentiment, took Weasel’s letter and set off immediately where he was directed. For two full days he traveled nonstop, until he landed on the doorstep of their makeshift burrow. The multitude of reactions that slowly spread across the features of the Weasel’s daughter as she read the letter touched him – it was a reward he had not expected. As was the gift she offered out of the goodness of her heart for his kind deed: a basket of nuts that grew only in that isolated part of the forest, deep underground at that. With his heart and belly full, and a positive reply for the Weasel in his claws, Don Pigeón finally felt like his dream was on its way to fruition.

And it was, for word of mouth spread among the large and the small, amongst all species, that Don Pigeón was the bird to ask for if one wanted to get in touch with any other part of Hatuga. He would fly miles and miles for you, so that you could reach out to loved ones beyond reach. It was amazing how many in that forest had drifted apart – or were just curious about their neighbors, penning no one in particular just so they could learn more about their home.

Gradually, to Don Pigeón’s delight, his family began to return to the roost. Not to congratulate him, or to join him as employees, but to help him take control of the delivery machine he was building. Don Pigeón was taking minimal fees, fees that did not justify the time and lengths for which he was flying all over Kingdom Come. Now, with a rate in place, there were more than sentimental reasons to make the trip; the Pigeón family began accumulating all sorts of rare materials and resources, normally isolated to one region or another, gradually gathered at the Pigeon Parcel Service Center (or PPSC for short).

As he accumulated goods and goodwill, so did Don Pigeón gather the nature of nature. He became the confidant of rumors all around the jungle – not by choice at first, mind you, for some people will spill their guts to just about any random stranger who would listen. And Don Pigeón and his family were very good listeners. With the Don, it began from a place of empathy. Slowly, steadily, empathy changed to interest. And interest in truth, like in finance, compounds in the knowledge bank of Pigeón. The Don knew this as a useful tool right away…But for what? He did not have the answer, for his heart had yet to reach that level of corruption.

What it informed firstly, was Don Pigeón’s sympathy for what made life difficult for certain Hatugans. Whether they were lacking in defenses against the natural elements, or a certain confidence in the natural evolution of their species, or a shortage of natural resources, Don Pigeón employed a number of his brightest minds to brainstorm and blueprint what could be done about the problems plaguing their ecosystem. 

But the other pigeons did not have the giving heart their Don was gifted with. They became cognizant of dormant dreams of their own, things that would never come to fruition if they remained employed in the PPSC. This was Hatuga, however – there was no reason for any Hatugan to be employed! But they could not resist the exotic imports dropped on their doorstep, and the traveling that took them to lands they’d only imagined but now had a reason to experience. The easy solution for them, would be to pressure Don Pigeón for concessions. He was the generous sort, and they knew he could never deny his family.

In order to afford such concessions, Don Pigeón expanded his outfit. Other birds had been pining to get their knock-knees through the doorway, but Don Pigeón had kept them at bay through reputation, for the sake of reputation. Monopolizing the delivery service industry ensured that everything remained under his control, for the sake of the customer, but it was becoming harder and harder to control what he could not see.

So he made concessions. To his family, his own employees, he assured raises all around. To independent delivery outfits, he allowed the opportunity to stake a claim in the industry, with one caveat: their new businesses would operate as extended branches of his own. In this diplomatic way, Don Pigeón satisfied both his allies and his opponents, while also expanding the reach of his services.

But there was one very subtle advantage that only Don Pigeón was immediately conscious of. In order to afford raises to his workers, Don Pigeón knew it was necessary for competing brands to exist. He did not put his name on these new branches, the 1-Day Shipping from Falcons, the Heavy Cargo Shipping from Condors, the Penguin’s Aquatic Shipping. Instead, he encouraged healthy competition, the illusion that all of these outfits were not owned and controlled by him (they were, of course). And, where there is competition, there is competitive pricing; already addicted to widespread interconnection, the residents of Hatuga were all too happy to pay more and more, over the course of months, to retain the new boundaries that Don Pigeón had pushed back for them. And, with the loyalties of these “rival companies,” Don Pigeón ensured that any new aspiring entrepreneurs could be quashed before they even got started.

