The Figment Tree and Other Developments

Recently, I finished the first draft of another novel. It's an attempt to return to the Young Adult genre. At the moment, the working title is The Figment Tree, but it's subject to change. I've mentioned it before because I actually started this novel a long time ago. In fact, I had to dig through my old blog posts to figure it out.

Turns out, my earliest reference to it is from a post on June 29, 2013, when I wrote the following:

"As a final bit of news, I have an idea for another YA urban fantasy series I want to write next. It will be set in a trailer park in Bartlesville, Oklahoma."

I also made the bold claim:

"It will be the next thing I write."

Nothing could have been further from the truth. I managed a couple of chapters and gave it up for dead all those years ago. In fact, by October 9, 2013, I made the following confession:

"Of all the projects I have going on, this is the one that is getting most neglected. Sorry, Figment Tree. Don't take it personally."

And indeed, it wallowed in darkness until sometime late last year, when new concepts for the story coalesced inside my brainpan. I've been working on it ever since, hampered significantly by a hectic work schedule that consumes every single day of the week.

Anyway, The Figment Tree will soon see the light of day. As mentioned before, it is set in the town of Bartlesville, Oklahoma in the summer of 1991, the summer, by the way, after I graduated high school. The protagonist is a 13-year-old boy who lives in a trailer park just off Tuxedo Boulevard. It's an urban fantasy, so it involves some magic and mystical elements, but I do believe the concept behind the story is fairly unique. I won't spoil it at this time.

Setting the story in 1991 is somewhat of a challenge. How do I evoke that summer without being too obvious about it? How do I avoid anachronisms of speech? I do know that "Winds of Change" by Scorpions was playing entirely too often on 104.5, so I'm sure that detail will make it into the story during the revisions. 

In the meantime, I've been uploading short stories to OMNI's new platform, so be sure to check them out. There's some truly weird stuff in there. You can find those HERE. 

The Uninterruptible Avalanche of Short Stories

So I've been gradually uploading all of my old short stories from 2009-2010 onto OMNI's new writing platform. It gives me a chance to go back over the stories and make some minor changes. Anyway, they're all fairly weird. I encourage you to check them out. The ones that are currently available are:

Companion - One of my rare attempt at straight-up horror.

Heart Case - This fantasy story is clearly a comment about working a crappy job.

Planet Feast - I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this one. A pulp sci-fi story.

Grandfather's House - This one has a sort of Twilight Zone vibe.

Profaning the Leistra - This fantasy story is a strange meditation on the meaning of ritual.

Seeing through Doors - Another unusual science fiction story.

Robo and the Little Door - This one could also be a Twilight Zone episode. Who or what does Robo represent?

Eating the Sickness - A short story that inspired some of my later novels, specifically Shadows of Tockland and Fading Man.

More to come. I've got a lot more of these buried in old hard drive folders.

A New Platform for Long-Lost Short Stories

As I've mentioned before, I went through a "crazy go nuts" short story writing phase back in 2009-2010, churning out 22 stories in six months. About half of them found publishers, but the rest have just been sitting around waiting for a purpose in life.

Well, recently, I got a message from OMNI. You know, the science magazine. They've created a new writing platform called Vocal, where writers can submit "fiction, short films, personal UFO encounters, advances in science and technology, conspiracy theories, artificial intelligence fears, all things DUNE, and anything else you think people in the OMNI community would be interested in."

It seems like a good platform for some of these old short stories of mine. I submitted the first one yesterday. It called "Eating the Sickness." It's a story that almost got published back in 2010. The editor of a post-apocalyptic science fiction anthology was interested in it, but he asked me to make some major changes. I made modest changes instead, and when he said they weren't enough, we parted ways. This particular short story served as one of the inspirations for two of my later novels: Shadows of Tockland and Fading Man. Check it out HERE.

The second short story is called "Robo and the Little Door," and it's another one from that same period of time. It was one of the last short stories I wrote during that period of time before moving on to novels. I only tried submitting it to one place, and when it got rejected, I just tucked it away in a folder never to be seen by man nor beast. Check that one as well.

There will be many more to come, so click the little robot below and keep checking in!

The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Seeing through Doors

Here's another short story of mine that appeared in the now-defunct webzine called Absent Willow Review. Now, to be honest with you, I have no memory of writing this one, so I don't know why I wrote it or what it's all about. I do note a blatant thematic similarity with "Tinni and the Chain." It's weird stuff, friends. Enjoy!

Seeing Through Doors

By

Jeffrey Aaron Miller

Sometimes when the door opened, it coincided with another door at the end of the hall opening. When that happened, if Desset pressed himself against the far wall, he could see outside. The glimpse never lasted more than a couple of seconds, but even the briefest image of yellow sunlight on white pavement and neatly trimmed green grass lingered in his mind for days. At night, when he was locked in place, he dreamed of wind in his hair and warmth on his face. He always woke from these dreams in tears, gnashing his teeth to keep from wailing.

That fateful morning, he was floating in the residue of a dream when the director stormed into the room, his suit jacket unbuttoned and his crimson tie flapping up over his shoulder like a devil tongue. Desset had tools in either hand, and he was bent low over the open panel of a hover chair, but his mind was elsewhere, sailing through clouds in a gold-tinged sky. The director slammed a plastic folder down on the table, and the clatter of data chips roused Desset. He looked up into the hard and haggard face of Director Thane.

“Complaints,” the director said, flashing his big crooked teeth. “Endless complaints.”

Desset glanced down at the plastic folder, which had fallen open, gushing data chips onto the table like a disemboweled animal. He set his spanner down and picked up one of the chips.

“Oh, go ahead,” the director said. “Plug it in and see for yourself. Page after page.”

But Desset merely shook his head and set the data chip back on the table. It almost didn’t bother him. Almost. He knew he would think about it too much later, but his immediate reaction was only weariness.

“The quality of your work is plummeting,” Director Thane said, jabbing a fat finger in Desset’s face. “It is beginning to affect business. Customers are saying they won’t come back.”

Desset retrieved the spanner and made as if to return to work, but he only stuck his hands inside the open panel and held them there.

“What happens if this company becomes financially unviable?” the director asked, leaning in so close that Desset smelled the coffee and bacon on his breath. “What happens to you? Is anyone going to spend to money to have you relocated?”

“I shall work harder,” Desset said, but he said it too quietly and had to repeat himself to be heard.

Director Thane stared at him for a long uncomfortable moment. Desset didn’t return the look, but he could feel those big, bloodshot eyes boring into his skull.

“It might be too late,” the director said, at last. He picked up the folder and began scooping up the data chips, but then he seemed to change his mind and scattered the chips across the table. “You know what? I don’t even want to deal with them. If people come here to complain, I’m just going to send them to you. How does that sound?”

Desset pretended to tighten a screw. “That sounds fair.”

Director Thane nodded then gave a little snort and turned to leave. “A waste of money,” he said, with a broad sweep of his arm. “All of this. We should have sent you to prison.” And he stormed across of the room, the empty plastic folder clutched so tightly in his fist that it bent in half.

The door swept open at Thane’s approach, and Desset consider flinging himself against the far wall to catch a glimpse of the outside, but he was too tired to attempt it. So very tired. It felt like all of the strength had drained out of his body into the network of tubes beneath him. All he wanted was to retract against the wall, turn off the power and sink back into his dreams of sunlight.

Prison. Yes, he had thought about it more times that he could count. If the director had come that morning, opened a portal into a dark cell and offered to detach him, he would have accepted. Better a cell than this endless decay. He had thought about it many times and felt ashamed. How thankful had he been when the offer had first been made to put him to work in the factory? With tears of relief and trembling hands he had embraced the director. Good food, real work, no threat of punishment, and the chance to do what he felt gifted to do: tinker with electronics.

He hadn’t understood then that his freedom was only another prison. He had become a puppet on a stick instead of an animal in a cage, and which was worse? He took a deep breath, brushed the data chips to one side of the table and returned to work, but he felt as if a shadow hung over him. He had no other options if the factory went out of business. He was trapped. If some generous fool wanted to pay to have him detached from this place, shipped elsewhere and reattached, then maybe. But there were few generous fools left.

He had trouble concentrating on his work, but, then, he always did after a browbeating. A little voice in his head wouldn’t stop whispering, “Your doom draws near.” But he did finish, closing up the panel and tossing the spare parts into a drawer on the wall beside him. He tested the hover chair, and it seemed to be working. The lights came on, the lift gave a little whine, and the whole thing rose about an inch from the tabletop. Surely that was good enough.

He pressed the button that signaled he was done and swept across the room for a sip of water.

