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It is 3024, and there are no longer shrines. They long since washed away by nature’s fury in the form of quakes that split across continents, countries, cities, down schools, fields, homes neatly in two. You are to receive the memories of a late mother, a late father.
I am running out of Words. I stumble down the temple steps, clutching my wounded side. I had been too slow to use my fourth Word and the prison guard’s spear had drawn blood before he choked to death under the weight of my suffocation spell.
Reduce, We’ll start with the easy one. We’re good at reducing! We’ve cut back so much already. Air quality. Polar ice caps. The winters where no one’s grandma freezes to death. What if we try reducing working hours? Preventable illness?
As children, we circled the crow chick that fell from its nest. Its wings were splayed heavenward like a saint’s, its brains streaked like veins of quartz across asphalt. Its neck arched back at a fossil-like, impossible angle. That was when I learned how fragile birds’ bones are.
When a human head hits a road at the right speed and the wrong angle, the asphalt will take off an ear like a belt sander. Dogs and bears and chimpanzees rip ears off during attacks. People rip off ears during attacks; in domestic disputes, drunken brawls, and reason-defying misadventures, people relieve each other of their ears like they’re tearing off stubborn pieces of bloomin’ onion.
You’ve only ever had one rule: never cross the stream that divides the wastes and the green land. That’s where the robots are, and the robots are our enemies.
The two children regarded Zekelo with solemn eyes. If they were intimidated by the twisting horns jutting from his head or his obsidian claws, they gave no sign of it. “Hello, young ones. Welcome to Zekelo’s Barterhouse & Emporium, the finest shop in all Limbo. Here, we offer phylacteries, nostrums, and rare antiquities from every plane of existence.”
Do it. The last words she spoke before we cinched the green ribbon around her neck, a stark line bisecting her head from her body, a scrap we’d buried to gather magic under the mother tree. We tied the final knot. She took up her sword, a girl become death, the edge of her blade fine enough to cleave three dimensions into one.
“How long do I have to have my membership with Juno before he proposes?”
“Well, is he subscribed, too?”
“Lifetime with Venus.”
“Girl.”
The great writer had lived well past his appointed lifespan, not by years but decades, and now existed less as an ongoing contributor to the literate zeitgeist but as an icon of a past age. He was a super-centenarian, just topping an unbelievable 110 and still appearing at literary conferences.
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