Run, Wabbit, Run

“Gee, I hope it didn’t hurt too much when I killed you, Mister Wabbit.” 

The voice ripples through the empty apartment; filling the space as an alarm would, each following silence feeling like it rings. There are few other sounds to compete. The sound of a clock with a decaying battery: more like a tut… tut… than a tick, tick. The slightest rubbing sound as the curtains inch against the wall. The window is cracked open a thumb’s length.

“I hope you can hewp me mister game warden,” the television says, and the shadows on the walls move like swimmers.

If a periscope were to emerge from the wood-paneled floor, this is what it would see. Its sweeping, bug-like head turns first to the kitchen, on the right. Bare countertops with no crumbs or dirty dishes. On the fridge, nothing of personal note. A newspaper clipping fixed with yellowing tape advertises a sale on sofas. A printed notice warns of preventative maintenance, scheduled for December 9th, 2063.

And in the next room, as the periscope turns its neck, a portion of a sofa can be seen. Not the same sofa in the advertisement, mind you, but a comfortable and weathered one. One can understand, now, that the owner experienced the unpleasant nagging of a wish which never came true.

No one is sitting on the sofa. There are no cups on the table. Only the items which would have proven most cumbersome to move have been allowed to stay. Important items; still, like the lamp with the hand-painted shade, but in a rush even these must be sacrificed.

The television with its garish colors is a forgotten detail. It has been playing old cartoons for a number of days. The cartoon imagines and re-imagines a caricature of a chase: the stumpy old hunter with the little legs, and the quick-witted rabbit who outsmarts him. And in this moment; we see that the rabbit has not been killed at all- it is bounding away from the useless instrument which is the old man’s musket.

Retreating from the living room, the periscope swivels towards the doorway. There are no shoes lined up on the mat, although a hint of muddy bootprints remains; hastily scrubbed.

It’s funny, the preparation which a man can put into his own departure.

Knowing that you were to die; why wipe the countertops? Why clear the dishes from the TV room, wash them, and place them back onto shelves? Knowing that no one in particular will care to inherit it, why pack the silver bowl into papers and carry it away?

And the real question is, during a quick but thorough exit, how could the television have been left on, filling the room with the manufactured sound of a 2D gun firing buckshot.

It is simply rude to the neighbors. Not to mention an insult to the electricity bill.

Of course, there is no periscope pushing up through the ground and the boards. There are only curious eyes, which peer from a spot just past the doorframe, swiveling about but never daring to venture inside. No one has thought to find the remote and silence the parade of re-runs. Perhaps they can’t be blamed for being a little afraid, considering the circumstances of his death.

The thought is enough to make the blood run cold, although no one could ever admit it. All it takes is three nominations, and then the laborious process can begin.

There are reviews, and letters, and juries. There is an entire period of observation which is broadcast to the parties involved. There are random checks and independent verifications, and finally, many forms which require many notarized signatures. Perhaps they make the process so drawn out because they hope the applicants will lose heart. But it’s been rare to start this without finishing.

Most commonly it happens to abusive fathers. When he has three children or more, it’s easy. The siblings weigh the pros and cons as a united front: debating the morality, the costliness, the logistics. And should they decide to nominate their father for death, they have each other to lean on during the process. One feels bad for the girls who nominate their rapists. There have been cases where a disgruntled roommate had to be found, or a bitter ex lover, or the cop who originally booked him. To sign these papers in the company of strangers must be burdensome.

And at the end of the day, it’s not their immortal souls which the applicants are concerned with. It’s not murder, after all. There are no electrical chairs or needles full of slow-acting compounds. There could never be a firing squad, no, the law is not meant to be regressive. Once the deceased is notified, they have twelve hours to pack, and arrive at the government to be handled.

It’s commonly believed that while death is the name it’s been given, the result is more of a relocation. It is known, quantitatively, that the deceased’s absence will be better for everyone.   Children can begin to forget the guilt and shame involved in ignoring their long-condemned parents, and victims can live without the fear of meeting their abusers around every corner. It’s been guessed that the government owns an island in the far east that’s been remodeled for this purpose. Of course, the mechanics are not the public’s business. But why else would the deceased be allowed to bring along their belongings? Regardless, the process is thorough. There are no tricks or illusions, no way to evade the result. No one has ever been reported to be seen again, after.

