Issue #3 May 2024

The Midnight Curse of the Full Moon

By Margaret Speck Ogawa

Aiko surfaced in the choppy, cerulean water and released a long, slow whistle as she expelled the remaining air from her lungs. Her wooden bucket bobbed nearby. In the gray sky, vaporous layers of cloud screened any hint of a lurking sun. The seventeen-year-old girl added a handful of oysters to her morning’s catch of sea cucumber, seaweed, and sea urchin. Before she’d submerged into the water hours earlier, she had asked the gods for protection and guidance on her hunt. A lone abalone, a revered culinary delicacy, was her reward for rising before dawn and venturing further than usual. 

She recalled her mother’s face, lit with excitement, earlier that year, when Mama had sprung from the seawater with an abalone displayed in each hand. It had been three months since Mama’s disappearance. Aiko’s pain was like the sharp edge of an oyster shell scraped against her heart. 

Mama had trained her to free dive beginning as a young girl. They descended from a long line of ama—female free divers who held their breath for periods of up to several minutes while sinking to the ocean floor to gather shellfish, sponge, and seaweed. 

Aiko took her catch ashore and stopped at the simple shrine her family had constructed. She wanted to thank the gods for her safe return. She released her long black hair from a headscarf that secured it during her dives. After bartering in the village, she would eat and rest and then continue her search for any clue of Mama. If only she had jumped out of bed that night of the big full moon and asked Mama where she was going and why she was taking her bucket. Mama had only explained she would be back within a few hours. 

Aiko clung to the hope that Mama still lived. She had already lost Papa to the sea. Like Mama, he had disappeared—vanished without a trace. Nothing was ever found of him, not even the gear he had taken late that night when he set out to hunt squid. Alone. Guided by the light of a full moon.

The old folk talked of legends and lore and of ghost monsters and spirits. Their voices dropped to whispers when they discussed the midnight curse of the full moon: when evil spirits inhabited sea creatures and transformed them into ravenous, murderous monsters that returned to their natural state only at the first light of dawn. Most of the villagers avoided the sea late at night, but Papa had scoffed at the old folks’ nonsense.

~*~*~*~

The sky wore tepid blue when Aiko woke from her nap on the shore. She had fallen asleep after consuming a meal of rice cakes and tea and had dreamt of diving with Mama. Her mother had led her to a sea cave on a tiny nearby island. In the cave, they had climbed onto a ledge and discovered dozens of lustrous pearls scattered about.

Her recent dream pulled at her as she stood and prayed before the shrine. Aiko entered the water and swam as if drawn by a magnet to one of the nearby islands. As she approached the uninhabited island, she saw an opening to a cave and swam through its mouth. It was unexpectedly big inside.

Aiko attempted to hoist herself up onto a ledge that jutted above the water, but slipped and fell back. As she treaded water, she looked down into blackness. A chill snaked through her. She thought of eels and sharks and … giant squids. Her limbs felt like dangling bait. Something brushed her leg, and Aiko’s adrenaline soared. Summoning her strength, she jerked her body out of the water, grabbed the ledge, and hauled herself up.

Her relief evaporated as she noticed an object on the ledge several feet away: her mother’s fishing bucket. Was she still dreaming? She felt light headed as she approached the bucket. 

Aiko gasped. The bucket held a handful of glistening pearls. 

Shocked and confused, Aiko tentatively plucked one of the gleaming gems and placed it in her palm. Why were these pearls in Mama’s bucket? Where had they come from? And where was Mama? 

A sultry breeze swirled around Aiko wrapping her in warmth. It stroked her hair and carried the faintest bouquet of ginger. Mama’s scent. Bewildered, Aiko felt the breeze leave her and watched it hover over the black water. Suddenly, the water turned clear and glassy. And then an amazed Aiko saw hundreds, maybe even thousands, of extraordinarily large oysters in seabeds below.

A deep sadness and horror filled her. She understood now. Mama must have come here for pearls that night. The nine pearls in the bucket indicated hours spent gathering and opening oysters. Mama still must have been in the water at midnight—under a full moon.

The breeze gently tugged on Aiko’s arm. With the pearls secured in a pouch attached to her loincloth she entered the water, with Mama’s bucket, and headed back to shore.

Back at her humble family dwelling, Aiko greeted her grandmother and made sure Grannie was comfortable in her bed before she deposited the pearls into a cloth bag that already held five more.

She and her mother had saved the pearls to give to the provincial governor once they had amassed a greater number. Her father had left the family with unpaid taxes due. They would be forced from their home if they did not meet the governor’s payment demand. After Papa’s disappearance, Mama had visited the governor to beg for mercy and an extension. She returned home the next morning, bruised and limping with dried blood on her legs. Her request had been denied.

Aiko considered the pearls in the bag. Surely, this was enough to pay off her family’s debt. Tomorrow she would take these to the provisional governor myself.

Unknown to Aiko,shortly before she vanished, Mama had heard some elderly villagers speak of the governor’s deep lust for oyster meat. They said he believed it invigorated him and made him virile. He had a private seabed, in a cave, where he grew a different variety of oysters than those indigenous to the area. Silver-lipped. Some as large as a foot across. Mama had asked the location of the cave and was warned that a giant squid was known to have settled deep below the cave’s entrance. The governor supposedly fed it body parts to keep the squid near his cache. This must be the cave her husband had mentioned when he brought a pearl home to her days before he disappeared. If he could go back and find more pearls like this one, he had told her, they would have enough to pay their taxes and then some. He had planned to go back that last night.  