Progress moved swiftly. Don Pigeón now had his toes all over the North, West, South, and East of Hatuga, while the central branch controlled everything discreetly. Confident he had garnered enough influence and importance in the lives of his fellow Hatugans, the Don began the next step in his goal to diminish the struggles of his fellow countrymen: the implementation of industry.

Crippled in a hunting accident? We can supply you a leg, or a rudimentary vehicle that runs on the wind. Elements too strong for your natural defenses? We can build you a house. Got an allergy, a sickness, a wound? We have chemicals to put an end to that. Any aspect of life that brought fear or insecurity to a Hatugan, Don Pigeón sought to eliminate it – to control it. It was for the benefit of all of Hatuga that he would make life more liveable, and less fearful. To do that, he would need to bring together specialists, those who had only pursued certain fields for hobby or evolutionary inclination, and put them on his ever-expanding payroll. And Hatugans, welcome to any change that made their lives convenient, only saw this carefully regulated industrialization as Nature in action. After all, growth is in the trees, in the waters, in their very genes; so what is so unnatural about growing civilization like this?

But for all his benevolence towards those investing in the bright new Hatuga of his dreams, there was still one citizen he could not bring himself to tolerate: Sloths. The Sloths partook of industry as much as any other Hatugan, no greater and no less, but their slow speed and general laziness dictated that they only consume, and not contribute. Dictated? No, Don Pigeón would not be dictated to by a bunch of ungrateful Sloths. If they wished to be part of his brave new world of technological and sociological innovation, they would need to give up some part of themselves, as all Hatugans had – time, money, or expertise, it did not matter. What would be required to encourage them?

The parcel service had become so overburdened, that some of Don Pigeón’s Octopus scientists had been working on a way to relieve the burden when it came to written mail or messages. They had created a device that would broadcast soundwaves, but it relied on tether points to extend their scope. Don Pigeón did not need a second explanation. Gathering the full might of his construction crews from all directions, radio towers were erected almost overnight, and enough devices were manufactured to be sold the next week. There were two frequencies with thousands of channels: one that allowed private calls for personal messages between Hatugans, and another for broadcasting entertaining discussions on life, philosophy, and current events. So, not only was the burden on his work forces lightened, but he now had a way to bring those pesky Sloths to see the light – whether by encouraging participation in community and culture, defining what it is to be a good Hatugan, or just flat-out insulting Sloths as a species in general. He let the intellectuals have their fun, their experiments, sure – but these were his radio waves, and he would ensure that only what was best for Hatuga was given credence as truth. Such was his responsibility as head of the family.

But the Don could not have foreseen how his messaging took a life of its own beyond the radiowaves. Some Hatugans sympathized with the sloths. They didn’t mind contributing to enjoy conveniences, but the sheer volume of sacrifices they made did not equal what they were receiving in return. Ths was especially true of the primates, whose opposable thumbs were invaluable for low-reward, low-prestige, purely physical technical roles, especially when building machines.

Others became increasingly aware of how, no matter where they turned, the philosophies of whoever owned these radio channels (for Don Pigeón was too humble to attribute all the societal changes to himself alone) were being forced down into their ears relentlessly, and with very aggressive language. Not only that, but a new type of building was on the rise, literally – skyscrapers, stuffed to the brim with either low-import, high-reward communication experts in the case of the business districts, or with families and herds of varying species in the residential districts (many of which did not naturally get along). And the trees! The number of trees that had to be removed to make space, especially as more and more species migrated to territories not their own, convoluting food chains and complicating ecosystems. 

Whoever was making all these changes couldn’t see the trees for the forest, so focused on the big picture that they overlooked all the little threads coming undone across their canvas. But it was painted nonetheless, and the thousand words had come home to nest – specifically those decrying, denouncing, and demonizing Sloths.

