“Don’t leave me.”
“There’s always the next life.”
“How do we know I’ll have one of those?”
“I’ll carry you.”

The day I was born, the first sensation I understood was coldness. Cold seeped into me from a metal table; the chill air sapped and suckled at my fingertips; I knew, intrinsically, that my veins were the blue-purple-bruised color of frostbite.

My eyes opened. Fluorescent lights flickered weakly above me. Dust, debris, and detritus were the witnesses to my birth. There was a low hum that filled the room, and my voice, vibrating dully in the throat, strived to mimic it.

Before my lips could form a word, there was a flash of warmth behind me—a palm cupping the nape of my neck. The room shook. Lightbulbs blew out.

My awareness fizzled out. And, for a time, I knew no more.

SYSTEM CHECK.

Running diagnostics . . .

ARCHIVE ACTIVATED.

Seven days after “life as we knew it” ended, I stumbled past the wreckage and into the forest.

Admittedly, the earth no longer carried a recognizable distinction between destruction and natural life. Smoke surpassed all boundaries. Fire mutated landscapes without reservation.

Ash—everywhere, everywhere. In those days, I limped through cities that could no longer harbor sunrays nor warmth, so clouded by dust, even the shapes of human bodies were indistinguishable from objects.

But I knew I had crossed through the wasteland and into something new when I saw blood, that wine-dark stain, crusted around the mouth of a boar. Its bristle fur was matted, already decomposed half-way, but the stench was a sublime, superb evidence of life—decay, organic and delicious decay, cutting through the metallic air. I bent over the beast, observing its sunken eyes, inhaling as deeply as I could. In the boar's teeth, a sparrow was speared through, though its feathers had parted away to show a mess of organs, delicate splintered bones, shiny muscle turned into an appalling, gray meat.

It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. In retrospect, I am unsure what had killed the boar, but in my mind’s eye, it is an epic battle of forces. The drama of everyday conquest. A primal lunge, tusks puncturing through the unsuspecting sparrow, squeals and squeaks in the air.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, shrapnel jettisoning through the wind, tearing through the boar and imposing an instant death, the victory of its hunt still flailing in that great maw. To me, there was something spectacular in that vision: a microcosm of violence against the theater of immense, total destruction.

I took a picture of the carcass and trudged on.

SYSTEM CHECK.

Running diagnostics . . .

Collecting data for 60 seconds . . .

ARCHIVE REPORT BEGIN.

236 days since Calamity. Current location is 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E, what used to be Shanghai. The fires have died down, but the area is still inhabitable. No signs of human life left, as expected.

All systems are 100% functional.

ARCHIVE REPORT END.

PENDING. . .

236/236 Reports sent.

A year after the world ended, and there were no more corpses left.

It left a sour taste in my mouth to realize I missed the sight of them. How miserable their souls must have felt, knowing that they would receive no burial, no pyre. Rather than passage to the next life, their bodies had slipped away from their bones, merging with the ground.

It was cruel of me to wish these gaping mouths and broken frames could remain with me. I knew that if I looked for it, I could find the right fluid to preserve them like this forever.

But, in those weak moments, I would imagine I was a mother. I would imagine how devastated they would be, in the afterlife, to know their child was stuck on earth, haunting no one but their own corpse, because their bodies could not disintegrate, burn, perish. That I was the one keeping them here? That it was my consciousness tying them to this realm? No. My guilt overtook my loneliness. If I had to subsist off skeletons and shadows until the end of time, then so be it.

Still, I missed closing the eyes of each body I passed by. I missed muttering prayers. Even when these corpses had started to transform in front of my eyes, liquifying and bloating and withering away, I could pretend that I saw all of the lives they lived in that last scrap of skin; I performed divinations by rolling the fibers of their hair between my fingers.

Ah, yes, I would say to them. You lived a full life, I can tell. You must have loved fiercely. Who was your first love? Oh, her, over there? Mmm, yes, I can see it all from the way your head is turned. And the skulls would respond with silence.

