He needs a dusting of fungicide
every now and then
A high-functioning depressive
like Emily’s Homer
becoming one with the sheets
The inner linings of his organs
all in revolt
turning and groaning
trying to suckle at the capillaries
get their last share
of whatever molecules are still floating in the plasma
If only‘s in every dusty corner
As cryogenics slow the unreliable, pulsing muscle in his chest
into a lasting nondegenerative stupor
in a glass case
(What did they do with Lenin when the wall fell?)
Dozing Snow White/Sleeping Beauty fresh
on and on

High Noon

Screen Shot 2013-01-27 at 2.19.47 PM


Patchwork sky
cerulean shows through the cracks
in textbook cumulus
Beneath, the city is motley
some in penumbra
tree greens and billboard blues muted
The rest is naked
in stark white

Identity is tricky
direction interminable
in the middle of things

what if

Jonathan wiped some froth from his lips with the back of his hand and set the glass down on the lacquered bar.

The play unfolding on the LCD mounted over the bottles on the wall went badly for their team and Marty groaned while lifting his bottle.

“Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am,” Jonathan began to say. “Look at this. I’m sitting here, having a nice cold one, and in a few minutes I’ll head home to Gracie and the kids. We’ll all go to bed without a worry in the world. I smile, man. I smile when I’m laying in bed trying to get to sleep because everything’s so good. The worst thing that happened to me today is that he missed that pass,” he said, gesturing toward the replay on the screen. “I’m blessed. In fact, I’m starting to feel bad about it sometimes. I start thinking about my place in the world. I mean, we’re not rich or anything. Not by American standards, but even in America–even in this city–there are thousands of people who don’t have anything like the life I have. People without education, without money, no place to call their own. No sense of security, you know? And then there’s the rest of the world. There’re war zones. There are places in the world where little kids spend all day digging through trash to find useful bits of metal to sell. And when I really stop and think about it, I realize it’s not just luck that I have the life I have. And it’s not that I’ve earned my easy life and they haven’t. I start thinking that my life couldn’t exist with theirs. My happiness depends on their misery. The same way my boss can only be at the top of the pyramid because he’s got bricks like me beneath him, I’m thinking I couldn’t be here in the middle if there weren’t poor families all over the world without anything resembling a chance. You know? That’s what gets me down. That’s all that does. I find myself just wishing I knew a way for everybody to be as happy as me, you know? It’s like my only problem is the guilt.” He inhaled deeply and turned the glass between his thumb and forefinger. “You ever feel that way? You ever start to feel guilty? Just wishing that others didn’t have to suffer for your prosperity?”

Marty took a swig.

Without turning from the screen, he said, “Fuck, no.”

the things we say

“Did your parents love each other?” he asked.

She could see starlight through the window just past the foot of his bed, but a curled lock of her hair had fallen over her eyes when she’d sunk her head back into the pillow.

He reached over from where he lay to sweep it out of her way.

“Of course they did,” she answered. “Do,” she corrected.

“Are you sure?”


“How do you know?” he asked, bending his bare arms behind his head like a prop. He too seemed to be staring past the darkness of the room to the pinpoints of the stars on the other side of the glass pane.

“I could see it,” she answered. “You can tell. Things people do when they’re near each other. Little gestures. The way they smile at each other. You can always tell.”

They were alone with the sounds of their own breathing for a few moments.

“No,” he said, still smiling the way he always smiled after. “No, you can never tell.”

“Well, I can!” she said, turning away from the window toward the blue crescent outline on his face. “They’re my parents, aren’t they?”

“You never know,” he said without facing her. “There could be things you don’t know. Secrets they never told you. Could be things haunting them that you’d never guess.”


“Everything you saw, that could be just habit. Could be an act. Could be the groove. The path of least resistance.”

“That’s pretty negative.”

“I’m just saying. You don’t know.”

She scratched her left shoulder and then drew the sheets up to her neck.

“You never know,” he said, sighing afterward.

Daemonus galateus

Screen Shot 2013-01-24 at 7.11.28 PM

When she first saw the creature, it was naturally the eyes that captivated her. He told her that it had been the same with him when he’d first found it.