“Well, now, this is not what I expected.”

Desset was bent over the water fountain when the voice spoke. High and soft. He hadn’t heard the door open over the tinkling of water. He turned back and saw a woman standing just inside the room, dark hair and fair skin, a wry and slightly disturbed look on her face.

“Can I help you?” Desset asked, rinsing his grease-stained hands in the water and drying them on a dangling, ragged towel.

“Actually, I was told to come and complain to you directly,” she said, stepping further into the room. Her eyes were fixed on his attachments, the metal shaft and cluster of tubes that began at his lower back and curved into the wall. “Are you…” She swallowed, as if struggling not to vomit. “Are you connected to that thing?”

“I am,” Desset said with a sigh. This he did not need, to be gawked at like some kind of museum freak. “It’s standard practice for people like me.”

The woman crossed the room and leaned both hands against the edge of the table. “I guess I’ve read about it. I’ve just never seen it.” She shook her head and looked into his eyes, and the sickness melted into pity, which was worse.

“It’s better than being locked in a cell on a moon somewhere,” he replied. He was so tired, his words all ran together, but the woman seemed to understand him.

“Is it?” she asked.

No, Desset thought. No, not at all. But instead he nodded. “Here I can work. I’m never beaten. It’s well lit.”

The woman kept staring at him. She started to say something, but the words died on her lips. Finally, Desset turned away from her and began rooting through drawers, as if looking for something, hoping she would go away.

“What did you come to complain about?” he asked, finally, when he realized she was not leaving.

“My exercise platform,” she replied, sounding dazed. “It shorted out a few days after I brought it home.”

“I apologize,” he replied, digging his hands into a drawer full of tiny screws and sifting them through his fingers like sand. “Bring it back in, and I’ll work on it for free. We’ll even refund what you’ve already paid.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Thank you,” he said, before she could continue speaking. “Now, I really must get back to work. Have a nice day and goodbye.”

“Okay,” she said again and turned to leave. She took two steps, paused, and turned back to him. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, her fingers pressed to her cheeks. “Did they…Did they remove the rest of you?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, waving her away. “You agree to take the job, and that’s the deal.”

“For how long?”

“Forever,” he said. “It stays like this forever.”

“Would you leave if you could?” she asked, hesitantly.

He didn’t want to answer. It wasn’t a good idea to speak the truth to a customer, but when he tried to lie, the words stuck in his throat. “Yes,” he said, so quietly he didn’t know if she heard him.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thank you for being honest. My name is Neoma. What is your name?”

“Desset. Now, please, leave.”

“It was nice to meet you, Desset,” she said and walked out of the room. The door closed behind her with a soft whoosh. Desset slid the drawer shut and turned back to the table. And he wept, tears spilling down his cheeks like poison. He clasped his hands in front of his face, and they shook like the hands of a madman. In that moment, he would’ve given anything, done anything, suffered anything, to be able to walk out of the room. A prison cell on a moon, yes, he would’ve crawled into it, curled his fingers around the cold bars and cried out in exultation if it could’ve been.

But no. This was the choice he had made, and he could never escape it. Never. He slammed his hands against his forehead until he saw stars, but the pain diminished the weeping, if only a little. Workers came in to pick up the repaired hover chair, and they glanced at him, frowning in disgust, but said nothing. As they left, one of them glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. By the time the lunch cart came through, he had mostly pulled himself together. He stared at his face in the mirror above the water fountain and saw red blotches around his eyes and on his cheeks.

“Time to eat,” the server said, pulling a segmented lunchbox out of the cart and setting it on his work table.

Desset wiped away the tracks of tears and glided back over to the work table. “Thank you,” he said, but the server was already wheeling the cart out of the room. He ate his lunch in silence, but the food had no taste. The sandwich might as well have been a stack of cardboard, the peas dust, but he choked it all down and sat staring at the empty lunchbox, feeling miserable.

The door opened again, and Director Thane strode in, scowling darkly. “I hope you enjoyed the complaints. That’s what I get to put up with a hundred times a week, thanks to you.” The door closed behind him, and he came to stop. “And this is why.” He gave the hover chair a push, and it sailed off the table, bounced on the floor and scraped its way across the room.

It came to a stop near the bend of Desset’s metal support rod. “I’ll take another look at it,” he said, pushing his empty lunchbox away from him.

“Willful incompetence,” Director Thane shouted. “I just got done screaming at you for ruining the company, and you have the nerve to send this shoddy piece of work back out?”

“It hovers,” Desset said. He felt the old weariness stealing over him, but a hard knot had developed in his gut.

“It scrapes the floor like a damned plow,” Thane said, shaking a fist at him. “That’s not fixed, you worthless half-man! That’s another complaint and refund waiting to happen.”

Desset could no longer stand the sound of the director’s voice. He deserved the scolding, perhaps, but it didn’t make him care. He didn’t care if the complaints flowed like a river through the front door and swept everything in the building away. He moved over to the wall beside the water fountain, but only because it was the farthest he could go. The hinge in the metal shaft gave him about a hundred and seventy-degree arc in which to move, the work table at one extreme, the water fountain at the other.

“You’ve ruined this company,” Thane said. “More than that, you’ve ruined yourself. If this place closes down, I can find other work, but you, you have nothing. You’ll be here when the wrecking ball knocks down the walls. Maybe that’s what you want?”

“No,” Desset said, bending over the water fountain, as if to take a drink. The little knot in his stomach was growing, like some furious worm feasting on his despair. “No, that is not what I want.”

“It has to be intentional,” Thane said. “This level of incompetence has to be intentional.”

Desset turned to the director. He spoke without thinking. “It is.”

Thane had one hand in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled it out now, clutching a fistful of data chips. “It is? It is intentional?” he shouted. “Did you just admit it?” He threw the data chips at Desset with a cry of rage. They hit his chest, his arms, his stomach, made high tinkling sounds as they bounced off the metal shaft, but they were as light as fingernails. He scarcely felt them. Desset watched them fall to the floor and wished he had feet to stamp on them.

“Financial reports,” the director said, still shouting. “The testimony of your failures, and you’re telling me you did it on purpose?”

Desset felt heat filling his chest, making his heart race. He gazed into the director’s wide, wild eyes and felt like he was looking into a void. “Yes, I did,” he said again. “Disconnect me and throw me outside.”

Director Thane shook his head, gnashed his teeth, and took a step toward Desset. “Don’t you tempt me. I did you a favor letting you work here.”

“You did not,” Desset replied, gliding back over to the work table. “You have a contract with the government, and they pay you well. If my services are not acceptable, disconnect me and throw me outside.”

“Believe me, if I could get away with it, I would,” Thane said, taking another step toward him. “I will see better work from you, half-man. I will see better work.”

Desset grunted and reached for the lunchbox. “Better work,” he said. He flung the empty lunchbox at the director. It hit him on the chest, spattering his blue shirt with the residue of peas and meat paste, and fell to the floor. “There’s some better work for you, sir.”

Thane stared at the lunchbox for a long, tense moment, then reached up, very slowly, and brushed the crumbs off his shirt. “That’s how it’s going to be, then.”

Director Thane rushed at Desset, head low, hands reaching. Desset saw him coming and shifted away, but Thane altered course, trapping him against the water fountain. He grabbed the collar of Desset’s shirt and slammed him into the water fountain, causing a great rush of agony at the place where the shaft attached to his spine. Desset cried out, and Thane clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up,” he screamed. “You shut up!”

Desset screamed through his fingers. The agony sent a wave of nausea through him, and made his head spin. He screamed until his voice broke, and then he let out a last defiant hiss until he ran out of breath. Thane sneered at him and slapped him across the face so hard his vision dimmed.

“I will not be treated with disrespect by the likes of you,” he said. He slapped him again, this time so hard his head bounced off the wall. “Do you hear me, Desset?”

Desset felt blood running from his nose. His first instinct was to retract into his nook in the wall, as if that were an escape, but the fire still burned in him. The worm was restless and angry. He licked the blood dripping from his upper lip and spat it into Thane’s face. Thane made a grunt of disgust, and Desset, catching him off guard, punched him in the neck.

“I don’t want to fight, sir!”

The director staggered backward, clutching his throat and gagging. Desset didn’t wait for him to recover but rushed over to the work table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small hammer. When Thane came for him again, a crazed light in his eyes, he threw the hammer at him. Thane tried to deflect it, but the head of the hammer caught him on the forearm with a loud and satisfying crack.

“I don’t want to fight,” Desset said again. “Disconnect me and throw me outside.”

Thane, his face distorted in pain, grabbed his injured forearm. “I’ll do worse than that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll do much worse.”