Language on the radiowaves had shifted from a subtle reinforcement of “Hatugan values” to calling out Sloths directly by Genus. Some Hatugans, whether they were pro or anti progress, began to lash out at Sloths as an easy and slow-moving target for venting their frustrations. The Sloths continued whatever they had been doing, calling out their oppression, but otherwise so set in their ways that they knew they could not adapt. Hatugans began demanding action, and, for the first time in the forest’s collective history, they elected a democratic council to help guide their newfound nation towards a better state of being.

Not long after the election, a disease broke out among the Sloths. No scientist could truly nail down the source with factual evidence, but it was widely determined to be the result of a fruit that was not native to their territory, suddenly introduced and producing spores that the Sloth immunity was not adapted to. Those that were not killed off by this contagion were administered a drug meant to reduce the inflammation caused – sadly it only saved a fraction. A fraction which, through policy enforcing a quarantine on the Sloths and those who retained close connections or fraternization to their species, crowding them into absolutely horrendous and sickly living conditions, reduced the total population of Sloths in Hatuga to one-hundred percent extinct.

The tragedy was touted as “not wholly undeserved, and a necessary sacrifice for the betterment and optimization of Hatugan society.” Such was the exact phrase with identical wording touted on every audible radio channel. Some Hatugans bought into it; others did not. They no longer trusted the radio, or their makeshift government, or their collective culture rapidly dissolving their individual identities, or even their very neighbor. Heck, the recent disease that erased the Sloths even made them question if all this progress was even a good idea to begin with! The climate, so fired up with electricity and polarity, finally burst into a hundred sparks of individual rebellions, revolutions, acts of dissent. Sparks that erupted with an all-out war.

It was the first, and only, Civil War Hatuga would ever see.

Carnage knew no bounds. From North to South, East to West, sea to sky, and even underground – Hatuga was evenly split between those who were Hell-bent on tearing down these monuments of progress and idols of civilization, and those who would kill to protect them. Both sides were evenly matched, not in numbers, but in power – for a majority of the primates, skilled in building machines, manufactured terrible contraptions that dealt destruction enough for the forces they lacked. The land was rendered infertile, collapsing skyscrapers wiped out whole communities, and months of progress were deleted in a few days. Knowing that it was do-or-die, that neither side could withstand such unrestrained conflict for long, the main forces parlayed for a treaty – they would meet for a great battle on Mount Gula, and the winner would determine the fate of Hatuga.

It was all a farce. No matter which side reigned victorious, there was only one true winner, and determiner of Hatuga’s fate. His name: Don Pigeón.

 Don Pigeón knew that this war was inevitable. The greed of his cousins all those years ago proved to him that only he had the goodness of heart to put Hatuga’s needs before his own. He had already determined a solution for every outcome, each one with the forest’s best interests at heart. And, as he soared above the opposing sides as they marched off to battle, scaling both sides of the ridged crests across Mount Gula’s back, he felt a feeling he had never acknowledged before – but had felt many times in the past. It was a feeling of fullness. Every aspect of Hatugan life, from identity to mobility to communicability to malleability, was actively and currently being controlled by him. He was a force of Nature, one that had brought Nature’s order to heel. That feeling of fullness…It was because he had accomplished this, and only he. He had fought against Death, the same Death that had robbed him of his nonna. While he hadn’t yet defeated Death, he had indeed conquered life. Don Pigeón, Master of Life! He was a god.

Don Pigeón circled overhead as the first wave clashed, a buzzard to the dreams and futures of so many Hatugans. Given the voracity of the bloodshed and the spirit of the fighters, he calculated that the side opposing his regime would be victorious within the next hour. But it was no matter – he had his talons in their ways of living, so modernized and civilized they had become, that the next generation would surely forget the atrocities of their ancestors and turn a blind eye to suspicion. He had monitored their private calls, owning their methods of communication, and so knew how to get inside their heads or blackmail the members of whatever new government might from the bloodshed. He would win their trust, with a delicate touch and deliberate messaging, and create an even better way of life for Hatuga.

