Twenty Years to Live

Twenty years ago, they told us we had ten years until our hearts failed. Many called the lifesaving operation a miracle. I still have the headline stuffed in my bookshelf: “Miraculous medical breakthrough saves lost generation.” They were calling it the Second Chance Procedure. Everyone marveled and watched and cheered as they rolled us out of the hospital, metal implants still hot in our chests. We were the spark of hope the world needed so desperately. The generation born into pollution, overpopulation, and disease, condemned to an early death. Yet, despite it all, we survived. We became normal. Our novelty wore off, and now we’re in our thirties, lives shaped by that single day.

Fran grunted through the back window, signaling the end of my break, her voice harsh as the cigarette she sucked on.

I lifted myself off a rotted bench in the back alley between the sub-shop and the barber’s, stretched my sore, crooked back, grabbed my worn broom, and walked through the narrow ally to the storefront. A train rattled across the rusty bridge overhead, shaking tiny rocks and flecks of trash onto the walkway like dirty snow. I rubbed the lump in my chest with my knuckles and returned to work. Under the alternating neon sign of a plump Italian man eating a meatball sub, I swept rubble off the walkway.

Across the block, in the shadow of the train bridge, squatted a row of congested shops and restaurants. Many remained empty. Their rooves drooped low like heavy-brimmed hats, boarded and empty, but others, similar to Fran’s, pulsed cheap neon greetings into the evening gloom. Around the collection of buildings slumped figures that wiped filth from the poorly tended entryways and smoked cigarettes on the curb. Very few spoke.

All of us worked jobs like these. It was all we were qualified for, and our employers knew it. At this point, we’ve all probably worked the same jobs. I imagined it was the same in other cities like New York or Chicago. Probably. I’d never have the money to find out, and what would I do with that information? Get another job at another sub shop? I could barely afford my apartment as is. Hell, most of us just slept right under the train bridge until the police stomped us out like roaches.

You see, when you’re told you only have ten years to spend your life, things like school, a job, and raising a family fall from your priorities. Those are things for people with full lives. Why would we try to apply to colleges or even finish high school? We had plenty of support too. Everyone wanted to be there for the lost generation, to show they cared, and wanted to help make our short lives enjoyable—at least until our short lives ended up being not so short.

Suddenly those that worked so hard to make sure we enjoyed our few years not only stopped caring but became upset they cared at all. As if we didn’t deserve all their attention. Like they cashed their checks and found us empty. We were just going to die just like any normal person.

Over the next hour, the usual patrons stumbled drunk into Fran’s. Beer musk and ripe vodka covered the customers like an unwashed coat, and stale cigarette smoke followed the cohort like a cloud of mosquitos. I picked up their butts and mopped their discolored spit, and cleaned tables smeared with grease and cheese.

Sixteen years ago, they took us to “Pearls of the Caribbean.” A resort on the Gulf Coast with the clearest water in Mexico. Mothers and fathers cried on free resort towels as we splashed in crystal shallows. I had my first kiss with a girl named Rosaline on our second night there during high tide. Our chaperones took a picture and posted it all over social media. We spent the next four days collecting sand dollars and sunburns while a chattering sea of cameras snapped pictures from the dunes.

I emptied a dustpan full of ash, wrappers, and peanut shells into the back dumpster, careful not to cut myself on the broken handle. Down the alley, I saw Maryanne. She worked at Fran’s a year before I did and now cleaned the hair off Tito’s barbershop floor. She didn’t look as I turned away. Both of us were stuck in memories.

When most kids were in school, they took us to Disney World. We rode the teacups, and ate funnel cakes, and laughed at the characters, and screamed on the rollercoasters. I made plenty of friends back then: Danny, Ryan, Melanie. They took us camping on a week-long trip to Yellowstone. We ate s’mores under the stars and told ghost stories while our parents drafted eulogies in the waning firelight.

I don’t know where Ryan or Melanie went, but last I heard, Danny worked at a gas station a few miles out of the city, pumping fuel into sports cars and minivans. We all had bills and debts and a hell of a lot to worry about. None of us could ever hope to regain the life we had as kids. Things only worsened when shortly after our twenty-first birthdays, we learned that The Second Chance Procedure wasn’t free.

Yeah, after we failed at joining a society that pretended to care, the doctors decided that the thousands of free treatments cost them too much. That they needed the money to make sure this type of thing didn’t happen again. We did have the rest of our lives to pay for it, after all. They say we should be thankful.

I remember the time they brought us tubing down the Swiss Alps and snorkeling in Australia. We saw London, Paris, and Tokyo. We got to experience more in those ten years than anything I could ever hope for today. Some folk born normal never left their city. Maybe it’s only fair that we spend the rest of our lives in alleys and gas stations and barbershops. Maybe this isn’t so much of a second chance as it is payment for everything we got to see. But those were never things we asked for.

My shift ended at 10:00 p.m., but like every day, Fran had me stay till midnight. The shop needed extra cleaning when we were understaffed, and we were always understaffed. Only me and the cook worked here, and I didn’t even know his full name—Marcus, something. He worked late too, past one a.m. every day.

After closing, a herd of us trudged down paths under the bridges. Like a tide of mud, slow and tired, we worked our way back to our apartments and shacks in staggering shifts. Few of us spoke. We only reminded each other what we didn’t have anymore.

They told us we were healed. That we were now like everyone else and that we should act like it. I’m not so sure about that. We were brought up like spoiled children and dropped on the street once our novelty vanished. We were no longer special and left worse than normal. All we had were metal hearts and a lack of the real world. None of us chose this.

The future didn’t matter until suddenly it did.

I unlocked my apartment door, and on half-functioning autopilot, marched down my uneven hallway to my musty room and collapsed on my yellow, sweat-stained comforter. Claws skittered over the scratched wood floors and down the dark hall. Outside, a police siren blared into the night, like a sick wolf howling at the hidden moon. I pulled my lamp string and snaped on the dim orange light. It buzzed against the green walls of my small room.

On my side, I stared at my bookshelf. It slumped to the right with the few books I owned leaning against each other like malnourished children. I owned a torn dictionary, a dark-yellowed phone book, and one color-washed copy of Frankenstein that I never read. Beneath the dictionary, an old, faded news headline peaked out like a periscope, its white corner a pinpoint in the grime. My mother had printed it for me on the day after the procedure. I couldn’t see the headline, but I didn’t need to.

“Miraculous medical breakthrough saves lost generation.” I pulled the blankets over my legs and looked to the ceiling.

They were right about one thing. We really were lost.

Wrestler

With my curtains closed, I lurk in my room. My bed is unmade, and dishes orbit my monitor like planets around an LCD sun. A solid imprint remains where my ass has spent the last evening. The door isn’t locked, but it hasn’t been open since sunrise. My phone casts the only light in my room, a small portal to a world colored with anxieties. I clutch it. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Stop. Refresh. Repeat.

Messages pile in my inbox, messages I am careful to avoid, navigating past them as if operating a minefield. An email comes in—work. I turn my phone and ignore it. Today is my mental health day.

