Why Dungeon Masters Make Great Marketers

You’re two pepperoni pizzas deep, hunched over as your friends toss dice onto your banged-up basement table. At least, that’s what it looks like. What everyone is imagining, however, is a group of intrepid adventurers fighting a pack of goblins that accosted them on their way to town to return the mayor’s lost prize swine: Porky Pete (named by one of your players, naturally). Not one of them even notices the dryer rumbling in the background.

That’s Dungeons & Dragons, baby.

To sit down for a tabletop roleplaying game (TTRPG for those nerd-savvy), be it D&D or any other game, means sitting down for collaborative storytelling. It means escaping into a story of your own making. It means selling a story as reality.

And if that doesn’t sound like marketing, you’re probably not a marketer. So let me explain myself.

Before any dice are rolled, a dungeon master (DM for short) has to convince a group to even show up:

“Basically,” you start, eyes wide with fanatic excitement. “You’ll come over, and we’ll have a kick-ass adventure where you fight a bunch of monsters and find treasure. Oh, you’re the last person we need for the group.” (You’ve said this last bit to everyone.)

You make big, bold promises and try to capture your friend’s imagination. Hoping that one of them will bite and go, “Oh? Pray tell, my good dungeon master,” and not the halfhearted “sure,” you’re totally going to get.

Next, you’re going to need to make sure you’re delivering something the players actually want. Are they interested in classic dragon-slaying dungeon delving? How about a murder mystery in the king’s court? Or maybe they want to be the bad guys for a change.

Then you’re going to have to deliver on that promise. You promised gold, you promised combat, you promised basically anything to get them at the table. But if you ended up convincing them to sit down for a night of slaying dragons, but instead they spend four hours fighting giant rats in a smelly sewer, the eyes are glazing over, the phones are coming out, and everyone’s going to head out early. And they probably aren’t coming to session two.

Delivering on your promise is a golden rule in marketing. You fail that, you break trust. Game over.

Okay, so let’s say you are telling the story you promised. Next comes the fun part. Drum roll, please…. Emotional investment!

The thing is, you don’t just get emotional investment. You have to earn it, my Dungeon Master Marketer extraordinaire. Because It’s the beating, beautiful heart of all marketing—of all storytelling. It’s that mystical magical “Just one more page.”

The good news is that once emotional investment sinks its hooks into your players, the rest gets a hell of a lot easier.

Because when your players start engaging, the story becomes effortless. Your players suddenly offer ideas. They provide feedback. They think of things you could never ever think of in a million billion years.

It’s the dream of every marketer: folks who engage and care about what you’re trying to tell them. And it really can feel like magic. Your words and your ideas stirred some dormant part of your audience to life.

You bring the words; they bring the action.

And while professional marketing may not be as exciting as slaying dragons to save a fiefdom, it operates on a lot of the same levels. That’s why DM’s have a leg up here, even if they don’t realize it. They have to market their adventure, figure out what their players want, deliver on their promise, and get them to engage.

That’s the full marketing package if I’ve ever seen it.

Whether you’re slaying a dragon with D20s, or you just bought a set of curtains because your cat tore down the old one, a story probably brought you there. And chances are pretty high that someone really good at marketing helped you see that story to its conclusion.

Big Dumb Crybaby

I cry a lot.

I’m not talking about a full sob or dramatic weep. I get the eye stings. That salty leakage after a particular thought, sound, sight, or smell brushes up against that little thing we call a soul. It’s a cathartic rush. A gasp.

We’re really good at feeling things. Almost as good as we are at not feeling things.

And we’ve all done a great job training ourselves to not feel things. Not properly, at least. I’d wager most folks consider themselves far too busy to cry. Far too busy to stop and realize that a month, three months, a fucking year just passed.

Exhausted, we spend our evenings on the couch, staring glassy-eyed at devices we’re socially obligated to own. Though at this point, I hesitate to say we own our screens. We just swipe on to the next clip, data harvested, adds generated, continuing, and continuing until Earth completes another run around the sun.

So, I like to cry.

It’s my emotional eruption that pulls me back to the present and the now. I probably sound crazy. Maybe I’m a big dumb crybaby. But let me ask you: when did you last cry?

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’ve been SO busy and overworked that you have cried. A lot. You’ve got that full-body, chest-heaving, vomit-inducing cry. The type of crying that doesn’t just come after your breaking point, but after you forgot how you broke in the first place. No, you’re wrung out like a human sponge, wondering why you can’t just suck it up like a normal person.

Spoiler alert: the rest of us aren’t much better.

By the time you’ve caught your breath, a decade has passed, your hair is gone, and you aren’t quite where you thought you’d be when you were five years old and said you’d grow up to be an archeologist—or maybe that’s just me.

Either way, probably not healthy.

I do my best to avoid those kinds of downward spirals– not that you really can. But a little cry here and there helps. It’s a pressure release in the pipeline that is my discombobulation. A way to decompress from the mess of everything without getting too sloppy. Because boy, do we need to decompress from everything sometimes.

