The three of them headed up through the trees that night without speaking. Each one had a heavy weight to bear- Hans a chainsaw, Maggie an old doctor’s bag, and Jeff 7 carried the dead dog. An iridescent mist trailed behind them. When they reached the crest of Farmer’s Ridge they rested, gazing down at the valley below with its confetti of lights. Look at all them little windows, Hans said, waving the chainsaw to indicate the whole valley. Inside one of them houses someone’s getting fucked, meanwhile in another someone’s taking their last breath.

Highly unlikely, said Jeff 7.

Unlikely? Which part? Hans looked at Jeff 7, his chainsaw still raised.

Both things. I sense a deep yearning from the people of this valley. An unrequited longing for something they don’t yet have.

You and your Spidey senses. Just a bunch of simple humans down there. Your simple, average humans don’t yearn for anything. They eat, fuck, and die. In between they give each other a hard time.

At this point Maggie had claimed a large boulder for a seat and removed a flask from her bag. She took a long drink before twisting closed the silver cap. Shut up, Hans, she said. What do you know about humans?

Hans inadvertently scratched one of his pointy ears. He looked at Jeff 7. See what I have to deal with? he said.

Let’s go. There’s not much time, said Jeff 7.

 

When they arrived at the pulsating spacecraft they stopped. Any last words for planet Earth? Jeff 7 asked. Hans? …Maggie?

Good luck, idiots, said Maggie. She carried the doctor bag up the ramp into the blue saucer.

Hans? Jeff 7 waited.

No, I guess not. They’ll all figure it out themselves eventually. Hans started toward the spacecraft.

I disagree, said Jeff 7. I don’t believe they will ever figure it out. Hans stopped and looked at him. What are you saying, Jeff 7?

I’m saying we leave the dog, he said, setting the inanimate dog down on the dry leaves of the forest floor. We make it alive again and fill it with messages to spread to all the humans. Everything we think they should know.

No, we need to bring that dog BACK with us, Jeff 7! Møstroh said to.

Screw Møstroh. There’s an entire race of sentient beings down there that could really use a hand. I mean look at how they behave with each other.

Screw Møstroh? Are you serious? Hans stared.

I’m leaving the dog, said Jeff 7.

Well good luck bringing it back to life. I ain’t helpin you. I ain’t gettin’ banished by Møstroh to the Corynthian Galaxy again. No-siree. Hans headed up the ramp, swinging the chainsaw.

Has Interstellar Interface really made you that callous? Jeff 7 asked.

Yup, Hans said before disappearing into the ship.

Jeff 7 sat cross-legged in front of the dog. He waved his six-fingered right hand in circles over the dead animal. He murmured some incantations. The beast did not revive. He glanced back up at the ship. The ramp lights were now flashing and there was an urgent beeping noise. He saw Maggie look out from one of the portals for a second before disappearing from view.

You’ll spread the message to these beings, he told the dog. Then he went into his incantations again with a manic intensity. The dog appeared to stir for a second. Jeff 7 went on intoning magical phrases as fast as he could while behind him the spacecraft ramp was being raised. He laid his hand on the dog’s fur as the ship commenced spinning at a blinding speed. Leaves and branches were whipped into small twisters. When the ship shot off into the starry sky, Jeff 7 was still talking to the animal.

After the leaves and branches of the forest had settled, a lone human came stumbling down the path. What you got there, a dead dog? The human asked, swaying with inebriation.

Jeff 7 remained cross-legged, eyes closed, his humanoid form gradually dissipating. As Jeff 7 faded, the dog jerked to life spastically, like a marionette. Its eyes glowed. Don’t… Be afraid, the dog said to the human observer. I.. Come… In… Peace?

 

 

The old man held up a piece of typing paper. This blank, white page is like a whole mirror covered with cocaine to me! He shouted. It’s like the slope of a Swiss mountain after it snowed. A perfect white slope of powder just waiting for me to destroy it!

Life is a series of punches, I’m not going to lie to you, the old man continued. Before a boxer goes in a ring they tell him he might get hit. Whatever they tell you won’t prepare you for what you get. Life is a big factory that manufactures broken toys! So that’s why you sit down in front of a white page and start punching back!
 
The old man’s interviewer stared out one of the giant windows at finches arguing on a branch just outside. His tape recorder hummed away beside him. Then he looked back but the old man was gone. The monster of a typewriter remained, with a blank page fed into it, ready to go. The interviewer glanced around and then commenced typing:

The ancient clutched the boy’s hand and hissed, Life is a big factory that manufactures broken toys! He released the boy’s hand and collapsed back into his chair. Grandpa? The boy said. But the ancient was gone.
 
Days later the ancient was being lowered into a deep hole in the Warburshon Cemetery.

So you’ve already killed me, have you? The old man said, suddenly behind the interviewer, reading over his shoulder. Well, let me show you something! He lifted the typewriter with both hands and, with a violent swing, knocked the interviewer in the head with it, sending the younger man toppling to the ground, unconscious.

