Snake's Handshake

by Jeff Carpenter

Tim saw a user passed out on a bench on the boardwalk. Where else could you stick a needle in your arm in broad daylight and no one would even bat an eye?

He grinned. Where he was going he would pay big bucks for a stranger to do just that. It would hurt and he'd bleed, but he'd smile and enjoy it. And the guys at work would never believe it.

Tim did a sidestep as a roving SaniMate™ zipped by his ankle. It had redflagged this sector while patrolling the perimeter of its security quadrant. It had set its course and was homing trajectory for the bench and vacuumed up the dirty needles with discreet efficiency.

Once out of the sentinel’s zone, Tim made his way past the Tent City which squatters had constructed on the lawn of the quayside park. Nice digs. He bet their property taxes didn’t cut into their quarterly stock earnings.

After weaving through a life-size game of Othello ®, he found himself at a trendily ramshackle building on the pier: The SNAKE PIT.

He opened the door and the smell of blood, sweat, steam and hydraulic fluid hit him in the face. A Frankenstein wedding of a busy operating room and an auto-body shop. An and a tanker's engine room.

The autoclave hissed like an inflating cobra, a stainless steel pressure cooker with temperature and pressure gauges clocking 103 kPa, 121 °C, and a timer set for 15 min.

Bleeding through everything was the din of the Snakes. It wasn't a place you would want to spend any extra time in, if you had the chance.

But this was all about the art, he reminded himself.

He was looking for a particular design. A snake design, of course. What was it called again?

He looked at the ready-made art on the wall.

Snake coiled through the eyes of a skull… and what was that on top? … a yarmulke? Niiice… if you wore leather chaps, a studded bracelet and got the rabbi to name your kid Harley bar David while getting a genital piercing at the bris.

The gallery of flash art was not too inspired. Flash-- they said it was for the uncreative… quick picks for dicks. But coming up with an original idea for a custom job was for those with more time than money. And money was all he had. He checked his watch. Almost time.

He had booked the Snake half a year in advance. Six month waiting period was a bitch, but he was patient. He had to be. What other choice was there?

The time zone thing was a bitch too. But he was acclimatized to the fact that so many things rocked on a 24'ked clock these days.

He fanned himself with the confirmation ticket stub in his hand.

Flash, flash, flash…

He scanned over more designs:

rearing Egyptian cobra spreading its hood and in hieroglyphic font: Uraeus

Too goth-y…

coiled rattlesnake with the defiant motto: Don't Tread on Me

Too white trash…

Viking sea-serpent with the inscription: Jörmungandr

Too Teutonic…

totemic Hawaiian moray eel: Puhi

Too ethnic…

feathered Aztec snake-god: Quetzacoatl

Too… bean-dip ethnic…

little snake with a big appetite swallowing its own tail: Ouroboros

Too… too… existential for this time of the morning.

Nope, none too inspired. But, anyway, concept meant nothing; it was all in the execution.

He moved down the wall.

Finally he saw the snake he wanted.

Twin snakes actually. The symbol was well known, but the name? What was it called again? A twin snake design...

Well, it wasn't the design he wanted so much as the signature. The niji mei, or whatever it was called.

During the waiting period he had time to study up on the artist, the techniques, the terminology. Not that he wanted to, but his friends were always asking him questions. He figured he might as well look like he knew what he was doing. It was like being back in school all over again.

The Snake arm he recognized as a tool adapted from the medical telepresence robots used by doctors to perform operations from remote locations worldwide. They could memorize millions of precise moves, so could theoretically conduct entire operations unsupervised. But for delicate, critical work you still wanted that human touch, was still required.

Most of the proles went for proceDUPEs these days-- cheap knock-offs of the artist’s process through automated procedural motion-capture sessions. But skin was different. It wasn’t a uniform 2-d canvass you could simply throw on the printing press. Musculature, underlying skeletal structure, basic somatic dimensions… they all made a difference. Trying to transfer a one-size-fits-all design just looked so… lo-res. Still, most people went for the copy. Not him. He was getting a signed original.

He punched the design code into the keypad along with his reservation confirmation number. He was already set in the queue.

He authorized the transfer of bank funds, less the deposit he’d already paid. Most of the cost went to the private use license he purchased to legally carry the artist’s IP etched in his skin. Designs open to public display cost more, of course.

The Snake arm was just finishing up the dude in front of him in the line. An obsessively detailed full-back tattoo. Blood and ink was still wet where the needle had penetrated.

An elaborate pattern of cresting waves formed a frame around the centerpiece, the swirling gaku, Tim noted, surrounding a springing red, black and blue barracuda.

You wouldn’t want that to get infected…

The guy, lying on his stomach and strapped to the bed, looked back over his shoulder as the machine worked over him.

"I'm next," Tim told him.

"Who's doing you?" the guy demanded.

Tim stepped back as the Snake arm swung back around, finishing a particulary intricate move.

"Horiyoshi Five."

"You mean… 'the Fifth'?"

"Yes, Horiyoshi the Fifth."

"That motherfucker's crazy. Crazier than a snake's handshake's what I've been told."

Tim watched the Snake perform a sweeping arc.

"When you book him? Fuck, didn't even know he still took clients."

"It’s been a while now."

"Yeah, I bet. How'd ya hear about the bastard? Hasn't left his island in over forty years. Fucker's gone native. Fuck, he's just goooo-ne."

"Saw an old feature in the Activ8ed archive.”

"Figured the old man took one too many hits off the teekal and just paddled off into the blue."

The man grimaced as the needle punctured a particularly sensitive area.

"You're lucky to get him before tourist season. Heard he spends all his time chasing ‘em off, like Saipan was his own private beach."

Crazy or not, Horiyoshi V was a master tattoo artist of his age. A full fledged horimonoshi. Master engraver. Trained since birth and dedicated unto death. Title notwithstanding, his craftsmanship was more than pride; it was devotion and vocation. The title was passed down from one generation to the next. But it was not a birthright. The title was not inherited: it was bestowed upon the most worthy disciple of the previous master. So it was that on the anniversary of his eighteenth year of service Watanabe Jumpei was renamed Horiyoshi the Fifth. And that was the name Tim was getting engraved in his skin today and for all his tomorrows.

He checked his watch again.

This guy was gonna have to be as good as they said he was, if he was going to make it in time for his shift.

An assistant deposited a blood/ink stained wipe cloth into the red biohazard trashcan in the corner. He discarded his gloves and touched a Chinese wall hanging, immediately remaking it to a running scroll of the day’s scheduled clients.

Further down the wall were some Active Posters showing some old school kung fu trailers and fight highlights. Tim recognized some of them:

Snake Fist Fighter.

Dragon Snake Fist.