He rushed at him again. Desset turned back to the open drawer, fishing around for another suitable weapon, but the director was upon him. He grabbed his upper arm, fingers clamping down until it hurt, and jerked him away from the drawer, flinging Desset across the room. The hinge of his support rod gave a squeal of protest at the forced movement. Thane drew a screwdriver out of the drawer and came for him.

“If I hadn’t been worried about losing the contract, I would have dumped your half-self in the dumpster a long time ago,” he said, hunched over, the screwdriver held in front of his face.

Workers came to the door then, no doubt drawn by the screams. Thane rounded on them, red-faced, and yelled, “Get out! This is none of your concern. Go back to work!” And the workers fled.

Desset, seizing the opportunity when his back was turned, glided up behind him and grabbed the hand wielding the screwdriver.

“Let go,” the director said, in a voice like the snarl of a rabid dog. “I’ll carve your heart out.”

They struggled over the screwdriver, shifting back and forth in a kind of violent dance. When it became clear that neither would win, Thane drew his other hand back, balled up a fist, and punched Desset in the face. Darkness descended, and it felt like the world broke loose around him and drew back. As everything shrank into the distance, Desset thought, though surely it was only the old familiar dream, that he saw a flash of sunlight through the door.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

The voice roused him. His head had tipped forward onto his chest, but he lifted it. The sudden movement almost made him pass out again. His whole face felt numb, but his back was a sea of agony. Thane was stumbling away, a look of open-mouthed horror on his face.

The woman with the dark hair, Neoma, stood in the doorway. She had a purse in her hands, holding it up in front of her like a shield.

“I said, what in God’s name are you doing? Are you hitting him?”

“He attacked me,” Thane said, adjusting his tie and pulling his jacket back into place. “Things got out of hand, ma’am. Could you please wait outside?”

“He’s bleeding,” she said. She remained in the doorway, so the door wouldn’t close. Workers had gathered in the hallway outside. One of the workers had a large flat piece of black plastic held in his arms, which Desset recognized as the woman’s exercise platform, the very one he had failed to repair.

“He means to kills me,” Desset said, but the words were a mess. His lips felt a hundred sizes too big, and blood was running into his mouth.

“Foolishness,” Director Thane said. “Things got out of hand. I’ll send for a nurse to tend his wounds.”

“No, you don’t go anywhere,” Neoma said, rounding on the director but drawing her purse against her chest, as if she feared he might try to take it. “Don’t come near me. Don’t even move. What sort of an animal are you?”

Thane frowned and shook his head, clearly feeling that he had been grossly misunderstood. He started to speak, but the woman interrupted him.

“Desset,” she said, her voice softening. “I don’t know what you did to wind up here, but I won’t leave you like this.”

Desset gave her a brief smile, though it was forced and made his lips hurt all the more. Of course, she would leave him like this. She had no choice. He turned to the water fountain and began washing the blood from his face. Let the woman feel sorry for him, if she must, but she couldn’t help him. She was only going to make it worse between Desset and the director later, that he knew all too well.

“Ma’am,” Thane said, trying to sound patient though Desset heard the threat in his voice. “There is nothing you can do for him. He is a convicted felon under a government contract. If you want to detach and relocate him, you’ll have to buy out his contract and pay for the relocation, and, trust me, it’s more than you can afford.”

“Don’t you pretend to know me,” the woman said, her voice rising. “You don’t know what I can and can’t afford. You keep your mouth shut.”

“Ma’am,” he said again.

“I said shut your mouth!”

“Very well,” Director Thane said in a sigh.

Desset finished washing his face and hands and turned back to her. She was still in the doorway, still holding her purse against her chest. Thane stood in the corner, his head bowed, his brows knitted. He looked worried, not the enraged sort of worry that Desset was so used to but genuinely afraid.

“Desset,” the woman said, lowering the purse. “You were honest with me, and I want to help you. What can I do?”

Desset shrugged. He knew he should feel hopeful, even if the woman was out of her mind, but he felt only weariness and pain.

“Him,” she said, pointing at Director Thane. “Despite what he thinks of me, I could buy this company and fire him. He’s not worth much. If you ask me to, I will.”

“Now, please, let’s calm down,” the director said with an uncomfortable laugh.

“I could also call the police,” she continued. “Surely he’s not allowed to beat you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Thane said, clasping his hands. “I know I got carried away, but it won’t happen again. Ma’am, listen to me.”

She ignored him and took a step into the room. The door started to close behind her, but the gathering crowd of workers pressed in behind her and kept it open.

“Tell me what you want me to do with him,” the woman said. “And I will do it.”

Desset looked into her eyes as long as he dared. Misty eyes filled with pity, he could only manage it for a couple of seconds before he dropped his gaze. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was it possible? Was this woman for real? Desset glanced at Director Thane, at that big cinder block of a head, the sharp lines of his face, the hard glint in his eyes. Not a nice man, not a pleasant man, never a happy man. And Desset considered what, in fact, he really did want to do to him, the one who had contributed so much to his ongoing misery. Pick up the screwdriver and jam it into his eye socket? Seize the hammer and shatter his skull like an eggshell? Perhaps.

He considered, and Thane kept his anxious gaze fixed on the floor.

“I don’t want you to do anything to him,” Desset said. “It’s not his fault that I’m here. It’s my fault. I chose this, and, even though I didn’t understand the stupidity of the choice when I made it, I still can’t blame anyone else for it.”

The director swallowed hard and looked up at Desset, daring to smile. “Oh, Desset, thank you. I’m so sorry I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.”

Thane was so busy apologizing--it sounded abnormal on his tongue, like a language that he hadn’t yet mastered--that he didn’t notice the woman’s approach. She walked up to him, raised a hand, and slapped him across the face. Thane grunted, stumbled back into the wall and grabbed his cheek. Danger flashed in his eyes, and Desset fully expected him to charge the woman, but he didn’t. The workers in the hallway gasped and grumbled.

“That’s from me,” she said. She turned back to Desset and approached him. He found himself trembling as she drew near, and he almost retracted into the wall. “I can have you relocated, if you want. I will do whatever you ask of me. What do you want, Desset?”

He met her gaze and felt the room swimming around him. He was all too aware of what he looked like, pasty and thin, nearly bald, sickly, yet she reached out and took his hand and held it.

“What do you want?” she asked again.

And what did he want? He had dreamed many times of relocation, but now that it was being offered to him, he felt no real excitement at the prospect. He would always be a half-man attached to a metal rod, kept alive artificially by tubes. He would always be confined to a single room, always under contract, always working for unfriendly people as a convict. What difference did it make if it was Director Thane abusing him or some other bully, it all came to the same thing.

“There is one thing I would like,” he said.

“Tell me,” Neoma said. “Anything.”

Desset slipped his hand out of hers and leaned against the wall beside the water fountain. “Sometimes the door to the room will open just as the door at the end of the hallway opens. When that happens, if I’m standing here, I catch a glimpse of the outside. Maybe you could have the workers prop both doors open for me. Not all the time, of course, that’s unreasonable, but perhaps once a day, in the morning when the sun is brightest, have them prop the doors open for an hour or so. That would be enough, and I’ll work harder. I promise.”

She looked at him for a long moment, glanced over her shoulder at the door, then looked back at him. And she burst into tears.

* * *

The feel of wind in his hair and the warmth of sunlight on his upturned face. Even now, after a month, he still found himself sitting on the porch behind the guest house, eyes closed, just basking in it. When he wasn’t sitting on the porch, he was usually at work, though neither Neoma nor her husband required it of him. He owed her so much, the sense of gratitude was overwhelming, but he did what he could for them, repairing appliances that broke down or working on little projects around the house, hoping that in some small way, he could improve her life as much as she had utterly transformed his.

He heard the sound of her feet on the walkway and turned. A small concrete path led from the back door of her house to the porch of the guest house. She had a wicker basket in her hands, and as she approached, she held it up, smiling. He returned the smile and reached for the control stick of his hover chair. The irony of his situation, that he owed his new mobility to a hover chair, hadn’t escaped him, for it had been another hover chair, poorly repaired, that had almost cost him his life at the hands of Director Thane. Of course, designing attachments for the hover chair to suit his needs had been more expensive than he could bear to think about, but he meant to make every penny of it count.

“Lunch,” Neoma said, setting the wicker basket on a table near the door. She opened the lid, and the smell of baked chicken wafted out. Real meat, lab-grown, not that awful pink paste.

“You do too much for me,” Desset said. “I should be bringing lunch for you and your family.”