Soon this man’s assets will be liquified and donated to the charity of the applicants’ choice. But knowing nothing about him, it is fun to peer into his doorway, trying to pick apart the reason why he was not wanted. There are more than one set of eyes. Word has spread and the neighbors have been offering coffee. It’s a bit tasteless- one of them tried to charge.

The people at the doorway look at his sofa, his refrigerator, his hand-painted lampshade. They try not to find anything to which they relate. They watch the rabbit running, and think of cartoons with disdain.


Yarn Painting

B: “We’d have to drill holes through the ceiling.”

A: “Well, that does it then.”

B: “Don’t be like that.”

A: “No, holes in the ceiling!

B: “Darling. Imagine.”

A: “I do imagine. A bit of sawdust, an easy patch-job. Unless you’d rather fly to Mexico. Their ceilings must already have the holes.”

B: “Nonsense. You think they walk around all day skipping over holes? They drill them, once the woman is pregnant.”

A: “What’s wrong with two little holes?”

B: “Imagine, if your toe slips inside!”

A: “A broken toe! Think of my vagina.”

B: “It won’t be broken, darling.”

A: “You ask the doctor, then. She said it may be torn all the way to my asshole.”

B: “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

A: “I want a little empathy.”

B: “This goes beyond empathy. It’s not about empathy. It’s about revenge.”

A: “I think it’s a beautiful custom. And the men in Mexico never think of it as punitive.”

B: “Of course they don’t. I wouldn’t say a bad word about anyone if I had my balls in a noose!”

A: “That’s ridiculous. It’s voluntary. They agree, and then they place their balls in the noose.”

B: “My brother thinks you’re crazy. He thinks I should leave you.”

A: “Ah, yes. The endlessly wise Mitchell. Leave your wife at nine months pregnant over a ceremonial practice.”

B: “I almost cried when I described it to him. I couldn’t get the words out. I felt ashamed, Astrid.”

A: “Let me hear what you told him.”

B: “What?”

A: “I want to hear how you put it to him. You didn’t even give it a chance, did you?”

B: “It’s quite straightforward, isn’t it? You want to rip my balls off every time you have a contraction.”

A: “I knew it.”

B: “What?”

A: “If that’s what you said to him, of course he hates it.”

B: “What’s to love, where’s the—”

A: “—if you only took care when you told people, explained the history. Women and men have been choosing this custom since before the Aztecs built their golden temples, when births were natural and the sky was clean and all around the couple were trees and…”

B: “We can have a natural birth. Darling, let’s have a natural birth. We can plop you right down in a meadow and make sure there’s lots of soft ferns and, I don’t know, let’s cut the umbilical cord with an arrowhead.”

A: “Don’t patronize me.”

B: “I’m sorry. Baby, I didn’t mean that. But let’s… let’s have that natural birth you want. Whatever you want. Did you think about water?”

A: “Yes, and have my baby’s first sensation be drowning.”

B: “Our baby.”

A: “I know. But that’s the whole point. The Huichol people use this as a way to acknowledge and honor paternal responsibility. It’s stopped infidelity, it’s reduced teenage pregnancy—”

B: “You don’t trust me.”

A: “Why would you say that?”

B: “You said it first. It’s about infidelity, is it?”

A: “No, don’t get defensive. I hate it when you—”

B: “I’m not. I’m not defensive. I’m scared for us. Do you think I’ll leave you?”

A: “Of course not.”

B: “Okay.”

A: “But you might.”

B: “Baby?”

A: “Once we have our kid. I mean, we don’t know what will happen.”

B: “Yes I do.”

A: “We can’t know.”

B: “I do. We’re going to be parents. We’re going to love each other. That’s it.”

A: “And what if… we don’t?”

B: “Don’t… have our kid?”

A: “Don’t love each other.”

B: “Do you—”

A: “Of course I love you. I’m not saying that. I just mean that everything will be different. Our lives will be upside down and we’ll be tired all the time, and we’ll fight, and we won’t have sex again. All of my friends have been telling me. And my mother, she’s like a direct dial line to my dismal future. When she had my sister, her vagina actually ripped—”

B: “Don’t tell me that. Astrid. You need to stop.”