Snake Fist of a Buddhist Dragon.

”He had the soul of a dragon, the heart of a lion, and the skill of the snake!!” screamed the tagline.

He remembered back to the drunken movie nights at the dorm. It was a hilarious crash course in ghetto cinema history. Like the night Stokie put 'Dolfo through the coffee table to prove that the No-Shadow Kick wasn't just a special effect. Fun times, all of it… even the mornings after. The Doghaired Breakfast Griddles and all that. Didn't have time for that now. Most of those guys had gotten their tattoos by then… but most of them hadn't gone on to graduate at all. Tim had to double check that the bum on the bench wasn’t ‘Dolfo. They did have the same hair.

And then it was his turn. An assistant in a black gi opened the autoclave while white latex gloves removed the stainless steel TatGun. They made a show of presenting the featured hardware to Tim before affixing the gun to the waiting SnakeFist.

The assistants escorted him to the bed. They removed his shirt and tie with professional expediency. They left him to loosen his own belt and pants.

He lay prone, face down on the cushioned bed. His face fit snugly into a cut-out face rest with large breathing channel so he could watch the shadow plays on the floor.

Tim was strapped into place by unseen assistants. Form-fitted metal braces were shunted against his legs and body.

This operation was now out of his control. And in his lack of control he found a flutter of freedom and an undeniable flutter of excitement. He could not see the Snake arm descending upon him. It was all so unpredictable. He could hear the whizzing of nearby Snakes and the…

Oh! There it was. A soft metallic touch. Not entirely unpleasant… His lip quivered as he tried to suppress the tickle reflex.

Delicate probing, tingling but not at all agonizing; the pain was isolated, transient, rhythmic and even hypnotic; soothed by a master's touch, he had given himself over to the authority and command of a master's hands.

Tim was lulled into a deep state of deep relaxation, on the verge of unconsciousness.

Work began on the sujibori, the outline of the design, while he felt the occasional dab of a wipe cloth to remove excess blood and ink. He smiled and drifted off…

Shakki !

An eye-watering searing stab of pain. His wide eyes were registering full wakefulness, but his brain was still producing a confusing cloud of uncertain spiky sensations. Was he dreaming it?

Shakki ! Shakki !

The thought was quickly dispelled by two more savage jabs…

Followed by lateral, oscillating, jerking, back-and-forth slicing motions like a seismograph charting off the Richter scale with himself as the feed paper.

Then the needle burrowed into his skin and stayed there, a constant burning pressure. He was pinned like a bug.

Tim screamed. Loud. And often.

Somewhere on a deserted island, a mad old Japanese hermit was cackling in a sadistic game of "Torture the Distant Stranger from Beyond the Horizon".

The black-garbed assistants crowded around the monitor. The senior assistant picked up a handset and was jabbering into it in at least two languages.

"Abort it!" he barked in English.

There was an interminable delay, then a dying pneumatic hiss, and the snake arm slowly retracted up into the ceiling.

Intense discussion percolated amongst the senior assistant and his juniors who huddled around the comm. link.

Eventually, one came over to Tim, still strapped down and blinking in twitchy incomprehension.

"I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Master Horiyoshi has had a stroke."

* * *

The nurse ushered the neurosurgeon into the teleoperating room.

He wasn't wearing a surgical mask, but a full visor-block of head-mounted stereoscopic goggles with cables linking to a bank of monitors. The veiny network of brain tissue was laid out before him in OLED purples, blues and greens.

It was a little early in the day for a procedure like this, but he was the first one on duty…

"Remote site pre-lim?"

"Locals administered t-PA, but ineffective."

The patient had suffered a severe hemorrhagic stroke near the base of the brain stem. Nasty business. The treacherous region of autonomic functions was no place for the weak of heart.

It was definitely the most dangerously sensitive area of the brain, responsible for controlling breathing, heart rate, and consciousness. Basically everything that kept you alive.

The surgeon slipped his hands into the telechironic manipulator. The handgrips were a snug fit; he flexed his fingers and with the haptic force-feedback could feel the actuators respond in kind.

The manipulator shafts extended from the comm. station into the center of the room. Columnal Pedals were counter-balanced so that when not being pressed down in service the pedals hung poised and motionless in the air.

The Snake was ready. But was he?

Who else was there?

Of course there was no one qualified on the island to perform this procedure, but they had a Snake. All communities above a certain size had to have a Snake. It was mandated into their municipal bylaws or some such legalese.

The island had a Mitsubishi PythonPalm™ outfitted with a trivalve chelicerator rotary scalpel while his was a newer model General Electric GE Handaconda™.

No doubt about it; it was gonna be tricky. Delicate maneuvers in a very dangerous area; he took a breath and dove in.

He tricked the finger into the sinuous fissure, teased the folds apart and locked them in place with a micrograpnel, the anchor flukes secured the tissue while the center-eye piece fed out a length of flexiTube which wormed its way forward. He shone the lamp into the cavern and saw the clot-- a dirty brown boulder choking off the swollen red streams networking the pink neuroscape.

He took a deep breath. Blasting that rock would just invite the veins to gush forth, flooding the base and drowning the vulnerable autonomic areas with lethal results; he was gonna have to cut it out gently, methodically, with (dare he think it?) "surgical precision".

He checked the clock. Not much time left, this was gonna require his utmost concentration and skill.

He cut into the clot…

His upper lip trembled. That was funny… it only happened when he was trying to resist a lover's caress… or a…

Fucking itch…! Goddamnit! An awful itching danced at the base of his spine just above the crack of his ass.

His lip twitched again. Violently this time.

Sweat ran down into his eyes, he tried to blink it away. No good.

"Nurse. Forehead."

She dabbed at his brow with a soft towel. No help. The perspiration was forming inside the goggles.

There was no denying it: his skin itched. Must be inflamed-- inflamed and sending out tendrils of subcutaneous fire.

“Nurse…?”

“Yes?”

He had heard stories about Sharon’s fingernails. She did crazy things with them. Like letting them run unsupervised, haphazardly /tripping blindly through a minefield of afferent nerve endings and unintentionally sending the fragile recipient to a spastic kingdom come. It wasn’t the time or place to take the chance with what she might do with them.

“Never mind.”

He noticed something else too. Something the books on the Snake regarded as absolute heresy. He had taken batteries of psychological and neurological tests to refute this very moment.

It was an ever so slight tremor in his fingers. He bit his lip hard to override the itch stimulus. To keep it from trembling. Shaking.

That fucking goddamn itch!

This was Hero Time, Do or Die time. He looked at the clock again. The clock's hand saluted him as it rocked to the top.

He grit his teeth and went to work. He cut. And cut. And cut. And cut. He cut for forty minutes straight and when he finished, he actually giggled for a second or two before he remembered that fucking itch.