Don Pigeón was right about one thing: how easy it is for a single generation to forget the objective circumstances recorded about their history. Since the state of Hatuga controlled the radiowaves, advocating for one culture under Pigeon, many fables had been lost to public knowledge. If they had not been, perhaps the factions raging against one another might have done so more quietly, or chosen a different location altogether. Mount Gula was named specifically for an old legend, one that had been told to scare little Hatugans into not biting off more than they ought to chew – which the current society certainly had. A Hatugan herself, one that had grown so large that, like Don Pigeón with his totalitarian grip on the whole forest, she had become a force of Nature. A force of Nature that Hatuga had rendered dormant so that she did not devour everything, but now called forth to defend its lands and reset the cycle – to undo the damage Don Pigeón had done to all of Hatugakind.

The Hatugans in the midst of battle believed that they were being subjected to an earthquake, or that their instruments of war were so powerful that the very earth was caving in. Only Don Pigeón, high above the doomed combatants, could realize with fear that they had awoken a monster, longer and taller than the range feeding into Mount Gula. It rolled over on its spiked back, crushing both sides with falling rocks or its body shaking off the dregs of slumber as it shook off Hatugans to their deaths hundreds of feet below. In five minutes, the war was over. 

Don Pigeón, last survivor on that battlefield, was staring straight into the molten eyes of Puripu – The Gator of Impressive Girth.

But it was not Puripu who stared back, for her mind had long gone into the depths of dreamscapes. Her body, too, had become one with stone, dirt, trees, with a belly full of magma and teeth of steel. What Don Pigeón now beheld was the physical conjuration of Death, a Death Hatuga had summoned to reset the cycle and cleanse the forest. If devouring Don Pigeón was the solution, it was an easy fix. But that would accomplish nothing – he was the root of an infectious disease, one that had spread and darkened all corners of the map. So, turning its head, the Gator of Impressive Girth set about the task Hatuga had given it free reign to do: kill and eat.

For three whole days of nationwide terror, the Gator steamrolled through Hatuga without stopping. Entire cities were leveled, all skyscrapers toppled, all factories on fire. Radio towers crumpled into ruin and thousands of Hatugans were reduced to nothing by the Gator’s rampage. In the final hours of her nonstop destruction, she thrashed violently, shaking her body apart. The stone that formed her powerful body cracked, sending pieces flying into the last remnants of Don Pigeón’s short-lived world order, until all that was left were the reminders of his folly. Puripu finally collapsed into a landslide of rubble and igneous rock, a natural disaster that put both her and Don Pigeón’s tyranny to rest.

Don Pigeón’s extended family had remained in the PPSC to protect their assets and profits, and so were eliminated with all traces of that once humble and harmless delivery service. As for Don Pigeón, he lived on. Somewhere, beyond the mists of Western Hatuga, the once proud force of Nature had fled to escape the scrutiny of the survivors, the innocent and the guilty who would have to repair the damage he had done. No one could tell you the state of his heart in that moment, whether or not that well-meaning bird still existed within him and he removed himself for the good of Hatuga once again, or if the humiliation and inability to control any longer was too much for him to coexist alongside them all. But he had lost the war to conquer Hatuga herself – exile to the Unknown seemed appropriate.

There were many losses – but Hatuga knows what is best for itself. There was no other way to remove poisoned minds, a polluted culture, a corrupted character, than to reset the way of life and undo the progress and conveniences that Hatugans had accumulated for themselves. It was a period of great mourning, certainly, but the next generation were no longer destined to become Don Pigeón’s puppets, pets, or laborers. They would prioritize the family, doing what was best for their local communities as a whole instead of the whole of Hatuga, seek progress where it was necessary instead of for its own sake, and give up on all pretensions of conquering death and other sorrows that were beyond their power. Hatuga was Hatuga, once again and forevermore. As was natural – all things as they should be.