“Oh, stop,” Neoma said. “You’ve done work for us every single day that you’ve been here, and it’s not necessary.”

He glided over to the table and peeked into the basket. Chicken, peas in a small dish, bread, a bottle of wine. He shook his head.

She turned to leave but lingered. “No more seeing through doors.”

“Thank you, yes,” he said. “I mean to take a look at the thermostat on the pool this afternoon. I know it’s not been working right lately.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder and left. Desset’s gaze turned to neatly trimmed grass beside the walkway, swaying in the warm noon breeze, and then to the billowing clouds in the eastern sky.

“No more seeing through doors,” he echoed, and reached into the wicker basket for his lunch.

The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Planet Feast

One of the more unusual stories I wrote back in 2009-2010 was a little thing called "Planet Feast." It appeared for a while on the website BigPulp.com, but it's no longer there. I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this one. Brace yourself!

Planet Feast
by
Jeffrey Aaron Miller

With his axe, Thoma hacked off another slab of planet-flesh, caught it in his free hand as it fell, and tossed it into the plastic bin in his lap.

“Quit with the fancy tricks,” Carlo said, scowling from his platform atop the pit. “If you drop a piece down there, you’re gonna have to climb down and get it. But maybe that’s what you want, eh? Is that what you want?”

Thoma shook his head and resumed hacking away at the edge of the pit. The surface of the planet was hard and crumbly, rather like a pie shell made of grit, but just beneath the crust was the flesh, yards and yards of orange-red flesh, moist and pungent. It separated under the blade with a satisfying wet thunk, like a heavy fruit rind parting. Thoma kept hacking off slabs and tossing them into his basket until the basket was overfull, then he slid the axe into the loop on his belt, grabbed the handle of the basket, and rose to his feet. Beneath him, on broad steps carved into the pit, two dozen others worked feverishly to fill their baskets. Down and down the pit went, forty feet and more, and always there was more flesh to carve out.

Thoma approached the viewing platform and tilted his basket. Carlo, leaning his heavy frame on the metal railing, stooped down to inspect.

“That’s good enough,” he said, his craggy face and bad teeth all too close. “Store it and take a break.”

Thoma hurried past the platform toward the cool of the storage tent. His aunt, Mari, met him just inside. She watched over the shelves while others in the back cut slabs of planet-flesh into edible portions. Mari was old, stooped, hair like a long silver rope pulled over one shoulder.

“First to finish,” she noted, as Thoma set his basket on the lowest shelf. “I don’t suppose he noticed.”

“He didn’t say anything about it,” Thoma replied, rinsing his hands in a trough of water and drying them on a bit of rag.

“Of course not,” Mari said. “Don’t let it get to you. He’s still upset about his brother, but it wasn’t your fault, and he’ll realize that sooner or later.”

“I don’t think so,” Thoma said. “He’s made everyone hate me.”

Mari patted him on the shoulder as he headed out of the tent. She meant well, and she tried to make him feel better, but it didn’t help. Thoma slipped the axe out of its belt loop and dropped it in the toolbox beside the tent. He meant to head back to his room to change clothes and wash up before dinner--the moist flesh left a sticky film on everything it touched--but he only managed a couple of steps before he came to a stop.

The sun had risen above the distant horizon, burning like a band of super-heated gold in the thin atmosphere of Crassos. The light dipped into the flesh pit, filling the translucent pulp along the rim with a deep crimson glow. Thoma thought it made the pit look like an open sore. It was a shame, really, the great ugly divot carved into the planet’s surface, but he mostly kept his thoughts on the matter to himself these days. He had done what he could to encourage exploration, and what had it gotten him?

His gaze turned northward, to the perimeter fence made of welded tent poles that ran along the rim of Fool’s Canyon (as they had taken to calling it). The fence wasn’t for security, Carlo had made that clear. It was more of a mission statement: we exist to dig in the pit and eat, not to roam the world.

Other workers had filled their morning quota of food and clambered out of the pit. They now trudged toward the storage tent bearing heavy baskets. Thoma slipped away before any of them got close enough to speak to him and hurried to his room.

The klaxon above the administration tent announced meal time. Pilgrims poured out of tents all over the city and made their way to the dining hall, where many long tables had been set up and covered with platters of prepared planet-flesh. Thoma took his seat at the far end of the last table, nearest the corner, and waited for the meal to begin.

Carlo, flanked by his servants, entered the dining hall with great flourish, sweeping his cloak out on either side of him, and made his way to the dais in the center of the room, where his elevated seat and private table awaited. The servants pulled his chair back, so he could sit, but before he did, he raised his hands, patted the air and said, “This world, our new home, once again is life to us. Eat.”

At that, the feasting began. Thoma reached for the nearest bowl and scooped cubes of planet-flesh onto his plate. He liked it best in small portions. The flesh had a savory but bitter taste, somewhat like sweetened vinegar, and Thoma found it a bit overwhelming in large bites.

“Not hungry?” Mari sat across from him. She was the only one left who dared to talk to him in front of Carlo.

“I’m plenty hungry,” Thoma said. “Just tired of eating this flesh from the pit.”

Mari frowned. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, ladling thick flesh-steaks onto her plate. “Of all the planets we might have landed on, we find ourselves on a world with an endless supply of food. We are very fortunate and very blessed. I know you’re upset with Carlo and the others, and you have a right to be. The expedition’s failure was not your fault, but you shouldn’t speak ill of our good fortune.” She nodded, gave him a half-hearted smile, and turned her attention to the heap of steaks on her plate.

“It’s just a shame.” Thoma stabbed a cube of flesh with his fork, started to put it in his mouth, then set it back on the plate. “We have no idea what’s out there. We’re chopping away at the planet and making a big mess of it, but what if there’s other food out there somewhere. What if there are forests or fields where we could plant the seeds we brought?”

“It’s a fungus,” Mari said. “That’s what the scientists tell us. Like a giant mushroom. It is likely that it covers the entire surface of the world.”

“Sure, that’s what they say,” Thoma replied. “They say whatever Carlo wants them to say, and you believe whatever he wants you to believe.”

Mari shook her head and continued to eat, and Thoma knew he had said too much. Even his beloved aunt had her limits. He sighed and picked at his food.

Everyone ate and kept eating until Carlo was finished. When, at last, he pushed his chair back, handed his dirty plate to one of his servants, and rose, every fork, every spoon dropped, every voice stilled.

“Afternoon shift at the pit in half an hour,” he said. “We work to eat, we eat to live.”

And with that, he swept his cloak off his shoulders and headed out of the tent.

* * *

The discovery happened during the afternoon shift. Thoma had resumed his position at the top of the pit, basket in his lap, while others worked on the levels beneath him. Carlo was on his platform, pacing, when two men at the bottom of the pit began shouting. It took Thoma a moment to figure out what they were saying.

“We broke through,” they said, echoing each other. “We broke through!”

Thoma set his axe in his basket and leaned over the edge of the pit. The workers at the bottom of the pit were dancing, waving their arms over their heads. On the ground between them, they had carved a space into the planet-flesh and revealed some kind of a whitish surface beneath.

Thoma felt a hand on his shoulder, fingers grinding into his collarbone. “Go down there and see what it is,” Carlo said.

Thoma set his basket aside and clambered down into the pit, careful not to lose his balance on all the moist flesh. Clusters of workers parted to let him pass. At the bottom of the pit, where the orange-pink sides rose up like great spongy walls, and the low-lying sun was obscured, he felt a terrible sense of claustrophobia. The two workers waved him over and led him to the center of the pit, where their latest excavation had, at last, sliced through the bottom of the planet-flesh. The surface beneath was coarse and pitted, and when Thoma stooped down to touch it, it felt warm against his fingers. It reminded him of an eggshell.

“Well, I guess we finally found the actual surface of the planet,” he said.

“We did it,” one of the workers said, as if they had managed some great achievement.

“Yes, you did,” Thoma replied with a sigh. “I’d better go tell Carlo.”

He climbed back up the pit, every eye on him, some whispering as he passed, “What is it?” He didn’t respond but kept climbing all the way to the top, then waited a moment to catch his breath as Carlo loomed over him.

“Well?” Carlo said.

“They’ve dug through the flesh and found another layer,” Thoma said. “Some kind of a hard surface, like rock, maybe the actual surface of the planet.”

Carlo nudged him out of the way and leaned over the edge. “I want everyone at the bottom,” he shouted. “Clear a space with your axes and chop through the layer of rock. We’ll see what lies beneath.”

All over the pit, workers traded glances, then began descending into the pit.

Carlo cuffed Thoma on the back of the head. “That means you, too,” he said. “Get down there and help them break through.”