~*~*~*~

“Girl, you have succeeded where your unworthy parents failed,” the governor said, as he sifted through the pearls Aiko had presented. “But your payment is short. My daughter, Hana, will soon wed. Bring me another thirty pearls to adorn her wedding garments.”

Just then, Hana walked in. She cast a snide glance at Aiko. When she lifted her delicate right hand, a pearl ring gleamed on her slender fourth finger—a gift from her father purchased abroad. She studied Aiko.

“Father, is this the ama who is going to provide my pearls? Surely, you don’t think she is capable of such an important task?”

The governor addressed Aiko. “You have a fortnight, no more. Or not only will you lose your little shack, I will feed your grandmother to my squid.”

Hana lifted her chin and looked triumphantly at Aiko.

~*~*~*~

Three days. That’s all she had left. Since leaving the governor’s home with the demand for an additional thirty pearls, she had only managed to find eleven. She would have to return to the strange sea cave with the oddly large oysters. She brushed away the thought that the oysters might belong to someone or something. She had no choice.

Tonight the moon would be full and provide enough light for her to swim to the island and locate the cave but not so much light that her trespassing would be noticed. She hoped.

When she arrived at the cave, Aiko despaired as she studied the black water. How will I find oysters in this darkness?

She must return to shore before midnight. She had also listened to the villager elders and, unlike Papa, she believed in spirits and twists of nature. 

A warm ginger-scented breeze floated into the cave and hovered above her. The water cleared, and she could see the oyster beds. She worked quickly. Back and forth between the water and the ledge, she pulled the bucket up by a rope that wound around her waist. With her freshly sharpened hunting knife, she deftly opened the oysters and checked for pearls. Hours passed. Despite bleeding fingers from the sharp oyster shells, she claimed seventeen pearls—two more to find. She hurried into the water. The harvesting, hauling and shucking had taken longer than she had anticipated. It was almost midnight. 

Something slowly passed over her in the water. Aiko’s stomach curdled. She remained below the surface until almost faint. She rose and discovered a small, flat-bottomed rowboat. Inside the boat sat two women, Hana and what looked like a lady-in-waiting, who also served as an oarsman. 

“I knew you would sink to stealing from my family,” Hana said. “You lack the skill to procure thirty pearls on your own.”

Aiko climbed out of the water, retrieved her full bucket and began to shuck then search the oysters with her fingers. 

The warm breeze caressed her as she worked. 

“Give me the pearls you’ve stolen. I demand them in my father’s name.”

The breeze stroked Aiko’s cheek then pressed on her shoulders holding her in place.

Hana stood. “Give them to me, or I will take them from you. And you will be severely punished by my father.”

Aiko struggled to stand but was held fast by the breeze. She continued to shuck.

The next oyster contained a glorious pearl. 

“That belongs to me,” Hana snapped.

Two oysters later, Aiko’s fingers uncovered the last required pearl.

“I’ll take what is mine.” Still standing, Hana indicated for her lady-in-waiting to row toward the ledge. 

Cautiously, her attendant dipped the oars into the water careful not to sway the boat.

The breeze left Aiko and encircled Hana. It swirled around her, faster and faster then shoved her forward. She tumbled into the water.

Hana coughed and sputtered. She reached for the oar her attendant had quickly extended. Without warning, the water filled with hissing bubbles. Hana screamed. Her body jerked violently in all directions. The boat, too, trembled and shook.

Oysters.

The oysters had risen from their beds and now chomped at Hana and the boat and the oars—voracious bites, hundreds, thousands of voracious bites. 

The lady-in-waiting dropped the oar. Sounds of terror erupted from her mouth over and over until the oysters had bitten through the boat and had consumed enough of her that she was no longer able to scream. By then, there was nothing left of Hana. And soon the boat had disappeared.

The warm breeze pushed Aiko further back on the ledge. Thousands of oysters snapped and gnashed hungry for more flesh. Hastily, Aiko secured the pearls in her pouch, raised her bucket like a weapon and prepared to defend herself against an onslaught of ravenous mollusks. 

An oyster breached the ledge and skipped toward her. The breeze tossed it back into the water. Another three approached, and again, the breeze sent them off. Suddenly there were a dozen of them heading for Aiko. The breeze lifted them into the air, spun them around and dashed them against a wall on the opposite side of the cave where their shells splintered and their meat splattered in gelatinous globs.

Eyes wide, Aiko clutched her bucket and prayed for the gods to allow her to return safely to shore or to at least help Mama battle the oysters. 

In another minute, as the ledge filled with the clamoring mollusks, an enormous squid exploded from the water and landed on the ledge, its deep red mantle mere feet from Aiko. Before she could scream, the squid imprisoned Aiko in its arms and sank back into the water.

Aiko had gulped a deep breath before the cephalopod plunged. She struggled to free her body and pounded her fists on the squid’s imprisoning arms, but it only tightened its hold pressing her closer to its three pounding hearts.

Her knife. She freed it from her belt and stabbed; the blade penetrated the squid’s skin but halted at its protective internal shell. With both hands she desperately wiggled the knife, cracked open the shell and continued to twist and yank the blade back and forth, mutilating the hearts until the pulsing stopped, the squid’s arms relaxed, and Aiko broke free.