A: “I- I mean, it’s true, we’d be fooling ourselves if we thought—”

B: “Darling. Wait. You’re spiraling. You need to stop letting them get to you.”

A: “It’s not all in my head, if that’s what you think.”

B: “That’s not what I’m saying. I just know that you’re so afraid, when you don’t need to be. You can’t think about those things. This is going to be the most wonderful—”

A: “Well it’s not happening to you, is it? It’s not happening to your body.” Her hands were on her chest. There was plaintive silence.

B: “Astrid.”

A: “I can’t recover from this. I will never be the same.”

B: “I know.”

A: “But you… you could walk away.”

B: “I couldn’t.”

A: “You wouldn’t. Because I know you. Because you’re a good man. But you could. And if you wanted to, you could start a new life, as if none of it had ever happened. You wouldn’t have the scars. Your penis would work just as well. You wouldn’t risk the depression or the psychosis…”

B: “That’s very rare. Darling. That’s not gonna happen to you.”

A: “Alright.”

B: “You’re right. It’s not fair. You’re right.”

A: “I’m just… afraid.”

B: “Come here.”

They whispered.

B: “You know that pulling on my balls isn’t going to make me stay with our family. It won’t be the thing that makes me a father. That’s… that’s going to be me. And trust.”

A: “I trust you. I trust you, but I can still have fear, can’t I?”

B: “Yes.”

A: “I love you.”

B: “Would the… would the ceremony make you feel better?”

A: “I’m not sure. I just like it.”

B: “We’ll do it. Then we’ll both be afraid together.”

A: “But I know that’s awful. I don’t want to make you feel pain, when you don’t have to.”

B: “You have to.”

A: “Yes, I do.”

B: “So we’ll do it together.”

A: “What if I… ruin you?”

B: “I don’t know. You won’t, will you?”

A: “I hope not. I don’t know exactly what’s safe.”

B: “Oh, god.”

A: “I mean, we’ll find out! I promise, we’ll be careful about it.”

B: “What have I done?”

A: “If only you knew, that day you kissed me…”

B: “I think it would still be worth it.”

A: “Do you mean it? We’re really doing this?”

B: “I mean it. Don’t let me change my mind.”

A: “Trust me, I won’t.”

B: “How kind of you.”

A: “My love. I can’t believe this is happening.”

B: “We need to stop talking about it, before I think it all through.”

A: “No, not that.”

B: “What then?”

A: “The kid.”

B: “The kid.”

A: “Ours.”

They looked at each other in contented disbelief. They laced their fingers together.

Best Mai Tai in L.A.

The bell on the front door chimed and a man walked in- he didn’t belong there. It was a nice lobby, temperature regulated by soft swirls of conditioned air. Everything smelled a little like chamomile. There were no cracks between its windows or doors- inside there was only silence, and a measured darkness which provided respite from the flashing fly reels swarming incessantly outside.

The man had fat shoulders and a big neck. Despite his brutish appearance, an expression of unsettling pleasantness was plastered across his face. It was difficult to trust that this sweating man with hands quite capable of delivering a fatal blow could indeed be a paying customer.

But, as the young man behind the counter reasoned, trust was a prerequisite for any business transaction. So he slid his thumb off of the button which would summon two guards through the sliding door.

“Beautiful place,” the customer said with a great grin on his face. He strode right up to the counter and placed his meaty hands on top of it.

The young man took it as an insult. “Can I help you?”

“You own the place?”

“No. Imagination Incorporation is an international company. But I’m one of the designers.”

“Designer, huh?” The thick man stopped fiddling with the complimentary Endispenser on the counter and looked up. “You’re one of the engineers.”

The clerk nodded, nervous. “We have more endorphins in the back if you want,” he said, and put his hand possessively over the little tin machine. “This is out.”

The customer grinned again. “Nah. I’m not here to get happy.”


These things just got nastier and nastier.

The customers came with ideas- bare bones fantasies that Rand was supposed to write out. They wanted to fuck everything. They wanted to reinvent slavery. They wanted to heft a machine gun in a room full of their old friends and bullies. They came with ideas so specific and deranged that it took months of research to even understand what they might look like.