I spend the afternoon staring at the shadows that sink into my stucco ceiling and the deodorant stick on the floor of my bedroom. My body slumps as if I had been wrestling for hours. With the little energy I can muster, I turn back and forth, curling my blankets around me like a constricting snake. The singing birds remind me of the day passing without me. The sunlight at the edges of my curtains burns with a horrible glow. It’s too nice out. It should be shitty and gray. Instead, it’s clear, warm, and the neighbor’s dog is barking too loud.

My stomach growls with an empty hunger, but I make no effort to feed myself. I’ll eat some snacks when the sun has set, maybe I’ll drink some water too. Right now, I think I’ll just lay here, strangled by my stale blankets, still in my jeans. I told myself I’d make use of the day, but no one needs to know that. Today is my mental health day, after all. So, fuck everything and let me sleep. Or at least try to sleep.

Damn, I’m tired.

Passing Time

I drive through my hometown and back like an echo. I pass storefronts and roads and churches in an afternoon that I’ve experienced more times than I can count. It’s the same glow over the bridge and the river, but for all that’s the same, nothing is the same. The McDonald’s on the corner is right where I remember, but it’s not the same McDonald’s where I tripped and dropped my double cheeseburger. The movie theater has the same name, but it’s painted white, and there’s a line of kids looking younger than I ever did. The old strip is there, but a jiujutsu dojo is open, and six more pizza restaurants glow on the street with signs I don’t recognize. Everything is just a bit off. A little different. But the bones are there. Old and tired, just like me.

I guess this is what happens when you get older.

It’s a feeling of time. When the street has more cracks than I remember. Tree roots gnarl and twist over a sidewalk that I once rollerbladed down. The world is folding and changing, along with the wrinkles on the backs of my hands. Like imprints in the snow fading over time, what I once saw and experienced becomes buried beneath the new. The fresh. The not what I remember.

We all exist in a brief moment. Watching through a narrow window that slides across the string of events we call our lives, able to see just enough forward and then watch as our trail disappears behind us. What was once the future becomes the present, and then the past. Soon enough, the past vanishes. Invisible, just like the future you can’t see.

We ritualize this, the memories that grow fuzzy as the years stamp on. At the dinner table surrounded by friends and family, we rehash the same story about how some aunt or uncle took the wrong turn on vacation or how a cousin broke their arm riding their bike. They are memories of color, smell, and sound. Memories of places that, if you were to travel to them, would have different colors, different smells, and different sounds. The world is spinning, and all we can do is view it through the lens of a memory we have no control over.

We all have thousands of memories lost. Millions of instants pass through our vision, filtered through our brain, and then deleted from existence. You don’t remember the time you dropped your chicken nugget on the street, but remember the squirrel eating corn in the front yard. You remember the feeling of watching the one you loved in high school walking to class with someone else, but you don’t remember what clothes you were wearing.

The point I’m making isn’t very relevant. It’s something obvious and natural. Time exists, or at least, the passing of events exists. We are just along for the ride.

A Request to Colonize

“I, Fa-rex, president of Federation Mining Co, bring the settling of planet E4-T44 to the attention of the Intergalactic Colonization Committee.” The three committee members, Fa-ree, Fa-roo, and Fa-raa, sat still as Fa-rex continued to deliver his information. “E4-T44 is an oxygen-based planet with an abundance of liquid water, an ample supply of biodiversity, and is rich in natural resources. It is the ideal location for a harvest colony on the Federation’s southern border. With the committee’s approval, our in-orbit drones can begin preparations for full-scale colonization. We can be up and running within one of E4-T44’s orbital rotations.”

Fa-ree, the Chairman of the committee looked from the data-slate Fa-rex had provided. “And this is at the request of a mining company?”

“Yes, Chairman. We were undergoing extensive asteroid mining on the system’s outer belt when we uncovered the planet’s existence. I believe that E4-T44 will benefit not just our mineral extraction, but also provide a stable and healthy colony for the Federation.”

Fa-raa, the eldest of the committee spoke, her voice like that of cracking bone, “Why has this planet not been colonized already? The sector surrounding this system is dominated by a dozen smaller empires, many of which are hostile to our Federation. It is unusual for such a planet to be left untouched. If E4-T44 is as suitable for our needs as you say it is, then why isn’t it already claimed?”

The other committee members were quick to pick up on her concerns. “There have been previous attempts at colonization from three of the southern empires.” Councilman Fa-roo, the final councilmember, did not look away from the provided data. “But they seem to have given up.”

Fa-raa turned an eye stalk at him. “And why would that be?”

Fa-roo continued, “Your report, Fa-rex, indicates a large population of local fauna.” Behind him, images snapped from orbital cameras displayed E4-T44’s inhabitants.

Chairman Fa-ree nodded his bulbous head as if figuring out the key to some cosmic riddle. “Vermin. It seems E4-T44 suffers from quite a heavy infestation.” The images displayed masses of bipedal creatures with furry heads and pink bodies covered in colorful rags that crowded in congested concrete nests with crude metal machinery. “They have erected super-nests on each major continent and have infested E4-T44’s most desolate biomes and produce quite an excessive amount of waste, both manufactured and biological. Look at their oceans. It would take an extreme effort to filter out all of their filth.” Again, he nodded to himself.

“Their population is nearing the eight billion mark and growing.” Fa-roo said this as if reading an interesting fact off the back of a cereal box.

Fa-rex wiped the sweat from his eyestalks. “Yes, the local fauna poses some initial colonization difficulties, but we have the resources that the surrounding empires do not. With your aid, it would be a simple solution to remove the creatures, and afterward, decontamination would take less than half an orbit with the right allocation of material. As I said, we have drones ready to begin the necessary preparations.”

“You are the president of a mining company.” Fa-raa brought her multi-digited hands together. “Do you propose turning your drilling equipment on these creatures?” She asked this more of a joke but Fa-rex did not seem to notice.

“We will do whatever we can to aid the colonization comities efforts. This would be as good for my company as it would be for the entire Federation. Not only does Federation Mining provide 80% of the entire federation’s mineral resources we—”

Fa-ree held one of his four hands out to silence Fa-rex. “This meeting has not gathered to justify the importance of your company, Fa-rex. And you will not be using government issued mining drones to exterminate vermin. We understand your concerns, but you must understand the logistical difficulty of undertaking such a heavy investment for a planet that—to be blunt—should be condemned. Even if E4-T44 had once been a prime colonization spot, its galactic positioning and its infestation make this a difficult proposition. Sometimes it is best to leave vermin nests like these alone. This would not be the first time we have unfortunately had to pass up on seemingly ideal worlds. Leave it for one of the fledgling empires to figure out. At best, we can hope that in a millennium or two we will have a possible trade endeavor with whoever is unfortunate enough to actually settle this place.”

“Councilmembers. I humbly beg for your consideration.”

“We fund colonization efforts, not extermination,” Fa-raa snapped. “This is not the department of pest control. Removing the local vermin from this planet would cost far too much effort and time. These creatures have already touched their own moon. They will not simply vanish during our process. We pride ourselves in cost-effective and timely colonization and this would neither. Add in the danger of setting up a vulnerable colony in a volatile sector, and I do not see any more reason to consider this request. I vote to deny this offer and turn the decision to my two other councilmembers who should feel the same. We would have better luck searching for a planet with a lower indigenous fauna population.”