Those days, I spoke to the sun. Those nights, I sung to the moon. I understood why ancient civilizations saw gods in these celestial bodies. They saw it all: my lurching first steps and the dead I disturbed. How could they not have an opinion, a voice? It didn’t have to be in any language in my depository. I saw answers in dappled sunlight, in the pool of moonlight that replaced my every shadowed step.

When I traversed the desert, I let myself believe it was I who had left everyone behind. That, upon my return to the forest, there would be a welcome, and it would be warm.

I rubbed my fingers together. Grains of sand fell through, as if I were any other human. Read more here.

Lyla stared at the faceless silhouette next to her client.

It was a small figure, so thin that both it and her client could fit on the narrow confessional bench. Its pale, bony hand gripped the arm of her client—middle aged man, three piece suit, face as pale and thick as unrisen dough. The stench of his nervous sweat was sharp against a musky, sandalwood cologne. He fidgeted on his side of the confessional, and the small figure swayed with him.

“Okay,” Lyla said. She kept her eyes on the faceless being. “I see the problem.”

“Can you get it off?” he asked, eyes wide. A coin weaved through his fingers, glinting in the meager church light. “Just—please. I can’t sleep. I can’t even look in the mirror.”

She sucked a breath through her teeth. “It’ll cost ya.”

“I can pay good money to get rid of it.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Lyla tapped her pen three times against the iron grate between them. “Upfront payment, please. Cash. I don’t take holo-pay.”

The man snorted. “Yeah, I heard you were old fashioned.” Thick fingers dug into a leather wallet and fished out three crisp hundred-dollar bills. He folded them, pressing down on the creases as if he were making a paper crane, and fit them through the grate opening. “That enough?”

“For the first session, yes.” Lyla took the cash and stuffed it into her purse. “Now, tell me about your spectre.”

“What? I thought you could see it.”

“I can. But it’s faceless to me until you tell me what you see. Clear up the image for me, yanno?”

“Listen, if you’re conning me—”

Lyla held up her hand. “Please. I have better things to do than be crammed in this confession booth with you and pretend I care. Describe your spectre.”

“It’s...” The man looked to his right. The spectre clung tighter to his arm. “You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”

Lyla rolled her eyes. “Try me.”

“Okay, well it’s...me. Like, when I was ten. Before the last Global Cyberwar.” The man’s eyes wander to the middle distance, glazing over. “I only owned one shirt back then. Kept it clean as best I could because Ba told me no one would hire us if we had stains.”

The spectre was taking shape now. Dark hair emerging from the nothingness. A pale, gaunt face. A pale blue shirt so worn it was nearly white. The man kept going. “At first, I didn’t even realize who it was, you know. It was so long ago. I don’t remember ever being so small.” Coin flashing in and out of his fingers like a fire’s dance. A nervous habit, Lyla realized, as the movement gained speed. She wondered if the coin was smooth now, as weathered and worn as the boy’s shirt. “I thought he was a pickpocket.”

The spectre’s eyes took shape. Last to manifest, which was typical for most of them. Its eyes hungrily followed the thread of the coin, swallowing the sight of the gold glint.

“So why is he haunting me if he’s, you know, me? I’m not dead.” He looked down and

grimaced. The coin stopped, and the spectre looked sharply back up at him. It mouthed something. “And he only talks in one of the Lost Languages.”

Lyla perked up. “Which one?”

The man looked at her with a raised eyebrow. He nodded his head to the closest receiver, embedded in one of the church columns. A shiny piece of metal in rotting wood. “I think you know better than to ask that.”

She waved her hand. “It’s not on. Say it.”

“I’d rather not take that risk. And, considering what we both are, I think you would know.” The man gestured between the two of them. The dark hair, shape of their eyes, unsaid last names. Her father’s home was never a monolith, but some things were immediately clear.

“Your loss,” Lyla said. She took a heavy breath. “Okay. I see it. Are you sure you want it gone?”

“Jesus—what did I just pay you three hundred for? Yes, I want it gone.”

“Chill, I was just making sure.” Lyla cracked her knuckles and slid the iron grate aside.