Everybody Wants to Be a Star

Hannah plucked a petal off the tip of her tongue. She must have been in such a hurry, some stray flower got stuck in her hair and pretended to be a trapeze artist until it lodged itself between her lips. She studied the purple petal, belonging to an overlooked hydrangea, and flicked it into the open toilet with disgust. After patting her flushed face with cold water and squeezing her skull back into the pink cat mascot head, she opened the door and strode cheerfully into the hotel room.

Hannah had to pat Jewel’s face a few times before her eyes fluttered open. She tried to fix the smudge Hannah made with her makeup, but that wasn’t possible with her wrists tied viciously tight to the armrests of the chair the rest of her body was likewise cruelly bound to. Hannah was taking no chances, smiling as she dragged another chair directly in front of her captive. Jewel smiled right back – not that she could see Hannah’s face behind that plushy cat grin.

“Hi,” Hannah ventured, testing the strength of Jewel’s consciousness.

“And who are you supposed to be,” ridiculed Jewel, “my biggest fan?”

“Not supposed to be. I am.”

“Then you should know you’re totally screwed by kidnapping me.”

“What? Think you’d be able to identify me to the cops?” Hannah teased, poking Jewel hard in the cheek. Jewel didn’t pull away, didn’t even flinch, but stared at Hannah with a toothy grin almost wider than the cat’s.

“The cops are the least of your concern.”

Hannah laughed. The modulator in the teeth of the mascot head made her voice sound like a cybernetic chipmunk. 

“My biggest concern was just getting you here. Seriously, I’m not going to hurt you. Of course I had to drug you, though, how else could I get an audience with you?”

“I don’t know. Get a ticket like everyone else.”

“Oh, come on,” Hannah groaned. “Your convention tickets aren’t just expensive, they also sell out in, like, thirty seconds! Crazy as it sounds, dragging you here was much easier.”

“It does sound crazy.”

“You know,” frowned Hannah, “your tone is really getting on my nerves.”

“Oh, I’m sooooo sorry,” the long o’s were accompanied by a synchronized eye roll from Jewel, “You just threw my whole schedule off and ruined all my pre-show prep work. But, here, I’ll try and accommodate you. You’re asking me to be faker than I already am?”

Hannah shook her head in a panic. “I did not call you fake! I never would!”

“Well, I am. Wipe off my makeup. Go on! You’ll see just how fake I am.”

“Are you sure…?” Hannah hesitated. She would do anything for her idol, but she wasn’t sure that de-masking her was something she wanted to be personally responsible for.

“You wanted to know my secrets, right? This is your chance to see the real Jewel.”

Hannah looked up into that wide-eyed grinning face. It was all a taunt, but she was flattered just to be loathed so much by her own idol. It meant that she meant something to her, no matter how negative.

“All right. Give me a second.”

Hannah sprang up and returned to the bathroom. She took off the mascot head again, and, no sooner was her head free, but she coughed up four petals this time.

“What the Hell…where are these coming from?”

But there was no time for that, her idol was waiting to have her request fulfilled. The popular influencer whose videos had inspired Hannah for three transformative years, from her highs to her lows. She had invested so much in her merchandise, her subscriptions, her songs, and now she was going to find out what made her so popular. A dream come true!

Hannah wetted the paper towels and returned to Jewel, who hadn’t moved one inch. She delicately placed one against Jewel’s face-all they did was smudge the makeup. She rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, but nothing happened.

But there was no time for that, her idol was waiting to have her request fulfilled. The popular influencer whose videos had inspired Hannah for three transformative years, from her highs to her lows. She had invested so much time, money, and obsession into her merchandise, her subscriptions, her songs, and now she was going to find out what made her so popular. A dream come true!

Hannah wetted the paper towels and returned to Jewel, who hadn’t moved one inch. She delicately placed one against Jewel’s face, but all they did was smudge the makeup. She rubbed and rubbed and rubbed – nothing happened.