Faa-rex held firm. “We already have a fleet on the system’s edge. If you give us less than half an orbit, I can prove that we can accomplish this with minimum effort.”

Fa-roo, who still kept himself buried in Fa-rex’s report itched his front nose. “It would be beneficial to have a stable outpost to the south. Ignoring the potential resource gain, having more sway on the southern empires could provide worthwhile.” He did not see the death stare that Fa-raa gave him. “I vote we give him a chance. Let’s say a certification with a two-cycle expiration date. Fa-ree, Fa-raa?”

“I have already stated my opinion. I will not endorse such a waste of resources on a planet overrun by fleshy bipeds.”

This left the decision to the Chairman who looked between both of his councilmembers with his eyestalks.

“Please, Chairman.” Fa-rex bowed.

Several more images of E4-T44 snapped by as Fa-roo continued delving through the information. Some displayed acts of crude warfare, others destroyed and burnt forests, and a few showed detailed image of towering structures crammed with filth. Fa-ree examined these images for a long moment, the silence filled by Fa-roo’s nails tapping on the data-slate.

The Chairman lowered his head. “Fa-rex, we appreciate your interest in expanding the federation’s border and commend your effort in wishing to assist in the colonization process, but at this time we as a council do not feel it is our path. I am declining your request for certification to colonize planet E4-T44. You may return in four orbits to reapproach this issue if you deem it necessary. We thank you for your time and ask you to leave.”

Fa-rex stood with his four fists balled as the projection room went black around him. He stood there for another ten minutes, reviewing the information he had compiled for his request. Another rejection. His fourth in total, the other three from different commissions across the Federation.

Another minute passed and the room flicked back to life, displaying yet another desk with another host of committee members.

Fa-rex cleared his frilled throat. “Good day. I Fa-Rex address the Board of Tourism and Space Travel with the interest of planet, E4-T44. I believe it would make a great location for the Federation’s next tourism hotspot.”

Pest Control

I reached into the burrow up to my forearm. Warm slime coated the concrete, bored out by pincers as strong as industrial clamps. My face pressed against the gymnasium wall as I fished inside for the little critter. A small gathering of teachers and students watched from the other side of the gymnasium, straining to watch my work. I never enjoyed working with onlookers, especially not children. In the matter of shrimp removal, finger severing was a common occurrence. The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for scaring some kid’s childhood.

After a few more seconds of sliding my hand down the burrow, I touched the shrimp’s spiny carapace. Even with my protective gloves, an angry shrimp could cut through bone. It was not a comforting fact, but I had dealt with enough of these critters in my life to hold a healthy level of caution. Right now, the shrimp inside was sedated. At least, that’s what I assumed as my fingers had yet to be snipped off.

“Did it pinch you?” One of the children called from across the gym, his voice echoing.

With my index finger and thumb, I grabbed the back of the shrimp’s shell where the tail met the abdomen. It pressed its body against the wall and secreted a stream of mucus—the same that coated the entrance. A worker this far from the burrow center meant that the infestation was still young. Any longer and defenders would begin to spawn, and those were far worse to deal with than workers.

I spun the shrimp so its rear faced the exit. It clicked in dazed confusion as I pulled it from its burrow with a squelch. Its body was the size of my open hand and covered in a dark turquoise shell with two pincers double the size of its body. I dropped the shrimp inside the containment cage back on the table.

One down, seven to go.

After another thirty minutes, I removed the last worker. By now, the teachers had guided their students back to class, leaving me alone in the gymnasium. Only the queen remained.

With shrimp season at its peak, there was no saying how many more times I’d need to do this. With the queens in full reproduction, infestations were cropping up all over town. It was exhausting work.

I started by snaking my camera into the burrow. It took ten minutes to locate the central shaft and the connected queen warren. It was about two meters down, rooted into the school’s foundation. For the next thirty minutes, my drill growled through the gymnasium as it chewed through the concrete. I started at the edges of the burrow, working in circles around the entrance’s circumference until a fine layer of rock dust coated my boots. Soon, the tunnel was wide enough to fit my torso through, and I could see the main access tunnel.

I cleaned my hands on my pants and sat at my table for lunch. I ate my ham sandwich and inspected the many other holes currently covered up across the wall. By the look of it, the nest was no more than two weeks old. Any longer and this could have been much more problematic.

Footsteps approached from across the gym. I had expected it to be Principal Stevens coming to rage at the damage to his wall, but instead a young girl passed by. She looked no older than twelve, with black, braided hair, and vibrant purple eyes—a typical sight on Paxus. She frowned at the blocked holes in the wall and the caged shrimp.

Without saying a word, she stepped up to the open tunnel, peered inside, turned and marched over to the captured shrimp.

She picked up one of the small cages and brought it to eye level. “What are you going to do to them?”

I swallowed my lunch and cleared my throat. “Put that down. It’s dangerous.”

The shrimp inside snapped at her, bulky claws unable to grip the smooth glass.

“What are you going to do to them?” She stared at me as if daring me to take the shrimp from her.

“I’m going to release them back to the wild. They’re too dangerous to keep in the school.”

“Why does everyone hate them? They aren’t evil.”

“They cause a lot of trouble. If this nest stays here for much longer, they’d have to close down the school.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

I laughed and finished off the rest of my sandwich as the girl stared into the cage.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” I walked back to the wall and grabbed the drill.

“I told Miss Markson I was using the bathroom. I like to come and look at the shrimp. But now you’re taking them away.”

I inspected my drill, wiping clean the concrete dust. I used to skip class much like she was doing to hunt for rust louse and other critters that made their way into this old building. I’d scoop up nests of crab flies and bring them out to the playground and release them among the corals.

“Have you ever seen a shrimp queen before?”

The girl turned from the cage and squinted. “Are you going to hurt it?”

“No, I promise. They’re beautiful creatures, much more colorful than the workers.”

“Really?” She took a few steps forward but I stopped her.

“Careful, I still have a bit of drilling to do. You sit there and keep the shrimp company while I dig out their queen.”

She took a seat beside the table, pulling out more cages and aligning them in a half-circle around her. The shrimp tapped at the glass with their oversized claws, irritated by their enclosure. Attempting to calm them down, the girl brushed her finger over the cage and cooed. This was drowned out by my drill.

After five minutes I stopped. “There.”

“The shrimp don’t seem to like the noise.”

“Good thing I’m done then.”

I unplugged the drill and placed it on the floor before putting my gloves back on. The queen may not have the claws of her underlings, but she wore a tough shell covered in spines. I hunched into the hole and pushed forward, sliding along the mucus-coated walls much like a shrimp would. Below, the main shaft dropped another two meters and met the hard soil of the outside plateau.

Opposite the main tunnel, the queen’s warren waited. Before jamming my arms inside, I peered into the space to locate the queen. The warren made up an oval-shaped alcove with glowing purple fungi that clung to the walls—a coveted food source meant only for the queen. She sat at the room’s center, scrunched in a defensive ball, doing her best to mask the clutch of eggs beneath her. She let out a threatening hiss as I inched forward but did not move.