“Should you have removed it?” she asked, letting the wide black circles track her as she moved her head back and forth across its field of vision. “If it’s so rare, unique even, shouldn’t it be considered endangered?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something just compelled me to collect it as a sample. The eyes, I suppose.”

“Yes,” she agreed, stepping back from the plexiglass enclosure. It followed her shape for a second longer as she stood still, staring at it. Then the creature’s gaze drifted back toward Robert, hovering just behind her.

It was small, rodent-like. Its whole face was dominated by the eyes.

“They don’t seem to be afraid,” Susanna commented.


“Its eyes. It watched me, but I didn’t have the sense that it was afraid. It didn’t seem like an animal monitoring a threat.”

“It’s tempting to anthropomorphize it,” he said. “But it’s clearly just an ingrained behavior. It’s simply orienting toward novelty.”

“But you’re not new to it,” she countered. “And it’s watching you now.”


“Definitely.” She leaned back in to observe it more closely, but the animal’s attention did not shift back to her. With each pulse of its slow, steady breath, the moss-colored fur shimmered under the fluorescent light. “Why is it green?” she asked.

“That’s the mystery,” he answered. “I’ve never seen a mammal with coloring like this. Some sloths appear to have camouflaged fur, but that’s due to a symbiotic algae. This fur actually appears to be green.”

“You’re sure it’s a mammal?”

“Of course. Look at it. It must be some kind of tarsier.”

“What’s that–a mutant lemur?”

“It’s a primate native to the region.”

“Robert, you might have damned a whole species by bringing it here.”

“I tried for two weeks to find another specimen. I swear during all that time this one just stayed at camp, as if it was studying us.”

She’d met Robert at a reception in his honor. In her work preparing graduate students for their dissertations and combing through old newspapers for insights into centuries-old public policies, she would not ordinarily have met one of the biology professors from the other side of campus. Robert, though, had recently been awarded with a slew of prestigious awards, the names of which she was only vaguely familiar with, for his study of the genes associated with a particular protein. It was beyond her, but it had turned him into enough of an asset to the university that corporate dollars were pouring into his work and he earned a reception large enough that even members of the liberal arts faculty wound up on the guest list.

A little playful flirting had led to a dinner. A few dinners had settled into a routine and an awkward conversation in which he sought earnestly to define the “parameters” of their relationship.

“Are you asking me to go steady?” she’d asked with a laugh.

To her surprise, he’d said, “I guess so.” There was a catch, though. His windfall of support and resources had allowed him to organize an expedition to hunt for specimens in Southeast Asia. There was some evidence that indigenous plants in Borneo might synthesize a cousin to his famous protein and he wanted to investigate. He and five grad students would be leaving in two weeks. It had to be now; the seasons were sensitive and the plants might be impossible to locate out of bloom. He’d had the first series of shots to prepare for the jungle that morning. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting you to wait around for me or something.”

At first, she hadn’t much felt like waiting either. As his absence entered its second week, though, she found herself missing him more than she’d expected, and when an old acquaintance, newly divorced, asked her out to dinner during a chance meeting at a coffee shop, she found herself saying she couldn’t. “I’m seeing someone,” she’d said.

The two months alone allowed her to focus on a few projects, dedicate some time to an article that had sat at the edge of her desk with the annoying “revise and resubmit” letter gawking at her. She made reading his e-mails from the jungle a nightly ritual–except for the days when weather prevented him from getting a signal to send anything.

She hadn’t thought much of the message that first announced he’d discovered something “odd” but “fascinating.” His cryptic references to it in subsequent messages didn’t intrigue her so much as endear him to her with his boyish enthusiasm for what she imagined must be a bizarre kind of fungus or unheard-of subspecies of toucan.

When he’d returned, she’d met him at the airport and shared a warm kiss that she instantly told herself had validated her “waiting.”

She insisted he take a night to settle in and that they would have dinner the next night. Not long into that meal, though, he had brought up the subject of his unusual find. “Even though it’s not my area, I’m fascinated by it. I’ve got the latitude to kind of take a detour and spend some time studying it.”

