Category: issue 8

“Papa,” the little girl asked him, “why is the ocean sideways?”

“They’re ready for you, Captain,” says the voice interface of the Orbiting Transfer Station. The glass in front of me is opaque, and I can’t see into the holding room. My heart sprouts wings and beats them wildly in my chest, but I steady my hand, and tap to open the door. The floor under my feet creaks as the station lists from the force of the invisible matter outside. I feel the change in a surge of queasiness. The station finds itself and is still, but the swell stays in my stomach.

The meeting was held in one of the bomb shelters left over from the water wars.

Francisco paints. Delicate strokes, the soft bristles gliding across the canvas. He is working in the genre of still lifes featuring dead deer, killed grouse, glistening fatty hams with the bone in the center. His god lies across a table, trussed at wrists and ankles, chest cut open to reveal the heart. The god’s face is masklike, not human, antlers sprouting from his head, eyes large and golden like an owl’s, teeth sharp and fanged. Above him, the branches of a lemon tree hang down incongruously, the leaves thick and glossy, the lemons vivid yellow. One can almost smell them.