~*~*~*~

She collapsed on the shore near the shrine. The warm breeze, with its essence of ginger, hovered. When she could, on shaky legs, she thanked the gods and trudged home.

~*~*~*~

The provincial governor preferred to breakfast alone, undisturbed. He hoped the village girl would come through with the thirty pearls for his beloved daughter’s wedding garments. It was more than needed, but he wished to exercise his power over the girl. He’d already had her mother. He expected he’d soon have the girl, too.

A platter of oysters and a shucking knife awaited.

He selected the first oyster, forced open the shell, and slurped the creamy meat. There was nothing so satisfying on his tongue or invigorating for his body. As he chewed, he felt his vigor and libido increase. 

Yes, he would have that girl after she had handed over the pearls. 

His oysters were so fresh. Every morning, just after dawn, a member of his kitchen staff rowed to his private oyster bed and returned with oysters gathered from the sea. He shucked them himself for maximum freshness.

He opened and slurped another noting its light briny flavor.

The third oyster, he found surprisingly difficult to open—as though the oyster was reluctant to give up the treasure within. He forced the knife into the oyster and savagely sawed it apart.

The governor sucked in his breath and struggled to take in more air. Sweat dampened his face and his bowels twisted. He clawed at his chest and slumped. 

A kitchen servant found him. When the servant approached and saw the governor’s plate, he dropped a scalding pot of tea onto the man. It didn’t matter. The provincial governor was dead. Despite his self-proclaimed virility, he had suffered a massive heart attack and was gone. 

And the plate? It held the stubborn oyster bearing a pearl ring that encircled Hana’s pale, slender finger.

What’s in a Name

A Short Story By Jos Joseph

The first time I learned what my first name was, was on my first day of school. The teacher at St Anthony Catholic School in Passaic, NJ was teaching us how to raise our hands and say “here” when she called our names. When she said Joslin, I stared. When she insisted I raise my hand when she said Joslin, I argued with her. My name was JoJo. JoJo Joseph. I didn’t realize that Sister Mary, the principal, was sneaking up behind me with her yardstick.

My first day of school I got spanked with a yardstick and had to sit in the corner. I watched as kids played with the CHiPs helicopter. The teacher came over and asked if I rejoin the class, I just had to answer to Joslin. I said no. It wasn’t until my mom came did people figure out that no one had every called me Joslin before.  My mom, Sister Mary, and the teacher laughed about it. My ass wasn’t laughing.

What’s in a name?

In 4th grade, we moved. We moved into a nicer house, but that meant changing from Catholic school to School 16 in Clifton, NJ. The kids weren’t as nice (I figured because they didn’t get whopped with a yardstick). My name went from Joslin to Jacquelyn fast.  I told people to call me JoJo, but the teacher insisted that nicknames had no place at school.  Joslin (or Jacquelyn) it was.

What’s in a name?

I asked my mom why I had that name and not dad’s. Xavier was a cool name. Joslin was not.  She said she lived in Germany close to the French border before she came to America. She heard the name and liked it. I asked her what it meant, but she didn’t know.

What’s in a name?

One of the worst things that can happen to a 7th grader happened to me.  A girl transferred into school.  Her name was Jocelyn Hernandez. Jocelyn sits behind me and asks very innocently (but loud enough for the class to hear) why I had a girls name.

What’s in a name?

I grilled my mom and dad on why they gave me a girls name. My mom insisted that it wasn’t. My dad said it wasn’t a big deal. Of course, it wasn’t to him. He was Xavier.  When your name starts with X, that is cool as hell. I asked to change my name and got laughed out of the kitchen.

What’s in a name?

My father grilled me about the bruise. I usually did a good job of avoiding face punches when I got into fights. But the kid caught me.  Sometimes I won. Most times I lost, but I always stood up for myself.  My dad asked if someone had been racist again. I told him the kid made fun of my name.  The truth was the kid was racist and made fun of my name. But it is easier to change your name than your skin color so I figured I could leverage that with my dad. It didn’t work. He told me I had to be tougher mentally to survive in life.

What’s in a name?

A bit of good luck in high school. The marching band director with his Archie Bunker malapropisms butchers Joslin and I become Joshi or Josh. That gives me a nice respite, at least with people who have no intention of picking on me.

What’s in a name?

Several kids in the marching band have every intention of picking on me. I find out later, that my skin color messes with the uniformity of the band. So, I get subjected to a lot of racial vitriol.  One kid though focuses on my name. He associates my name with not just being feminine but being “gay”.  I spend the next year being asked why I have a “gay” name.  I hate to say it bothers me…. A lot.

What’s in a name?

I get into hockey. The Rangers are good. The Devils are better to my chagrin. But I love the sport and start learning player names.  That is when I get thrown a massive curveball. There are two hockey players named Jocelyn. There is Jocelyn Lemieux from the Devils. Then there is Jocelyn Thibault from the Quebec Nordiques.  Hockey players are tough. And these guys are French-Canadian. Maybe my mom was right.  I need to investigate.

What’s in name?

I ask the librarian at the Clifton Public Library where the book on baby names is.  This gets a curious look as usually a 15-year-old boy is the last person to ask for a baby name book. But she helps me, and I start looking to see the meaning of my name. Maybe these hockey players names and mine mean something cool. The book we find doesn’t have Jocelyn in the boys part. I sigh and turn to the girls section. It is there. The meaning….  “Lighthearted and gay”

I slam the book shut and push it away.

