by Sean Wallace
Then there’s an impact, a tumbling, and everything goes green, then gray, then black.
I’m not certain how long I’m out for. It can’t be long, maybe a few seconds. Still, for a short time I’m floating in the dark, warm and safe and numb. It’s bliss. Then there’s water splashing on my face, and I come to. I’m sprawled in the bushes on my back, bent in an uncomfortable position, a warm barrage of huge raindrops splattering on my forehead and cheeks, running into my nose and mouth, choking me a little. I try to sit up, but a sharp pain in my back persuades me to stay put for the moment. Instead, I raise my head and look down myself.
It’s nowhere near as bad as it could have been, I have to admit. My leathers are looking pretty torn and tattered, and there’s a reasonable amount of blood coming from a dozen or so minor wounds that I can make out, but I seem to be pretty intact, no obviously broken bones. I turn my head painfully to the side, and see that the shrubs I’ve landed on cushioned my fall quite effectively, still green and springy despite the sunless skies. All in all, it could have gone much worse for me. I’m alive.
“Ryuichi,” I croak, then again, louder this time. “Ryuichi?”
There’s no answer. I try to sit up again, this time ignoring the sharp recommendations of my bruised coccyx, and manage to reach a sitting position without fainting, though my head is spinning like the clouds above me. They catch my eye for a moment, and I look upwards. We’re in the midst of the cyclone now, though I’ve landed in a shallow depression in the peak of the mountain so I’m shielded from the worst of the winds. But over my head, I can see Katrina venting her fury, the clouds streaming in enormous circles across the sky. It looks like we’re almost in the storm’s eye.
“Ryuichi?” I call again, and look around carefully for the old Japanese man, my idol, my hero, my teacher in absentia.
I see him, maybe ten or fifteen meters away from my position. He’s landed in the vegetation as well, though he landed face down. Unfortunately, the tree hasn’t saved him; it’s bare of leaves, a jagged lightning bolt of wood standing upright on the top of the mountain. He isn’t moving, and I know he never will again, not of his own volition. The branch he’s impaled on, through the chest and out of his back, is a darker shade than the rest of the tree, and I realize it’s Ryuichi’s blood staining it almost black. Blood also streams from the old man’s mouth, pooling on the ground beneath him. He has that posture, that near-indefinable body language that speaks of death; I’ve seen pictures of corpses, and of unconscious people, and there’s something about the dead that silently screams out, tells you that the person, perhaps the soul if it exists, is no longer present. Something has departed.
Ryuichi’s life has ended, his long and tumultuous life. I feel tears begin to burn the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away, determined not to cry. This was exactly how he always said he wanted to die, in books and interviews. You really are never as alive as when you’re close to death. And before he died, he truly lived.
I feel a burst of hot, moist air against my back, through the rips and tears in my leathers, and I turn my head and look up. And up. And up.
I almost forgot about the daikaiju. How strange is that?
I’m not afraid, not anymore. If I die here, then this is where I die. I’ll be proud to share a grave with the grand master. But somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen; the monster isn’t even looking in my direction. It’s raised up, its tentacles stretched to the skies, like a footballer about to take a mark, or an evangelist beseeching the Almighty. And it’s so still—just a slight waving of its serpentine arms in the gale force winds that must be whipping around them. It’s as if it’s waiting for something. I look up as well, follow its gaze.
And then I see it. Right above the mountain, hovering like a halo. At the center of the storm, the point around which the angry gray clouds are rotating, I can see it, just barely through the rain that’s pouring into my face.
The eye of the cyclone. It’s the purest blue I’ve ever seen.
A tiny hole in the clouds has formed there, opened up by the tremendous forces unleashed by the storm. It’s fragile, and fleeting, but it’s there. The eye blinks, once, twice, then closes for good. I’m blinking back tears and raindrops, wiping my own eyes desperately, hoping to catch sight of it again. But it’s gone. It takes me a while to accept this. Once I do, I lower my eyes again.
The creature is gone as well.
I clamber to my feet, my knees trembling violently under my own weight. I stagger to the edge of the mountain, where the daikaiju had been just moments before, and look over, but there’s no sign of it, apart from the enormous trail of destruction it has left in its wake. I see that now, from high above, and find it hard to believe that I’d been riding that wave. Running with the monster.
Why are there no monster fossils? There must be a thousand answers to that one, from biodegradable skeletons to ancient animals predating the fossil record. But standing here on shaky legs, hundreds of meters above the torn fields, I can only think of one that seems plausible to me, and I suspect it’s what Ryuichi believed as well.
These creatures, these daikaiju, leave no fossils because they’re not animals, not even alive as such. They’re forces of nature, like the cyclone that still roars around me, or an avalanche that swallows a dozen daring skiers whole. Ryuichi couldn’t hate the monster for killing his parents, any more than he could hate a flood or a drought. Some people might, but not him. All he could do was try to understand it, get close to it. Run with it.