The old man set the typewriter back in its place and began pounding the keys:

The ancient threw the lid off his casket, refusing to be lowered into the ground. Cemetery workers, clutching the straps that supported the coffin, stared, frozen in disbelief. You won’t get rid of me that easily! The ancient shouted, leaping out of the box and running through the trees toward the gate.

 Harry! What have you done? The old man’s wife stood in the doorway in her nightgown. They both looked down at the interviewer, who now lay now in a small pool of blood. The old man stood up from the typewriter, flustered. I just wanted to teach him a lesson. I didn’t–.

You taught him a lesson all right! His wife said. She lifted her hand to clutch the doorjamb. So much blood… she whispered.

Just then the young interviewer sprang up and lunged at the old man, grabbing him by the neck and throttling him with both hands. Blood dripped down one side of the interviewer’s head. The old man fell back against the typewriter. As they struggled, the old man’s hand reached back, finding a ballpoint pen on the table. Swinging his arm forward, he repeatedly stabbed the interviewer with the pen until they both collapsed to the ground. The wife moved into the room and stood over them. When she could see they were both dead she sat down at the typewriter and typed: 

The cemetery workers watched as the ancient ran out through the cemetery gate.

What do we do? one of the cemetery workers asked.  

They told us to bury him! The other one said. So we bury him! 

They caught up with the ancient in the parking lot. Where do you think you’re going? The first worker asked. He brandished a musket, aimed directly at the ancient. The ancient raised his hand. Now be reasonab— BANG!  

But it was the cemetery worker with the musket who collapsed to the ground. The second cemetery worker lowered a small pistol, smoke curling from the muzzle.

The old man’s wife paused. I did not see that coming, she said quietly to herself. She glanced down at the two men in their death embrace on the carpet. The sky outside the great windows had turned scarlet with the setting sun. A flock of crows flew by, their ugly voices sounding like laughter. When the sun finally dropped behind the ridge the sky became blue and then black. The old man’s wife remained seated at the typewriter, making no move to light a candle as the whole scene was lost in darkness.

 

 

James drew four boxes on a page of graph paper and connected the boxes with some lines. Then he drew some more lines in light blue ink, and some circles. He took a fine, gold-tipped fountain pen from the pocket of his brown dinner jacket and drew a small seahorse inside each box, the fourth one with a unicorn horn. The 87 Pacific clattered by outside the window, sounding a shrill whistle. There was also a woman’s voice calling something. James thought he heard his name. He set down his pen, heading to the window. He drew open the blinds and pushed up the sash. The world outside was humid and green. A woman stood below the window, face glowing in the twilight. Her grey dress was decorated with a pattern of purple and red orchids. She extended her bare arms up towards him. Quickly! she said, with a glance back in the direction the train had gone.

James reached out the window and took hold of her small, moist hands. He held tightly so she wouldn’t slip out of his grasp. Her hands in his, she stepped her high heels against the stucco below the window until she reached the top. When he’d gotten her inside she dropped down into his chair. Who drew this? She asked, looking at the lines and boxes and sea horses. You?

Just then Mermachree burst through the door. Did you hear anything strange? Mermachree asked. We heard some things. From the train! There was somebody out back. Did you see anything funny? James looked over at his desk. The woman had disappeared. Maybe she was hiding behind it? I heard, James started. I heard… heard, uh… a whistle.

The whistle of the train. Of course. But any voices?

Well, I suppose I heard voices, probably people in the dining car.

You wouldn’t have heard that. Mermachree glanced at the drawings on the desk. Who drew those?

I’m not sure… I—

What do you mean? Mermachree paused. I was just about to praise the artist. Hey, relax James. It’s Friday. He patted James on the shoulder. But then Mermachree coughed and spat and collapsed right there on the floor. The woman revealed herself from the shadows. She placed a bloody butter knife on James’ desk.

James looked down at Mermachree. He dropped down on one knee and turned Mermachree’s body over but it had gone cold and stiff. Blood spread on the dark hardwood.

I’m taking these, the woman said, lifting the drawings carefully from the desk and folding them into squares. Then she was gone out the door.

James stood and pulled some tissues out of a box to wipe Mermachree’s blood off his hands. He pulled his cell-phone from the charger and entered 9-1-1. But before he got through to a dispatcher he’d put down the phone and was climbing out of the window, lowering himself down to the gravel by the train tracks. Another 87 Pacific train moved slowly past. At just the right moment he jumped half onto a flatbed train car. He swung his legs up and held on as the train accelerated. The whistle blasted, sounding like an alarm. Lying on his back he took a nail and scraped Mermachree’s blood from under his fingernails. When he was satisfied he’s gotten all the blood off he closed his eyes. The train rattled on, taking him further and further away from his usual desk and the cell phone that wouldn’t stop ringing.