[Estimated reading time: 24 minutes]

Habeas Corpus - 1992

The woman behind the glass is crying, tears are running down her not-quite make-up-free face.
She is sobbing, quietly, while staring with kind eyes at a person on the other side of the glass.

She is wearing an orange jumpsuit and is shackled into a black chair.
There are wires connected to a metal cap on her head and metal bracelets on her arms.

"The studio wanted less tears in this scene.
Apparently, having a death-row inmate bawling her eyes out is just 'off-putting'," The Director narrates to no one in particular.
The Director sits in the small, dark room, where a dozen people are sitting and watching the execution through thick glass.
The Director sits at the edge of the assembled, in the very back, and slowly looks from one attendant to the others.
Miranda is accused of murder, and the victim's parents are both sitting in the front row.
Her's husband is also in the front row, with the prosecutor and the defense attorneys between the two parties, acting as a sort of buffer.

No one notices The Director, no one reacts as he comments about the scene.
There are no cameras, no gaffers, no microphones just out of view.

"The screenwriter had just three conditions for this whole picture, and it was all about this scene," The Director continues.
"Three things she asked for: real tears, an older actress, and the protagonist dies."
The Director sits and shakes his head.
"The actress, a newcomer by the name of Jenifer, was cast as Miranda when the studio sent down a nicely-worded threat.
She got picked because she is a Julia Roberts type, but younger, and that's what the studio wanted.
But Jenifer cannot cry on command, so the makeup artist is just off-screen, ready to apply a tear here or there as necessary.
I wanted a single tracking shot, backing away from her eyes, pulling back so we can finally see the electric chair.
But Jenifer couldn't hold an expression for more than ten seconds!
So we ended up with lots of quick cuts, like fucking amateur hour!"

The phone rings on the wall, next to a clock that reads "11:57", and everyone gasps.
Miranda's eyes follow those of the assembled audience, and suddenly there is hope in her eyes.
The warden picks up the phone and has a short conversation, then waves to the executioner, stopping the whole thing.

"Miranda's released on a technicality.
A promising script is flushed down the toilet because of studio interference, once again," The Director laments.

A green-eyed woman in a smart blue suit turns and looks at The Director, and for a moment he wonders if she can see him, but she looks away quickly.

Miranda's husband cries a single manly tear, and the world fades away to black.
The credits start to roll.

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[Estimated reading time: 4 minutes]

I sit down at a wooden kitchen table, red place mats at four spots, familiar wear in the surface.
There'a blackboard-
No, wait, it's a white-board, with alcohol-smelling markers.
One is definitely shitty, but we're not going to throw it away.
It's there in case.

The teacher walks in and my spine snaps, my head moves at sonic frequencies and for a moment I break the sound-barrier.

"Today's lesson is feelings.
It's very simple: you are not allowed to have them."

The teacher writes NO FEELINGS in big blocky letters on the board.
She starts with the shitty red marker, which fails halfway through the O, and replaces it with a blue one, continues like it's nothing.

She talks, I listen.
She tells stories of minimal importance, things like the cost of chicken on this particular Tuesday, and creates a storm in a freaking tea-cup.
She discusses her feelings, at every opportunity, and I have to listen.

I forget what it's like to have feelings.

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[Estimated reading time: 6 minutes]

---

ID: PAA-19BDL-2025

Recovery date: March 4, 12 PAE (August 7, 2038 CE)

Description:
Diary belonging to Anne Graham-Hatoyama, found in the aftermath of ORANGE FEATHER.
Handwriting analysis and on-site surveillance confirm that all entries were written by the same person, Anne Graham-Hatoyama, over the course of 6 days.

Monday, October 6th, 2025

Dear diary, hi!

My name is Anne and I am 13 years old.

Papa said that I should keep a diary, and then he brought you for me.
You are leather-bound hippy paper, pages with rough edges in a strange, inconsistent white.

I'm using my favorite black pen, the one I buy online direct from Japan, with very sharp tip.
It rips you to small, white shreds, but it works.
When I go to the store tomorrow I will try to find a different pen.

I am going to try writing in you for at least 10 minutes a day.

Papa says "habits make the person".
I like that.

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[Estimated reading time: 29 minutes]

Tuesday morning, catching up

It's Tuesday morning, not even 7, when I get to the school.
For the past few days I was out of town, camping, and this is my first day back, so I decided to come in earlier than normal and start in on the ungraded pile of quizzes from Monday.
Hit the ground running and all that.