Rand understood, he did. In fact, he liked the challenge. But not today- not when his head was pounding with this Synth shit someone pawned off on him the night before.

Today, Rand was simply tired. He longed for the old clients, back at the beginning of I.I., who’d come in and request a beach. A nice, easy beach vacation with a topless swim instructor and a couple dozen swaying palm trees. Everything about it was so classic- the individually rendered granules of sand, the tang of the tropical Mai Tai- (better liked than any real one; they never knew which drink they actually wanted to order). He knew the point was for I.I. to imagine things for them, but, come on. A whole world of digital hedonism at their fingertips and they kept on picking the beach.

His disdain made it easier for Rand to keep scrolling through the intake form in front of him. Based on the image enclosed, he’d assumed something brutish alright. The guy was big and ugly and dressed like a Shafter from the UnderLA. He thought, okay, incest. Little girl kidnapping. Maybe, on the other hand, some sort of romance with a thin and pretty reel star- the kind of soft, sweet girl he’d never get in real life. But raping was old hat by then, more unoriginal than the Bahamas. This was some other thing.

Rand pulled up his canvas and slapped a little flier together.


    He pasted the I.I. logo to the top and regarded it, satisfied. He thought it was a nice way to put it.

He sent the flier out through his corporate channel and it got greenlit immediately- another perk of seniority. That night his ad was plastered across the sky, the ground, the buildings. He gleefully anticipated how many responses he’d get from the UnderLA- the women there were guaranteed to be qualified- and better yet, their entire bodies doubled as adspace.


It had been exactly three years. Exactly, she knew, because it was an easy day to remember. Minutes after it had finished she had staggered towards the nearest store, desperate to get her hands on any sort of hurt spray. Her biometrics were read by the automatic trigger at the door. Two tinny voices were still telling her “Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!” as she paid.

She thought perhaps that it would be too soon to tell someone else- after all, her rapist was still living in that same sector, her sector. In fact, she thought their buildings might have affronted the same street. That was the disturbing part about it- it hadn’t even happened in one of the Unders. Not that the things which happened down there were any less wrong.

She introduced herself at their front desk as Paige Strafe and was given a little name tag to affix to her blouse. She felt nervous, but there was a reason she had come.

The ad she had read in a supermarket had somehow given her hope. It was like she would have a place in deciding what happened to other women, later. Like she could protect them somehow. She had no delusions about being able to go back in time and protect herself. But there was also the money to be had.

“Paige.” A man in a smart shirt and faded jeans greeted her. “I’m Rand. I’m the one in charge of this project. I’d like to start by getting you wired. What do you say?”

    Wired. That was a bit more than she had bargained for. “What is that for?”

“The cameras are for creating a living record of survivor’s experiences, like yours. We need to be able to feel the experience viscerally so that we can make people understand what happened to you. It’s the only way we might prevent people from acting out like this in the future.”

He hadn’t answered her question. The electrodes were being stuck to her head, and a wire got wrapped around her ear. It felt cool, and she might have imagined it, but she felt the subtle thrill of electricity.

“Will I be able to see it, after it’s finished?”

“You might,” Rand murmured. “Sometimes these things get stuck in production.”

Her heart halted a little, but they were having her lean back in a chair, and she had already signed a mountain of paperwork.


He wasn’t lying to her. Some subscribed to the theory that allowing people to live out their violent fantasies in simulation would prevent them from committing those acts in real life. For the old ladies, the Imaginings were escapes. For the rapists (and everybody had a little bit of rapist in them), Imaginings were outlets. Preventative measures. Therapy, you could say.

That was the stance I.I. always took when it came to the legal proceedings. The opposition said that these fantasies only conditioned violent people to become more violent. And Rand could see that too- that after experiencing a taste of what some horrible thing could be, Joe Customer would want it even more. He’d feel validated in his sick desire. It could go either way, truly. And the tech hadn’t been around long enough for there to be any serious studies on it. That was to be expected. There were never any studies until after the damage had already been done.

