This story had its roots in something I saw years ago, an article on the strangest things people had ever turned into New York Subway lost and founds. (Caveat: this story originated so long ago, that I may not even be remembering the details of its origin story correctly. Do you think I can turn a lost inspiration into a lost and found?) Anyway, I remember there being a lost and found snake.

I’m mixed Black/white, and grew up with many European fairy tales. I also have a lot of thoughts of my ancestors who were stolen from their homes and enslaved, and their cultures stripped from them, and that cultural knowledge lost for future generations—effects that I grapple with myself. So I identify very much with my witch, Agnes, when she says, “But this food, I made it mine, like House is mine . . . They don’t get to take it, too.” I’m making the European fairy tales and other trappings of colonialism that I’ve inherited one way or another, mine.

The other theme of antisemitic blood libel comes into the story because it is hard to write anything with an even vaguely Eastern European setting involving ostensible human sacrifice while trying to ignore how historically, Jews were often accused of human sacrifice in the region and persecuted accordingly. I was curious if there were any specific links between construction sacrifice types of murder ballads and other folk traditions, and antisemitic blood libel—and I indeed found some folkloristics research about this that’s linked at the end of the story.

At one point the story asks, what if we understand being changed and making change as inextricably entwined? That’s something I’m thinking about a lot and I’d love readers to think about, too. How might we rethink our ideas of change so that we move smoothly from learning to acting without stalling in between? I think about this particularly in conjunction with social media and twenty-four-hour news, which can be useful resources for learning about instances of oppression and injustice, tragedy and disaster.

I would like to see Indigenous science fiction get more recognition and for more attention to be paid to tribally-specific genres. I’m delighted that Reservation Dogs, which contains many speculative elements, has received much-deserved recognition. But I’d also like to see more Indigenous SF adapted for television and movies.

I just like strange things.

If I’m writing a short story, I like to plan everything out in advance and then write from the bullet points; there’s not so much wiggle room when you’re writing against a maximum word count. If I’m writing a novel I also like to plan everything out in advance and write from the bullet points, with the difference that I generally get maybe two-thirds of the way through and realize that two or more of my bullet points conflict with each other and the entire house of cards is gonna collapse.

There’s a common slang we have in Nigeria called “japa.” This simply means migration from your country to another country for better opportunities and greener pastures. I was having a conversation with a friend who was talking about the hardship being faced by the ever-growing Nigerian population, hence, the reason for the mass migration. A spark of an idea was birthed during the conversation. What if this supposed greener pasture is not what we think it is? Perhaps, we are too engrossed with the news we hear about such places.

I like to think I’m a nice dad. And, possibly as a result, I write a lot of science fiction with nice dad protagonists. For this story, I wanted to challenge myself to go in the opposite direction and write the villainous origin story of a not-very-nice dad. So, I basically fought my best instincts as a parent, and explored a much more selfish point of view. Like most of my short stories, this is just a jumping off point. I’d love to write more about what happens in this cave with these people.

This really happened to me! But without the monsters. When I was ten my father got in a bad motorcycle accident, and my mom had to rush up to Albany Medical and left us in the care of family friends who were significantly wealthier than us. It was terrifying (and fascinating), and the scars on my psyche festered into this story after about thirty-plus years.