What’s in a name?

By the time I get to college, I am either desensitized or more mature. I introduce myself to people and everyone in Columbus, Ohio responds with “Aint that a girl’s name?” I respond, “eh”. It’s the best I can do.

What’s in a name?

Being in Ohio, I get exposed to country music. “A Boy Named Sue” is the most I will ever relate to a song.

What’s in a name?

The girl I am dating says she likes the name. JoJo is a boys name. Joslin is unique. I should embrace it. I don’t but feel better that someone appreciated the name.

What’s in a name?

I join the Marines and find bliss (when it comes to my name). You see, no one goes by their first name in the military. So, I spent the next 4 years as Joseph. Its great. Best years of my life. It makes the senior enlisted mad, but I am in heaven. (because of my name, not the actual military stuff)

What’s in a name?

I get out of the military and my wife tells me to make a profile on this site called LinkedIn.  I flirt with making a big change. JoJo is childish, even though I love the name. Maybe Josh or Jos. I run the idea by her. She said no, you have to use your real name. I don’t question why.

What’s in a name?

My wife tells me about a movie called The Namesake. Its based off a book about an Indian kid who grows up in New Jersey with a terrible name. I have never related more to a movie.

What’s in a name?

After years of being single, I try dating apps. Over and over, I get women asking if that is my real name. One asks if my parents were drunk when they named me.

What’s in a name?

During a frustrating job search, I reach out to friends for advice on my resume and LinkedIn profile. A few suggest changing my name to seem less feminine. I begrudgingly do that still believing my exes thoughts on using your real name.  I settle on Jos.  I end up getting 50 job interview requests in a month.

What’s in a name?

I only go by Jos now. Its nice. I should have done it years ago. Life is good (when it comes to my name).

What’s in a name?

I look into purchasing tickets for the 2024 Paris Olympics. I have been to France before but want to do a longer trip this time. I scour Google Maps on places to visit. Then I see it. Josselin. There is a Josselin, France and in the middle of it, is a castle. Josselin Castle. I have a castle named after me. It is owned by Josselin, the Duke of Rohan (like Lord of the Rings).

I do a deep dive on the internet. It turns out that people back in the day would just make up name meanings. And some idiot decided that Joslin meant lighthearted and gay and put it in a book.

Joslin (and its derivatives) means “from the Goths”. Like the Gothic tribes. Like the bad ass dudes that fought the Romans. It is a unisex name. The whole time, I grunt like Sally Field in Mrs. Doubtfire. 

I feel happy and sad, vindicated but vengeful, proud but ashamed, and content but curious. I decide Brittany, France where Josselin is located will be the place I explore if I head to the Olympics. After all, I need to find out what’s in a name.

The Broken Hearted Journal

A Poem By Michele Alouf

At last, the broken-hearted journal cracks open.

Her tender spine clings to brittle threads and whispered words,

Buried deep under the Pharisees’ dead bones,

Under crushed, hindered grass that never grows back,

Under the unfilled pool and rusted swings.

Unearthed pages squint and sprout weedy words

That bloom deceptive treasures of amber sea glass and collected shells,

Over shattered beer bottles and moaning homes.

Pressed flowers tucked inside

Crumble to the touch with no recollection of beauty

Or deep swallows of warm air.

An Untitled Poem

By Us

Aardvark bears carrot-digging eggplants

—————-for Gus’s hibernation.

Ink jeopardized kangaroos’ listening.

Meanwhile, narcissistic opossums polluted quarries.

———————————-Right?

Suddenly, the utopian vultures wowed

xenomorph yuppies, ziplining.

Sow

By Jaclyn Rose Bernstein

Lean against the stone
Give it your full weight, so
it can speak back to you
Listen– there is
nothing more to say
Let it tell you about the woods,
about being left behind


Take your first step, again
The arrows will guide you
Risk not believing
Risk where you are
Risk it all, because
it’s all you’ve got left


The Red Road calls,
so pack light, and carry only what you need
But know, there is no guarantee that any promises will be kept


In fact, you may never come back
You may become thirsty
You may even starve,
You may float towards a shore of your own undoing


Brought here, by none other than yourself
So check what hangs around your neck
What clings to your wrist
Remind yourself, you are on the road to santiago
……………in this house
……………in this place
……………in this conversation


So take the letter you wrote and burn it at the campfire on the cliff
This is the giveaway – your most sacred object.


It may be pain, or a wing,
but let it go up in smoke amongst the arriving people before you

Doom or Bloom

by Jonathan G. Chew & Mandy D. Chew

Mother always told me to go above and beyond. I just never thought it would be for beings who actually lived above and beyond. Thirteen hundred light years to be exact.

Mother would say, “Just smile today, and your problems will straighten themselves away.” Being a dentist, she likely wanted to emphasize the power of decent braces. Little did she know her daughter was applying her pearly-white proverbs to a future career in politics.

I look around the Oval Office, the scent of paper and rich wood steeped in history swirling about in the perfectly conditioned air. “Could you repeat that, Oliver?” I say, jiggling my pinky in my ear to check for any ear wax.

“Madam President, we have initiated first contact protocols with the aliens.” Oliver is the first AI to be elected Vice President and also involved in politics, so it’s no surprise he speaks without emotion. “But the aliens are insisting to stay only in The White House.”