Crying helps me connect. With myself. With others. It helps me relive a moment, good or bad. But it’s hard not to get stuck in feedback loops and dopamine cycles that spin you round and round and round till you’re vomiting on yourself like some fucked up mama bird.

Because I do get stuck. We all do. In the noise, the shouting, the screaming, the anger, the hate. But hot-digity damn is it nice to feel something beyond the snorts, the “hahs,” the “Check this meme out,” and the “oh my god I can’t handle this anymore what the fuck is wrong with me.”

We live in a world where AI is sanitizing our prose. Where our attentions are clipped and dropped into algorithmically laid labyrinths filled with personalized minotaurs that bellow stale memes and politics. A world where every news outlet lures you in with tantalizingly bullshit headlines only to dash you on the rocks of fear and propaganda.

But we also live in a world where a fat little bluejay lives in your yard. Where the weather was so perfect that you spent the afternoon reading beneath that old oak tree. Where you just shared a good beer with an old buddy.

Sure, it’s also the same world where you broke your arm in a skiing accident, where you failed that intro-level math test, and where your car broke down in the middle of a thunderstorm. But that’s life. The good and the bad.

There are tears for both.

We owe it to ourselves to gasp for breath—if only for a second. For me, crying is that gasp. For you, it could be something different. Point is, we all need something, yeah?

AI is destroying your confidence as a writer.

There’s an unspoken rule in creative writing workshops: don’t rewrite someone’s work when giving feedback. At best, it comes off as dismissive. At worst, it can destroy their confidence.

So why are so many people letting ChatGPT rewrite their work?

Just like in a creative writing workshop, when ChatGPT rewrites your prose—even ifyou’ve trained it to sound like you—you lose confidence in yourself.

Many are touting how ChatGPT can be a useful tool, and sure, in careful moderation, it can help you find the perfect word or help you remember a tricky piece of grammar. But like jamming Fritos down your throat at midnight, it’s detrimental to your long-term health.

One generated sentence becomes one generated paragraph becomes one generated page, and boom, you aren’t the writer anymore.

So, next time you’re writing, stay confident. You know what you’re doing. You’ve been doing it for years. And as you type away, don’t for a single second believe that a thoughtless generative printer can do a better job than your beautiful human brain.

Okay with Being Okay

There’s a space in my mind. It sits at the center of my grey matter. A little sanctuary. A tiny chamber that brushes up against everything else. It’s the focal point of my brain in the same way a big, ugly-ass vase is the focal point of a poorly-furnished living room. Even when I’m not actively thinking about it, it’s there, clashing with paint, carpet, and everything else. Unlike some distant memories or old habits, it doesn’t gather dust. I keep it polished. I inspect the vase for cracks and issues, even when everyone tells me there’s nothing to worry about and that I should breathe and stop for a second and—you get the point.

Sometimes, the vase is a pot of water sitting on my stovetop. I left the burner on and decided it was a great time to leave for the day—this shaky analogy is made worse because I have done this before. I’ll be out and about, doing whatever I’m doing, when I sense that simmering. That chemical smell of burning Teflon after the water has been steamed out and the flame sucks the bottom of the pot. Maybe I’m on the couch watching TV, reading a book, driving to the supermarket. Where I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that I need to be worried about something, right? I mean, I left the fucking burner on.

It’s a twisted sense of vindication, remembering something you should be worried about, even if that worry is as empty as harmless as dinner plans or as distant as a due date that hasn’t been established yet. But there is always something to worry about. And like an ugly vase at the center of a living room, or water evaporating out of a burning pot, it demands attention.

Why does it feel wrong to not worry? To not have these things that claw and scream and stoke my fears and anxieties? Even on those days when everything is perfect—the sun is out, the skies are blue, and the danged birds are singing like a Disney flick—I can’t help but say to myself, “Hmmm, I think it’s time to panic.”

How can I sit here and enjoy my time when there are insubstantial, trivial, and neurotic things to worry about? Because no matter what, that water is going to start simmering again, or that vase is going to get in the way, and my brain isn’t going to let me relax.

Because relaxing is the worst thing I can do. Because then the accusations start.

Why relax when you could fill that time with a side gig? Hustle and bustle. Get on that grindset. Stop watching YouTube, or reading a book, or playing a game. Get out and make something of yourself. Stop enjoying the moment and think, think, think, think, THINK. You’re only being lazy. That’s all. If you justify your enjoyment, you’re just coping. Be nervous. Be scared. Be regretful. Look at these last thirty years and ask yourself…could I have done more?

Obviously, don’t do any of that. But it’s hard sometimes, isn’t it? Especially now. Today. Tomorrow. Over the next few years. Brains aren’t supposed to do this, be hijacked by pressures worries, and ever-increasing expectations. I know I’m not alone. Of course, I’m not alone. And while that fills me with some comfort it’s also a bit sad.

We should all be okay with being okay.

It’s so Easy to Feel Like Sh*t

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It’s so easy to make yourself feel like shit. Seriously, it is! I know you agree. Sit there for a minute and think. Are you thinking? How does it make you feel? I bet you feel super shitty. Yeah, me too. Don’t worry we’re going to get through this together.