She was shaped like a pinecone, her segmented body parts folded inward. Her shell was a speckle of pink and blue and flared out at the sides as if she wore an ornate dress. Thick slime secreted from the spaces between her shell, and large eyes reminiscent of jelly peered at me from its recesses. She let out an odor that smelt of rotten fish. It was a scent meant to attract her defenders, but none would come. With both hands I reached forward, careful not to move to fast. Her shell wasn’t strong enough to slice through my gloves but I wasn’t going to take any unneeded risks. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Her hissing grew to a rattle as I grabbed her, and she shook back and forth, attempting to slice my fingers with her shell. I lifted her, careful not to injure her needle-like legs hidden beneath her shell. A queen’s legs were underdeveloped as they had little need to move beyond their warrens. She weighed as much as a bowling ball, and as I lifted her, I revealed her clutch of milky white eggs that rested in a mucus-coated pile. Although I had no plans of hurting the shrimp, these eggs would need to be removed. It would be best not to tell the girl about them.

The queen watched me with her unblinking eyes as I pulled her back into the main shaft, her antenna flicking from her face and snapping at my wrists. She continued to hiss and clatter, and her odor strengthened to the point where I could taste it. She was a magnificent creature, doing only what she needed to survive. But she had picked the wrong home. I felt sorry for the little queen. “Is she okay?” the girl asked as I began to pull myself back outside.

I turned and presented the queen to the girl, the shrimp’s secretion spattering the gym floor like thick milk. “Here she is.”

The girl took a few steps closer. “She doesn’t look like the others.”

“No. The males have claws and turquoise shells. Every queen has their own patterns. Look.” I pointed to the speckled pinks and blues. “These are unique to her. When she produces a queen of her own, it will have the same colors but a different pattern.” The girl took another step, but I stopped her. “Careful. Her shell is sharper than razor blades. She’s scared right now. Let’s just take it slow.”

“She looks like a clump of coral.”

I laughed. “I guess that makes sense out on the reef, huh? Grab one of those cages for me and set it open on the floor.”

The girl went to the work table and dragged out one of the cages. If the principal walked through the doors, I could lose my job on the spot. But for some reason, I couldn’t help but let the girl assist me. Rarely did I find those who showed any genuine interest in the shrimp.

“Now step away.” She listened and I placed the queen into the glass container and then popped it shut. I motioned the girl back over to get a closer look at the queen.

“I don’t like that she’s in a cage.”

I removed my gloves and placed them on the table. “Don’t worry, it won’t be for long.”

“Were there eggs back there?”

The girl’s stare met mine, cutting right through me. “She hadn’t started laying eggs yet. She should be ready to lay a clutch as soon as she’s in her new home.”

The girl frowned, no doubt debating if she should believe me or not. For a moment, I thought she would check herself, but instead, she stood up and began walking away. “I have to get back to class. You bring the shrimp somewhere nice, promise?” Her braided hair bounced as she marched across the open room.

“I Promise.”

“Okay. Goodbye mister. Thanks for not hurting the shrimp.”

She closed the door, and soon afterward, I was back in my truck, driving away from the school and out to the dry reef across town, my trunk full of clacking shrimp ready to see their new home.

Drinks on the Beach

Two couples swirled ice in their empty glasses while waiting along opposite ends of the beach bar. Only one of their drinks was full; vodka with a hint of raspberry. The owner of the drink wasn’t a drinker. Her boyfriend was.

“Another?” the bartender, a tan man with a rough, accented voice—probably Mexican, asked. “Hot day today. You could use another, right?”

The man slid his empty glass to the bartender and said, “I’ll pace myself. Can’t get too ahead of her.” He laughed, and the bartender laughed. His girlfriend smiled. “Come back when she’s done, and I’ll buy another round.”

“A true gentleman,” the bartender said and moved to the other couple to refill both of their glasses.

“Can we go sit on the sand?” the woman asked the man with the still empty glass. “I want to sit under the sun.”

“One more round, then we can leave. I have to taste their whiskey first.”

“Why not bring it down to the water?” she asked.

“You know how I get with whiskey, dear.”

“Yes, I do.”

“So, finish your drink, and I’ll get us another round. I promise we can spend the rest of the day laying on the sand.”

The woman touched the brim of her cup to her lips. It wasn’t that she never drank, the two used to go drinking with her brother back home, but right now she didn’t seem in the mood.

The man followed her gaze to the couple across the bar. They were smiling, their faces red from both drink and sun. The other man had an arm around his girlfriend and rubbed his thumb over the diamond on her ring finger. They whispered in each other’s ear, almost loud enough to hear.

“They look like they’re having fun,” he said as he swirled the ice in his cup.

“You’re not having fun?” She didn’t look up from the glassy reflection in her vodka.

“I’m having a great time. Mexico, with you, a few drinks, and this beautiful beach. Of course, I’m having fun.”

“But you don’t want to sit on the beach?”

“Not until I get my whiskey.”

“I’ll order for you.”

“I don’t want another. Not while you’re on your first. You know how I get.”

“Yes, I do.” She took a small sip, her eyes staring past the bar top as she swallowed. “It’s strong.”

“Damn well better be,” he laughed as he continued to watch the couple opposite them.

The other two clinked their drinks and grinned. The woman leaned into the man, too drunk to sit up on her own, but the man didn’t look like he minded. They seemed happy, in that comfortable, sleepy way.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just nice being around smiling faces. So much has happened.”

She placed her drink down.

He leaned back in his stool. The bamboo supports creaked with his weight not because he was heavy, but because the stool was cheap. A seagull wailed overhead, and the couple across from them started to laugh.

He grabbed his empty cup and said, “Oh, don’t rush yourself. I’ll just order the whiskey and we can find somewhere to sit.”

“Do you mean it?”

The man watched the couple stand and kiss each other’s sweaty foreheads. He called the bartender and ordered a glass of whiskey—the finest they had.

“Couldn’t wait any longer?” the bartender asked. He chuckled, the sound like a shaking cocktail mixer.

“On the rocks, please.” He turned back to his girlfriend as the bartender filled his glass. “Why don’t you go find us a place to sit? I’ll catch up once I pay.”

She nodded, stepped off the patio and onto the pearl-white sand. Her small footprints cupped the drifting afternoon shadows like tidal pools.

The bartender placed the drink on the bar top. “You two doing okay?” His voice broke the stillness like a growling blender. “I see a lot of couples come through here. Got a sense for these things, I really do.”

The man turned from his girlfriend and grabbed the cup. He lifted it to his lips and took a long sip.

“This was supposed to be our honeymoon,” he said, smiling with empty eyes as he enjoyed the whiskey. “Her brother…he was in an accident two months back. A bad one. Saw the whole bloody thing. Never got married after that. I think she forgot.” He took a longer sip

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The bartender looked away, clearly not ready for such news.

“Me too.” The man swirled the ice in his glass.

The man sat, and the bartender stood, both still in their own way. The man could tell he had said too much. It was obvious by the way the bartender gripped the bar top that he only stood there out of politeness.

