For hundreds of years, the land of Hyden was free of famine, sickness, or the violence of marauders. Its crops grew thick, its game ran slow, and its streams flowed as clear as the townsfolk’s tears, though sweeter. If a stranger could observe the town, they’d wonder why those in such comfort should weep. But those outside the town could not see Hyden, and those within had no way out but the grave.

The One Who Ruled Hyden ruled from the top of a hill overlooking the town square. Through unknown skills, he shielded the realm from all forms of peril, be it man, nature, or chance. The townsfolk had had no wants and were as skilled as they were generous with one another, be it food, arts, or comfort.

The One Who Ruled Hyden stood taller than any man should. His eyes were fires and his mouth had no teeth. Under his rule, the townsfolk knew nobody’s name, not even their own. They addressed each other as “Blue-Eyed Baker,” “Limping Red Shirt,” and the like. Those who died old amassed dozens of titles during their lives as their trades and appearances changed.

Attempts at nicknames were punished with muteness. They all had names, even The One. But The One wouldn’t share his, and the people couldn’t share theirs while they lived.

On the first new moon of every leap-year, The One descended from his hill to the town square, his jaw slack and his eye-fires dimmed. He stood in front of the church with no cross, and stamped his right foot on the ground, sending tremors throughout Hyden. When they felt the tremors, all those old enough to work or parent would pin a square of white cloth to their cloak and assemble in town square.

Once all were present, The One stamped his left foot on the ground, raising an army of invisible forces to herd the townsfolk into a long, long line that started in front of The One and stretched through the square and into the forest. At the town’s inception, some tried to hide from the Naming or sneak backwards in line, which led to gruesome punishments for all the townsfolk. Since then, no one was foolish enough to attempt rebellion.

Once arranged, the One stretched his arm forth and bid the first person approach. They would, sobbing as they walked. When they reached The One, he seized their right hand. Then came a searing green light that blinded all eyes, roaring ice winds that needled the skin, and a scream that could rip the sky in half. When quiet and darkness returned, The One’s eyes burned brighter and a corpse lay at his feet, its skin flayed and its clothing blood-soaked and scorched.

Only the white cloth pinned to their breast remained clean and whole, though not unchanged. For the badge now bore the corpse’s real name in large, plain letters.

Some Namings took only a few from the populace. Other years, The One fed until sunrise, leaving only a handful of townsfolk to bury scores of the dead. First, the chancery clerk would pluck the badges from their cloaks and sew them to the Registry, a patchwork quilt stitched from the Names and hung behind the altar in the church with no cross.

* * *

One Naming, as the Hyden-folk stood trembling in line, a lad shouted from the rear: “I wish to go first.”  

The folk were shocked. Who would wish such a thing? Even if one chose to make his bed in hell, there were far better suicides than a Naming.

Those who stood near the lad tried to silence him before he caught The One’s attention. They cared not for him, for though he was old enough to work, he neither worked nor studied a trade. He spent most days napping on straw piles, rousing only for meals. No one would have missed him if he were Named. But if The One took offense at his outburst, he might seek penance from all of Hyden.

But the lad cried again, “I wish to go first!”

Even The One looked uncertain. In centuries of ruling Hyden, no one had tried to cut forward in line, let alone demand it.

After a pause, which held a blink and a century, The One smiled wide and said, “COME.”.  

Heads craned towards the lad as he came forth. His insanity tempered not his sloth, for his gait was slow and his posture hunched, as if walking exhausted him. His too-large cloak hid much of his face, and he stumbled often. He did not stop until he reached The One, who laughed as he reached for the fool.

The lad seized The One’s hand, crushing it audibly. The One turned white and thrashed like a horse, screaming as if he were burnt. The lad gripped his hand like a vice and pulled The One close enough to seize his throat.

Then came a blaze of white light and a sweet, soothing wind, and The One’s screams may well have ripped the sky in half. Though no clouds were above, a lightning bolt crashed into the church with no cross, setting it afire, then all was quiet, save the crackling flames.

On the ground lay The One and the lad. Much of his cloak had burned in the struggle, revealing his form, which was far, far longer than when he last appeared to them. He’d hunched for stealth, not fatigue. If the lad could stand, he’d tower over every man in Hyden.

The boy could not stand and his breath grew faint and ragged. With the last of his strength, he turned his head towards the townsfolk and rasped through toothless gums, “I... learned...my trade...at night.” His eye flames flickered out, and his name appeared on his badge. And the names of every citizen appeared on their badges, and they could utter their names without choking.