“What’s the point?” Thoma said. “It’s a layer of rock. Do we have to make this big ugly scar of a pit even uglier?”

Carlo rounded on him slowly, teeth bared and bushy eyebrows drawn down. Thoma started to back away, but before he could move, Carlo lashed out, caught a fold of his shirt in one big meaty fist and drew him in close. “I will not have my authority challenged by you. Least of all, by you.” And with that he shoved Thoma away.

Thoma stumbled, flailing his arms, and fell. Carlo drew a foot back, as if he meant to kick him, then caught himself.

“This big ugly scar of a pit, as you call it, is how we live,” he said. “Now, get down there and help the others.”

Thoma picked himself up, backed a safe distance away from Carlo and shook his head. “It’s not my fault what happened to your brother, you know. He climbed down into the canyon before I had secured the safety rope.”

Carlo clenched his fists and came after him. “Don’t you speak about him.”

Thoma backed away but bumped up against the edge of the viewing platform. “He was right, though. We can’t just keep digging into this pit. We have to go see what’s out there.”

Carlo swung at him, but Thoma ducked and lurched to one side, and Carlo’s fist hit the metal rail. He swore loudly and grabbed his hand.

“Get out of my sight,” he cried. “Go back to your tent. I don’t want to see you the rest of the day. Not here, not at meal time.”

Thoma turned and strode away, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard Carlo, still cursing under his breath, step back to the edge of the pit and resume shouting at the workers.

Thoma made his way to the storage tent and dropped his axe in the tool box. Mari saw him and stepped outside.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He refused to look at her. “Told him the truth.”

“Thoma,” she said with a gasp. “You mustn’t speak disrespectfully to Carlo. It will only make things worse for you.”

“So I shouldn’t be honest? Mari, they’ve found another layer beneath the fungus, a layer of rock, and they mean to hack through it.”

Mari considered this, then shrugged. “Well, it might be worth seeing what lies beneath.”

“It’s all about that stupid pit,” Thoma said. “This whole stupid colony is a great big pit. Work to eat, eat to live. If that’s what you want, you can have it. All of you, you can have it. I want to see what’s out there.”

Mari started to speak, but he waved her off and turned away. Instead of walking back to his tent, however, he retrieved his axe, slid it into the loop on his belt, and turned northward.

“Thoma, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Enjoy your pit,” he said. “Keep digging down until the whole stupid colony falls right into it.”

And with that, he walked away from her, away from the storage tent, away from the whole colony. Mari called after him, but he ignored her and kept walking. In the distance, he heard Carlo shouting at the workers, “Clear a larger space, so you can see more of the rock! Now, dig. Dig!”

The perimeter fence on the northern edge of the colony was comprised of tent poles set at irregular intervals along the edge of Fool’s Canyon. It had been built in haste, poles lashed together in X’s and set far enough apart that they were largely useless, a symbolic gesture and nothing more. As he approached the fence, Thoma spared a glance over his shoulder at the sad array of tents that comprised the pilgrim colony. Their ship, broken and impaled in the planet’s surface, rose behind it all like a gray bone protruding from a broken limb. The only pilgrim in sight was Carlo, gesturing wildly at the edge of the pit. Everyone else was working either inside a tent or inside the pit, and even Mari had retreated, unwilling to watch him return to his folly. Nobody saw Thoma walk right up to the perimeter fence and slip through.

The wind in the canyon was gusting. It was wind that had been the problem, the strange gusts that came spilling over the northern lip of Fool’s Canyon and curled back up the southern face, forming a kind of sideways vortex. Carlo’s brother and two others in the expedition had begun their descent, using their work axes to dig into the spongy flesh, while the wind was gentle. Halfway down, a violent gust had come at them from below and picked up all three, sucking their axes out of the planet-flesh and flinging them up and out. Thoma had been tying the safety line to its poles when he heard the cries and crawled to the edge of the canyon in time to the see the three of them falling the remaining fifty feet to the canyon floor. He had then spent three agonizing hours retrieving the bodies, only to face a sea of blame and derision back in the colony.

Now, walking between the perimeter fence and the edge of the canyon, he was shocked to see the safety apparatus still in place, two long poles driven deep into the fleshy ground, a length of red nylon rope tied to both poles and dangling over the side. Nobody had bothered to remove it. Nobody had bothered to pull up the rope. Even when they had laid the perimeter fence, they had ignored the safety poles. Strange. He could only assume it had been left intentionally, perhaps by direct order of Carlo, as a permanent reminder of Thoma’s failure.

He walked over to the poles and tested the knots. They were still tight. He grabbed the rope, wrapped a couple of loops around his forearm, and leaned over the edge of the canyon. Down and down it went, a hundred feet, the sheer face dizzying. He was shocked to see blood stains at the bottom, three great splatters, now turned brown, on the canyon floor. But, of course, they were still there. Who would have cleaned them up?

Behind him, distantly, even over the howling of the wind, he heard Carlo shouting at the workers, though he could no longer make out the words. The real fool was not in Fool’s Canyon. The real fool was the craggy-faced madman leaning over that vast ugly pit.

Thoma grabbed the rope in both hands, sat down near the edge of the canyon, and lowered himself over the side. When his feet were dangling, he wrapped one leg around the rope and pinched it between his feet. Then it was a fairly simple matter of letting gravity do its work.

Ten feet down, a gust of wind pulled him away from the canyon wall and spun him in mid-air. He shut his eyes and held on for dear life, as the wind shrieked, pulling up his shirt and whipping his hair around his face. Then the wind died down, and he slammed into the side of the canyon so hard it knocked his feet free of the rope. He kicked wildly, felt the bands of nylon, made sweaty by his hands, slipping through his grasp, and he cried out, but his voice was lost in the wind.

He managed, after a frantic moment, to get one foot against the rope, snagging it between his toes. Then he wrapped his other leg around it and resumed his descent. And if he had fallen, if he had splattered himself on the canyon floor, would anyone have come looking for him? He doubted it. Would anyone have missed him? Mari perhaps, but no one else. Carlo might even have celebrated with an extra feast and speech.

Another gust of wind caught him near the bottom, but he heard it coming and braced himself. Again it pulled him away from the canyon wall and spun him in midair, but this time he didn’t close his eyes, though the blur of canyon, floor, and sky twisting around him made him sick to his stomach. When the wind died down, he saw the canyon wall coming toward him and managed to maintain his hold through the impact. From there, it was a short trip the rest of the way to the bottom. He slid onto the canyon floor and stepped away from the rope.

The sound of the wind had a peculiar thunderous quality at the bottom of the canyon, like being inside a giant bass drum in a storm. And still he thought he could hear, however faintly, Carlo’s damned voice shouting into the pit, like a memory that wouldn’t be forgotten.

He hurried across the canyon floor, careful to avoid the large blood stains, and made his way to the far side. Now, of course, he had no safety rope, only the axe in his belt, and after his trouble with the gusts of wind, he had no desire to attempt the climb. He stood for long minutes, undecided, wondering if he should go back. Only Mari would know that he had snuck through the perimeter fence, and she wouldn’t tell the others. It would be an easy thing, he knew, to sneak back into the colony, slip into his room inside the workers’ tent and pretend like none of this had happened.

But then what? Back to work tomorrow in the pit, hacking away at rock and flesh under the ever-hateful glare of Carlo? No, he couldn’t go back to that. He had walked away from it, and he meant to keep walking away from it.

He looked left and right, gazing down the length of the canyon. On either side, it curved gradually to the north, out of sight. He chose a direction at random and resumed walking, following the course of the canyon to the east. He stumbled occasionally when the wind picked up, even falling once and landing painfully on the handle of his axe. After that, he pulled the axe out and carried it as he walked. On and on he went, as the canyon took a gentle curve to the north, and after what might have been an hour, he perceived that the ground was sloping upward, rising to meet the top of the canyon walls.

He was well beyond the perimeter fence and quite a distance from the colony when he came out of the end of the canyon and found himself standing on a vast plain, the thin crust of the planet’s surface stretching out in all directions. As he scanned the horizon, he spied two low hills back to the northwest and headed toward them, hoping to get a better view from on top. He expected another long walk, but the first of the hills proved to be much closer than he had guessed. It was maybe fifty feet across, a strangely symmetrical bump on the otherwise flat landscape, as tall as it was wide, and on its surface, there was no crust, only the smooth, orange-red planet-flesh, as if it had been swept clean.