During lunch a co-worker told me that the rye chip—that dark little cracker in your Chex Mix—is the worst. Everyone in the room agreed. I sat there and laughed and proceeded to keep my little yapper shut because, well, I fucking love rye chips. To speak out against the Chex Mix council would brand me as a workplace pariah. So, now I feel dumb for liking the little toasted bread flakes. And now I’m thinking about how I’m never going to make it and that I’m going to die unaccomplished, and everyone will be like, “That Bobby guy? He was kind of okay, I guess. A bit annoying, though.”

Okay, maybe that’s an overreaction. Don’t sit there and say you haven’t overreacted before. Especially not after inhaling a bag of Goldfish with the same reverence as a castaway sucking down potable water. I bet you felt real bad about yourself then.

But I’m not here to make you feel like shit. I’m here to help point fingers at the why the how, and the God damn it, I need to stop doing this to myself every thirty-five minutes.

Before my Chex Mix encounter, I was thinking about people. Specifically, I was thinking about how much I hate them. Or, to be even more specific, how much I hate myself. See, thinking about other people is the easiest way to feel truly horrible about yourself—a shortcut to misery. If you want to skip, leap, and trip into a bad day, just think about your more successful friends, family, strangers, or celebrities.

The problem with being me is that I look in the mirror and I see, well me. Other people get the privilege of looking in the mirror and seeing themselves. They see success. They see someone who has their life figured out with lots of smiles and money and tons of friends who think they are all really cool. They definitely don’t look at themselves and think,

“Fuck.”

Comparison is the greatest tool in your arsenal of self-hatred. It doesn’t matter that the other person is also a stupid little human with too many thoughts rattling around their head, just like you and I.

Why am going on this tangent? Why am I dragging you through my pissy-fit when I’m just throwing a tantrum? I’ll tell you why: because we’re all throwing a tantrum together, and I’m here to help if only a little bit. Let me be the first to say it,

It is okay to feel like shit.

We all make ourselves feel bad. We gaze at someone else’s verdant lawns and forget that overnight, we climbed over their fence and painted their grass the most perfect shade of green. We ignore the crows tearing worms out of a soggy lawn, waterlogged from poor drainage. We ignore the dog shit and the wrappers and the entire rotisserie chicken that’s feeding a family of angry raccoons. It’s so much easier to see the topiary you could never afford and ignore the rampant rodents ravaging their garage.

You could argue that there is some kind of comfort in the success of others. You could argue that if everyone’s lives are heaping piles of crap, then the world truly is an awful place, and we should all be sad all the time. Well, I don’t believe that. I think that there is plenty of room to be angry, jealous, and at the end of the day, Okay.

Everyone has their own lives. Their own tastes. Their own bags of Goldfish or Chex Mix. Some people have better things than you: better hair, a better car, more money, and a cooler job. But they also have to look at themselves in the mirror every day and hear the little ghosts in their brain measuring them up to someone else. We can take these comparisons and invert them. Compare yourself to yourself and see that maybe things aren’t so bad. Maybe the you of today is better than the you of yesterday. Maybe you’ve got a pretty kickass life when you stop yelling at yourself.

I guarantee that if you take the time to breathe, you’ll see that you’re a lot more put together than you give yourself credit.

I know. Giving yourself your credit is difficult. It’s like writing a check to yourself at the bank and cashing it at the same teller. What’s the point? Did it really do anything? Honestly, it probably didn’t. You’re going to say, “Hey, good job me!” And then, ten seconds later, curl up into the fetal position on your couch as you compare yourself to your best friend who just arrived at a wine and cheese mixer without you. Little did you know that your best friend is also sobbing, curled up in their car because of some other person that they compared themselves to and so on and so on and so on.

That’s sort of how life goes.

Look, we’ve all got our problems. We’ve got our good and bad. We all spend way too much energy worrying about stupid, idiotic things like our neighbor’s car or our friend’s vacation. I know that I do. I get this weight in my gut, a crushing ball of fear made lead whenever I think about someone far more successful than me. How could I ever compare? Should I dig a hole in the dirt and lie down so I can get this dying thing over with already?

If you said yes, then you are either being far too mean or far too dramatic.

I know that what I say here isn’t going to change your life, or your day, or even the next hour. But you’re not alone with your jealousy or the whiplash of self-loathing that follows. Try to remember that when you swear at yourself in the mirror or in your bed or while you stare down at an empty bag of snacks, your neighbor has probably done something similar before driving off to your dream job. For all you know, they’re about to get fired.

It’s okay to want that. Seriously.

The biggest thing that will make you feel like shit is yourself. It’s easy, and that’s okay. Let yourself feel like shit. It’s human. But let yourself breathe once in a while. Maybe you won’t go on that Hawaiian vacation or buy that sports car. Maybe you’ll feel embarrassed about your strange obsession with rye chips. But at the end of the day, I hope you can say,

“Hey, maybe things aren’t so bad!”

Even if you change your mind ten minutes later.

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.