He disengaged his hot sweaty hands from the manipulator and thought back to the name…

What was it called again?

Right. Right. The Caduceus. Twin serpents encircling a winged messenger staff.

He snaked his hand under the back of his scrub shirt and scratched his fingers across the unfinished tattoo.

He grinned. The old man would have time to sign his name later.

He pursed his lips. He better, it was worth next to nothing without it.

* * *

END

* * *

© Jeff Carpenter

Milner Gardens video

http://mala.ca/milnergardens/video

BITING COLD

by Jeff Carpenter

Pain hit him like a spear in the gut.

He was hungry, but he knew it was too. And he knew its kind never left wounded prey until they could pick the bones clean.

He was sheltered, safe for now (or so he hoped), dug into his snow cave.

He shifted his body, bumping up against the cold walls. He couldn't see his right arm. And maybe that was for the best.

The solidity of the snow walls comforted him, but it was a frozen comfort. A chilled comfort for his cold, tired bones.

A sound carried over the crisp air. His ears pricked up. Chattering. It was his own noise. With every intake of breath he could feel the sharp cold shoot through his teeth.

He exhaled and felt the steamy breath in front of his face.

He tried to breathe warmth into his fingers on his left hand, but they were well past numb now.

Out there was the only hope for life, but death lurked there in the shadows.

If he did nothing, if he curled up in his icy tomb and let sleep overtake him, the beast would have him still. It would dig in and dig him out. Scavenge his cold tired bones like a grave robber. The beast's teeth would crunch and crush the bones and frozen flesh of his frozen, rigid corpse, just as easily as if he had offered himself to it. It would swallow him in huge choking gulps and then he would be gone and it would be night forever.

He closed his eyes, tight enough to shut out the images in his brain-- the creature invading the hole with its snout, slavering to get at the bloody sweating slab of meat still living inside.

If only he could last through the night then maybe...

One more night... it was just last night that it all had happened...

The avalanche had thrown a tree on top of him... brought a whole damn tree down on top of him...

It must have been the rifle shot that set it off… must have been.

From behind him, the rumble came out of nowhere...

The tree had torn his arm from his shoulder and left it gashed and bleeding. When he came to, with a violent tug on his arm socket. The beast's beady red eyes dared him to wrench his arm back into place.

He let the animal take his prize. It was no good to him anymore anyway.

But now the beast knew he was weakened and had limited mobility. handicapped. had limited range.

It would come again and again to test its prey's strength and its ebbing will to survive.

If he could only make it to the tree...

The upturned tree, its branches ready-made kindling. The water-proof matches in his pocket were still good-- he hoped. Fire. A glorious fire could be kindled. Bringing warmth to his long night. Warming his belly. Slaking his thirst. Thawing his fingers.

The beast would feed him; its long dense fur-- the oil in its hairs-- would keep the frost off him.

His boot would hold enough snow to melt into drinking water. His left hand clenched into a fist. It needed to hold something-- something solid.

His bolt-action Remington had been broken and buried by the tree’s weight.

No weapon... Still...

The branches could make a spear, but he didn't have a knife to sharpen it.

Teeth. He had teeth, as did the beast of course. And he would pit his molars, canines, incisors and his dizzy brain against the animal's.

He had thirty-two. Thirty-one after that drunken brawl.

Molars for grinding, incisors for biting and cutting. Canines-- his eye teeth-- for tearing and ripping.

He would chew the bark and spit it out. He would chew the fleshy tip of his branch into a wicked sharp point of death-dealing. Plunge it into the gut of the ravenous animal, finally killing its hunger.

He had no fingers. Not that he could feel anyway.

He could pull himself to the tree

... but that could loosen the shirt of his make-shift tourniquet and open the flow of blood again.

He can feel himself succumbing-- to the cold, to his leaking blood, to the dark night all around. It was now or never. His eyelids flutter.

To sleep... or?

He moves.

He pushes out the hole, crawling at first then limping, stooping, gradually more erect, from animal to man, a momentary recurrence of evolutionary strides.

He can do it. He is doing it!

His numb fingers find the tree. With a grunt he feebly snaps off twigs.

He clutches them clumsily in his single arm They slip, fall out. He scoops them up again.

He collects and breaks off branches of various sizes from the fallen tree-- smaller for kindling, larger for the main fuel of the fire.

He stacks them in a rickety pyramid.

His hand, curled like a useless claw, clutches the matchbox to his chest.

He pulls out one match with his teeth.

His lips tremble as he bends his head to the matchbox striking surface.

The match flares up and burns his lips.

It falls to the snow and fizzles.

He tries again and manages to catch it aflame. He ignites the pyramid stack of wood.

With the warmth comes the feeling back into his fingers.

He bites into the fleshy wood, his lips curling at the bitter taste of bark. He grinds away at the wood, periodically spitting out the pulpy ball of mulch. He wipes the wood juice running down his chin with the back of his hand.

The hot saliva runs cold and icy down his chin, almost freezing solid before running down his neck collar.

He breaks a tooth and whimpers in pain. Then he stops.

He sees a movement, motion at the edge of the perimeter of the circle of firelight. his eyes dart to the right, scanning the flickering shadows and darkness beyond.

He holds the rim of the boot collar to his lips, awaiting the refreshing slake of liquid to quench his thirst.

The smell hits him first, the foul pungent odor, then the crushing weight of the beast slams into his chest, bowling him over. His arms flail to fight for balance, but he is gone and so is his boot-- flung into the fire, splashing water. It sizzles and steams.

And then the wolverine growls and makes his slow advance. Haltingly. Limping.

The beast leaps on him, snarling, slavering hot spit and wet saliva on his face.

He turns his head, avoiding its snapping teeth, the hot breath on his face. It pushes on top of him for better advantage. It will have him soon.

He can feel himself losing the battle. His eyelids flutter. To sleep... or?

He bites into the exposed neck of the beast through wet fur. The beast jerks and rears back, giving him enough room to reach to his side and grab the spear.

He plunges the spear deep into the belly of the beast. It howls in agony and its tongue lolls in its mouth, tasting mortality.

The wolverine slumps to the ground, its fur bathed in the orange glow of the fire.

He raises his stick in victory.

He circles the body of the wolverine, watching it closely-- the steam escaping from the gash in its belly as it slowly cools to the outside temperature.

Snap! Teeth bite into his ankle. The shinbone in his leg fractures.

The unrelenting metal jaws of one of his steel traps enclose his lower leg. He hits the ground hard.

He stares at the wolverine's missing fore-limb, the nub where it had bitten it off to escape.

And then his own missing arm.