He climbed to the top of the hill with considerable effort, struggling for purchase on the moist flesh. Though he considered using the axe to chop handholds for himself, he decided against it; it reminded too much of working in the pit. Once at the top, he turned back in the direction of Fool’s Canyon and thought he could see a hint of the perimeter fence, gleaming in the low sunlight, and perhaps even the tops of colony tents beyond, though it might have been a trick of the light. Thoma marveled at how happy he felt to be away from it all, to be away from the pit which had become everything, to be so far from the incessant hoarse shouting of Carlo. He had a vision of building a place for himself here atop this hill, though he wasn’t sure what he would build it from, and maybe, in time, other pilgrims would leave the colony, disgusted by the pointless grind of life there, and they would come to live with him. Theirs would be a colony devoted to discovery, to knowing the world, not carving it like meat from bones. And he saw himself, a benevolent and brave leader, never shouting, guiding his new colony into a better future.

Yes, he could see it clearly.

And then the ground shifted beneath him, and his feet were pulled out from under him. He fell on his side, dropping his axe in the process, which slid out of reach. He grabbed at the slick ground, but his fumbling fingers couldn’t take hold, and the ground moving beneath him dragged him down.

He looked to the top of the hill and saw that it had split open from end to end, drawing back on both sides to reveal a black and shiny surface beneath, like some giant, polished stone. And a sound came to him then, carried on the wind, the sound of voices, not just Carlo this time, but many voices, dozens or hundreds, perhaps every pilgrim on Crassos, all screaming.

He turned toward the village and saw a geyser of dark crimson gushing hundreds of feet into the air, like blood from a rent artery. At last the workers had chopped their way through the eggshell surface beneath the soft flesh, hacking away with ruthless determination as Carlo urged them on.

“It’s not a planet,” Thoma whispered.

The eye, the great black eye, wet and shining, rolled in its socket above him, as blood from the pit gushed three hundred, four hundred feet into the air. And the world--not a planet but a living creature--shuddered beneath him, as the fountain of blood swept over the colony, washing it all away like fleas from a dog’s back.

And the wind in the canyon, like a voice, howled and howled.

The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Grandfather's Room

Back in 2009, a few years before I published my first novel (Mary of the Aether, available from Simon & Schuster), I sat down to relearn how to write. Over the course of about six months, I churned out 22 short stories. Many of them wound up getting published in various places, but some of the magazines and websites that published my stories have since gone under. I thought it might be interesting to post a few of those stories here on my blog just for toots and giggles. We'll start with this weird little tale. Enjoy.

Grandfather’s Room

By

Jeffrey Aaron Miller

Billy’s fingers crept like spider’s legs over the coarse, pitted surface of the door, tracing the cracks and crevices of many chipped layers of paint, inching toward the big brass knob. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen sink echoed down the hall.

“Grandpa,” he whispered, pressing his ear to the door. “Can you hear me?”

At first, silence. Then he heard the creak of bed springs, the thud of feet on the hardwood floor.

“I can hear you,” his grandfather said, voice muffled by the heavy door “You be careful you don’t get in trouble.”

“I won’t get in trouble,” Billy said, even as one finger brushed the edge of the knob. “How are you feeling today?”

“Not so hot.” He heard his grandfather fumbling around on his nightstand, then the click of a lamp, and a hint of light shone around the edges of the door. “Head’s all fuzzy. Throat feels like it’s full of sand.”

“I’m sorry you’re still sick, Grandpa,” Billy said.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, you sure can’t,” Grandpa said before dissolving into a fit of coughing. “Billy, did you know I fought in the war?”

“Yes,” Billy replied.

“Helluva way for a veteran to wind up, isn’t it?” Grandpa sighed. “But what can you do? Wish I could see your face, kiddo.”

Billy had hold of the doorknob now. It felt ice cold against his palm. “Maybe you can.”

A shadow fell over him then, and he became aware of the unpleasant, musty smell of his mother’s perfume. He let go of the doorknob and lurched backward, but she descended upon him like a mountain of wrath.

“I was only talking,” Billy protested, as she snagged his wrist.

She was an imposing woman, pale, obese, hair pulled into a tight bun on the back of the head. Her eyes, perpetually bloodshot, rested in the shadow of a high forehead, beneath unkempt eyebrows.

“You lie,” she said in a voice as tight as a coiled spring. “I saw you.” Her grip on his wrist tightened. “How many times have I told you, you cannot go into grandfather’s room? How many?”

“I don’t know,” Billy squeaked.

“No, you don’t know, because you’ve lost count,” she said, grinding his wrist bones together. “So let it me say it again. You cannot go into grandfather’s room. He is very sick. Do you want to get sick, too?”

“No, ma’am,” Billy said.

“Then stay away from the door.” She had bright patches of red high on her cheeks and forehead. Her free hand came up, and he expected a slap. Instead, she merely cuffed him on the shoulder. “Go and watch your TV show, and don’t let me catch you trying to open that door again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She released her grip on his wrist, and he slunk past her. When he was a few feet away, thinking he was safe, he stood up, but she delivered a last surprise kick to his tailbone. Billy yelped, grabbed his backside, and stumbled into the living room.

“That’ll help you remember,” she said.

In the living room, the television was on, gray light dancing on the walls, but the volume had been turned down. Billy squatted in front of the screen, sulking. His mother stepped up behind him, and he braced himself for another kick. Instead, she patted him on top of the head and mussed his hair.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” she said. “I’m only trying to keep you safe. Your grandfather is very, very sick, and you could catch what he has if you go around him.”

“I know, Mom,” Billy said. “You already told me that a whole bunch of times.”

“Alright, then.” She patted his head one more time, ungently. “You stay out of that room. Next time, there will be real consequences. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, turned, and strode back into the kitchen, her fat, slippered feet thumping loudly on the floor. Billy waited until he heard the clank of dishes again, then reached forward and turned up the volume on the television.

It was all so unfair. He couldn’t even look at his own grandfather, and the poor old man was cooped up in his room day and night like some kind of criminal. Billy could barely stand thinking about it, and TV didn’t make him feel any better. An old black-and-white sitcom was on. A father in his armchair, newspaper in hand, dispensing sage advice to his two rascally children. Billy had seen the show before, this very episode, in fact, many times, so he knew what the next scene would be before the camera cut away. Suddenly, there was grandpa, sitting in a gray room in a gray rocking chair. He had a white beard, a black pipe between his teeth, and a gray porkpie hat on his head, and the children stood beside him, a boy and a girl. Yes, stood beside him in the very same room, looking right at him as he told them a story. That was the way it worked in normal families. Normal families did not imprison sick relatives in their bedrooms.

Watching the show made Billy burn with the indignity of it all. And all the while, his mother hummed a little song to herself as she finished washing the dishes, like a woman who hadn’t a care in the world. He decided it was better not to think about it, so he changed the channel, from the gray grandfather to a gray cartoon rabbit prancing in a forest, and found a more comfortable position on the floor. The clank of dishes in the kitchen had become the whisking sound of the broom. As for the cartoon, Billy had seen it, as well. It seemed like there was nothing new on TV these days, only things he had already seen.

“Mom,” he called. “Can I have a soda pop?”

Her broom stilled. “No, if you want a drink, you can have a glass of water.”

“I don’t want a glass of water,” Billy said. “I don’t like water. It tastes bad.”

“Oh, it does not.”

He heard her feet stomping across the kitchen, the cupboard door banging against the wall, the sound of water from the faucet, and wished he had kept his mouth shut. Why couldn’t he for once have the thing he wanted? Indignity on top of indignity. Mother came into the living room, a tall glass of tap water in her hand.

“Take it,” she said.

“I don’t like tap water,” he said. “It tastes dirty.”

“There is nothing wrong with it,” she said. “You don’t need to be guzzling soda pop all the time. The sugar is only going to make you crazy. Take it.”

She grabbed his hand and pressed the glass against his palm, and he, reluctant but not wanting to get smacked, curled his fingers around it. He held it, waiting for her to leave the room, but she lingered, her arms crossed beneath her vast bosom. Billy sighed and took a sip of the water. It tasted sour, like someone had melted an onion in it, if such a thing were possible. The one sip seemed to satisfy his mother, however, and she returned to the kitchen and to her sweeping. As soon as she was out of sight, Billy set the glass of water on the floor and turned his attention back to the cartoon.

“You drink that water,” his mother said, as if somehow she had seen him set it down. “I expect to find an empty glass when I come back in there.”

Billy sighed and picked up the glass, holding it in front of his face, hating that his desire for a soda pop had turned into another ordeal. Cloudy water in a spotless glass. No, he couldn’t bring himself to drink it, but mother would get upset if he didn’t. He had to dispose of it.