But this wasn’t Rand’s concern. A job was a job, wasn’t it? The women who sold their stomachs and thighs as uplinked adspace, or traded their sex for money and credits, they were just doing their job. The doctors who turned away cash strapped customers knowing full well they’d die- they were just doing their job. And the lawyers who took bribe money to keep the Unders the Unders and the rest the rest- they had jobs to do themselves. They worked long and hard at it, the same way Rand did. He put in the hours to make the best product he could make.

That was the whole purpose of this macabre interview. Rand widened his legs around his stool. That was the reason Paige was here today. In the interest of being thorough. In the pursuit of his flawless record- the highest satisfaction rate for authentic Imaginings I.I. had ever seen. It took hours, it took work. Rand was proud of himself.

“Now try to remember what it felt like in the moment he took off his pants,” Rand said. Paige had been forthcoming with the setting. She had described her clothes (“not for the purpose of judgement, but to give merit to the whole truth”), the weather, her thoughts as she walked through her neighborhood that day. Her fear as she felt she was being followed, by someone she couldn’t identify. Her eyes being covered as she was pushed against a wall- and the rest- the best- they were almost to it. She’d been distressed, even outlining this. Deliciously distressed. The wires fed panic straight from her brain through his console and into his delicate rendering. This would be a challenge, for sure, but a masterpiece.

Paige opened her eyes. “It wasn’t a man,” she told him.

Rand stopped. He looked at her cute lips, he’d been staring at them, and he stared now as if he’d seen a glitch.

“Say that again,” Rand said.

“It wasn’t a man. My attacker. She was a woman. The woman from my neighborhood.”

“What do you mean, a fucking woman?” Rand cried. He ran his hands through his hair. A woman?? He was wracking his brain. The whole point of this digitized mindfuck was to get his customer off. The man was a violent criminal in real life- he’d admitted so in his intake form.  He appreciated seeing his victims’ pain. And what he wanted most now- what he was willing to pay forty years in cash and credits for- was to understand how he’d made those women feel. It was his new dream. To feel their mounting terror beat by beat. And to pat himself on the back, after, for being the one to impose it.

“I don’t understand,” Paige said, sitting up. “Why is that a problem?”

“I guess I should’ve been more specific. I guess I should have specified on the goddamn flier. But it’s not like I could spring for that many characters, is it?”

“Give me back those papers,” Paige narrowed her eyes. “I want to look at what I signed.”

“You signed, I pay you, you fuck off, I come back tomorrow and do it all again,” Rand snarled. “Whatever. Go home now.”

“Why are you doing this?” She demanded. He hadn’t noticed when she’d snatched the electrodes off from her hair. There were wires dangling and pieces ripping. The bitch. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted I.I. to do some charitable project. You people are nothing but criminal enablers, aren’t you? Jerking off and working ‘round the clock to push us all back towards lawlessness!”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Rand barely looked at her. He was busy folding up components, hard drives, his canvas and stylus and notes.

“You will be sorry,” she huffed, and thank god, went back out the door she came in.


Corporate was demanding damage control.

The way Rand saw it, it wasn’t a big deal.

That girl Paige Strafe had leaked her “traumatic experience” to the press, and the bot streams were crowded with images of I.I.’s tightly shuttered downtown office. But they hadn’t gotten anything. There was no traction, no real story, and the whole thing would fizzle out before Rand’s high even wore off.

Yes, it was despicable. But there were things more despicable than soliciting rape survivors to relive their assaults under false pretense. There were, and Rand knew them intimately. One only had to look at his vault of Imaginings.

The power has gone out in my Spanish apartment

The power has gone out in my Spanish apartment. The lights are off, the cords are not charging anything, the elevator has stalled, and inside the fridge, the strawberries are molding faster by small increments, waiting for small wisps of room-temperature air to seep in.

In the hallways I hear the echoing clangs of dissatisfied Spaniards, opening their doors, stepping into the hallway and finding that there is no one there, who would, perhaps, attend to the problem, and, satisfied in their dissatisfaction, going back inside. I hear them clang again every few minutes. But perhaps they are only looking for neighbors to lament with, as it is our common experience. I admit that I myself voyaged out, barefooted, to stubbornly press the elevator button again and again and see that it did not light up.