“You haven’t told me what it is,” she reminded him while sipping her wine.

So he’d shown her.

That night, after turning the lights out on those peculiar eyes in the lab, they’d gone back to her place and made love. They spent most of the next two weeks together like that. Dinners out with her friends or his. A trip to the theater with his sister who was visiting from Montreal. All ending up with them sleeping beside each other in one of their apartments.

It was actually her own work that disrupted the easy rhythm of it. Department politics exploded in a surprise resignation from the chair, and in the shuffle, she found herself taking on an additional class for the coming semester. Robert had–quite politely, she’d thought–volunteered to ease off their routine while she prepped a syllabus.

Once the term began, it seemed harder to find time together. One night, she’d called him and announced that it was “criminal” they hadn’t seen each other in eight days.

“I know,” he’d answered with a forced chuckle, which was really the best he ever managed for her jokes. “I know. I’ve got a lot to see to tomorrow, but why don’t you swing by the lab and we can go to lunch at this place just a few blocks over.”

Of course, when she’d arrived, she’d asked casually about his green monkey thing. He’d led her into the lab and pointed.

“This isn’t the same animal,” she said, peering through the glass into the larger cage.

“It is,” he assured her.

“It’s enormous.” Though the wide, dark eyes remained unchanged, the face around them had transformed. The tiny, inchoate mouth had widened, drooping down with the chin while the brow had grown, revealing a taller skull than it had earlier possessed. The body, too, was reshaped. The gecko-like, barely prehensile paws had thickened. The digits were now slender, grasping fingers with visible nails. The fur seemed to be receding as it grew, revealing verdant, grass-colored skin.

“Susanna, this may be the most important find…can I say ‘ever?’”

“Is that a hyperbole?”

“Remember you asked about its coloring?”

“Yes. It’s even more striking now. Before it looked like it could’ve just been dyed green. Like you’d found a little tribe of punk lemurs. Now you can see that the skin is actually green. It’s the thing’s natural pigment.”

“I don’t know if ‘natural’ is the word, though. It’s some kind of chimera.”


“You know it?”

“I know the mythological creature, sure. But I don’t see a goat head here.”

“Chimerism is a blending of different organisms’ DNA. Frankly, in this case, it’s a hollow term. This goes beyond anything ever recorded.”

“Are you going to tell me this thing is part plant?” With a grin, he led her to a microscope just across from the enclosure and invited her to look into the eyepiece. “You know I don’t understand what I’m looking at, right?”

“Here,” he said, drawing her toward some glossy print-outs. “I’ve got some enlargements. This is a sample cell from her.”


“It’s definitely a female,” he said, while indicating part of the image with his index finger. “You see this structure here?”


“According to all my tests, it’s a chloroplast.”

“You’re really trying to make me recall high school biology, aren’t you? Is this some kind of test to see if I’m qualified to be in a relationship with you?”

“Chloroplasts are the cell parts that manufacture chlorophyl, the compound that allows for photosynthesis.”

“Chloroplasts only occur in plants, right? They can make their own food.”

He nodded slowly, still wearing the grin.

“So you really are telling me this thing is a plant.”

“The cell membrane is completely typical of an animal cell and the lysosome count indicates it’s animal, but it is clearly photosynthetic.”

She looked back to its cage and the black space of the window behind it. “Good thing it’s got a window, then.”

“It eats, too, but it’s somehow also capable of photosynthesis.”

“Robert, I’m no biologist, but I do remember high school bio a little bit. That’s not possible.”

“There are some aquatic species that appear to have borrowed genes from algae and other plants, but those are sea slugs. This is a mammal.”

“You said there were no others around.”

“We never saw another one, and this one never left us once we’d seen it.”

“You means once you saw it.” She looked again at the image. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to a dark, crescent-moon shape inside the cell.

“That is an excellent question,” he said while staring over her shoulder. She looked back at him, but he said nothing.

“Are you not going to tell me?”