He left the volume up on the TV, hoping the sounds of the wise-cracking gray bunny would mask his own, and rose. He had his shoes on, but he slipped them off one at a time and headed for the hallway. The bathroom door was at the end, past grandfather’s room, past his own room, and he made his way toward it in a crouch, casting furtive glances over his shoulder, like a mouse evading the ever-hungry house cat. As he went, he cradled the glass against his chest, so she wouldn’t see it if she happened to step into the living room to check on him. But the water sloshed and spilled, some onto his shirt, some onto his socks, and a few fat drops fell right in the middle of the hallway. He wiped up the drops with his heel and kept going. As he neared grandfather’s bedroom door, he gave it a wide berth.

“Billy!”

He nearly dropped the glass of water, and his socks slipped, but he caught himself before he fell. Grandfather sounded close, as if he were just on the other side of the door. Still, Billy almost kept walking, the pain in his wrist and tailbone an all-too-present reminder of what would happen if he got caught, but he couldn’t do it. He listened for a moment, heard the broom still sweeping the kitchen floor, then set the glass of water down and crept to the door.

“Grandpa,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

“No,” his grandfather said, sounding hoarse. “Billy, what is that you’ve got there beside you?”

Billy glanced down at the glass. How could grandfather know about that? Could he see it somehow? Maybe he had heard it, the soft clunk when Billy set it on the floor. “Just a glass of water. Gross water from the sink. Grandpa, are you getting worse? What’s happening?”

“Billy.” The door creaked, as if the old man leaned his weight against it. “You shouldn’t drink water from the faucet. Never ever.”

Billy felt a little shiver of fear. He glanced toward the living room and saw a shadow moving in the open archway into the kitchen. The sound of the broom had stilled. Billy gasped, stumbled away from grandfather’s bedroom door and raced down the hallway. Without looking back, he flung himself into the bathroom and kicked the door shut, slamming it so hard that the mirror above the bathroom sink rattled in its frame.

“Billy!” his Mother shouted, her voice echoing down the hallway. “Don’t you slam doors in this house! What are you doing?” He heard her feet pounding across the living room.

“Just using the bathroom, Mom,” he called. “Sorry, I had to go real bad.”

Feet thundered down the hall. “That is no excuse.” She stopped, made an annoyed grunt. “Oh, for crying out loud, you left your glass of water sitting right here on the floor. What is the matter with you?”

Billy swallowed hard, tasting something bitter in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I guess I did.” He stepped up to the bathroom door and leaned his shoulder against it. It was a purely symbolic gesture. He had no hope of stopping her if she wanted to force her way in. “I didn’t want to bring it in the bathroom with me. Sorry.”

She was quiet for a moment. Maybe crouching down, getting ready to make a bull charge toward the bathroom and smash down the door? He could see that. But no, she merely said, “I’m going back to the kitchen. When you get out, you drink this water. And no more slamming doors. Got it?” and retreated back down the hall.

“Got it, Mom,” he called after her.

He pressed his ear to the door and waited until he heard the whisking of the broom. Then he opened the bathroom door, peeked around the edge to make sure the hallway was clear, and stepped out. She had moved the glass, sliding it away from grandfather’s bedroom door and closer to the bathroom. Billy eased into the hallway, moving as quietly as possible, always listening for the sound of the broom. He stooped down and grabbed the water glass in passing, then started back to the living room, intent on immersing himself back into the world of the cartoon bunny, thereby avoiding trouble the rest of the day.

But that voice. Grandfather said his name again as he passed the bedroom door, and again Billy almost kept going. It would have been the smart thing to do, but his mother had never accused him of being smart. Billy stopped in his tracks and set the glass of water down beside him.

He listened for the broom, heard it, and leaned in close to the door. “Grandpa, I’m here.”

“Billy, I can’t take it anymore,” he replied, his voice quaking with either fear or sickness, or both. “I can’t stand being in this room. I’m going out of my mind.”

“I know,” Billy said. “What do I do?”

But his grandfather merely groaned. Billy heard the creak of bedsprings, the rustling of blankets, as if the old man were tossing and turning. Something fell from the nightstand and shattered on the floor.

“It’s not right,” Grandpa moaned. “I shouldn’t be treated this way. I fought in the war. It’s not right.”

“Grandpa, I would open the door and let you out, but Mom will smack me if I do.”

The pace of sweeping in the kitchen became more frantic. She had to be sweeping a spotless floor by now, but still she kept on with the broom, as if she meant to brush away the linoleum itself and work her way into the concrete foundation.

“I know she hits you,” Grandpa said. He got quiet for a moment, and the rustling of blankets stilled. Billy didn’t know what to say, so he reached for his glass, intending to leave, but then the old man spoke again. “If I was with you, I wouldn’t let her hit you like that. You tell her I said leave you alone.”

“O-okay.” He had no intention of saying any such thing. That was a recipe for getting killed.

But then he had an idea, brilliant and foolish. It would prove to be his downfall, sadly, but the moment he thought of it, it seemed perfect, the most perfect idea he’d ever had in his whole short life. Grandpa couldn’t come outside the bedroom to protect him, not as sick as he sounded, but what if Billy went in there with him? Up until then, his plan had always been to open the door just enough to see his grandfather and no more, but what if he actually went into the room? What if he even crossed to the far side? Mother might not go in after him. In fact, Billy had never seen her enter grandfather’s room, not once. Surely she wouldn’t hit him in front of the old man, not inside the room while he was lying in bed.

Could he catch whatever sickness his grandfather had? Perhaps. Was it worth the risk? He decided it was.

“Grandpa, I’m coming in there.”

“Well, now, I’m not sure you want to do that, kiddo,” Grandpa said.

“I do want to,” Billy replied. “I’m gonna open the door now, but you gotta keep Mom from hitting me.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Billy steeled himself, trying to work up the courage, as the broom continued its endless, mad rhythm. He turned the knob and pushed the door, wincing at the loud creak of the little-used hinges. A cold and almost violent swoosh of air surged into the hallway, and a dim and hazy light spilled through the opening. Billy took a deep breath and stepped into the bedroom.

It took time for his eyes to adjust to the strange light. The air seemed heavy with dust and had a rotten smell, like old, damp wood.

“Grandpa?”

The window was the first thing he noticed, a single pane of murky, yellow glass framed by ragged curtains so dirty their original color could not be discerned. From there, his gaze dropped to the hardwood floor, a floor so coated with dust it seemed to have sprouted some new form of translucent plant life. The dust was untouched, no footprints, no tracks, no evidence that it had ever been disturbed. As for furniture, Billy saw none. No bed, no nightstand, no lamp. The room was completely empty. In the far corner, a closet door stood ajar, the tiny space beyond filled only with gloom and shadows, nothing else. Nobody was in the room, and nobody, from the look of it, had ever been in the room.

Billy’s heart raced, and his breath came shallow and fast. How could this be? How could the room be empty?

“Grandfather?” His voice, barely a squeak, sounded vast in the empty shell of a bedroom.

Steeping further into the room, he looked behind the door, peered into the shadowy closet, tapped on the walls, but all of his efforts only succeeded in kicking up a vile cloud of dust that sent him into a fit of coughing. He coughed until his lungs burned, doubled-over, his hands pressed to his thighs.

When the coughing passed, he rose, opened his eyes, and found himself face-to-face with his mother. He gasped and stumbled away from her, kicking up more dust, but she made no move toward him. She had a slight frown on her fleshy face, but her eyebrows were raised, and her hands were clasped primly in front of her.

“Well?” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “You finally did it. Despite all of my warnings and all of my threats, you went into grandfather’s room. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

When Billy tried to speak, his voice broke, and he found himself close to tears. He paused to collect himself. “He sounded like he was in trouble, Mom. I only wanted to help him. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Same deadness of voice, but she chewed on the words for a moment then nodded and said, “Not half as sorry as you will be.”

“No, no, wait.” He held up his hands, expecting her to rush at him, but she didn’t move from the doorway. “Mom, where is he? Where is Grandpa?”

“He’s nowhere,” she replied, and did he detect a hint of laughter in her voice? “I tried to shield you from the truth, but you wanted in here so bad, now you get to hear it. You don’t have a grandfather. You never did. He doesn’t exist.”

“Lie,” Billy shouted, then choked on the word and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Still his mother did not come for him. She shook her head and sighed. “There was never a sick grandfather in here. Never. The only sick person in this house is you, Billy.” She tapped her forehead with one sausage-thick finger. “Sick right here.”

“No, that’s not true,” Billy said, tears clouding his vision. “I talked to him. I heard his voice. He’s real. Where is he?”