The bartender brought his hands together, snapping the tension from his arms, and said, “You know what? You enjoy that whiskey, sir. On the house!” He said this in the same energetically fake way he probably got most people here to drink. “You can tell the lady drinks on the house for her too. Some good liquor can help ease the mind.”

“I appreciate that. I’m just trying to enjoy our trip. Though it’d be good for her. I mean, it’s already been paid for. We can try to enjoy it, right?”

Invigorated by his idea, the bartender began cleaning a glass smudged with orange pulp. “You’re doing a good thing, sir. I’m sure you two will be happily married in no time.”

“I hope so. Guess I should join her.”

The bartender tapped the bar top. “Remember, one drink on the house.”

The man raised his glass. “Cheers.”

He stepped from the patio and onto the cooling sand, trailing behind the crisscrossed tracks of the other couple. Beer and gin wafted off them like a cloud. Sunburns, red as a crab, covered their shoulders and backs, but that didn’t stop them from touching each other. The waning sunlight glinted off the woman’s ring. They looked like they were having fun.

He found his girlfriend beside a crooked palm. Another couple, both asleep, lay like sealions beneath the shade, an almost empty bottle of wine beside them.

She sat on her towel, pale legs brought to her chest, her drink lodged in the sand still full. She looked to the shimmering waves.

“You made it,” she said. “I hope my drink wasn’t expensive.”

He sat on the towel beside hers and took another sip. “I got it for free,” he laughed and motioned to her glass, “You know, the bartender said you can get one free too. He seems like a decent man. Wouldn’t let me leave without a free drink.” As he spoke, the couple from the bar skimmed the shoreline. They stepped in sync, voices drowned by the surf, red legs bright against the wet sand. He wondered how much her ring cost.

“How nice of him.” She kept looking out to sea.

“Yes, it is very nice.”

She spoke after a long moment, “It’s peaceful here.”

“Yes…it sure is peaceful here. You’re right.”

“Do you want to go in the water?”

“After my whiskey. I got it for free you know? It sure was nice of him. He’s a nice man.”

“Already drunk?”

“No,” he said after another sip. His cheeks had begun to feel warm, but he pretended it was the sun. “It was free.”

“Then come in the water with me. It looks wonderful.”

“Go on ahead. I’ll join you after my drink.”

He sat with a tired smile on his face, savoring the whiskey burn in his throat. The shade of the palm only covered his back, and his legs had already started turning red. His girlfriend stared at his drink, but he didn’t pay attention. He continued to watch the couple.

“Why don’t you finish mine too then?”

“That’s yours.”

“You can have it. I’m going in the water.”

She stood up, but the man grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he said. Their eyes met; sunlight glinted in the water that pooled there. He tried to think of what to say.

“It’s free.”

She pulled away and walked to the shore. He swirled the ice in his glass, spilling a bit of whiskey as he watched her. She stood next to the laughing couple and dipped her toe into the water. He wondered if she was smiling, but he doubted it.

Ice clinked against his glass. He peered in his drink—almost empty. He picked up his wife’s, no, his girlfriend’s, glass and took a sip. She wasn’t going to finish it. He always finished her drinks. Her brother used to finish drinks with him; he was a whiskey drinker too.

It was nice of the bartender to listen to him, even if he didn’t want to. He got two free drinks out of it. If only his girlfriend was as excited.

The couple waded in the water, up to their chest, splashing and laughing. The ring sparkled in the clear shallows. The couple beside him rolled in their sleep and knocked the wine bottle on its side. Wine worked its way through the sand, and he had to move their towels.

He leaned against the palm and admired his girlfriend. He traced the freckles down her back and watched how her shoulder blades came together when she straightened. He would join her in just a moment.

He swirled the ice in her glass, spilling some vodka onto the towel. He held the cup up to his girlfriend. He held it high as if it would lighten his mood. Memories of happy faces and smiling couples looped in his mind. Memories of second and third and fourth rounds at the bar. Memories he wished to forget.

Yes, he would join her, right after he finished her drink.

Goin’ it Alone

The train continued down the cracked river bed, the tracks rattling its passenger cart with a rhythmic the tin-tin-tin as the desert wind whipped dust against the windows. Doctor Ansel sat with his cane between his legs. His gloved hands, one on top of the other, rested upon the lead eagle carved into the canes peak. He sat with a wide grin that exposed crooked, yellow teeth, the angle at which caused his well-oiled mustache to tickle his upper cheek.

Across from him sat another man dressed in rags half asleep and outstretched on the bench before The Doctor. The man’s sleeping body had a frightened woman forced up against the window—or was she disgusted? A fourth passenger, a large sombrero covering his face, sat beside The Doctor. His hands were hidden beneath his soot-stained duster and everyone could tell he was awake.

“Not much further now, is it?” The Doctor adjusted his hands on his cane. “I think we have three, no, two and a half hours until we arrive in town! Oh, it is exciting, isn’t it?” The Doctor raised himself an inch in his seat to peer at the folk, sleeping or otherwise that bounced with the tin-tin-tin of the railcar.

“Will you stay still?” the woman across from him, a Miss Charlotte Henis, called, her voice pampered and fine; from somewhere north no doubt. “You have moved more than the train has. Just stay still for once, man.”

“Ah, yes. I do apologize for any discomfort.” He motioned to the sleeping figure beside her and continued. “It is just so exciting. You see, I am starting my new job in Brooks End. A fine job! A fine job indeed. I’m a detective. Don’t ask why everyone calls me doctor.” He winked at this. “I’ve worked on many cases back East-ways, many many cases. Have you ever heard of the Copper Glen robbery? Of course, you have. Well, my partner and I we oversaw that case. We brought some justice to that one. Oh, yes, we did. I am just so excited to get cracking on the next one.”

“All impressive, Doctor, just please sit down!”

“Oh, right.” Doctor Ansel took a heavy seat, his bottom hitting the cushioned wood as the train bounced. The impact caused his cane to kick into his chest and The Doctor snatched it from falling. “Say, have you been to Brooks End, Madam? I heard it is a rather fine place for a man employed such as myself. Lots for me to do there, you see?”

“A fine hole to die in. Nothing but outlaws and sand. My brother is waiting for me in town. His propositions did not work out—not to the surprise of anyone in the family. He wants to be like our father. An oil man through and through, my father is.”

“Oilmen, you say?” The itched beneath his glove. “They do pay well, don’t they?” He smiled, and deep creases stretched from the corner of his eyes.

The man beside Mrs. Charlotte groaned. “You two gonna keep it down? A man’s sleepin’ here. Been hours and I can’t get no sleep with you two talking!” The man shifted himself upright and ran a hand through his matted beard. “You two really know how to yap. From the East aren’t ya? Bet yer from the East. Got ears for stuff like that.”

“What is that sir?” Doctor Ansel perked up at the newcomer to the conversation.

“Just keep it down.” The man adjusted his seating, moving even closer to Mrs. Charlotte.

“You will back off from me, sir!” Mrs. Charlotte huffed. “Horrific, sleeping so close a lady like that! Where did you learn your manners?”

He groaned at her before turning.

“You smell of charcoal and cow dung! Push over this instant.”

Doctor Ansel spoke up, attempting his best to help Mrs. Charlotte, “Be a good sir and do as the lady says. We can work something out. Like gentlemen.”