“Oh,” he replied with a smile. “I’m sorry. I mean it. It’s an excellent question because I have no idea. It’s unlike any cellular organelle I’ve ever seen. I’ve extracted some proteins from it, but I can’t determine its function.”

“So let me get this straight, Mr. Future-Nobel Laureate,” she began, turning back toward the animal. She was startled to find its eyes still fixed on them, even across the room. “It’s an animal that can go through photosynthesis, a trick so far only accomplished by really talented sea slugs, and it also has a mystery organelle that is found no where else in nature. Is that about it?”

“Apart from the obvious, yes.”

“What’s the obvious?” she asked.

“You already mentioned it. It doesn’t look like a tarsier anymore.”

That lunch was not followed by another meeting for five more days.

As their time in each other’s lives grew more and more sparse, he would protest over the phone that he was “so, so sorry,” but that he was having to conduct so many of the tests himself on this new find. His graduate students were all plant specialists. As she listened to him complain about their shortcomings for this research, she began to feel that the real problem was that he didn’t especially trust any of them going near the creature.

This absence did not unfold as sweetly. The new class wore on her patience, even as her students progressed admirably on their own work with minimal input from her. She felt idle. Wasted.

One day she said to herself that the relationship had gone sour. She said the word aloud to test it, and it felt apt. Their diminishing time together wasn’t the only gripe she found herself reflecting on as she pronounced the word a second time. There had long been a gesture she’d thought of again and again when considering the future of their relationship. He had a habit of looking away from her when she laughed too loudly at her own talk. She had noticed him do it, with exactly the same slow rotation toward the right, both during dinner conversation and in bed.

She ran an experiment. It felt petty as she was doing it, but still somehow necessary. She didn’t call or text him and waited to see how long until he would notice.

Six days later, he left a message on her voicemail while she was in class, apologizing for being out of touch.

She sent him the “we have to talk” text.

He urged her to come to the lab right away.

She typed first as a reply, “I don’t think that’s where I want to do this,” but deleted it and changed it to, “I was thinking of somewhere else.”

He called her. “I know I’ve been unavailable, but you’ll understand if you come here. I swear.”

“I am sorry,” he said again as she followed him into the lab. She had imagined him being immersed in his work, and so had conjured up certain expectations. She half-expected to find him bespectacled, confused by the light, and sporting a five-day old stubbly beard as he hobbled around his workstations, Igor-esque in his mad-scientist depravity.

Instead he seemed virile, moving briskly and certainly ahead of her through a maze of cardboard boxes and other discarded packaging.

“I’m not saying you owe me an apology,” she answered. “I just thought we might talk. We have something, Robert, and I don’t mean to sound needy, but there are certain things I think I can reasonably expect. You’re not delivering on those.”

“No, no,” he answered, pausing and turning back to her. “I completely understand how you feel. I do care about you and our relationship, but I’ve just become so engrossed in what’s happening here.”

“What is happening here?” she asked.

“See for yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the door into the main lab.

She pushed open the door and was greeted immediately by a pair of eyes that seemed at once alien and familiar. The creature was perched, in an almost feline repose, atop a stainless steel laboratory table.

“Holy shit,” she gasped. It turned its head toward her, but only for a moment, flicking dark irises over the length and breadth of her before fixing again on Robert. Its skin was still green, but little else was unchanged. It held the table before its folded legs with thin fingers, thumbs bent forward. The torso was lean and muscular, with small, high-set breasts beneath a delicate, bird-like collarbone. As she shook her head, Susana’s gaze landed on the feet, tucked behind the curvature of the thighs and buttocks coiled as if ready to spring. The feet were unmistakable. A gentle arch from ball to heel. Small, round toes.

“My God, Robert,” she gasped. “It’s human.”

“I know.”

“It’s out of the cage,” she added.

“Oh yes,” he answered. “She doesn’t stay in it anymore.”

“When did you let it out?”

“One morning I arrived and she was out, waiting for me much like this.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“She’s never shown any sign of aggression, no.”

“I don’t mean like that.”