“And…what’s wrong with their suite at The Four Seasons?” Sleepless nights. Weeks of planning. Humanity’s first contact. It’s all going down the drain faster than approval ratings during a recession.

Oliver checks the data on a nearby cyber slab. “The male alien, Xorlof, said the suite is not where the terrestrial commander consumes nuanced nutrition. The female alien, Zarga, said she has an affinity for neoclassical architecture.”

I rub my temples as if hoping to somehow massage away the headache brewing behind them. “We’ll need to push back the meeting with Georgia on the deforestation issues.”

“But Madam President, Georgia was our swing vote and we need—”

“I understand the political landscape just as well as you do, Oliver, but can’t you be a good little Vice President and set up the Lincoln Bedroom for our new alien visitors already?”

“The Orians are requesting to meet with you as soon as possible. They said they’ve had quite the journey and really have to go to the bathroom.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“From what I can gather they must meet with the Terran highest leader before doing so. Perhaps like a child requesting a teacher’s permission to relieve themselves while participating in class? Rest assured, the Orians have been approved by the Secret Service as non-threatening and I’ve set up a proper translator for communication via cyber slab.”

“Well Oliver,” I say inhaling a lungful of courage, “I guess this beats dealing with another filibuster.”

As we approach the South Lawn, I take in a sight that would baffle even the most gifted political cartoonist. Two aliens, shimmering in shades of luminescent green, stand next to their massive spaceship, casting a shadow over the pristine grass of the White House.

Oliver whispers to me, “Remember your training, Madam President.”

Right. Training. Nothing says effective leadership like offering up your home to extraterrestrial visitors because they have an affinity for neoclassical architecture and need to use the bathroom.

“Good Morning and welcome to Earth, beings of Orian.” I try to sound more President and less deer-in-the-galactic-headlights. “I’m Jessica Adams and this is my Vice President Oliver 2.99792 K5. We’re preparing your room right now so you can come in and use the bathroom.” Mankind’s first words to galactic beings. I hope history embellishes this one for me a little.

Both aliens are tall. Frighteningly tall. I’ve met NBA players shorter than these two.

“Thank you,” one of them says. It must be Zarga. Her eyes are softer and more angled than her fellow Orian’s bold stare and her gaze keeps lingering on the white columns of our historic home.

“Where are the dinosaurs?” Xorlof’s response is eager and forceful enough to knock someone off their feet.

“The dinosaurs are…” How do I put this lightly? “Extinct.”

“WHAT?” Xorlof’s evident fury blares like a siren.

“Calm now. How long has it been, Xorlof? Only about one,” Zarga takes a breath, “hundred million years since we last visited Earth?”

“Things have changed a tad since—” Oliver starts to say.

“But also, Earth remains the same. Oh, look. The sun…is still here.”

“We did read up on all the new Earth customs on our journey.” Zarga’s voice is determined, like an oak withstanding a storm. “We had a spot of bad connection but I’m pretty sure we got the gist of it. It was a fascinating audiobook. In fact, where are our manners…”

Zarga and Xorlof slip back into their ship, returning moments later, cradling a cherry blossom tree, roots still intact.

My smile locks in place. “Uh, thank you. I always love seeing the cherry blossom trees we have at the Washington Monument.”

“That’s why we extracted this exact tree from the precise area. We thought it would be an appropriate reflection of George Washington who cut down the cherry tree when he was young,” Zarga proclaims, chest swelling with pride.

“So close and yet so far,” Oliver says in a voice just above a whisper.

“You…pulled this tree from the Washington Monument?” I clarify, each syllable a staccato beat.

“We pulled all of the trees from the Washington Monument and picked the best one to bring here even though I wanted to stop at the finest fast-food joint,” Xorlof says, his voice laced with defiance.

“But those trees were gifted as a symbol of friendship between Japan and the United States,” I stutter out, my words tangled.

“Is it not common for guests to bring Terran horticulture as a gift, such as roses? This one seems historically significant.” Zarga’s words hit me like a puzzle with missing pieces.

“Roses are…a smidge smaller. But listen, I do appreciate the, um, gesture. Please, what do I have to do to let you come in and use the bathroom?” I insist, my voice a gentle broom sweeping away sharp shards.

“As per Orian custom, we must first share a satisfying gift,” Zarga insists, her determination fierce.

“Even though you destroyed the dinosaurs and we should avenge them,” Xorlof adds like a viper hiding in tall grass.

“Calm now,” Zarga warns before pivoting her attention towards me. “Let us gift more trees.” Zarga snaps her fingers and then multiplies the cherry blossom trees by the hundreds, each one sinking its roots into the soil of the White House lawn. “A symbol of friendship, like the Japanese.”

My lips strain against the tide of gaping astonishment, shock threatening to catapult my jaw onto the grass. Zarga’s smile trembles at the edges, carrying the weight of something I can’t quite decipher.

I think about our deforestation issues in Georgia. Perhaps it’s okay the Orians want to stay a little closer to me. “Beautiful. Can I offer you a tour of the White House? Shall we stop at the bathroom first?”

The tour kicks off without a hitch. The Orians peak into every room of The White House with excitement. They engage with every national emblem or monument they encounter, whether it’s an eagle, flag, or stain on the carpet. But joy fades from the Orian’s eyes, only to be replaced with bitterness by the end of the tour.

Zarga places a hand on my shoulder, solid with unspoken intent. “Excuse me, Madam President.”