The corpse of The One bore similar wounds as those he’d Named during his rule. Only his right forearm remained unmarred, save a line of strange letters carved in his skin. No one could read it—or wanted to. No one doubted this was The One’s Real Name.

After Lord Byron (Darkness)

The year the sun died, darkness hoarded souls
underneath her skirt like miser's gold coins.

Earthquakes shake the city to wake
every morning like an alarm clock.

The earth opened and death crept out of it
with kitchen utensils around his bony neck.

& ate the little girls & boys in their sleep.
Hymns leaped out of opera houses.

But no amount of music could extinguish
the furnace in our chests.

Skeletons came out of their secret closets
to watch the filmography of despair.  

Sitting like a live coal. Dry like thirst.
Uncomfortable like a thorn — The demon we grew

and watered into a man-eating tree.
Sorrow danced in the big hall, 

clap, clap, cheers to horror,
cheers to the damn beast that conquered us.

It clawed and clawed until
humanity died and a hideous thing

emerged from underneath the skin,
& struck down the sun. 

Darkness, yes, that bastard king ruled
in the damn city of the sun.

My daughter Emily looks different up close, viewed through this stuffed animal’s eyes: Her freckles are land floes breaking apart, her hair a fiery-wiry jungle, her cavernous mouth nearly toothless. She exhales a minty toothpaste smell, jaw hanging open. Earlier this evening, she dutifully brushed her last remaining tooth. Ten years old, and she hadn’t lost a single one of her baby teeth, then—poof—this week, she lost them all, save one. Like, literally lost. Never found any to leave under her pillow. My girl’s growing up way too quickly.

She squeezes me so hard I expect my ribs to snap, and I momentarily tense up, but inhabiting this stuffed lemur means my guts are plush, with no bones to break. I relish the crushing hug. This is why I’m here.

At night, after using a magic amulet to transport into the lemur body, I sponge up the affection she reserves for her stuffed animals, a pure love she no longer aims at me, her mama, with such intensity. I miss the way she looked at me when she was little, the way she’d hold my hand and lead me to teatime, the way her eyes would fill with wonder as I read The Secret Garden even though we’d already read the book a dozen times. She’s outgrown all of that. But when I’m the stuffed animal, she speaks to me in a singsong voice while brushing my fur. And come sleepy time, the rhythm of her breathing always lulls me into a blissful slumber.

Until one night, a sickening odor wakes me.

I peer between Emily’s arms, and that’s when I see it: prying her mouth open, plucking out her last tooth. The creature looks like a bat, veiny and bony, moonlight reflecting off its oily skin like jagged lightning, the same size as this lemur body, but its head is gargantuan and as round as a jack-o’-lantern. Sneering, it jams Emily’s plucked tooth into its jaw, where it joins a mouthful of baby teeth. It coughs out sickly mustard-colored smoke that snakes into Emily’s nostrils, and sticks the gangly fingers at the bend in its wings into her mouth to search for more jewels. Is the smoke some sort of knockout gas?

God damn. What kind of neglectful mother am I to sleep through this disgusting monster stealing Emily’s teeth all week? I wriggle out of my baby girl’s embrace. Got to defend her.

The creature jerks its head in my direction, jumps on me, and yanks my sewn-shut mouth open, ripping the stitching, then digs around inside my face. Searching for teeth? I latch on with my arms, my legs, my ringed tail, as tightly as Emily hugs stuffed-animal-me every night. It squirms, struggles to free its wings, exhales more smoke, but because this lemur body has no lungs, the vapor can’t knock me out. I pour everything into hugging the devilish thief taking my daughter from me tooth by tooth. With the mouthful of Emily’s teeth, the creature gnaws off my eye and rips stuffing through the hole.

As I feel my head emptying, I keep hugging, and try to hold on to my memories: baby Emily, purple and smeared waxy white with vernix, yowling when the doctor cut her umbilical cord; her first laughter, a wild giggling when I drummed on her high chair, her first steps, first boo-boo, first day of kindergarten, wearing ruby-colored shoes I said would transport her home if she missed me; Emily howling triumphantly when I let her go and she rode her bike without my help. All those moments slip away like whispers in the wind as the creature tears the stuffing out of my head.