The wolverine's eyes now closed, its soft lashes whiting over with fresh snow flakes. His lashes too grow heavy with white flakes.

The flickering flames of the fire die to embers.

His eyelids flutter. To sleep... or?

* * *

END

* * *

© Jeff Carpenter

TYRANNY OF CUTENESS

By Jeff Carpenter

* * *


"I want a baby." She turned to him across the pillow. He opened his eyes. He looked back at the ceiling. "I want a baby, Tom."


"Now?" he said.


"Soon."


She put her hands on her stomach. "I want to feel it growing inside me. I want it to... change me. Change all of us."


"All of us?"


"Both of us."


He turned to the bedside alarm clock. 7:34.


His eyes felt heavy. Something prodded him in the back.


"Aren't you going to get up?"


He made a humming noise-- it didn't answer the question, but at least it was something.


"Remember your pills. You know what the doctor said."


He took the pill bottle from beside the clock. 7:35. He slipped a pill into his mouth, made sure she saw him do it. Then when she laid her head back on the pillow, he spit it into his hand and tossed it under the bed, with all the soiled kleenexes.


He looked at the ceiling again. He thought he could make out a pattern. A picture. A picture of something staring down at him.


It blinked. He blinked. Something blinked.


* * *


He went to the puppy with the biggest, widest eyes. The SPCA guy had just nodded in the direction down the corridor. He never even looked up from the book he was reading, "The Tyranny of Cuteness".


The puppy yelped when it saw him, like it was expecting this meeting.


He made the decision right on the spot: this was the one.


The puppy couldn't smile, but it did say, "Thanks, buddy."


Tom stood in stunned silence. A business card, pressed into his hand during the impromptu and unexpected shake-a-paw, introduced them: Chillius E. Dawg, Esq. -- Mongrel-at-Large.


Tom fumbled for the joint in his shirt pocket, dropping the business card in the process. He knew dogs didn't talk, but he also knew this was a town where prospective Dr. Dolittles got their own private rooms (even without a reservation), replete with cushiony surroundings and heady thorazine cocktails served up at regular intervals. A relaxing get-away could last up to several months if not longer. But he definitely hadn't thought to book in advance. He was pretty sure he wasn't ready for that kind of commitment quite yet.


So in the end he just took the dog and kept his mouth shut.


* * *


With the red bow and ribbon tied around its neck, the puppy looked exactly like what it was: a present, a gift, an offering, a sacrifice.


When she opened the apartment door, she let out a little yelp. Her eyes went wide.


"Oh, my god. Tom, he's adorable."


"He's a puppy."


"Our puppy?"


He put the dog down. With arms around each other, they watched as it ran into the corner, lifted a leg and peed. Ownership was declared.


"He's a boy." She gently hip-checked him in the groin. Still he could feel his testicles retract. "A boy," she said again.


The ribbon had come loose and the puppy was chewing on it.


She went to the kitchen for some paper towel to clean up the pee. He stood there, part of himself wanting to add his own to the puddle before she got back.


* * *


The puppy liked to hump stuffed animals. He attended to them like a conquering Attila to the rapine of his conquest. The bunny was his favorite.


"Do me, you sexy bitch." Tom peeked over the top of his newspaper to see the puppy advancing on the overturned bunny. "All right, I'll do you." The puppy leapt on his partner and writhed in ecstatic abandon.


A voice came from the kitchen. "We're going to have to do something about that puppy."


"Yes, honey." Tom looked back to his paper. There was an article on the newly opened Center for Genetic Research in town. Under it was an article about a book reading and signing at the local Barnes & Noble by the author of the "Tyranny of Cuteness".


"Fuck, you chicks are all the same." Tom looked up to see the bunny had rolled off to commingle with the other stuffed animals. She was sandwiched between a rhino and a hippopotamus.


* * *


Tom hated lying to the puppy. Lil' Chilly Dawg was under the impression that they were on the way to a tour of the factory that produced those cute little stuffed bunnies.


The puppy was almost frothing at the mouth describing his nefarious methods for enticing those wide-eyed recruits into his ‘stable of bitches'.


Tom turned on the radio to change the subject.


The radio sang a song about having sex without having children. Then there was a commercial for a family restaurant with adult drink specials on Tuesdays.


Through the windshield Tom could see the signs and billboards racing towards him. The twists and turns of the road obscured the vanishing point that he knew was ahead.


Tom checked his watch. The appointment was at three. He still had fifteen minutes. Time enough to zip into the industrial park and smoke a little weed before heading to the vet.


He forgot to signal his change into the right lane as he prepared to exit on the off-ramp.


A passing truck honked and Tom swerved narrowly missing him.


The puppy turned to him.


"What the fuck do you think you're doing? You're gonna get us all killed! Give me the fucking wheel!"


Tom let the puppy drive the rest of the way to the Industrial Park as he fumbled in the glove compartment for his bag of dope. His hands shook, his nerves were shot.


He gradually calmed down as he got into the rhythm of rolling the joints. He offered one to the puppy.


"Thanks, but no thanks, I never smoke up while I drive."


* * *


The Industrial Park was all but abandoned. The few buildings that were still occupied seemed to house leftover relics from a by-gone era. Yes, there was the warehouse of porno mags and videos that was still open and one of the guys kept peeking out from behind its sliding door to see if there was anyone left in the parking lot. Every so often he would go out and take something out of the dumpster. Some people still didn't have the Internet.


The rail line snaked by, empty except for the weeds, and the telephone lines overhead, which were silent except for the wind whistling through them.


Underground there was just dirt, no fibers carrying Megabytes, Gigabytes, Terabytes, Petabytes, Exabytes, Zettabytes, Yottabytes of information per second on beams of light.


The lighter flame winked out. Tom put the joint to his lips and took a long hoot. He sank back into his seat and saw the buildings at the edge of the parking lot rise up around him.


He felt himself shrinking and shrinking, zooming into a point.

"How small is small?"


The dog turned to him, more confused than irritated. "What?"


"How small can things get?"


"Pretty fucking small."


"They used to think an atom was the smallest thing. Not anymore."


"The approximate atomic radius of gold is 0.1441 nanometers, if you can wrap your mind around that, pothead. A nanometer is a billionth of a meter. That's smaller than your dick, if you can believe that. That's small, but it's nothing compared to measurements scales of magnitude smaller: nanometers, picometers, femtometers, attometers, zeptometers, yoctometers. A yoctometer is 1 septillionth of a meter, or 10-24 of a meter. Are you still with me, rastafari? That's still gigantic compared to the Planck length."


"We're walking the plank," Tom giggled.


"That's Planck with a "ck". The Planck length is 1.6 x 10-35 meters long. It is the smallest measurement of length with any meaning. Beyond the Planck length our classic concepts of space and time break down. No smaller division of distance or space has any meaning. Do you know what I mean?"