He shook his head, unable to understand her.

“How can she be real, Robert?”

“I don’t know,” he gestured toward the new equipment all along the opposite wall. “I’ve been running DNA tests for weeks, trying to map her genome, but it changes so quickly.”

“Her genome changes?”

“That strange organelle I told you about. That crescent moon in her cells. I still can’t make out it’s function, but it exchanges a lot of genetic material with the nucleus.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“It must have something to do with her mimicry ability.”


“She’s a genetic mimic. She’s able to imitate the DNA of other organisms she comes into contact with. When she first arrived, she must have mimicked a plant species and only later worked her way up to an animal.”

“What do you mean, ‘when she first arrived?’”

“I can only assume she’s extraterrestrial. She defies everything we understand about chimerism. She’s a whole other class of being.”

Susanna looked over the creature–the girl–perched on the table. She stepped closer, and the girl turned her head momentarily to watch her approach. Susanna looked at the the slender lips beneath those dark eyes. She saw them twitch.

“Robert,” Susanna said slowly, suddenly guessing. “Has she spoken to you?”

He did not answer for some time. “A few words here and there,” he finally admitted. “Again, it’s just mimicry.”

“For now,” Susanna said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s come this far. You know she means to complete the transformation. She has to. Soon you’ll come in and she’ll be wearing one of the lab coats.”

“I have to tell someone about this, but I don’t know how. You can’t just publish this in a journal. This is our first contact with an alien life–possibly with an alien intelligence.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve told you. There’s nothing like this. Anywhere.”

“Has it occurred to you she might be something from myth. A wood nymph or a fairy.”

“You’re joking.”

“Folklore is full of stories of changelings, Robert.”

“This is a scientific pursuit, not a metaphysical one,” he scoffed.

“But maybe you’ve discovered the missing link. Maybe you’re seeing something with scientific eyes that human beings have only ever witnessed from a more primitive perspective before. Maybe that organelle, that tiny cell part you discovered, maybe it’s a seed of wonder. Maybe it’s magic.”

“Ordinarily,” he said. “I’d dismiss that kind of suggestion pretty quickly. But I can’t eliminate anything at this point.” He sat down on a stool behind her. “I still think her being an alien is more reasonable, though.”

“But I don’t think her motives are so alien.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s becoming human.”


“Genetically human.”


“Mimicking human DNA,” she said pointedly.
“Yes, precisely.”

“Where’d she get the DNA, Robert?”


“You’re the only one she’s touched, aren’t you?” He didn’t respond. “If we compared both your DNA–hers and yours–would they match?”


“But she’s female.”

“Male chromosomes only differ in one way.”

“So she could have just duplicated your X chromosome to stay female, right?”

“You make it sound like she’s making a choice.”

“I think she is.”


they come to us
with calipers
to measure the spread of the disease
in centimeters

they worry
over the pinions
holding up their worldview
and observe cautiously
scribbling notes in their journals
knowing (on some level)
where it all must lead

there are things to be envied
even in decay
even in the plagues that will undo you

it’s a curse to be powerful and wise

A Guide to Disbelief


Recently, a woman named Deborah Mitchell got a lot of attention on’s user-created iReport section. Her blog describes her difficulties in dealing with overzealous Christians who think her choice to raise her children without religion is “wrong.” She found their constant assurances that they were praying for her to be condescending, if not demeaning.

If she was expecting apologies after her lament at CNN, she was probably disappointed. Though she did receive many expressions of gratitude from nonbelievers like herself who had faced the same difficulties, she was also attacked by many of the posters, some of whom even complained that simply by expressing her religious beliefs–or lack thereof–she had violated CNN’s terms of use for the iReport section.

This fruckus comes after a fair amount of coverage was dedicated to the fact that newly elected Congresswoman Kyrsten Sinema was one of the few members of Congress in history who espoused no particular religion. Though her identification as a non-believer was initially greeted with great joy by many secularists, there was some souring of the tone when she distanced herself from the label “atheist.”