I flash my perfect pearly-white smile. “Did you enjoy the tour, Zarga?”

“Oh. We thought there would be more penguins.” She sounds like I just gave her a botched haircut.

“Did you say…penguins?” My eyes flicker toward the translator, silently hoping it’s broken.

“Like a penguin encounter at a popular wildlife preservation. Is that not what humans usually have?” Xorlof asks. “With at least some burgers nearby?”

Oliver tugs at my shoulder, leading us away from the prying ears of the Orians. “Penguins are facing extinction. That could be bad for your ratings to pull the last few from their natural preserves.”

“If the Orians want penguins and burgers, then by George, we have to find a way to give it to them.”

Oliver pauses for a moment before speaking. “How do you feel if we hire actors to dress up as penguins and waddle around the room?”

Maybe these aliens won’t even know the difference. “Do it,” I say with a rushed breath of words.

Heart pounding, I watch as Zarga and Xorlof converse with the fake penguins at lunch. I hope no one from the press ever gets hold of this scene because explaining it would be a nightmare.

“Anyone care for dessert?” I suggest as soon as possible.

Zarga pauses as if searching for the correct etiquette. “We would rather partake in a dental hygiene ritual.”

“You want to brush your teeth?” I ask, searching for a glimmer of clarity.

“It would be an honor to use your very own toothbrush, Madam President.” Zarga’s words vibrate with anticipation.

Dear George, I never knew that most of First Contact would need to take place in the bathroom.

As Zarga and Xolorf take turns passing my toothbrush back and forth like a game of hot potato, the weight of today strains out of me in one exhausted exhale. “When I invited the Orians here, I expected challenges not a cavalcade of chaos.”

“Wasn’t exploring new frontiers part of our campaign?” Oliver asks as if daring me to keep smiling away a solution on this one.

My gaze falls on The White House lawn, where workers walk among cherry blossom trees. No, not among them. Right through them. Chilling revelation dawns on me. The trees are illusions, holograms, hullabaloo.

I sink into the nearest chair, a tsunami of sadness washing over me.

“Madam President, might this be a good time for me to ask you for something important?” Zarga says, comfortably settling right beside me.

“What do you want now? One of my kidneys?” I ask, depleted to my core.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, please grant me access to your nuclear codes,” Zarga responds with grave sincerity.

“You’re kidding, right?”

A challenge spills from Xorlof’s lips, aimed right at me. “It is the least you can do for killing the dinosaurs.”

“He’s right. Why won’t you just give us the nuclear codes? Please, we want and deserve your truth on this matter.” Zarga’s words are laced with subtext too bizarre for my frazzled mind to untangle.

“You want my truth on the matter?” Something inside me slips loose, refusing to be tamed. “Humans never even knew the dinosaurs…and it was very rude of you to rip out our trees.”

Zarga tips her head at an impossible angle. “Well, we also know those aren’t really penguins, the true ancestors of the dinosaurs, but we didn’t want to be rude.”

“It’s all about the dinosaurs with the both of you.” There’s a relentless tug-of-war going on right now, and my mind is the rope fraying at both ends. “I want your truth on them.”

Zarga, always a fortress of strength, surrenders suddenly to a downpour of sobs. “Your p-predecessors made us a d-deal should we ever be in a spot of trouble. I wasn’t sure how to b-bring it up politely.”

Something goes gentle inside of me. “Wait. You made a deal with the dinosaurs?”

Between gasps for air and heartbreaking sobs, Zarga speaks. “Now they’re gone and we have no protection on Earth like they p-promised.”

“Protection from who?”

“There’s another species coming. They’re called the Tooth Fairies.” Zarga and Xorlof both recoil in fear at the words.

“I’m sorry, that means something completely different here. Can you tell us more about the, um, Fairies?”

As tears wage war on Zarga’s composure, Xolorf speaks. “The Tooth Fairies of the Draakh Empire yearn to enslave us. That’s why we sought asylum here. The dinosaurs would have understood.”

“Upon further analysis of the Orian’s data and cross-referencing it to the Cretaceous period, it does appear that the meteor was deliberately launched by the Tooth Fairies at the dinosaurs,” Oliver interjects.

I take a deep breath and gaze at the illusion of trees. Did the Orians intend to deceive us with their magic? Our guests lied, but they are just frightened and trying to hide.

From a softened heart, my words spill forth. “Oliver, I want any weaknesses the Tooth Fairies might have.”

“On it, Madam President.”

I stare at the “mirage” of trees, but then spot a worker actually trimming one. Could the trees be real after all?

Zarga seems to read my mind as she speaks. “Our Orian magic allows us to multiply objects we touch. That’s why the Tooth Fairies want to enslave us. The power works in stages with the multiplied objects becoming more solidified over time.” Her eyes glisten like morning dew. “Just like a good friendship.”

“Exposure to fluoride causes the Tooth Fairies exoskeletons to become brittle. To protect themselves the Orians need copious amounts of fluoride,” Oliver says with rock-solid resolve.

I stand up, feeling the weight of leadership—and the bizarre turn my presidency has taken—settle on me. “Oliver, go clean out my mother’s storage unit. She always loved getting as many samples of toothpaste as she could from dental conventions. The Orians can have it all.”

“On it. Your mother’s toothpaste stockpile should be sufficient to arm our visitors with enough fluoride to last ten lifetimes.”