“C’mon,” mocked Jewel. “You have to want it more than that.”

Hannah did. She wanted it more than anything! If not to learn Jewel’s secrets, then at least to be reassured that no one was as perfect as she pretended to be. Scrubscrubscrubscritchscratchscratch until, finally, the makeup began to peel off with streams of blood running down Jewel’s face.

“Thaaaaat’s it. Good job~”

Seeing that blood was a solvent, Hannah scratched harder and harder until blood was flowing freely, Jewel calmly coaxing her along all the while. As she stood back, ready to receive Jewel’s secret, she felt her throat swell up to tell her she wasn’t ready at all.

It was her. Jewel was her. Through all the blood and splotches of makeup and raw skin, Jewel looked exactly like Hannah. Worst of all…Jewel’s unfazed grin proved she knew all along.

“You know who I am, then? Yup. I’m you~”

“From…from the future?”  murmured Hannah, removing her mask since it was pointless now.

“In a way,” Jewel said softly. “From the future that will never be. I’m the you you could have been, if you didn’t just consume and consume and consume. I’m the you you wish you were. Making fun things, not to be remembered, but to be adored by the youth in your prime. But now your prime is passing. I am the proof.”

“How…?”

“How does not matter, it’s too late for a solution. I mean, can’t you feel them? Taking root?”

Hannah could feel them – had been for some time. She felt something deep in her lungs, weighing them down, slithering around and spreading in a way that didn’t fill them up, but made them heavy and hollow. Only when she felt the leathery skin of her lungs couldn’t drag any more against her ribs, like wet clothes on a washboard, did she feel her lungs start to fill up. It was not like water filling a balloon, but like feathers stuffing a pillow; some poking out here and there, leaving her gasping for air as they overflowed in the only direction left open: up.

Hannah hacked and coughed as sharp twigs scratched their way up her trachea, and a burst of purple petals popped out of her mouth, sticking against the blood now pouring in streams down Jewel’s smiling face.

“Ooooo, looks like you caught a case of the Hanahaki. Makes sense why they’re hydrangeas, too. A jealous, one-sided obsession. For the you you could have been, but know you will now never be!”

Jewel was laughing and choking as Hannah was strangling and choking. Neither could breathe, tracheas blocked by hands and flowers. Stems were sprouting uncontrollably, bulging Hannah’s trachea and smothering Jewel’s face. In her last conscious thought, Jewel clung desperately to her last hope. The hope that, once Jewel was gone, not only would the flowers stop – but Hannah could so easily take her place. Seize the attentions and affections she was certain she deserved, if only she had a chance and the inclination or ability to take it. This was her, finally taking it.

“Hanahaki! Hannah hacking! Hanahakihannahacking!” Jewel jeered, until the flowers found their way into her mouth as well and grew towards the darkness within. Every sickly stuffed gag intertwined them closer together under the cover of vines, the mirror images finally joined in what was and what could never be, what desired and what deserved. They clung for each other, one unable to exist without the other, until flower overpowered tissue, and their lungs burst. Both consumer and consummated, consumed by ravenous growth. Their only contribution to this world was fertilizing a violent violet infestation.

…

…

It took hotel management a full month to clear out the brambles. No one could find the source or the root of the sudden infestation of Hydrangeas that seemed to explode in a twisted formation from the center of Room 610. Every piece of furniture was overrun by that intertwined ball of vines, thicker than cables and sticker than sap. The oddest thing was, as they hacked and sliced to clear the room, was that the vines seemed to pulse, ever so softly – like a nervous system, attuned to a heartbeat. Two heartbeats, actually, for one root system beat within the pauses of the other.

There was also blood all over the petals, scraps of skin residue here and there, a jumbled mess of red, peach and violet. But no body was ever found. The only thing a forensics expert could determine, is that all DNA samples belonged to one missing girl. To her, or to the flowers themselves.