Asleep, Emily swathes me in her arms and squeezes tight. I squeeze the creature tighter, the amulet on my neck pressed between our bodies. We’re a Russian Matryoshka doll, hugs nested inside one another, the creature at the very center of us. The scent of Emily’s strawberry shampoo overpowers its reek of decay. It stops biting me and settles down, its greasy skin slick against my fur. Feels as if I’m clinging to a leather sack filled with bones. And a thumping heart that slows. I’m sandwiched between their heartbeats, this thing and my Emily, and their pulses sync up, and the creature trills serenely, and I allow the reverberation to wash over me, melt me into the bed. From somewhere in the night comes the call of a whip-poor-will, and lilac blossoms blow in through the window.

Emily shivers and pulls the blankets snugly around us.

Finally, the creature spits out my stuffing, lets out a rattling breath, and nuzzles its face into my fuzzy neck.

When I cram the cotton stuffing back through my eyehole, memories flood my mind. Quivering, I wonder what future memories Emily and I will share, what kind of life she’ll make for herself, what kind of adult she’ll become. I pull free from her and release the creature. The thing has already taken all of my daughter’s teeth. There’s nothing left to steal. No stopping my baby from growing up.

After crawling out of bed, I remove the amulet and toss it out the window, and—poof—I’m back in my own body, wearing a nighty, the lemur at my feet. I hum a lullaby from the days of rocking Emily to sleep and ease the stuffed animal into her embrace. In the morning, I’ll have to sew its mouth and eye.

The bat creature licks Emily’s cheek and chirps like a sparrow trying out a cat purr, then hops onto the windowsill, pumps its wings, and grins with the mouthful of baby teeth before it steals away into the night, as fleeting as youth.

You guaranteed this for eternity,
but I have not received what I paid for.
Why no answer to my inquiry?
Bad service is a failing I abhor.

Sir, I have not received what I paid for;
my husband has somehow escaped your net.
Bad service is a failing I abhor —
do you hope that I will just forget?

My husband has somehow escaped your net:
he walked right out your so-called theft-proof door!
Do you think that I will just forget?
(He left behind a dreadful trail of gore.)

He shambled out your so-called theft-proof door,
and I’ve seen seven more like him so far!
He left behind a dreadful trail of gore —
your crypts deserve no more than this one star.

I’ve seen seven more like him so far —
why no answer to my inquiry?
Your crypts deserve no more than this one star.
You guaranteed these for eternity!

They say the inventor of teleportation devices never uses them. I mull this over during my farewell glance at the canyon, where sunlight drips honey down rosy siltstone stripes and jade-green veins of angel shale. All vanishes to void as I lock on the crossing shades. A heartbeat for the obsidian bio-interface to register successful ocular block, then the telltale chill prickles my neck. The door is open. I quickstep into the thunder of ocean on stone.

The elderly physicist waves away my spare shades, so we slow-step up the lighthouse. By the lantern room, sweat-salt mingles with sea-salt. We settle, and I commence my exclusive interview with the recluse who changed the world. She skips the famous bits: losing her hand to the accident – persevering despite it – her breakthrough shield-shades design that shrank and expanded the planet for us all.

“The shades… you need to know.”

“How they work?” I flip my notepad to a sketched schematic.

“No. Why they are necessary.” 

I recall my interview prep. “It’s to protect from entanglement radiation, right? When stepping through the door?” 

“To protect, yes.” A slate line smears the horizon. We cannot hear the wind beyond the glass. “But – with a door, start in one room, cross the threshold, you’re in another room. This thing – we call it door, but it is not a door.”

Is she speaking mathematics or metaphor? “What, then?”

“A… passage. Not one threshold. Two. And – ” her stumped arm twitches – “an in-between.” Her remaining fingers ghost the pinched skin where the quantum flux ate her wrist. They trace an odd patch of discolored scar tissue. If I squint, it almost looks like bite marks.

“You know the shiver of the crossing?” she asks. I nod.

animal instinct
the unquantifiable
sensation of eyes
your body feels them watching
if you see them they can touch you

Nattering on my shoulder, squatter on my back,
fur matted, paws agitated, eyes glinted
with secret whispering flaws.

Vainglorious decay, meddlesome advisor,
cancerous refrain, retrograde impulse,
creature without a name.

I would be rid of you, but for your oily words, worming
into my brain; wrapped to its stem, fevered and quivering,
tongue swirled in my ear, tapping its drum. 

Fresh fears you bring, to taste, to contain, to savor
their copper palate and lie languid in their slick embrace,
to gut and fillet and pack into my mouth, to chew into a sickly paste.

You leave me shaking, convulsing in the dirt,
spined with dread like quills on my forearms,
my thighs, the back of my neck: 

a ripened seed pod with burrs,
raised and twisted to catch
my own ride in turn.