As the Moon Climbs

Calliope Cervantes eyed the cute guard sitting next to her at the bar. She had a soft spot for a man in uniform; it was roughly located between her navel and her knees.

“Tough day?” she asked coyly.

“I swear,” he said, staring into his drink, “I swear that if I have to deal with one more smogging dinosaur, I am going to turn in my tasegun.”

“Poor baby,” she murmured.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said. “Their breath. Hot, sticky, rotting corpse breath.”

“Sounds awful.”

“And the shits they take! Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I’ll bet.”

He knocked back his drink and slammed the empty glass on the counter. “If I could get my hands on the guy that figured out how to clone the damn things, I would just…” His hands formed a circle as if he was imagining a neck inside them.

“Just what?” Calliope had edged closer and was batting her eyelashes at him.

The guard finally noticed her. “I would,” he said hesitantly, “show him who’s boss.”

“Why don’t you show me?” she purred.

A few drinks later, he did.

A lone figure moved through the cold air of the warehouse, walking past row after row of boxed apples and potatoes and onions that awaited shipment. Bluish fluorescent lights flickered on as they sensed his motion, then dimmed as his footsteps faded away. The stillness of the place used to comfort him, but that was before he started to see the shadows of people who weren’t there, and hear the echoes of far-off movement that couldn’t be happening.

They had warned him that this was a possible side effect, nothing to be concerned about. They assured him that he would be alone. He only needed to monitor the small computers that in turn monitored the produce. The most important thing was to keep going forward, to never walk back. Otherwise, there would be… undesirable consequences.

His shift ended and he returned to his bunk, carefully securing the time dilation door behind him before removing his velocity belt. The produce would be waiting for him in the morning, still frozen in time, guaranteed fresh.

If you have found him, it is probably too late for you. He sits on a park bench at night under a flickering street lamp, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, a large book open on his lap. A cane rests beside him, confirming that he is blind.

His lips move as if he is mouthing the words as he reads, one finger tracing a path from the top of the page to the bottom. He does not turn the page. You notice that he is not looking at the book, but at a point slightly above it. You try to follow his gaze and then you remind yourself that he is blind, so what can he be looking at?

If you are lucky, you walk away and forget that you saw him. But if you are curious, you watch his lips, trying to figure out what he is saying. You realize that he is whispering aloud and you move closer, leaning in until your ear almost touches his mouth.

He says, over and over, “Do not read the book.”

You look down and see that the pages are blank. But as his finger moves, a name appears beneath it. It is yours. And now, you are his.

The others had disappeared one by one, sometimes several in a day, sometimes only one a week. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time but now that he was alone, he was nervous. Rubbing up against the fern leaves didn’t make him feel better liked it used to, so he settled for hiding in one of the caves on the sea floor and watching particles float in the dimly lit water.

Eventually he realized he was hungry and swam out to look for food. He didn’t feel the water moving behind him until it was too late, and suddenly he was rising and the sea had shrunk to a tiny globe. He circled frantically, signaling for help even though he knew there was no one to see it. Tremors shook the water. He wondered if he was dying. He hoped he had been a good fish so he could go to the Great Ocean. Then he wouldn’t be the last fish in the sea anymore.

“I’m going to call him Patrick,” the little girl said as her father paid for the fish.

“Let’s get Patrick home so he can meet everyone else in the tank,” her father replied.

They met at the grocery store, both waiting in line to buy Boca burgers and pepper jack cheese. Josh told the girl that she had forgotten the buns and she begged him to hold her spot. He did. She was grateful. Her name was Lisa.

He ran into her again at a coffee shop. Low-fat milk and real sugar, none of that Splenda nonsense. He asked her if she was stalking him and she laughed. She wore thick black-rimmed glasses, her brown hair pulled into pigtails. He slipped her his number and said they should get coffee sometime. More coffee, he joked, saluting her with his metal travel mug. She smiled politely and never called.

Weeks later, he saw her at a gas station. She watched him coyly from the cover of a magazine, her lips pale pink and her hand wrapped around the neck of a guitar. A tune tickled the back of his mind: You say I only hear what I want to… So, she was THAT Lisa. It figured that he would hit on a celebrity without realizing it.

Still, it was probably for the best. He always hated that song.