"How the hell do you know so much?"


"I'm a good listener. Just like Nipper. You know, the logo for RCA Victor, the one with the mutt terrier listening to the phonograph. ‘His Master's Voice'? That's me. I sit with my big ear to the wall. Do you know our neighbor is a short-wave ham radio operator? He gets signals as far away as Japan. _Koinu kashikoi na!_"


Tom took a long toke. Smoke made swirling patterns in front of his eyes. The puppy was separated discretely in between ribbons of smoke.


_"Sono seito wa futatsu nu bunretsu suru? Koen o burabura shimasho. Kuni wa tennen shigen ni tonde imasu. Jikken wa tiken o tomominaimaide. Inu ga kashu no suchuwadesu o torikakomimashita. Yushoku o tabete kara shukudai ni torikakatta. Honto! Tamago ga zenbu tusubureta yo! Sonna koto wa totemo dekinai yo. Kesa kara zutto koko ni imasu. Atarashii hatsumei wa hitsuyo kara umaremasu. Inu wa ke ga usuku natte kimashita to ashi o kega shimashita. Kaze ga minami kara soyosoyo to fuite imasu. Seito no kazu wa gohyaku-nin desu.
Tokyo no michi ni yurushite shoben suru. Boku no machi desu..."_


The only word Tom recognized was the word "stewardess" and even then he wasn't sure. He shook his head and turned on the radio to drown out the puppy's babbling. Nothing but static. He went to adjust the knob, but the puppy stopped him.


"What do you think you're doing?"


"Trying to get the station."


"You mean to tell me you can't hear it?"


"Hear what?"


"You got shit in your ears? The radio signal, asshole. It must suck to be such a deaf fucking species. I bet you can't hear frequencies higher than 23 kilohertz. I hear double that, easy."


"What do you hear?"


"The message, man. The message..." Tom thought he saw the puppy make the peace sign. He blinked twice, but couldn't catch it for sure.


"What message?"


"The message from the future."


Tom stared blankly out the windshield. For some reason he felt compelled to look in his rear view mirror. He was looking for someone, anyone. But no one was there.


The puppy jabbed a paw into Tom's ribs and laughed.


"I'm just fucking with ya, homie. Mind-fucking the stoner. You can't take anything I say seriously. In fact, everything I say is a lie. Figure that one out."


The puppy looked at him deadpan.


"Seriously."


He twisted the dial. An old Steve Miller song blasted through the ratty speakers.


"Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping..."


Tom jerked out his arm, and looked at his watch.


"Shit, we're gonna be late." He glanced over at the puppy. "I'm taking you to have your balls cut off."


* * *


He had another toke in the Barnes & Noble parking lot. He wanted to be responsive to the reading, but not overly suggestible. He had been known to cry in public. He tried not to think of the puppy. The surgery would be well underway by now. An orchectomy is what the vet called it.


A little girl looked over at him as she held her mother's hand. Tom took a long drag and searched the girl's eyes for signs of who knows what. It might have been forgiveness, if he could remember what for. The girl tugged on her mother's arm and pointed his way. Tom broke his stare and turned away, dropping the roach to the ground. When he turned back, the girl and her mother had gone, into the store, into the growing crowd. After a few deep breaths Tom followed them in. He hoped the herbaceous odor would not follow him. He thought he caught a glimpse of the little girl before she disappeared behind a bookshelf. Did she just finger him?


* * *


The woman was huge. She was a giant, a monster in a black leather skirt. She literally spilled over both sides of the chair. It was like watching a sherbet under the heat lamps of a buffet table melt in slow motion. By the end of the reading Tom was sure the janitor would have to mop her up. But there was something about her eyes, about her round cheeks that made Tom lean forward and listen to her more intently than he would have otherwise.


The woman introduced herself to the assembled audience. Her name was Auriga. She thanked the bookstore for hosting the reading. She thanked the publisher for arranging the book tour. She thanked each and every person for attending. She thanked them as a group, of course, not individually. Tom was not thanked by name, but he had been included in the group. He took some comfort in that. He smiled as he tilted the styrofoam cup to his lips and swallowed down a mouthful of coffee.


She wiped her forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief.


"Who among you were once children?" The crowd muttered to itself and eventually raised its collective hand. After a measured pause, she spoke again.

"Who among you are still children?" A scattering of tiny hands shot up.

"Take a good look at the owners of these hands. We'll come back to this later."


She opened her book and began reading.


_Karen Hime was a princess. She lived in a castle and everything. She was very young and very small. Why, standing on her tiptoes she could barely see out the window. She had a group of loyal retainers. These were her guards and escorts who followed her wherever she went. "I would like to go to the meadow," she would say, and they would reply," Yes, Princess Karen, let us all go there." She would say, "Lift me up so I can see what is over the hill." They would raise her high in the air, far above their heads, but still she could not see beyond. She had them affix a booster seat to the top of her palanquin which she called her "mobile throne". It had its own ring tones, a ribbon of golden bells which would chime with every jostle. She would perch up there, teetering and tottering like a blind fool on a tightrope unicycle. "Higher... higher!" she would cry. Then she would strain and strain her eyes, until the tears would fill them. She would bury them in her tiny clenched fists. "Take me home," she would sputter through trembling lips. "Yes, Princess Karen."


They called her Princess Karen to her face, but behind her back they called her Princess Cuteness. Awwwwww... poor little Princess Cuteness.


Princess Karen hated being called "Cuteness". When she was alone, back in her chamber, she asked her magic hand mirror why they called her this name.


The mirror answered with a question:

"What is cuteness? What things do we think are cute? A kitten purring in your lap is cute. A guppy in a fish bowl eating the food we sprinkle. That is also very cute. What then is not cute? A lion roaring over the carcass of a freshly killed gazelle. A shark circling our surfboard. These things are definitely in the non-cute category."


Tom glanced to his left and right. Around him some people were taking notes. Tom put his hands in his pockets. He had begun to fidget and feel naked without a pen and paper. He had the urge to do something, write something. Why was there never a pen around when you wanted one?


"What do the kitten and guppy have in common?"


She paused for dramatic effect. The people put their pens down.


"Both are small things we can control. We love cute things. Like babies. They have huge wide eyes and depend on us. They are helpless. They are ours. But nothing stays the same forever. They grow. Once we lose control of them, they cease to be cute, and look scary and unpredictable to us._ How many of you remember being teenagers?"


There was an uncomfortable pause. People weren't sure if it was the mirror talking or Auriga. The group seemed to make up its mind at once and an overwhelming number of hands went up. Tom would have put his hand up, but his hand was comfortably warm in a place it had grown accustomed to since his teenage years.