“Wait. Are you sure?” Zarga’s words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected. “You would gift us something so precious from your own kin? With that much fluoride, the Tooth Fairies can’t go anywhere near us.”

“We have enough here. Consider it our version of a cherry blossom tree.” My words ring out, steady, unyielding, strong.

The next day, the Orians spend their time away from The White House, thank George, their hearts captivated by an array of penguin encounters Oliver arranged for them to see across the broad expanse of the United States.

When it’s time to bid our guests farewell, the staff heave boxes of mint-flavored toothpaste into their shuttle.

“The dinosaurs would be proud,” Xolorf says with comfort instead of command.

“Please just reach out if you need any more. And in six months, who knows, maybe we’ll even come visit you.”

Zarga studies the depths of my eyes as if trying to determine if I’m joking or not. “It would be an honor to host you.”

“Well, see you then.”

I make the journey back to the Oval Office, sink into the embrace of my chair and sigh, though I’m not sure it’s one of relief.

Oliver walks into the Oval Office, his face displaying a look of… concern? It’s always hard to tell.

“What is it now, Oliver?” I ask.

“I just received a message from Georgia,” he says.

“Right, let’s get going on those deforestation issues.”

“Reports are coming in. An unprecedented bloom of peach trees has appeared overnight.”

Out there in the sky, galactic light streaks by. I think to myself for a moment, maybe Mom’s motto should be reversed. “Straighten out your problems today so that you can just smile away.”

Floaters

A Story By Ashleigh Worgull

Dave Atweiler clenched his fingers nervously around the edge of the exam table. Clad only in one of those infernal hospital gowns, the kind with the opening that showed off your goods if there was even the slightest hint of a breeze, he may as well have been wearing nothing at all. Sitting on the unforgiving table was causing a deep ache to flare in his hip, and when he shifted to try to alleviate the pressure, the paper on the table crinkled embarrassingly loud in contrast with the silent room. He froze, sure that someone would come running to scold him, but no one came.

It seemed to Dave that he’d been left alone in this icebox of a room for far too long. What kind of an electric bill did this place have? Surely it wasn’t necessary to crank the AC down this low. His toes were losing feeling it was so cold!  Of course, that could just be his neuropathy. Getting old was a poor man’s game, high stakes and no winners.

The door burst open without warning and Dave jumped, clenching his legs together to keep his bladder from emptying down his legs. What was wrong with people these days, barging in like that? Such a rush! Someone should tell them to slow down. Life blazed by in a barrage of memories that got harder and harder to remember as time passed. These young people should really stop and take time to appreciate the scenery once in a while. Before they knew, it would all be gone, even the memories.

A handsome young man walked in the door. He took a seat on a stool and rolled himself over to Dave, nose buried in a folder. The white lab coat with a bunch of indecipherable letters embroidered on it indicated that this must be the doctor, but surely a doctor shouldn’t look so young? Dave was just about to ask if the kid had even graduated medical school yet when he spoke.

 “Mr. Atweiler, we’ve reviewed your results.”

“And?” Dave grunted. He was tired and cranky and he just wanted to go home. He’d spent the last hour having his entire body poked and prodded and his eyes repeatedly blinded with light.

The doctor smiled, still looking down at the papers in his hand. He hadn’t looked up at Dave once. What was it with this generation not being able to make eye contact? Just because Dave wasn’t an electronic screen, he wasn’t good enough for them to spare a glance at, was that it? Dave huffed and the doctor finally looked up at him and gave an amused, smarmy smile. What was there to smile about at a time like this? Dave’s frown grew more pronounced. He didn’t trust smiles. People were forever giving you a smile right before something bad was going to happen. They wanted to disarm you, catch you off-guard and then wham.

“You’re really in excellent shape for someone of your age. A touch of arthritis causing some inflammation in the joints, but that’s to be expected and nothing to worry about. In regards to your vision I did notice some floaters. Now, these are nothing to be worried about and are perfectly normal at your age.”

Dave raised his chin. “Floaters?”

“Their technical term is myodesopsia. As the cells in our eyes age, the thick fluid at the back of the eye grows thinner and can coagulate together and form clumps. These clumps generally appear translucent, but can appear dark, especially when in bright light. They’re completely benign and don’t require any treatment.”

Floaters huh?  Clumps of fluid in the back of his eye. Dave nervously licked his lips. “So other people go through this…these floaters?”

 “Many people, Mr. Atweiler.” The doctor gave him a smile that he probably told himself was reassuring, but was still smarmy. “They’re nothing to worry about.”

 “If I wanted to get rid of them, what kind of treatment would this require?” They’d probably want to use one of those newfangled lasers on him. The thought of letting them cut into his eye with a beam of light gave him the willies, but if it got rid of the floaters, he’d do it. He’d do anything to get rid of them.

“There’s no treatment, Mr. Atweiler.” Now the smile was gone and it was clear that the doctor thought Dave was wasting his time.

 “No treatment?” Dave asked, not understanding.

The doctor shook his head. “As I’ve said, the floaters are benign. Usually, they go away on their own. The eye reabsorbs them and one day they’re gone. Sometimes they’re permanent, but other than being a mild nuisance they present no harm.”

Dave had to fight the urge to guffaw. No harm?  He wondered what kind of floaters the good doctor here had ever seen, because Dave was certain that his floaters were not benign.

“Get changed and I’ll meet you up front to check out.”

