I tried to give the narrator and his ancestors a kind of power that forces them to give back. They don’t get to control the elements freely like powerful mages. In the end, they are claimed by the forces that gave them those powers in the first place.

It feels scary to even be hopeful about the distant future, especially because I sometimes wonder if there will even be a “distant” future for humanity, with the devastating consequences of climate change already unfolding.

Resistance is much on my mind lately, with the world in its current state, and I wanted to talk about how communication might shape itself in a conversation about the act of resistance.

Part of what drives this story for me is the lack of control, the chaos—he doesn’t know how it works, he screws up, the machine pushes forward (showing him such strange sights) and it pushes him backwards.

Unlike many of my stories, this had a specific inspiration—I was hiking a new-to-me trail in Rocky Mountain National Park, which is near where I live. I found the most amazing, peaceful spot—a kind of still murky pond with lily pads, and a nearby grove of aspens—it was autumn, the leaves had fallen, so the trail was carpeted with gold, and the bare branches reached up to a bright blue sky. It felt like a refuge—a good place to hide.