"Puberty is ugly. Cuteness ends at puberty. You don't think so? Hair sprouting everywhere, pimples, blackheads, oily skin. Our self-esteem goes in the toilet. At best we are gangly, awkward, ungainly. At worst we are prisoners in a body we can no longer trust. We are uncoordinated klutzes unable to bounce a basketball or score a basket. It's a frightening transformation. It turns us all into monsters. At least temporarily. Our bones feel wrong, like we're trapped in another person's body. We see the movie monsters on TV and see ourselves reflected there."


She put the book down. And looked at the floor.


"We become strangers to ourselves. Our voices crack and shift octaves. We can't even recognize ourselves any longer. We lose control of our selves and fear what the next day will bring."


The audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats.


Auriga went back to her book.


_"Things never remain cute forever, but there is hope that they can attain a lasting beauty"


The magic mirror showed Karen an image of a furry caterpillar crawling along its glass surface. In just blinks of an eye, it went through the stages of transformation. From pupae to chrysalis to cocoon and finally to a butterfly that flitted off the mirror and flew out the window, across the meadow and over the hill to places beyond and unseen._


Auriga closed her book. As one, the crowd erupted into applause.


* * *


Tom decided that he had to have the book. He saw a stack of them on a bookshelf. He peeked behind it first to make sure that little girl wasn't there. "Tyranny of Cuteness" felt heavy in his hand. It was as if the weight of the words was transferred intact from the heavy-set frame that produced them. A substantial tome is what his mother would have called it. He opened up the book to its title page. It was a first edition.


He looked over at the signing line that had formed in front of Auriga's table. It was already 30 people deep and growing. He'd better get there quick, before the woman exhausted herself.


As he moved up the line, person by person, he felt he was being drawn into a whirlpool or a blackhole. The inexorable pull of the woman's gravity was sucking him in. Nothing, not even light could escape.


And then he was there. She hadn't looked up once, busy signing copy after copy. All he could see was long flowing hair so black it was almost blue and there was a perfume rising off it. It was the scent of jasmine, he guessed though he wasn't sure.


"Did you find what I had to say... interesting?" She glanced upwards at him even though her head was down turned.


"I found it... I found myself listening very closely. Listening like I used to listen to the jazz trumpet on the radio. But I mean, you didn't sound like a jazz trumpet. What I mean, I heard something real, something true in what you were saying."


She returned his book, and her fingers brushed his. She raised her head and looked him straight in the eye.


"Truth is always beautiful, no matter how ugly it is."


* * *


He wasn't crying for the dog, or for himself. Or for Auriga for that matter. He was crying because it felt right. He wiped his eyes and turned off the ignition.


Doing it here saved him from the embarrassment of a public place. But doing it here also prevented someone from putting an arm around him and saying, "It's all right. You do what you have to do." If you couldn't cry in a vet's parking lot, where could you?


He blew his nose as he crossed the parking lot. He tossed it into the dumpster as he passed it. He heard something shift inside as he walked away. You don't suppose something alive could be trapped in there? He didn't go back to check.


The veterinary clinic was full of animals and humans. The humans were the ones having serious conversations. The animals were the ones licking themselves. Judging by the apparent levels of enthusiasm, it seemed obvious you could have a more intimate relationship with your crotch than with a cell phone. Waiting made him thirsty so Tom grabbed his third styrofoam cup of coffee from the percolating coffee maker. The drip, drip, drip was like a slow-ticking clock. He tapped his foot in time with the percolator.


They led Tom to a bare room. Chilly D was sitting on a table facing away from them, facing a wall. He was wearing a lampshade collar.


"To keep him from licking his stitches," the vet said.


"Hey, boy."


Chilly D. turned around slowly, but kept his head down. He never met Tom's eyes with his own.


Tom felt a sympathetic twinge maybe in his gut, maybe lower.


The vet lifted Lil' Chil roughly onto his haunches to show Tom the underside.


"As you can see, the sutures are clean. There really is no swelling to speak of."


You can say that again. There wouldn't be any swelling there for the foreseeable future.


The dog shifted uncomfortably and the vet put him down.


"All in all I can say it was an unremarkable surgery."


Unremarkable? Tom shook his head. You wanted to talk "unremarkable"? He thought the vet's haircut was unremarkable. But barbers usually didn't comment on their own work.


"There's just one thing. Do you have any idea what this is?"


In the vet's palm was a tiny metallic diode the size of a grain of rice.


"We found this embedded in the fatty tissue of your dog's groin and we removed it during surgery. I'm not sure what it is."


The vet dropped it into Tom's hand.


What the fuck was this?


Embedded? Could he have meant implanted? For what purpose? And by whom?


Was it just a useless hunk of junk, like the broken end of a syringe? Or maybe it was a fragment of a shank from when Mutt Gangsta D got shivved in the joint ? Maybe it was just a pellet shot from some kids BB gun. Yeah, just some inert slug of metal sloshing around in the puppy's insides.


Or was it a device? A listening device, tracking device, monitoring device? He remembered his boss had said he wanted to keep better tabs on his employees. He had told him in confidence, winked then offered him a cigar. He had felt paralyzed. What should he give his boss in return? All he had was a joint. Instead, Tom just stayed silent and smiled like an idiot.


"We charged you an extra twenty dollars for removing it. So I thought you might as well have it, seeing as you paid for it anyway."


Tom rolled the diode around in his hand. For that price he should put it on string and hang it around his neck.


"Do you have anything I can keep it in?"


The vet went to a cabinet and returned with an old empty pill bottle. The label said: "Warning: Overuse may cause teats to engorge and/or lactate and tear-ducts to dehydrate."


Tom didn't think that would be a problem.


* * *


Tom carried Sir Chilly D to the car. The dog probably could have walked by itself, if haltingly, but Tom didn't want to have to keep looking back into those reproachful eyes.


He moved "The Tyranny of Cuteness" from the passenger seat to the dashboard before putting the puppy in.


As he sat down in the driver's seat he felt something hard and sharp jab him none too gently in the groin. He straightened up and felt in his pocket. He pulled out a pen. Auriga's pen. He must have absent-mindedly pocketed it after she signed his book when they were talking together.


He turned to Chilly D in the passenger seat who was staring steadfastly out the window. The dog wasn't talking.


The lampshade collar reminded him of a megaphone-- no, a phonograph horn, like on the RCA Victor logo. But no sound was coming forth.


"I understand if you don't want to talk about it. I mean what happened was... well, that's in the past now."


Silence.


"If I can't talk to you, who can I talk to?"


Blink.


Tom thought he felt his eyes welling up again. To distract himself he took the book off the dash and busied himself with its pages. The dog looked over at him.