Outside it has started raining.

I wonder how many of my neighbors are also awake at almost-midnight, how many besides the dissatisfied Clangers. How many are shocked at the timing of the weather.

When the lights come on, maybe 40 minutes later, it scares me more than the first time.

I tuck myself out of bed and go to check on the ice cream.


When he died, it was on a corner near a dozing shopping mall, half-shelled and hulled of its meat, its people, filled only with caged storefronts and empty vats for melting cheese. The lights on the street-side had been dim for years but in morning they were nearly transparent. That morning he stood, and waited, with the lights to his back. He wanted someone to get there.

The whole thing had happened so early that it seemed it was the earliest it ever would be. I mean, it seemed like that hour had been specifically set aside for his death. Nothing else breathed or moved in the world at that time. There was only Andrew, and the car.

I don’t waste spare moments contemplating the mode, the method, operandi, operatory. It is easy enough to assume. Yes, there was alcohol. Yes, there was sidewalk. Yes there was blood on sidewalk yes there was.

That’s not what’s important here.


I know what important things are.

For instance, I loved him- you could call that “important.” I loved him in a way that made my life different; and changed the shape of my body. I could feel the cavernous hole in my chest getting bigger to take in more love for him. I could feel it getting bigger and bigger, sucking my blood vessels into a whirlpool with a big wet smacking POP.

My love wasn’t a bad thing, though. It just took a lot,

and was very large.



Andrew was known for his stories.

He was a writer in a way I never could be, always twisting and yarning and crafting his words. He loved to say we were different people, like the two scientists who were responsible for learning how to grow lima beans in space. Don’t ask me how he came up with this stuff.

One moment, it would just occur to him.

“Casp!” he’d say, “We’re inventors. We invented the first bendable stovepipe and now we’re millionaires!”

I’d laugh, and kiss his forehead, and speak with a fancy rich accent for the rest of the day. Our imaginations were the best part of us; they took us through a lot. I liked that he could always be in love with me, no matter what we did or where we lived or which millionaires we were that day. There was something comforting about pretending to be someone else. Maybe it was like falling in love with him all over again, each time.

Our sex became stories, too. The dueling warlords who fought with their cocks, the professor and the schoolboy. There were times when I missed the two of us, but it was almost easier that way. Our stories were exciting. Our lives could sometimes be plain.

What struck me through all this, though, was the time Andrew talked about his grave.

“I’m not shuddering, Casper, I’m shivering. I just get that sometimes.”

“You don’t have to have a seizure every time. You freak me out when you do that.”

“You know how they say when you shiver, it’s someone walking on your grave?”

“I guess.”

Andrew’s eyes started to sparkle, his writerly hands on my shoulders, he said “I think I’m going to have a very popular grave.”

He meant that he was going to be famous, of course. He saw hordes of pilgrims winding up a mountain road, bringing well-loved copies of his books and leaving tokens by his headstone. He saw generations of readers and literature-lovers kneeling in the soft dirt of his burial mound until it was reduced to sand and then dust. He thought maybe his place of death would be a point of interest, someday. I loved the way he could think.

It didn’t turn out that way, obviously. He was cremated, so I guess you could say his grave was where he died: where the wooden roadside cross sat spiked into the grass for exactly 27 days before it broke apart or disappeared. It was that corner, where he waited for a friend, where a friend just up and killed him. It got built over.

The drowsy mall became a vacant lot and the vacant lot became condos, and when the condos went decrepit they put trees and a park there instead. The park was slowly invaded by biking paths that became road crossings and a new mall was built around them, this time with elevators like drive-through bank tubes and shiny stainless counters over which passed melted cheese. It’s a busy place, a popular place, that brings new money into the neighborhood. There is no grass to spike in American flags, wreaths, or photos.

I miss him all the time so I go there, anyway. I buy the soft pretzel with a lemonade and cross the street to sit on a bench. The people passing are reading trashy novels and probably only smoke out of rigid pipes; they traipse back and forth all day and into the early morning. They stream into the mall and out again, and in, and out.

I wish it didn’t turn out this way. I am reminded that it’s really hard to love someone.

Andrew’s grave, it turns out, is a crosswalk.