Down below, picking its way through the torn earth, I can see a figure limping, tiny as an insect. I can make out black clothing and short hair. It’s Belinda, making her way painfully towards me. Behind her, driving up in the distance in some kind of open-topped four-wheel drive, comes the film crew, cameras still pointed my way despite the lack of a kaiju to film, dai or otherwise. Belinda waves to me, and I wave back tiredly, leaning on the rocks on the edge of the mountain, ignoring the wind and rain. We’ll do this again, her and I, and perhaps others will join us, new blood to replace the old that’s been spilled.
I smile at this thought, finally understanding Ryuichi’s attitude, his serenity. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as sanguine as he was, but at least I’m on the path now. To be a part of something like this, something so magnificent, that was enough, and it will continue to be enough.
We all run, one way or another.
With Bright Shining Faces
J.C. Koch
“You can’t draw monsters!”
Mrs. George looked up from her lesson plan. It was Quiet Time and her first graders were normally quite good with coloring quietly for a few minutes, especially because Story Time came right after.
Cody, the boy who’d just broken the main Quiet Time rule, glared at Sukie, who sat next to him.
Sukie was busy drawing. She didn’t look up, just shrugged. “Can too,” she said mildly.
“Can not,” Cody insisted. “Especially not like those.” He punched his finger onto Sukie’s drawing. Sukie shrugged again and moved her paper further to the left, away from Cody.
Sukie was a small, quiet girl with straight honey-brown hair, big, bright blue eyes, and a serious demeanor. She normally kept to herself, and this should have made her the class outcast. But it was quite the reverse. As opposed to being shunned by the other children she was always invited to play with them, and most of the class wanted to partner with her whenever a buddy was required.
Whether it was because she didn’t like any of her classmates more than the others, or because she knew she was popular without seeming to try or care, Sukie never chose the same partner twice in a row.
But other than when she was required to be a part of a couple or a group, Sukie kept to herself. The other children were respectful of her apparent wish to be solitary, and none of them ever mocked her.
Cody wasn’t normally a belligerent little boy, and the other children were rarely this confrontational with Sukie.
Mrs. George could reprimand him, and her first instinct was to do so, lest whatever hold Sukie had over the other children be broken and she be turned into the class victim and, by extension, Cody into the class bully.
However, there was something in the way he was upset—there was fear in the little boy’s tone, easily as much as there was anger.
Mrs. George got up and went to see just what Sukie was drawing and to provide the calming influence the teacher standing next to a student normally enforced.
Cody looked up at her, eyes wide. “Make her stop it, Missus Gee. She’s drawing bad things.” Yes, he was frightened.
“May I see, Sukie?” Mrs. George asked gently.
“Sure.” Sukie moved her drawing back to the center of her desk.
Mrs. George was prepared for something horrible—many times students drew things they experienced at home, terrible things, and part of her job was to determine if the drawing was real and, therefore, if the child needed to see the school psychologist, nurse, or on-campus police officer.
Sukie’s father was an oil rigger and her mother worked as a cocktail waitress in one of the more popular casinos in Gulfport. Those professions didn’t necessarily provide a stable home life, though most of the children in her school had parents working on the rigs and/or in the casinos.
Sukie’s grandmother took care of her and her older brother, Spradlin, and Mrs. George had met her when she’d had Spradlin in her class. Mrs. Selwyn appeared normal, but she’d always made Mrs. George nervous, even though the older woman really just liked to talk about how Spradlin was named for his mother’s family and how the oil rigs were destroying the ecological balance of the world, her son working on one or no.
However, Mrs. George had a hard time determining what about this picture was upsetting Cody so much. It was a rather crude drawing of what looked like a fatter version of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It was a little early for it, but because of a traveling exhibit, they’d done a whole week on dinosaurs last month, culminating in a school field trip to the University of Southern Alabama Archeology Museum when the dinosaur exhibit was there. All the school had been involved, so Sukie still being interested in the ancient creatures didn’t seem out of the ordinary.
However, Mrs. George had been teaching for many years now, and Cody’s reaction felt quite real, not made up to get Sukie in trouble or draw attention to himself.
“Sukie’s just drawn T-Rex,” she said reassuringly, as she patted Cody’s shoulder. “And very well, too,” she said to Sukie. This wasn’t a lie—most first graders weren’t going to take the art world by storm, after all—and this was a serviceable rendition of a giant lizard. “And she’s allowed to draw whatever she wants, just as you are.”
“But look at it,” Cody said. “Look.”
She did. It remained a fat, crude rendition of a T-Rex. “Cody, you know that monsters aren’t real, don’t you? Besides, Sukie’s drawing a dinosaur.”
“No,” he insisted. “She’s drawing monsters.” His voice dropped. “Real monsters. And monsters aren’t supposed to be real. My mom said.”
“My grandma said monsters are real,” Sukie replied calmly. “And she’s right. You’re just afraid.”
“My mom said that we should be afraid,” Cody muttered. “She said that no one should ask them to visit.”
“It’s okay. They’re my friends.” Sukie reached out and patted Cody’s hand. “But don’t worry—I won’t let them hurt you.”
Mrs. George expected Cody to pull his hand away. Girls still had cooties at this age, and the boy was so upset with Sukie that she didn’t expect him to be pleasant.