"Look, I bought a book today."


He opened the book to the first page. There was Auriga's signature in flowing flowery script. And under it, written in the same ink, was a phone number.


He blinked twice then swallowed. He clenched his fist, feeling the pill bottle tight in his grasp. He poured the diode into his palm then looked up at the rear-view mirror. Something lustrous and iridescent fluttered by. And at once he knew what he held. A silver cocoon. A pupae so full of potential that it was fairly vibrating in his hand. Something lay coiled inside, impatient to be released. Enclosed within a metal skin that could only be dissolved away by say-- hydrochloric acid.


Tom took out the diode and put it into his mouth. He swallowed again.


Blink.


* * *

END

© Jeff Carpenter

A SUNKEN HEART IN HINO BAY

by Jeff Carpenter

"All life emerged... crawled out from the sea... now I don't know what's crawling out."


* * *

HINO BAY HIGH SCHOOL
SCIENCE/ BIOLOGY CLASS
MONDAY - 2:43 PM

Ayumi scribbles into her notebook, hunched over her desk, protecting her work. Her eyes are obscured by black horn rims matching her long jet-black hair tied into a pony tail.


"Are you like in Grade 3?"

A girl beside her with dyed brown hair grabs the notebook off Ayumi's desk. The pen leaves a streak across the page.

She turns to a second girl and shows her the notebook.

The second girl makes a sour face, gesturing dismissively at the drawings in a lined notebook page. Cartoons. A girl sun-bathing in a boat reading a book. And below her myriad sea creatures frolicking in the deep. An octopus and crab feasting on something.

The girl points at a figure farther down the page...

A masked scuba diver rising to the surface holding something in his hand...

"Oh my god... is that Mr. Hirada? What is that in his hand... what has he got... a pearl? A present? For you?"

She and her friend laugh at the suggestion.

Ayumi tries to grab it.

"Give it back!"

"He'd only kiss you if you had gills and a tail!"

"She already smells like she does!"

"GIVE IT BACK!"

There is a crack at the front of the class. The student's heads turn to the front.

The teacher rests his hand on a book atop of some scattered papers on his desk.

"Ayumi, please see me after class."

"Ooooooooohh...!" the two girlfriends coo in chorus.

Ayumi holds a stack of textbooks in crossed arms close to her chest.

"I'm not sure what's come over you. You were disturbing the class today. And you haven't handed in your assignment yet. Usually you're a very well behaved, punctual student. What's gotten into you?"

She can't meet his eyes.
"Tomorrow, Mr. Hirada. Tomorrow."

* * *

TUESDAY - 1:56 PM

A girl bumps into Ayumi in the hall. She drops her books. As she bends over to pick them up, she notices a boy (a strong, athletic boy from her gym class) looking at her with a kind of faint smile she hasn't seen before and she sees that her skirt is riding high up her legs. She straightens up and pulls her skirt down. The boy still has the funny look on his face, and he looks weak somehow, as if all his strength has leaked away. Just by looking at her. She feels flushed and rushes to class.

* * *

Ayumi watches intently, her elbows on her desk, chin resting on her knuckles, in rapt attention.

"My last dive I saw definite changes... the outflow from these chemical plants is causing untold damage to the ecosystem. I'm finding noticeable mutations in the local sea life. Overlong exposure to this pollution is ravaging local populations."

"I've decided to devote my time recording and cataloging these mutations."

"We have to do something to change this. We ALL have to do something... what I'm doing is cataloging the mutations.

He plops a ziplocked bag holding a fist-sized thing enveloped in gelatinous syrup on the desk. It is a creature curled into a fetal ball. Two appendages pierce the syrupy envelope, terminating in claws.

"Know what this is?"

No guesses.

"It's a fish. Does it look like a fish to you?"

The students shake their heads.

"I don't think so. I found this swimming off the breakwater in Hino Bay... well it was trying to swim... more like paddling in a circle."

"Those.... those bastards... excuse me, those blameless industrialists in the plants on the shore... they've turned Hino Bay into a living science experiment."

"All life emerged... it crawled out from the sea... now I don't know what's crawling out."

He turns back to the specimen.

"This is the caudal fin... the tail of the so-called fish."


* * *

An iridescent turquoise caudal fin unfurls in the swirling sea-green water. It swishes to-and-fro, back-and-forth, lazily propelling the creature upward. Breaking the surface, she notices that the creature is her... she is the creature, her bare human body above the water, her scaly torso and tapered tail beneath the waves, trailing off into darkness and the murky depths below. Her long black hair flows out behind her, slowly undulating in the motion of the ripples. She feels the water rise in a soft swell and he is there... beside her in a black rubber wetsuit. A gentle wave pushes them closer together. He pulls off his facemask and removes the regulator from his mouth. He presses it against her lips. 'Breathe. Breathe...' he urges. She opens her mouth, letting him inside her and breathes in, breathes deep and she feels herself going down, down into unconsciousness.

Ayumi opens her eyes.

She smiles and squeezes the pillow tight to her body.

* * *

WEDNESDAY - 3:02 PM

"The daughter of the Dragon King was Ningyo, Princess of the Deep. She could assume various forms and would often take the form of a beautiful woman who could put any man who ventured into the sea under her spell..."

Ayumi stands at the front of the class.

"Her magic pearls could turn..."

"Ayumi, the assignment was supposed to be about sea life. Real, actual sea life. Dragons don't exist. Why would you... what made you do your assignment on that? I'm going to be forced to give you an F. Please see me after class."

Ayumi tries to hold back a faint smile.

He slumps back in his chair. Pulls off his tie. Loosens his collar. Unbuttons the top button of his shirt.

He leans forward. She can see down his open shirt. There are iridescent scales catching the light on his neck, spreading out and down to his chest.

"Mr. Hirada?"

"Yes, Ayumi?"

"Do you think people can change?"

She pivots on her legs, twisting back and forth.

"Yes, of course."

"Change into something... so wonderful, so strange that you don't know what they might become."

"What are you talking about?"

Kiss me.

Mr. Hirada stares at her.

Kiss me. Why couldn't she say it out loud?

Her lips strain white against her teeth. She bites her lower lip until she is sure blood will pop and trickle down her chin.

She drops a PADI training manual on the teacher's desk.

"What's this?"

"I'm going to get my diving certificate..."

"Really? It's an intensive course. You sure it won't interfere with your school studies?"

"No, sir."

"I always think of you with your nose in your books, not outside getting your hands dirty."
He gives her an approving smile.

... always think of you...

... always think of you...

... always... you...

"It's kind of late in the year to undertake such a big thing like this, don't you think?"

She takes off her glasses and twirls them in her fingers. She looks straight at Hirada.