“Or what, you’re going to detect me?” The man cackled and spat through the gap in his teeth.

“Disgusting specimen of a man you are!” Mrs. Charlotte brought an embroidered handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

The Doctor went to stand but stopped as the final stranger spoke up.

“You said ye had a partner.” The stranger had tilted his sombrero up to reveal his red eyes. He smelt of cigars.

“Excuse me?”

“What happened to your partner? Said ye had one. Why are you goin’ it alone?”

Doctor Ansel clutched the shaft of his cane. “Oh, well we have taken separate jobs. Yes, just this once; to cover more ground, you see? There are so many criminals out there.”

“Isn’t it dangerous out here alone?” Mrs. Charlotte asked.

“Oh I assure you I’m fine.” The Doctor ran a finger over his moustache.

The man in the sombrero glared at him for a moment longer. The Doctor started to sweat. Chewing, he lowered his hat and grunted, “Carry on.”

Mrs. Charlotte’s sudden holler exploded through the railcar. “You cannot be joking with me, you degenerate, vermin of a man!” she yelled at her neighbor.

“Pete, the name’s Pete. Stop calling me with your fancy insults you nag.”

The Doctor turned his gaze from the sombreroed stranger and back to the bickering couple.

“Let us all stop this,” he said, his voice a few tones quieter. “Please get some rest. Please, we can all welcome some silence for a moment.”

“You’re telling me,” Pete nearly burped.

“Miss Charlotte, if you would like to trade seats? That is if our friend here does not mind making room for a lady.”

The man in the sombrero did not answer but The Doctor felt his gaze under the heavy hat. “Good, Let’s swap then.” He clapped his hands together.

The two swapped seats, The Doctor now beside Pete. Mrs. Charlotte was correct—Pete’s scent was horrid even to The Doctor’s numbed senses. Yet, there was something familiar about it.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Charlotte curtsied before taking her seat.

The Doctor tilted his head in recognition and made himself comfortable again. Hands balanced upon his cane, one over the other, and legs spread.

The train rattled on and reached the plains between the approaching bluffs that marked the border of Brooks End. Just through those bluffs and the four could go their separate ways. The Doctor, previously ecstatic at the idea of arrival, felt a sudden weight about the looming bluffs. It made him uncomfortable.

“Excuse me,” The Doctor said to his acquaintances—if he wanted to call them that. “I am going to take a walk before we arrive. Stretch my legs a bit. You see, I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.” He smiled and whisked himself away, cane in hand.

Something was not right. He felt the sudden urge to get off the train. He could walk to town from here; it wasn’t too far. The smell of Pete still clung to his clothes. Pete’s scent had grown clear to him. He had smelt it before, smelt it more times than he would like to admit and many more times than he would ever tell a stranger. To be honest, he was embarrassed he didn’t make the connection earlier. The scent was well masked, but there was no more mistaking it.

Black powder.

A click sounded behind The Doctor, and the stench wafted forward with the sound. He held his hands up, gripping the cane. He wasn’t far from the exit. He could jump.

“The cane. Hand it over, Doctor,” Mrs. Charlotte demanded.

Doctor Ansel halted at the voice. “I believe there is some confusion.”

“No there ain’t.” He felt hard iron press into his back. “Pete, go stop the train.”

“Yes boss.” Pete shifted himself out of the seat.

“What could you want with an old man’s cane?”

“Don’t play me a fool, Doctor. We all know who you is. And what yew got in that cane. You hide the entire damn bank in there?” Charlotte’s true accent bled out of her proper façade.

“I-I don’t know what you me—”

“Shut up!” She cuffed him the back of his head with the butt of her pistol, knocking him to the ground. “How can so much money be coiled up like that. You know, some say you took down a whole bank just the two of ye’. Now you’re alone.” She snarled, “Pretty dumb travelin’ by yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma’am.” The Doctor kept holding onto his cane, careful to conceal his other hand as he reached for the pistol hidden beneath his jacket. “You see, I’m just a detective.”

Charlotte took a step forward, and Doctor Ansel’s pulled the trigger, punching a bloody hole through her stocking.

She screamed as the train screeched, the tin-tin-tin of the train coming to a rumble then a stop. Charlotte collapsed to one knee bellowed for one moment longer before The Doctor placed another shot into her forehead.

“Think I’ll walk the rest of the way,” The Doctor said to no one in particular. The shot of his weapon still pinged off the metal walls as he made his way to the railcar side exit.

He jumped onto the dried riverbed, kicking up orange dust with his impact. He brushed off his coat, readjusted his gloves, and held his cane close to his chest, all as a bullet entered the back of his skull.

The shot bounced against the bluffs and held the desert in a breadth of silence. Without much of a hurry, the stranger with the sombrero stepped up to the Doctor’s body and pulled the cane from his dead grip. He pried the lead eagle from its peak, revealing a dozen or so folded one-hundred-dollar bills.

The stranger took off his sombrero, wiped the sweat from his brow, spat, and placed his hat back on his balding head. He looked to the men on the train and their silver badges that glimmered in the blinding sun. His badge flickered under his duster.

“Go get that fool who stopped the train. Kill em’ if you have to. I’ll take care of this.”

The men departed, and the stranger pulled out a cigar from his pocket, striking a match in one flick. He puffed into the still air, the smoke swirling around his hat.

“Shame you and your partner split. Ain’t safe goin’ it alone.”

My Ocean

When I was young, Dad used to talk to us about Mars on the beach. He would lay out his big AC/DC towel while Mom rubbed us down with sunblock and warned about the dangers of sunburns and skin cancer. While my brother and I made drippy sandcastles, Dad described rust-colored mountains and endless red deserts. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of what he told us. Mars never seemed like a place I’d ever see, and building a colony on another planet sounded make-believe. I didn’t think that we’d actually leave. All I wanted was to swim for sand dollars.

We lived in a small town on the western coast of Florida. Thoughts about space or Mars or anywhere else didn’t cross my mind much. Life by the beach was all I knew and all I needed. My brother and I would buy ice cream cones at the corner store and patrol the beach for sea glass and corals to add to our collection. Hyped on sugar, we’d lay them out on my dad’s AC/DC towel and pick through our findings day after day. We’d do this all year—each year more shells, fish bones, and corals washing on our beach. At night I’d hold starfish to the sky and wonder what glowing speck was Mars.

I never shared my dad’s fascination with Mars. My brother sometimes got caught up in his stories, but I was never swayed. Mars didn’t have fish, or dolphins, or corals, or sand dollars. It was a boring red desert with a single metal base. No one snorkeled or boogie-boarded on Mars, and I couldn’t go to the corner store to buy ice cream on its rusty mountains.

At seventeen, my dad had been on Mars for nearly two years. Besides for our monthly video calls, we had little contact with him. He kept us informed of the progress on his Mars base, and we filled him in on what he missed at home. Without Dad, Mom spent most of her time inside while I went out to the beach every day. My brother liked to keep Mom company, something I was always grateful for. Dad used to love coming to the beach so I made it my duty to show him my findings every time we got to talk. I was surprised to see the worry on his face when I showed him the skull of a dolphin I had found.