Many nonbelievers prefer to identify themselves as agnostic or some other label, not because they really harbor much suspicion that there could be a god, but rather because the term “atheist” tends to have a lot of negative stigmas. Many believers seem to feel as though their beliefs are being attacked by the mere presence of an “atheist,” and respond accordingly.

Indeed, many high-profile atheists like Richard Dawkins have garnered attention for doing exactly that. Dawkins even earned a South Park parody after the publication of his 2006 book The God Delusion. (The creators of the show are themselves nonbelievers, but objected to Dawkins’ attempt to proselytize in the name of atheism.) Similarly, the group American Atheists responded to religiously-themed advertisements by erecting billboards reading, “Keep the merry, dump the myth.”

In Deborah Mitchell’s essay at CNN she gives seven reasons why she rejects religion. The reasons are not about burden of proof, or the tenants of empiricism. Instead, she goes on the offensive, describing why she thinks religion has a negative impact on children. This, though, is precisely the kind of intolerance that she describes as the precursor for her speaking out. Her characterizing the Christian god as “not fair” and faulting god for “teach[ing] narcissism” is just as intolerant and belligerent as a Christian telling her, as many did, that her children needed god in their lives.

Beyond that, though, I wonder: Why? Why bother?

Most Christians do not feel the need to validate their beliefs by attacking the tenants of Buddhism. Muslims shouldn’t feel the need to explain to others why their families don’t need Vishnu in their lives. Many nonbelievers think rationalism demands they attack, but the tenants of another “ism” are more important in this context.

Pluralism demands that we respect each other’s boundaries. So we nonbelievers should. The trick is that believers also need to respect that about us as well. I doubt the people who went up to Mitchell bug their Jewish friends and coworkers the way they did her about the way she was raising her family. Atheists are treated in many corners with the same sort of suspicion and prejudice that most minorities have had to face at some point in their history in America. The difference is that atheism is invisible. So unlike ethnic or religious minorities that have entered the nation, faced the hardships of discrimination, and finally asserted their rightful place in the tapestry of our many interwoven cultures, atheists often go unnoticed. Many, in fact, deliberately keep their heads down–avoiding discussion of their beliefs in order to dodge the stigma.

Even though Mitchell may have crossed the line into intolerance, more nonbelievers need to step up and speak out. People who live their lives without any supernatural beliefs need to assert our role in society–to demand that the believers around us treat us and our beliefs with the same respect they do members of other faiths. We don’t need obnoxious, antagonistic billboards to accomplish this feat. We can engage our neighbors of faith respectfully, demanding that they grant us the same rights of conscience that we afford them in our pluralistic society. That starts by not sidestepping the issue with statements like “I’m not really religious” when most of us know that the honest thing to say would simply be, “I don’t believe in anything supernatural.”

That would be something more akin to the American Atheists’ less-objectionable billboard, “Are you good without God? Millions are,” that lays claim to our right to be who we are without treading on anyone else’s spiritual toes.


Screen Shot 2013-01-20 at 9.35.17 AM

In 2012, we became witness to something remarkable. Visionaries and dreamers have conjured thousands of lurid, vibrantly realized alternate worlds in literature over the eons, but this was something different. An imaginary world actually became real for thousands, no millions of Americans.

Yes, during the entire presidential campaign we were treated to a glimpse of a Bizarro world where cutting government spending could actually boost an economy (contrary to, you know, all the facts of history during the Great Depression and WWII) and where Obama, a president whose every policy was once proposed by a Republican somewhere, was a dyed-in-red commy of the first order.

In 2012, the Republican worldview went from being a conservative philosophy, to what can only be described as a widely shared delusion.

Ah, but it’s all harmless fun, right?  Were it not for the gerrymandering that gave the Tea Party the House of Representatives, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about at all.

The problem is that this trend in America’s right wing has gotten worse lately.  The Great Schism with Reality, as I like to call it, is widening.