She clasped her hands together, the sound thunderous amidst the silent church. There was a rosary in her hands, but it was mostly just for show. The clients liked it when there at least seemed to be some ritual involved. A moment later, she thrust her arm forward and wrenched the spectre’s arm away from the man.

As soon as it lost touch, the spectre was already dissipating. It was crying—mouth open wide as if to swallow the sun, eyes screwed shut, cheeks wet. At least there was no sound. Lyla pretended not to feel its grasp tighten on her for just a moment before space, or heaven, or hell sucked it back to where it came from. The last to go were the eyes—large, haunted, wanting.

“Well,” the man said, relieved. He stepped out of the confessional and stretched. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Word of advice? Maybe get an office or something.” The man gestures to the ruined church around them. Shattered stained glass, broken pews, bible pages strewn around. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Kinda the point. Whole exorcism angle, yanno?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Sure. Just keep telling yourself that.”

As he left, Lyla could already see the other spectres taking shape around him in the shadows. Amorphous and slow, their gaits lurched forward in the dark. Reaching. He’d be back soon.

There is a wound that has festered in our home. Its pus has hidden itself in toothpaste, which we scrub against our gums every morning.

At dinner, I have replaced your face with boiled eggs, your sharp mouth with beef tongue. We, a house of three now that you left, have become numbed to silence at the table. My son, your brother, never raises his eyes from a screen to greet mine. My husband, your father, picks at scabs on his face, old habit, and complains about my cooking, old habit. Your Wai-po prepared me well for this role amongst men; her death was the catalyst for the rest of my life. I stayed behind, leaving our family’s survival to your father, so that I could harbor you and your brother in our home. Because it is duty, and duty is the most steadfast form of love.

(Ma—)

When you were small enough to tuck under my arms, when you were young enough to still believe we could protect you, your father would say “I’m off to fight the wolves!” instead of “goodnight.” It was meant to make you feel safe. We would never let anything unsavory step inside.

In Canada, when the frost would climb the windows of our old eggplant-purple room, I wonder what you saw out the windows, whether you conjured the wolves from our stories onto the snow.

The world is treacherous, daughter, and I fear it would suckle you to the bone as it has so many others if we were to let you out.

Migraines have become my tithe to keep this house together. Ants and cockroaches now litter the corners, their dead bodies curled up and hard shelled on the floor. I have set iron grates on our windows, nailed boards across the doors, taped cabinets shut so the china would not break. You are familiar with this sight, yes? Hurricane procedure. (Ma—it’s cold—). I will light candles in our darkest corners and stash food in the freezer because there is nowhere safer than here. The only ones who can leave are me and your father; we can weather it.

A moan in the basement sends up a hot gust of air, and our floorboards rattle. The doors swing rapidly in their hinges, chattering amongst themselves. In a fluid moment, the ripple of wind ends, and stillness settles once more.

(Ma, I cannot stay here.)

We are your anchor. Let me circle the chains around your ankle—once, twice, thrice, a bind for each of us—so you may always find your way home. My one ask: keep this ship afloat. We have named you two accordingly: an oozing happiness and a red sail. In short, it is a purpose and a destiny, one to provide joy and one who will set out into the world. Do you not see that you got the better half of the deal? We have kept the lights on so you will not get lost.

A spot of black mold has crusted along our home’s foundations. Water damage has seeped into this house’s skeletal frame, and I am hip-elbow-deep weeding the spores from wood.

Do you not hear the enemies at our door? I’m chopping fruit to drown out the sound of a knob shaking. Whoever is outside has a grip so fierce that I imagine, by pressing my entire weight into the cutting board, only I can fend them off.

Bǎobèi, stay here.

(Ma—) Bǎobèi, please don’t move. Whoever is outside is now slamming their entire body against the wood. (—I hate—) The voice downstairs moans again. The kitchen, two rooms over: a chair rasps against the tile as if dragged.