That was it? Dave swallowed, suddenly feeling desperate. He couldn’t go back home and face another night of this. “Please, doc.  There’s got to be something you can do. Some experimental surgery or something?” Dave swallowed again. “Maybe a laser?”

The doctor glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Atwelier. There really is no real treatment for these.”

Dave’s voice cracked. “I can’t go on like this. These floaters…they’re awful. They’re everywhere. Sometimes it’s like they’re all I see.”

The doctor moved to put a hand on Dave’s shoulder. “It would be unusual for you to have so many floaters that they actually obscure your vision.” The door was already open in his hand and he was clearly ready to move on. “If you like, you can make a follow up appointment with the office.” With that, he was rushing back out the door, just as fast as he’d rushed in.

What good would a follow up appointment do him, if there was supposedly nothing to be done? That smarmy doctor had just given him the brushoff. Dave supposed that was something they taught them in medical school because they all did it. Oh, they’d smile and nod to appear sympathetic, but when you really needed something, they never delivered.

Dave had put his clothes back on and limped out of the office with nothing but an aching hip and a sinking heart. The sun was shining on the way home and along the side of the road, Dave saw the wildflowers blooming. Brilliant yellows, pinks and purples dotted the landscape, but despite seeing these, Dave could only focus on the gathering of floaters. They hovered just off to the edge of his vision. Visible, but not intruding. Not yet. They waited for quiet moments to unleash themselves. Always when he was alone.

He’d made it all the way home and had safely pulled his car into the garage before the first floater had accosted him. It broke from the gathered mass and came toward him. He’d swatted it away with a startled cry and scrambled out of the car as quickly as his shaky legs could manage. 

He limped up the stairs into the kitchen, and shut the door behind him, relieved to be back home. Shadows had begun to gather around the yard and shadows were bad. Dave knew from experience that while the floaters mostly left him alone during the day, night was a different ballgame.

At night they tormented him.

Dave heated up a microwave dinner and nervously eyed the darkening horizon. He didn’t even mind that it was hot enough to burn the roof of his mouth.  He just had to get it down so that he could take his evening pills and then he’d retreat to his wife’s sitting room. That’s where he would hole up until morning. Her knitting was on the little side table. The mystery book she’d been reading was draped over the edge of the chair. Something about Marjorie’s room kept the worst of the floaters at bay. Being surrounded by all her things made him happy. The room still smelled like her, a mix of powder and flowers.

As the last band of lavender light faded, leaving the sky a quickly darkening indigo, Dave shoved his chair back and stood. His knees creaked and popped, protesting the movement. He took a slow, halting step, but his urgency grew with each agonizingly slow advance. Curse this failing body! It betrayed him at every turn. He was only halfway across the room when it happened, his left side suddenly went numb. He crumbled to the ground in a heap, head smacking off the tile floor so hard that he saw stars.

Dave wasn’t sure how long he’d laid there, but when he came to his senses, he was surrounded by floaters. That doctor had described the floaters as viscous eye fluid that had dried and stuck together forming shapes and was benign, but Dave knew one thing for certain, floaters weren’t benign. Dave had seen floaters kill. That was how Marjorie had died. Dave had watched helpless as the floaters had taken Marjorie, his beloved wife of forty-three years.

It had been a long winter, dreary and cold. Marjorie had been sick. Nothing the doctors could put their finger on, but it had lingered and Dave had just begun to despair of losing her when finally, things had seemed to turn around. As the weather began to warm, Marjorie grew stronger and they’d started taking daily walks to get out and enjoy the sunshine. One day, amidst the innocuous chirping of birds and the beaming sunshine, Dave had seen his first floater.

It was a small, dark mass that hovered just over Marjorie’s shoulder. Though he’d had no idea what it was, he hadn’t thought twice about it.  He’d brushed it off as a trick of his ageing eyesight, but the next day there’d been more. The dark and amorphous shapes had begun to follow Marjorie everywhere. 

They’d set Dave on edge, but when he’d spoken to Marjorie about them, she’d brushed them off, unconcerned. Four days after the first floater had appeared, Marjorie had died and the floaters had immediately disappeared. Only to return a few months later, this time hovering over Dave.

Dave wanted an explanation. He’d gone to that darn doctor in hopes that he had cancer, glaucoma, or even dementia. Anything that could explain the floaters, but the visit to the doctor had only confirmed what Dave had already known deep in his heart. The floaters weren’t a mere trick of his eyesight.

Dave’s fingers scrambled uselessly on the tile, trying to find purchase and heave himself off the floor as the floaters seeped ever closer. Spectral phantoms with what Dave was sure was a sinister purpose. He finally struggled upright and wrenched at his arthritic left leg desperately. If he could just get to his feet, he might be able to outrun them long enough to get help, but his bum leg refused to cooperate and he sank back down to the floor in a moan of defeat.

The floaters were cool where they kissed his skin. They seemed to whisper softly to him, though he couldn’t make out the words. As he lay there, he felt a sense of calm come over him. He’d fought so hard to keep them at bay, but now that they were upon him, they didn’t seem all that frightening anymore. Marjorie had been right after all. There had been nothing to worry about.

The world was always trying to outrun death. We are ever aware of it hanging on the periphery, but when you stopped clinging to fear of the unknown, you opened up a universe of possibilities. Dave clung to those possibilities and thoughts of his beloved Marjorie as the floaters swept over him.

When he closed his eyes for the final time, it was with a smile.