As the nation has turned its focus to gun control in the wake of the terrible tragedy in Newtown, another stripe of this (mostly rural and white) part of America’s sublimated rage has appeared. We knew it was there. It’s the UN-is-coming-to-take-our-guns-and-brand-us-for-the-Antichrist crowd. But now an alarming number of Americans are “liking” YouTube rants from angry gun owners itching for a revolution, propelling pissed-off Marine sergeants to viral-video stardom, and generally turning Facebook into an f’ing minefield with unhinged overreactions to even the mildest suggestion that some new gun legislation might be in order.

The paranoid contention of the hour is that the federal government is coming for the guns.  Jack-booted thugs are mobilizing, ready to pounce on every Nascar-loving American with a stately collection of semi-autos.  So the logic is that Americans must take up arms to defend their arms.

Behind them, they hold up the sacred Second Amendment to extol the wisdom of the Founders in preserving their right to bear arms for exactly this purpose (one wonders why, with this same crowd, the separation of church and state from the First Amendment is seldom so venerated).

Sadly, these poor folks haven’t taken stock of the changes in military hardware since the good old days of 1791. While a “well-regulated” militia of dudes with muskets might have been an effective counter against the British armies in the eighteenth century, your gun collection–no matter what’s in it–isn’t going to make a lick of difference when the UN descends upon you in their black helicopters.  Just ask the insurgents in Iraq how effective their AK-47s were against a modern military machine.  They didn’t shift strategies to sneaking around and planting bombs by the roadside because shooting at us was working out for them, you know.

But, whatever. If people want to imagine themselves as victims, let ‘em. Nobody’s really coming for their guns. New gun control laws are just going to tighten restrictions on new weapons, so even if these folks would seriously form up into regiments to protect their guns, it doesn’t matter. They won’t have to. I say if people want to live in a fantasy world, let ‘em. Hell, I watch Doctor Who. I get that reality sometimes isn’t enough. Ordinarily, I say, “Go ahead. Live in your own world.”

Now, though, it has gone too far.

There’s a new scourge in this fantasy landscape: Sandy Hook conspiracy theorists. According to these new “truthers,” the shooting in Newtown was perpetrated by the government or staged by the government. It doesn’t matter which, just so long as it makes liberals look evil for nefariously tricking people into rejecting a guns-for-all happy zone culture. You know, like the Wild West–a perfect cultural model for us to aspire to in the 21st century.

Their evidence is manifold…and contradictory. And stupid. One blogger will jump up and down, excitedly pointing out that one of the supposed victims can actually be seen sitting on Obama’s lap after the massacre in the same dress as a photo at the memorial! (It was the victim’s little sister, wearing a hand-me-down dress.) Another will allege that one of the crying parents in Newtown is actually the Aurora, CO shooter’s defense attorney, proving that this broad, history-altering conspiracy run from the highest levels of our government has a very limited casting budget! (They’re completely different women with only a passing resemblance to each other.)

Alright, I’ve been flip so far, but this is serious. Parents and survivors are being harassed by these lunatics, who ask the bereaved and traumatized, “How much do you get paid for being a crisis actor?” So I’ve got to say, it’s juvenile to try to rewrite the world around you, to live inside a bubble of your own biases and prejudices without regard for fact, but it’s inhumane to spit in the faces of parents who have suffered the ultimate pain possible in this life. These twenty young lives snuffed out for no reason were not props in some government conspiracy, and they should not be made props in your self-deluded fantasies.

Have you people no shame? Just because society has turned its attention to a serious issue that may, just may affect your access to items that are, for most of you, little more than playthings–you call grieving parents and harrowed survivors liars and frauds? How dare you?

To these people who posit a world veiled with sinister government conspiracies that conveniently leave them such obvious “evidence” to fuel the flames of their paranoia, I say simply this:

Grow the hell up.

We need to work together building a civilized society, with public policy based on rational discourse. That may involve some gun control legislation. So when you people are ready to step out of your imaginary world of self-aggrandizing narratives and victimhood fantasies to help solve the problems of the day, let us know.

Until then, just button it and let the grownups get to work.



The Acme White Noise Generator 3000 was drumming at its maximum 37,000 Khz and the Phenobarbodiphenhydramine was coursing through his bloodstream at eight times the recommended concentration, so he tried his best to lie inertly and wait.

