This is set in the same world as my short story “Amaryllis” (also published on Lightspeed) and my Philip K Dick Award-winning novel Bannerless. In fact, it features the same main character as Bannerless. I love writing about Enid, and this setting still has lots of corners I haven’t explored. Short fiction is a good way to do that. One of the questions I always wanted to tackle: what are other parts of the country like? What other technology might have survived elsewhere? What happens when those cultures meet?

I had been thinking a lot about constructed narratives, reality television and the blurred line between authenticity and falsehood. I had also been thinking a lot about the concept of a story that is out to get you. I had been thinking about the grand tradition of “murdergame” stories (Battle Royale, The Hunger Games, Squid Game, etc.). And I thought that a subversion of a murdergame story, where death is an escape and life is being trapped, had a lot of weirdness potential. And that’s the bedrock the rest of the story was built from.

Everything important in the story is in the spaces between words and actions—the waiting and the dread—which means there needs to be a lot of breathing room. In that way, it’s a very queer story: at least when I was growing up, so much of the experience of being a young queer person was learning to navigate this kind of communication where nothing was solid and the outcome could either be extremely dangerous or very wonderful, and you had no way of knowing which was more likely.

This story was in perfect alignment with that inclination of mine. All I knew when I began was one pivotal scene, and nothing else, not even an idea how to start the story so I’d eventually reach that point. Until I woke one night with the opening sentence in my head, scribbled it down in the dark, and hoped I’d be able to read my handwriting the next morning. (Luckily, I could!) And then I began writing as best as I was able the next, best sentence, over and over again. That’s how it is with most of my stories. But as to where this one differed—I had no idea whether anything I was doing would actually result in an eventual story.

I’d read an article a long time ago about bees that collected honey from flowers that produce psychotropic chemicals, and after that, I’d always wanted to write a story that touched on mad honey in some way. But on its own, the mad honey was just a detail; not enough to shape a story around. It wasn’t until this idea crashed headlong into a writing prompt asking for a story touching on wolves or werewolves that everything came together.

This story originated mid-morning in the Crown & Anchor parking lot, on a particularly potent cocktail of weed, shrooms, coffee, and booze. A friend had come through town to say goodbye before heading off to join the Navy, and he was talking to me about meth-head drywallers and ants being the earliest machine intelligence and how he hopes we eat the rich, and I was too high for it. I kept seeing flashes and texting them to myself so as not to forget.

Write what you love, and only if you love it, because this is a hard and often lonely business to be in. If you loved what you wrote, that’s already a win, whether or not it gets published. But if you are passionate about a particular story, your passion and your voice will shine through, and that’s what will make your story unique and stand out in a slush pile. The writing is all that’s in your hands. Focus on your craft. Get yourself a writing group or critique partners you can rely on. That makes the process less lonely—at least it did for me!

This was originally a short I’d intended to include in a climate change anthology that explored more tangible, localized impact rather than the distant/impossible macro-disaster approach that ends up being the focus of a lot of media. And then the world started catching up to the stories being written and it somehow felt less poignant and more “news at eleven.” So “12th St. Pirates” takes from existing examples of apartheid and classism and places them in a climate justice framework, positing that we are going to take our societal ills into a climate altered future. As our climate situation worsens, there are segments of society that will choose to see walls as a fix.

I’ve seen lots of Baba Yaga retellings and modernizations—and don’t get me wrong, the old witch is fascinating, deserving of every ounce of attention she gets. For this story, though, I wanted to cast one of the figures of Slavic folklore I don’t see revisited nearly as often: Poludnitsa (also known as the Noon Witch, or Lady Midday). Pulling from my own experiences, I threw in some teenage angst, some intergenerational dissonance, and a Burning Man–esque desert setting that’s going to be make or break for our modern Noon Witch.

I love time travel stories, and I always have. Not just time travel stories, but time-bending stories, time-jumping stories, any kind of time-futzing, I’m there for it. The novel I’m writing now is called Big Time. It’s a time-manipulation piece, and it had me doing a lot of research on theories and mechanisms of time travel. I think this story came from that work. So it’s a bit of a subsidiary to the novel I’m working on—although it’s a very, very different piece, both in plot and tone. In terms of inspiration, Back To The Future is an obvious one; anything where you’ve got a hero, especially a self-confident, clever kid, traveling through time, you’re in BTTF territory.