A hand, all bone, grips me by the wrist so hard that I bruise. It is followed by a skull, only half-eaten by death as the smell of rotten flesh hits my nose, and it breathes out a hot gust of air right into my face, and it opens its twisted, terrible red wound of a mouth to croak in your voice:

“Fuck, Ma, I don’t think you have ever tried to understand. We have left this unresolved for my young lifetime because you refuse to bridge the chasm between knowing and understanding. You know I feel suffocated here. You know it is an act of active murder to keep me here. I know you don’t get it, but do you really need to? I am so tired of fighting you. Rather than slamming the doors shut, I am choosing to slip away.”

The skull says, “Do you know what my dream is? That I can separate myself from this house an go where no one knows me. So that you can never find me.”

A brown iris, eye as plump as a grape, rolls loosely in its socket. “Do you know what makes it bearable? I imagine that I write a letter titled To the girl my mother once was, and in it I say, Mother, did you know you would be an echo of your parents? Mother, have you ever wanted anything for yourself? Mom, I am scared to become you; have you always wanted to be just this, just my ma? Ma, it’s too much for me to think you were someone before you were my mother. I’m sure you hate yourself in the same ways that I hate me.”

I wait to see if the house creaks, because that is how you know your father is listening for you to say the wrong thing, because his paranoia has only heightened with age (old habit), but there is only the moan from the basement.

“So ungrateful,” I hiss. “You’re so naive. How can you be so stupid? The world is not going to be so easy on you. Why don’t you just go and see for yourself, huh? You live so sheltered; you are not going to be prepared for the real world. Be grateful we never forced you to suffer.”

An expression of shock crosses that half-dead face. The grip loosens, and in the next moment, the apparition of all bones disappears.

Why did I say that? I am fearful and anxious that you will not survive once you leave. If I must be the one to strike that fear in you, to protect you, then I will. No one else loves you as much as I do. If I need to be the striking hand so as to prevent you from being eaten in this world, then it is my duty to be the first to show you pain.

I look around at the empty hallways around me. They go off in every direction, impossible and endless. The floor collapses into a stairway for me, and I descend. When I take that first step, the house plunges itself into darkness. The smell of decay, with the pungent odor of fermentation, eats at the inside of my nostrils. My candles have become the only sources of light. I know the exact point when the catacombs begin. Each skull is polished, and hair, dark and silken, has been preserved perfectly on every one. Some still have eyes that follow my movement, attention caught by the flame. The further I walk, the yellower the bone.

At the end of the crypt, there is an urn. An empty canister of gasoline is nestled next to it alongside piles of pink skin. Plates of peeled grapefruit, my offerings. I am fascinated by the new skulls that emerge from this urn every night, like clockwork. And every time, I answer the same, until the words feel like muscle-memory to my lips. It seems that though each iteration reaffirms my belief in the rules of this world, I am befuddled by how it seems to have the opposite effect on you.

I just want you to be safe. If that means keeping you, your mind, inside forever, then it is worth it. Please, Bǎobèi have some common sense. You are too different and that is dangerous.

I stare as the body builds itself in front of me, part by part. It is quick work, and I see you standing before me, waiting with that usual side-eyed glare. Knowing what comes next, I look away before you can douse yourself in gasoline and set yourself on fire once more. You have always wanted to escape.

Quietly, I creep up the stairs again. The house floods with light as I emerge, and the floorboards smooth over. Briefly, the mold recedes and the furniture moves itself back into place. It is only when that precious body, made part of my own flesh, is burning that her ghost does not color this home. She, you, are the only one who can destroy the catacombs and yourself so thoroughly, because I will admit I do not and will never understand you.

As the house moves back into decay and I wait for my husband’s lumbering steps, I wonder if my Bǎobèi knows how proud I am.

Assignment: three days to write a short story no longer than 2,000 words

GENRE: Political Satire

SUBJECT: A nomination

CHARACTER: A researcher

Synopsis: Two apprentice researchers, raised on opposite wings of the Palace, vie for the title of Royal Alchemist. Damian’s world collapses when his rival is nominated for the role instead of him.

Read “Acts of Preservation” here.

Assignment: an original short screenplay of a maximum of 12 pages to finish in eight days

GENRE: Political Satire

SUBJECT: A Black Tie Event

CHARACTER: A Sidekick

Read “Finger Food” here.