The restlessness got the best of him, though, and he began to burrow more deeply into the bedding. Undulating, he managed to pin a flap of cotton sheets beneath his shoulder blade, and from there he could writhe in a twisting motion to tighten the cocoon around him. He stopped when it seemed he could do nothing more to make his warren more womblike.

Still, he languished on.

Then, mercifully, a trickle of 98.6 degree Fahrenheit saline began to spread over the hardwood flooring at the edge of the room. He waited while the fluid advanced, exponentially, from puddle to ankle-high pool. Finally, it touched the base of the mattress. It enveloped and then submerged him.

In its warm, still embrace, beneath its perfect pressure, he finally felt himself slipping out of consciousness. A smile crept onto his face as his eyes, heavy with the fathoms surrounding him, receded from the waking world.

Then he had to breathe.

Drosera capensis

Screen Shot 2013-01-17 at 7.27.01 PM

There’s something uneven in her step as she clacks down the sidewalk. One heel spikes the pavement with a different cadence than the other.

As she tries in vain to shift her weight and avoid the anomalous rhythm to her steps, something blurs before her. As she breathes in the air from the first whoosh, a second streaks by.

Two children have raced in front of her, careening toward the open gates of a park across the street.

“Hey, take it easy there!” she calls out with a playful lilt to her voice.

The second blur stops his pursuit of the first and turns to her. He’s all lean brown skin outside of his baggy shorts and printed tee.

“I’ll take it easy with you,” he quips, adding a wink for emphasis. From the bravado in his piping voice, she half expects him to throw in a “baby” or maybe even a “sweetheart,” but instead he turns and bolts away.

She takes a moment to start walking again, letting the mirthsome smile warm up her cheeks. She struggles for a moment looking for the right description of the boy’s impertinence, but comes away only with “scamp.”

The curious bemusement walks with her down the next two blocks until, rounding a corner, she sees the same boy huddled against the wall a few yards ahead.

She sees that his body is trembling with tiny sobs.

She approaches and hovers over him, peering at him though he is not yet aware of her presence. Whatever curiosity she might have about how the boy happened to be just in her path again so soon is washed away by some empathic impulse to comfort the child. She bends beside him, her knees buckling out toward him, exposing most of her thigh to the cool air.  Still he takes no notice of her.

“Are you alright?” she asks softly.

“Leave me alone.”

His rebuttal only draws her in further. “Do you need help?” she asks. He looks up. His eyes are still and clear. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” she presses.

“I lost her,” he says.

“Lost who? Maybe I can help find her.”

“My mommy. Or sister. Maybe my best girl.” She realizes suddenly that he’s not a small boy at all. He’s lean and tall, even slumped against the wall beside her. As he moves his arms away from his face, she sees the etched lines of musculature on his upper arms pushing the cuff of the tee shirt. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone,” he says with a sonorous voice. Low and inviting. “Maybe you can make me feel better, though.”

“Wait, I don’t understand,” she says without alarm.

“Don’t you? I bet you do. I think deep down they always know.”

“Who? Who knows?”

“The women.”

“What are we supposed to know?”

“That all this is bait.”

“All of…you?”

“A lure. Every piece of it.”

“If that’s true, then why tell me?”

“Like I said, on some level you knew already. They always do–deep down. But they fall for it anyway.”

“Is that what you think I’ll do?”

He stands up and then she’s in his shadow. His eyes glower down on her. Fixed and severe. And then a smile. Of course, there is a smile. Just in the corner. Just enough to make her feel as though it hides more than it reveals. Always a smile.

“Aren’t you?”

She stands as well. He’s still several inches taller, but in the shadow she sees cracks in him. Lines like in old plaster. Whatever’s underneath is gray like mildew.

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, flakes of his ash-like skin falling away, revealing a substrata the color of cooling magma. “There will be another along in just a minute. I think I hear her bad heel already.”

She looks away, seemingly pondering the tarred surface of the road. She shakes her head slowly.

Without another word, she turns from him and walks away…this time.