That was when I realized we really were going to Mars. Yes, my whole life my dad had been telling us that we’d move to the big red planet one day, but it always felt more like bedtime story. Like when someone says they want to see Japan or Australia but everyone knows it will never really happen. This time though, it felt different. I knew that we wouldn’t be able to stay in Florida forever.

I left that video call as if walking through a bad dream. The oceans were dying. The planet was dying. And we were moving to Mars in less than a year. I left the house after Mom started dinner and walked to the beach in a daze. My mind was crowded with the difficult idea of leaving home. The beach was my life. I hoped walking to it would calm me as it always did. But, as if opening my eyes for the first time, I noticed the changes that I had ignored.

It wasn’t as if I was oblivious to the changes. I had just thought about them in a way that was easy to imagine. The water was no longer warm and colorful but thick and foggy. The shore wasn’t covered in treasures and sea glass but covered in litter and carcasses. The fish I had been swimming after just the other day were suddenly starved, frail, and sick instead of slow and stupid. The corals were bleached and brittle instead of bright white and easy to collect. The burning sun, which had been so warm and friendly, now set over the ocean, its orange intensity reminding me of an oil fire.

Two days later, my mother told me to stay away from the ocean.

After I was barred from the ocean, reality hit me. After we moved, I’d never get to see the ocean again—any ocean. I’d never swim after snappers, uncover sand dollars, or watch dolphins flip over the waves. I could never taste sea salt or feel the wet sand or hear the waves or the wailing gulls. There was no natural water on Mars, and even though Dad bragged about the artificial lakes NASA had established, the thought of it sunk in my chest. There were no corals, fish, dolphins, or whales in those filtered bathtubs. Would we sit on concrete benches and sift through plastic shells and aquarium corrals? Would we coat ourselves with fake sunscreen to protect ourselves from a giant light bulb in the ceiling?

I tried to sneak back to the water during our final summer. I had to see the ocean one more time. Our house was sweltering, and Mom fixated on the news that cycled reports of burning forests, flooding coasts, and widespread famine, watching these stories on repeat all day and night. It was depressing to stay indoors, but outside wasn’t much better. The ocean had risen far past the old beach. Instead of white sand, cracked asphalt roads and muddy flats dropped off into thick soupy water that lapped against the broken shore, visible from my bedroom window. Soon, that water would be our doorstep.

The night before we were meant to leave, I decided to take a final swim despite the dangers. If we were going to Mars, this would be my last chance. Oceans would be a thing of stories and legends soon. While my mom and brother packed the last of our things, I slipped out the back and made the short walk to the shoreline, which was now half a block past the old corner store.

It was late afternoon, and the red sun was setting over the dying ocean. Clumps of flotsam dotted what had once been streets and stores and homes. I squinted and pretended that the trash was dolphins or sharks skimming the water as they used to years ago. Against my mother’s warnings, I dipped a toe into the water and held it there. The water was hot. Not warm, but hot like a bathtub. It felt slippery like spoiled milk.

I followed the shore out of town to the closest remnant of a beach I could find. It was a small strip of gravel and mud carved out of a hillock near an old water tower I never thought about. I rolled out my dad’s AC/DC towel, placed down glass, corals, and shells, and sifted through them, pretending as if nothing had changed. I imagined the waves behind me crashing on rocks and sandbars, not brick walls and broken fences. I picked through my ocean treasures until the stars came out, and I did everything I could to keep from looking at them. I tried to focus on my small world outlined on that towel, far below the stars and that single red planet.

I sat until hightide hissed at my feet. Then, I packed my things and left forever.

A Short Rant on Rejection

Rejection letters. We all get them. A lot of them. It’s the cost of trying to get your work out there; never-ending, hammering rejection. They are the constant speed bumps for the writer’s ego and confidence. Stories I’ve been proud of have been chipped at email by email until I start to question my sanity. Of course, you can’t let these rejections stop you.

It can be difficult to ford on through an inbox full of people passing on your stories. It’s easy to stop submitting your work. Or to give up hope on a project you believe in. But you can never give up. Sure, try another story, write something else up and fire that off. Keep trying.

It took me two years to get my short story “Automated Coffee” published in Andromeda Spaceways Magazine. Many times, I almost trashed the story. I didn’t. I kept submitting and submitting. You have to keep pushing forward one submission at a time. And while you wait for what seems like an endless waterfall of rejection letters, continue to remind yourself why you love to write. And the easiest way of doing this is, well, to just keep writing.

Write and read. Read and write. Write and read. Do this. Do this every day. Always. Continue to feed your passion. Read what other authors are writing. See what the magazines you are submitting to are publishing. Buy one of their editions. Check out their editors. Do everything you can do to see what’s out there. Immerse yourself in the world you’re trying to be a part of.

Over time these rejection letters can grow numbing. In a way, that’s a blessing. In another way, that can be even more dangerous than getting beat down by them. Use each rejection to fuel you. They are opportunities for you to grow as a writer and to continue crafting your passion.

Out of everything. Don’t ever stop writing.

Musical Memories

Sonya took her seat, placed her water bottle beside her keyboard, and rubbed her hands with moisturizer. Outside, sunlight reflected off the morning frost. Stout, gray buildings squatted in feet of snow—the pathways still not cleared. She looked out to the towering mountains that enclosed the valley and then turned her attention to the blinking wall behind her.

“Good morning class,” she said to no one. “I hope we’re all ready for today’s lesson.”

As usual, there was no answer.

She imagined the eyes of her students on her, readying their clarinets, twisting together their trombones and trumpets. Sonya had never been a teacher. Before all this, she had been a post-grad from MIT with a fresh degree in software engineering. Now she was here. If this were a real classroom, she imagined it could fit twenty desks. To her luck, she didn’t need to worry about that. She had no idea how to deal with children.

“Any questions before we begin today’s lesson?”

Again, no answer.

She nodded to herself as her hands hovered above her keyboard. With thin fingers, she began to type. She struck at the keys slow at first, as if a pianist finding her rhythm, but increased her speed as the seconds passed. Each letter gave a satisfying click that she followed up with the clunk of hitting enter. Click, click, click—clunk! A melody of information strung out in lines of code in front of her.

Class had begun.

She entered thousands of words into the database—hundreds of lessons uploaded to the server deep below the Academy. She navigated the database with ease. Every line of code she entered with precision, without a single syntax error or contradiction. Her architecture was exquisite, clean, and all her own. She had complete autonomy with her daily lessons. Of course, the Academy’s Board of Educators dictated specific topics that needed covering for the project, but in what way and in what order was up to her.

Most of her colleagues chose to upload concrete mathematical formulas or detailed scientific information to the database. All of this information fed to the same place: the great computer at the heart of the Academy, its humming machinery linked to thousands of young minds sleeping across the frozen globe. This morning Sonya would feed those slumbering minds with music.

Sonya understood her colleague’s approach. Coming off years of endless lab hours, she had almost fallen into that same trap. It was easy to cram the database with refined teachings. She had no doubt the next generation would be of a brilliant pedigree, but what good what it be if their knowledge was devoid of color? What good would all of these teachings be if the children did not learn of Beethoven, or listen to Janacek’s Sinfonietta, or wiggle their bodies to The Beatles?