“You heard nothing,” she said. “You were talking to yourself. I coddled you, I tried to protect you, but now you’ve gone and messed it all up, haven’t you?”

“You’re lying,” Billy said, and this time he didn’t cover his mouth. Tears streamed down his face, and the whole room felt like it was spinning around him. “I know I heard him. Where is he? Where?”

“We’re going to have to fix this, Billy,” his mother said. The little spots of red had returned to her cheeks and forehead. “And the fixing won’t be pleasant, but you brought it on yourself by not listening to me.”

And now she did come for him. He tried to duck out of the way, but her arm lunged forward, quick as a striking snake, and her hand clamped down on his shoulder. He squirmed and almost slipped out of her grasp, but her other hand shot up and snagged his wrist.

“Don’t fight me, or this will be worse,” she said through clenched teeth.

But he did fight, thrashing wildly, until she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. He squealed in pain and slumped down in resignation. His insides felt all crumbled and broken, and, as she led him out of the room, he wept loudly.

“I didn’t want this for you,” she said. “I never wanted it to come to this. Like I said, I tried to shield you from it.”

His feet slipped out from under him, but she never slowed, now dragging him like dead weight down the hallway and into the living room. The cartoon bunny kept right on cracking wise and prancing, as Billy slid past the television and into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, the broom was propped against the table, and everything gleamed. The linoleum floor had a crystalline sheen, and light glistened like white fire on the countertops. Mother led Billy over to the sink. When she stopped, he was able to get his feet under him. He stood up, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“I know I have a grandfather,” he said. “I talked to him. I heard his voice.”

Mother grunted, gave him an appraising look, then pinned him against the edge of the sink with her forearm. “Your grandfather never existed,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Say it.”

“He did. He does.”

“Okay, fine,” she replied. “That’s how it’s going to be. I’m going to fix this the hard way, Billy. I should never have let it go on so long.”

He kicked her in the shin, but she didn’t react. With her free hand, she reached to the drawer beside the sink and drew it open. Silverware rattled.”

“Your grandfather never existed. Say it.”

“No.” He grabbed her forearm in both of his hands and pushed with all his might, but it was like trying to bend an iron bar.

“He never existed. Say it.” Her fingers fumbled around in the neat rows of spoons, forks and knives.

“He does exist!” Billy screamed at the top of his lungs.

Her hand came out of the drawer, clutching the black plastic handle of a serrated steak knife. Billy’s heart leapt in his chest. She turned the blade so that it caught the sunlight and shined in his eyes.

“I will fix this, Billy,” she said again. “So help me, I will fix it.” She raised the knife high over her head, the muscles in her forearm tightening, but her face remained emotionless, eyes like cold bits of marble. “You have one more chance to say it. Your grandfather does not exist, and he never did exist. Now, you say it. You say it right now!”

Billy thrashed and kicked, but she had him, her forearm like a vice against his ribs.

“Say it! He never--”

“You don’t exist,” Billy shrieked. “You don’t exist! You never existed!”

The blade of the knife flashed, and he tensed for the strike. But the light shuddered and, with a sudden loud pop, the blade burst into a million glittering fragments that sizzled like embers in a fire. He closed his eyes and turned away, expecting the fragments to land on his face and burn him. Instead, a tightness descended over his skull, as if Mother had wrapped her hands around his head and squeezed, and a cold mildew-tainted air settled over him.

Billy opened his eyes, and she was gone. Mother was gone. Utterly gone, as if she had sunk into the earth, and the ground had closed up behind her. More than that, a darkness had seeped into the room, darkness and dankness. Gone the shining linoleum floor, replaced with bare, black concrete. Gone the gleaming countertops and cupboards, replaced with moldy, broken wood frames. Gone the silver sink, in its place a rusted bowl full of filthy, yellow water. Two cracked glasses floated in the water like debris from a shipwreck. The walls in the kitchen had turned a dingy brown, the wallpaper peeled away to nothing. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and from exposed rafters. The table was gone, the broom gone, curtains over the window reduced to a few shreds of cloth dangling from a bent rod.

Billy examined the floor, heavy with dust, and noted one set of tracks only, heavy boots moving about the room. No sign of Mother’s slippered feet. No sign of anyone else. Only the boots. He was alarmed to find that the boots were his own. Heavy black boots with thick rubber soles.

“What--?” He started to ask a question but realized he had no one to ask.

He stumbled across the kitchen and found that his legs were weak and wobbly. He tried to brace himself on one of the rotting countertops, but it crumbled under his weight, taking a bit of the wall down with it. He kicked through the pile of splinters and damp sheetrock and made his way into the living room. It, too, had become a dark and dirty wreck. Cobwebs as thick as blankets filled the corners, and the television set was gone. As in the kitchen, dust coated the concrete floor, disturbed only by the tracks of his boots.

“Mom?” Did his voice sound wrong to him? It did. Deep, coarse, a man’s voice.

He grabbed his forehead and staggered toward the hallway. Again, darkness and dust, the shattered remnants of the attic door hanging from its hinges. Insulation spilled down from holes in the ceiling like the guts of a long-dead animal.

“Mom?” He said it louder this time, and the word echoed in the great rotting house, but he got no reply.

Then a glint of light, very faint, caught his eye. Something sitting in the middle of the hallway, a small object. It took a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. A drinking glass, small and dirty and chipped, filled with cloudy water. He reached for it, but bending over made his head hurt all the more, so he left the glass and kept going, heading for his bedroom. It was all he could think to do, retreat to his bedroom and collapse onto the bed and shut his eyes until everything made sense again.

“Bill?” A familiar voice, but it startled him. He stumbled backward, kicking over the glass and spilling water all over the concrete floor. And he could smell it. He could smell the water. Sour and rank as rotting vegetables.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned in the direction of grandfather’s room. The door was open. Actually, the door didn’t exist, nor the doorframe, only a jagged hole of crumbling timbers in the middle of a bare wall.

“Bill, is that you?” Movement on the far side of the room. He entered, stepping lightly over the pile of broken pieces that might once have been the door. Faint light seeped through a dirty window pane, but it was enough to see the shape on the floor, a body sprawled on its back.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

As he drew near, he saw that it was an old man, white beard and dark eyes, dressed in military fatigues, heavy boots on his feet. He was trying in vain to sit up, so Billy squatted down, despite the agony in his skull, and helped him. Did he know this face? He thought he did, but only when he said it did the reality of it sink it.

“Grandpa?”

The old man looked up at him and smiled. A line of cloudy drool ran out of the corner of his mouth and into his beard. “It’s the water,” he said. “They put something in the water.”

“The water, yes.” Billy glanced back at the empty glass, the dark puddle of foul water beside it. “I only had a sip.”

“No, not even a sip,” the old man said, reaching up and touching his face. “It messes with your mind. Don’t even touch it. Nothing from the tap, not even a drop. They poisoned it all. It’s in everything. Oh, I’ve been seeing things, terrible things, and hearing voices.”

Billy sat down next to the old man, leaning against him, waiting for the pain to abate. He wasn’t quite sure what the old man what talking about, but something told him he should. Something beneath the level of memory told him he knew quite well.

“We won the war, didn’t we?” Grandfather said. “Didn’t we win the war?”

“I…” War? Yes, Billy thought maybe he knew what that word meant. “I don’t know. Did we?”

“Yes,” the old man said, wiping the drool away with his sleeve. “But they got us back, oh yes they did. One last dirty trick.”

“Mom said…” Billy caught himself. No, there was no Mom here. His real mother was long gone. “My mind…I can’t…”

“You can’t remember anything,” the old man said. “Yes, it messes with your memories. It’s a nasty chemical. Don’t worry. It’ll all come back to you eventually.”

“Okay,” Billy said, uncertainly. Did he want it all to come back? He wasn’t sure. “Where are we?”

The old man glanced around and snorted. “You brought me here when I come down sick. Just an old abandoned house, I guess. You don’t remember where we are, where we’re going?”

Billy thought for a moment, but his only real memory was of the huge fleshy woman with the knife in her hand. “No, I can’t recall.”

“You’ve been going around this house for hours, ranting and raving. I told you not to drink the water. I told you.” Grandpa slid an arm around his shoulders and gave him an affectionate pat. “You’ll be okay. Give it time. It’ll all come back.”

“So…where are we going?”

“Why, we’re going home, of course.”

“Home.”

Billy took a deep breath, felt the pain in his skull abate, if only a little, and leaned his head back against the soft wood beneath the window. He felt like a ghost floating between two worlds, neither of them fully real, and only one thing certain, that his grandfather existed. Yes, he thought he would be okay in time. He returned the affectionate pat and closed his eyes to sleep.