"I dreamed that we were swimming together last night. And you swam up to me and looked deep into my eyes and said: 'You are the Queen of the Sea and the Sea is the Mother of Life... All Life' and you held me close and you... put your lips on...

"Ayumi. This isn't appropriate. You're my student and I'm your teacher."

"I want you to teach me. Real things. Not the things I can get from books on my own."

"Spending so much time in the water... maybe it's not so good an idea."

"But we have to! I'll grow scales... we'll both be as free as the fishes. We'll change into them! We'll be living in the ocean... as sea creatures... forever!"

"You must never... NEVER... speak about this again. To anyone! You understand?"

Ayumi jams her lips shut, and looks at the floor.

"Ayumi..."

"Please let me go swimming with you."

Silence.

"I promise not to talk about these things again."

"I'll think about it."

* * *

AYUMI'S HOUSEHOLD
THURSDAY - 6:45 PM

Ayumi takes book after book from her book case and puts them down beside the others on her bed. She flips through them, smiles a faint smile, then with the reverence of a funeral places them in a large cardboard box marked with black pen on the side: 500 YEN each.


* * *

HINO BAY RECREATION CENTER
SATURDAY - 10:54 AM

Ayumi plunges into the swimming pool. The weightbelt sinks her to the bottom.

The instructor gives her a thumbs-up then turns and ignores her just like he did after she gave him the money from selling all her favourite books.

She looks around. Surrounded by water. Everyone else is so far way. She is alone. If anything went wrong...

She closes her eyes.

Her heart pounds in her head, blood rushes in her ears.

She hyperventilates. Her eyes are big.

She is going to drown down here.

She sucks in water with her air. She sputters and coughs. Blinded by bubbles escaping from her mouth, she drops her weights and scrambles to the surface.

The diving instructor swims over to her. "You panicked." He hands Ayumi her weightbelt. "This time breathe slow, breathe deep. Keep calm. Relax. Nothing's going to get you. Sometimes it helps to tell yourself a story to keep your mind focused."

* * *

HINO BAY HIGH SCHOOL
MONDAY - 2:00 PM

Ayumi wears a gold badge embroidered on her jacket. She carries a certificate between her stack of textbooks. She wears a big smile on her face as she walks straight to the science classroom.

She takes her seat. A strange woman is at the front desk.
Her smile fades.

She raises her hand.
"Where is Mr. Hirada?"

"He is on indefinite leave. My name is Mrs. Kotani and I'm the replacement teacher for this class."

* * *

HINO BAY BREAKWATER
TUESDAY - 2:43 PM


"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Teacher's not there today."

A taxi idles, parked but running in a slot by the sea wall. Ayumi struggles with the air tank as she pulls them up out of the trunk.

"You need a hand with that, miss?"

"Just a couple of trips."

She hauls the gear down the breakwater: swim fins, mask under her arms, oxygen tank hanging off one shoulder.

The dive tank slips off her shoulder, bangs off her hipbone, bounces off and rebounds into her legs, giving a dull blow to her knee and shin. She cries out, stumbles and drops the tank, which rolls on the ground.

"You alone?" She turns back to look at him. "Miss, you alone? I heard it's not good to dive all by yourself."

"Oh, I've got someone."

* * *

She makes it down to the end of the breakwater; she clambers over the jagged boulders.

Ayumi spots a black shape bobbing in the water about 150 meters offshore. It must be him.
She dons her scuba gear. Nervously strapping and clicking it all into place. She hobbles into the sea lapping onto the rocks.

Once she's up to her chest, she begins paddling out to sea. She looks out toward the horizon. The black shape is gone. She can't see him anywhere.

She puts the regulator in her mouth and ducks under the water. It is dark and cold. She breathes in, but short and shallow. She coughs. She has to come up for air. She spits out salty seawater and scans the horizon again. Nothing. She's going to have to go out there. He heart pounds beneath her wetsuit. This is it. She clears her mask and goes under.

* * *

She swims in slow steady strokes. She can't help feeling she is being shadowed by something not so far below her, but she fights the enshrouding panic, swallows her fear and breathes in long, deep breaths. She flashes back to books she's read about the sea. Most of them not factual accounts, of course. Deep treasures hidden within the protective maws of giant clams, fierce mortal battles between giant squids and deep diving whales and the jealous octopus dragging divers to their deaths for daring to encroach on its submarine territory. But she kind of remembers the true story Mr. Hirada told her of Ningyo. Or was that her dream? In any case she's having trouble remembering it completely... it was about a girl... who swam out to sea... alone... to find a treasure? A pearl? No, it was to find her lover. Missing at sea. And yes, she finally does find him. He is alive. But he is not alone.

He is caught in the embrace of Ningyo.

The man's name is Hirada. And who is Ningyo?

Ningyo pulls Hirada close, the water lapping against their bare bodies, writhing against him, rubbing off a patina of iridescent scales onto his face and neck. She kisses him all over, runs her tongue along his arm, licks his fingers.

Hirada twists his head, looks over his shoulder, eyes the girl from within the arms of the tight embrace.

Ningyo turns to see what he is looking at. She hisses a sibilant sigh.
"Oh, you brought a pretty one. A little scrawny perhaps..."

"Pleased to meet you. I am Ningyo. The first and the last. And you will know the truth of that soon enough."

"I'm Ayumi."

"Get out of that silly suit of yours. Can't be truly free in the sea until you feel the caress of salt water on your skin."

The girl hugs herself. "It's too cold."

"Nonsense. How will you ever feel like it is to be a woman if you can't be naked beside a man?"

Ayumi looks at Hirada. She lets her mask sink to the depths below. Ningyo helps her out of her wetsuit. A chemical slick surrounds them, warming the water.

As Hirada reaches to touch Ayumi, the girl feels Ningyo come up behind her and envelop her. She wraps her arms around Ayumi and pulls her down.

Somewhere, an octopus embraces its prey and drags it down to the bottom, holds it down until it drowns, then feasts on it at its leisure.

A crab feeds on the scavenged remains of a muscular organ... still beating.

The chemical spill reaches the sea floor, the precipitate coating everything it touches.

A jointed limb telescopes out of the organ and snatches up the crab in its terminating claw, an aortic valve opens up into a tooth-studded maw that bites down on the crustacean swallowing it whole. An eyelid opens on the veined covering of the organ. An eye blinks and the bubble of a tear trickles out of its corner and races to the surface to expire in the air. The heart sprouts three more limbs and crawls away along the sea bottom, fading into the murky darkness.

An empty wetsuit floats on the surface of the sea, bobbing in the gentle swells of the unchanging ocean.

* * *

END

* * *

© Jeff Carpenter