As a child, Sonya used to sing. She didn’t sing anymore, of course—stopping long before her twenties and the climate crisis. And her dad had loved to sing with her. They’d get together in her backyard back where Massachusetts once was, while her mom cooked chicken fajitas, staging a small family concert. He’d play his favorite music from the likes of the Guns N’ Roses or AC/DC, and she’d put on her personal favorites like Britney Spears or NSYNC.

For her lesson today, Sonya had brought a speaker system. She plugged it into the outlet at the base of her desk and turned on her custom playlist that began with “L.A. Woman” by the Doors. Just like years before, she imagined the big empty room as her backyard, her dad at her side and her mom cheering them on from the open window while she cooked chicken fajitas. To this day, Sonya still couldn’t get “Dirty Water” by the Standells out of her head after her dad’s constant playing of the song—Boston sure had been her home.

Sonya made sure these sleeping minds would listen to the entire musical palate, just as she had. She hoped once her lesson was over, favorites would be forming inside those dormant minds. A smile touched her lips as she imagined these children singing along to “We Built This City” by Starship as they constructed their first settlement.

At the start of “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” she began the uploading process. As the music streamed from her speakers, she typed along with the orchestra’s rising tempo. She could almost smell the roasting peppers wafting in from her mom’s cooking. The music filled the large empty room, fast and loud. She did not doubt that her colleagues would find her lesson disruptive, but so did her neighbors back in Boston, and that never stopped her and her dad. These were her lessons, her songs, her concert for these children. Maybe they will love to sing just as much as she had when she was young. Maybe they can all sing along to Billy Joel, knowing damn well that we in fact had started the fire.

Sonya continued. Each key press returned that satisfying click. Each click chained together like a song of its own. Her keys were her drums, guitar, bass, and vocals, all performing for the frozen world. While the Backstreet Boys announced who exactly was back (the Backstreet Boys were back), Sonya dove into artists, albums, their backgrounds, their historical influences, and their impact on the artistic and cultural environment. She pulled information from databanks and from memories of long talks with her dad during those summer home concerts. She sampled new songs and old; her data-spread as organized and exact as her dad’s old record collection.

As her music switched from Andrea Bocelli’s “Por ti Volare” to Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland,” Sonya jumped from her chair and began to dance. It had been years since she had danced like this. The world made little room for dance anymore—not that she was much of a dancer during her years as an undergrad. She suddenly wasn’t inside the cold walls of the Academy, trapped in a valley of snow. The flooding, the freezing, the great machine she had been typing words into for the last eight months were all gone. She was dancing with her dad. Water bottle in hand, she stood in front of the window and pointed out over the snow-trapped settlement belting the chorus of “Take on Me” by A-ha. She sang like she did when she was eight—meaning loud and not very well. But she sang, and she hoped those sleeping minds enjoyed every musical note just as much as she did.

The next day, as she expected, complaints were made against her previous in-work concert. The Board of Educators called her in to discuss her behavior. Several on the Board claimed her use of music was disruptive and counterproductive to the Academy’s goal. Some didn’t seem to mind. One even complimented her music choice—”L.A. Woman” had been their mother’s favorite song. Sonya didn’t care about their criticism. She knew she was in no threat of removal. The world was frozen dead, and the next generation was being pumped full of drugs and information. Her work was too important for termination. It was just difficult for them to remember the good everyone used to have.

The others weren’t interested in teaching the next generation the “Cupid Shuffle” or “Cotton Eye Joe.” They wanted to type Pythagoras’ Theorem ten thousand times and teach them how many cells there are inside the human body. Not to say that these things aren’t important, but they are colorless. Just because the next generation needed to be ready for the monumental task of rebuilding society after this ice age, their world didn’t need to be as gray and dull as the frozen wastes surrounding them.

It reminded her of her elementary teacher, Mrs. Crawshaw. Sonya had brought her dad’s Walkman to class to pass around to all of her friends. Of course, school was no place for “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads, especially not during fourth-grade math class, but it was one of her dad’s favorite songs. Now she had shared the Talking Heads with both her classmates and the children sleeping through the worst period in human history. And those in charge were just as unhappy about it as Mrs. Crawshaw.

Sonya understood what the music reminded them of. She could hear it in the halls after she met with the Board of Educators. It came as a subtle, distant humming to the tune of “Don’t Stop Believing”—Sonya hadn’t even played Journey’s timeless piece the other day. The others were letting themselves remember their favorite songs. They were allowing themselves the joy of a short whistle or a quiet hum even though their memories hurt. Sonya couldn’t’ go back to Boston and sing about how much she loved that dirty water with her dad. Her colleagues couldn’t go back to their homes and listen to their music with their friends and families. There were no more festivals to flock to with tote bags full of weed and beer. There were no more concerts or live bands down at the pizza joint between Willow and Cross street. There was just snow and ice and dead buildings. All anyone had was the Academy, filled with depressed educators teaching equations to ever-sleeping children.

Sonya turned up her speaker and grabbed some extra water bottles for all the singing she’d be doing over the next few hours. She never thought she’d sing again. Not after her dad tried to sing with her in front of all her friends on her thirteenth birthday, not after finalizing her software degree, and especially not now. She was singing for the end of the world. She was singing for the start of a new world. She was singing so those around her could learn to smile for just a little bit longer.

She played “American Idiot” by Green Day, which she found especially entertaining, “TiK ToK” by Ke$ha, and a hundred more songs she had once listened to when the radio still aired and they still sold iPods. Maybe some of the songs weren’t the most appropriate to upload into the brains of sleeping children, but they needed a place to be remembered. And Sonya couldn’t help but find some humor playing Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg’s “The Next Episode.”

Hold up.

The Board of Educators soon realized there was little harm in her musical endeavors, not that Sonya planned on stopping. Over the next week, the Academy began to echo with the sound of music. The other educators kept to their dry information and their historical texts, but Sonya heard them. The Academy may have been one of the last centers for human knowledge, but it didn’t have to be dismal. Everyone had spent so many months in these cold, silent halls that it was difficult to imagine this place as anything but depressing. Yet, right at that moment, Sonya could hear the muffled sounds of “Party in the USA” even though there had been no parties and no more “USA” for quite some time—this fact didn’t stop Miley from belting her heart out.

Yes, they were at the end of the world, trapped in a snow-clogged valley in a forgotten corner of the Himalayas. Their homes were gone, flooded, and frozen. Every single one of the artists they listened to was long dead. But that didn’t need to be the end. They were teaching the sleeping generation that the world before wasn’t just formulas, building plans, and war. It was a place they all wanted to remember, even though it hurt.

While the world sat in silent death, Sonya danced until her sweat mixed with her tears. Tears she didn’t realize she was crying. In the last moments of another dead day, she wasn’t one of the Academy’s educators. She was an eight-year-old girl back in Boston, Massachusetts, dancing with her dad in their backyard on a July afternoon during summer break. He was playing “Electric Avenue,” and they were both screaming “Oi!” frightening the neighbor’s dog into a barking fit while her mom made chicken fajitas cheering them on.