But instead of belligerence, Cody relaxed.
“You promise?” Sukie nodded. “I promise.” She looked up at Mrs. George. “I won’t let them hurt you, either, Missus Gee.”
“Well, thank you, dear. That’s very brave and kind of you. Now, Cody, are we all right here?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, Missus Gee.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s okay. We all get scared sometimes.”
She headed back towards her desk, but as she did, something moved in her peripheral vision. It was Sukie’s picture—it still looked like an over-fat T-Rex, but it no longer looked crudely drawn. Now it looked filled-in and real. And she could have sworn that she’d seen it move.
But when she looked at the drawing directly, all that was there were the green and brown crayon scribbles Sukie had done.
Mrs. George shrugged and went back to the front of the room. “Class, are we ready for Story Time? Today we’ll read Clifford, The Big Red Dog.”
The children all cheered, Cody included, and Mrs. George went happily back to the normal routine of her day.
The normal routine lasted until recess. Sukie wasn’t playing with the other children. She was off in a corner, under a tree, crayons and paper with her, busily drawing. Her face was wrinkled in concentration and her crayons moved swiftly over the paper.
Mrs. George wondered if she should reprimand Sukie for bringing the art supplies outside—the children weren’t supposed to do this. However, the girl wasn’t bothering anyone, and she was taking good care with crayons and paper both.
Mrs. George looked around. There was a belligerence in the air that wasn’t normal. As she watched, several small scuffles broke out, between children who normally didn’t fight with anyone, let alone each other.
She and the other teachers and aides broke these little fights up. All participants seemed on edge, which was to be expected, but none seemed angry, which wasn’t. Students from her class and Mr. Crandall’s upper grade glass were the most involved, percentage-wise. Spradlin was in Mr. Crandall’s class.
At least one child per fight had a picture of some kind of “monster” on their person or identified as theirs. Only those from her class and Mr. Crandall’s. Mrs. George looked at each drawing. Some were lizard-based, some aquatic, and a few looked like giant trees—all had a great many fangs and claws and such. She was certain they were all Sukie’s work.
Each child who had a drawing was hysterical to get their picture back, either from the teachers or, in a few cases, from the children they’d been fighting. She and the other teachers discussed punishments. No one was truly hurt, and all the children were so riled up, discretion seemed the better course. A few minutes of Quiet Time to think over bad behavior was determined to be the approved course of action. In order to ensure all the children would be able to calm down, they decided full confiscation wasn’t the right answer either.
So each child got their drawing back. Every one of them seemed more relieved than normal for something like this. The children who didn’t have drawings seemed envious. Mrs. George wondered if the fights had started because children without drawings had tried to take them away from children who had them. Then she dismissed this idea as silly.
This excitement filled up the majority of recess time, and most of the school had come to gather around while the fights were subdued. However, a fast headcount showed there were some missing, from her class and Mr. Crandall’s.
Mrs. George looked back to Sukie, who had all the missing children near her, either waiting in a well-ordered line or standing off to the side, pieces of paper held in their hands.
Sukie finished a drawing and handed it to the next child in line, who happened to be Cody. He trotted off to the other group, looking quite happy.
As the first bell rang and the children all trooped back inside, Mrs. George called him over. “What do you have there?”
The boy held the paper up for her to see, but didn’t hand it to her. “My own monster!”
This drawing was no better or worse than the others Sukie had created. It was crude, and from her lizard-like group, only this one was reddish, with wings, a long sharp beak, and six claws on each foot, of which it also had six. In keeping with what appeared to be Sukie’s theme, there were extra claws on the wings, as well.
“I thought you didn’t like monsters.” This
one resembled a bigger version of a pterodactyl, with more legs, feet, and claws than a real one. “This looks a little . . . scary.”
“This one’s mine, so it won’t hurt me,” Cody said, all happy confidence. “Or you, Missus Gee,” he added loyally. He trotted off, carrying his drawing carefully.
Mrs. George took a good look at the children in line. Every one was in her class. The ones in the other group were all in Mr. Crandall’s class. She wasn’t sure if this was good or bad, but, as Sukie handed another drawing to Lori, who took it and skipped off, the second bell rang.
Sukie said something and the other children headed for the classroom. Some looked disappointed, others crestfallen, some worried. Only Cody and Lori and the others who had drawings already seemed happy and contented.
Sukie was last in, and as she took her seat, Mrs. George wondered if she should just allow Sukie to keep on drawing or not.
“We’re going to have Quiet Time because a lot of children were behaving badly.”
The children who had drawings, whether they’d been in fights or not, hunched protectively over their pictures.
“I’m sorry, Missus Gee,” Sukie said. “I’m doing my best. I had to take care of Spradlin’s class first because they’re old and bigger.”
How to reply to this? Clearly Sukie felt the fights were over her drawings. The rest of the class’ expressions showed they agreed.
“Well . . . Sukie, you weren’t involved in the fighting.” At least, not intentionally. “Why don’t all of you who weren’t a part of it color? Those who were, you just sit quietly and consider why fighting isn’t a good thing.”