Category: issue 9

My sister sent a messenger urchin to wait for me in the journeyman dormitories where I lived. The kid was almost asleep on the doorstep when I finally finished. Autumn was our busy season. But Milla wouldn’t have sent for me for no reason, so I gave the kid a copper and postponed my dinner to see what she wanted.

The old Victorian house loomed, its windows dark as dead monitors. The once-lawn spread before it like a keyboard, scraggly wires of tall grass jutting out in clumps around old flagstones, decaying solar shingles, and assorted human flotsam. The sun above shone laser bright, threatening to overwhelm Zinc IV’s optic sensors when it focused them too high. Clouds reddish brown with nitrogen-dioxide rolled over the mountains and would block the sun soon enough, certainly for hours, maybe for days.

“It’s hideous,” I say, because I’m too sleep-deprived to be polite. The stuffed cat is just the sort of gift a carefree, childless sister would buy for a newborn. It regards us now from its place on the changing table with huge, glassy eyes. Its sparse black fur covers an anatomically unlikely body that emits a tinny meow when squeezed, and its tag confirms my suspicions: made from 100% unnatural substances, probably carcinogenic. My sister must have purchased it as an afterthought from some overpriced airport store as she jetted out to see her new nephew.

The dubious shelter of native prairie grasses let Dandy believe—momentarily—that she was being ridiculous. “Dandelion!” His voice held a condescending calm as measured and heavy as his footsteps. She’d never told him her name. No one called her Dandelion but her mother. Some quick, invasive googling would explain it, though. And would turn up the car she drove and her trail volunteer schedule.

I’m not going to ignore this, but I’m not going to call my doctor either. Not yet. The last time I made an appointment, it got scheduled weeks out, and the problem had cleared up by the time I arrived. I paid money just to look like a hypochondriac explaining what had been going on. Instead, I’ll keep an eye on it. I’ll even take some photos on my phone—document their progress. If my ears get any longer, or hairier, then I’ll call.

Chloe stared through the car window at the darkening skies and despaired at their cloudlessness. So much for Vancouver’s perpetual rain. The moon hung large and round above the treetops.

Every heart pulsed a lazy rhythm one rainy Friday evening as I stood huddled in the mass of commuters waiting for the Red Line. Every heart, that is, but one. Tendrils of my magic, invisible to everyone but me, picked the owner out from the crowd.

I was among the first to upload to VelleSomnia, an armored, fridge-sized satellite surrounded by a football field of solar collectors in geostationary orbit over the Pacific. Despite occasional jitters and fickle object permanence, the ten thousand of us beta testers had the run of hardware meant for ten million digitized souls. However, like all good things—romances, highs, balanced ecologies—the beta run eventually ended, and the fees and charges started.

When night leaks into the sunset, you flip the gate latches. They aren’t so much there to keep the cloud sheep in, more to signal that it’s time for them to roam the hayflower fields below the Sister Crescent Mountains—twin peaks standing side by side, sharing winding roads and sloping valleys. Each sheep unfurls their wings, bristles their hide, and rubs their horns against one another or a nearby tree trunk—the vibrations wake their siblings and relatives perched on the branches as thick as their bodies, hidden, partially, by head-sized leaves.

“I only want to be seen for who I really am,” I tell my friends. Only two out of three made it over, and I’m trying not to feel too many feelings about that fact; I’m already delicate enough after the gallery opening today.