Eventually Jerome comes in and we split the remainder of the work.
Grading the quizzes and chatting about our lives is a nice way to get back into the swing of things.

The first class is at 9 and we have plenty of time to catch up and even plan out the day's activities.
Over the past week, Jerome has been working through the lesson plan we both came up with, and I'm happy to see that all the kids in our classes seem to be following the material.

As 9am approaches, the students start to come in, so I ask each about the past week, and in turn I get grilled about the camping trip.

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[Estimated reading time: 27 minutes]

Ferry, drive

Strong winds bring the chill and cover us in ocean spray, but they are a welcome counterpart to the blazing sun, so we stay over the foredeck of the ferry and welcome it.
Clara nuzzles in closer, hides her face within the too-large windbreaker she got just for these occasions.
Alan is doing his best King of the World impression, and his red 49s jacket looks like Superman's cape.
Beth is off to the side, a camera up to her face, moving a bit to secure a proper vantage point.

"Composition," she explains to anyone who will listen, "is the most important aspect of photography," then chuckles at her own joke.
She is now lining up Alan and the mountains off in the distance, attempting to get both into an iconic Pacific Northwest shot.

"This is going to be fun," Clara says for the dozenth time and kisses my cheek.
I stare ahead and nod.

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[Estimated reading time: 11 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

Fran's evening, a trip to the hospital

Fran pushes the pizza box against the door, her purse balanced on top, the keys in the same hand that's supporting the box, and awkwardly unlocks the door.
Her grip shifts down to the handle and she carefully stumbles into her apartment, in a well-practiced and rehearsed motion.

The door slams shut behind her, Fran puts the pizza and her stuff on the ground, then lets out a long-held scream: "Ahhhh! Fuck that scum-sucking fuck! Fucker!"

She stands and breathes and centers herself.
The explosion is good, it's helpful and cathartic, and now she just needs to regain her composure.

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[Estimated reading time: 19 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

1997, July 15th, 7pm

I get to the tower just a minute or two after it happens: his body is lying on the ground, just to the side of the small fountain that occupies the circular driveway.
His eyes are closed and it almost looks like he's asleep.

People love taking naps in pools of blood, right?

I pause time and walk around the body, weave my way between very realistic-looking statues of businessmen and women.
His hair is disheveled, and of course there's all the blood, but that's about it, nothing else looks strange or out of place.
He might as well be sleeping.

I look up and my eyes - slowly - follow the parallel lines of the building up, stopping ever so briefly at each floor, counting the stories consciously.
The top of the building is occupied by a penthouse, and so far I've counted about thirty-five stories.

I walk toward the building, enter the statue-menagerie through an open door.
The lobby is packed with a bunch of corporate suits, all streaming out to take in the sight.

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[Estimated reading time: 2 minutes]

[This is a work in progress.]

The world smoulders and burns.
The cracked pavement belches gases from deep below.
The abandoned cars have already burned, but even their old carcases still smoke under the blazing heat.

I spend half an hour in the hills that overlook LA, watching the former metropolis as it crumbles to dust.
Prince looks up at me and meows, for the hundredth time, and I finally give in.
I dribble a few ounces from my canteen and take a swig as well, both of us happy to be hydrating.
Then we set off through the mostly-expressways route that I scoped out.

I put away Prince's bowl, then stoop down and let the little guy jump up onto my shoulder, and we set out.
We stay away from downtown and make our way through Burbank and onward, northwest, to the promise land.

It's quiet, the rumors were true, LA is a dead zone.
The cement jungle offers no reprieve from the end of the world, so no one spends much time here.
My own path leads north, out of the city and into the San Joaquin Valley.

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[Estimated reading time: 3 minutes]

I finish out my day, do a final count at my station, get the supervisor's signature, and head out.
As soon as I walk through the turnstile, the glasses are on, the headphones are up and running, I tap the familiar app on my phone, and I am happy!

The world feels my happiness and is happy with me.
Her twinkling smile is everywhere, the slight crinkles around the eyes are alluring, not yet crows feet.
I'm walking on air as I run a few last-minute errands before heading home.

We exchange pleasantries as she prepares the rolls of spicy tuna.
Her smile invigorates me.

At the makeup counter her eyes meet mine and she knows instantly what I need, and helps put up my hair into a low-price version of the season's fashion.

She smiles the perfect smiles as she sells me the two bottles of Pinko House Cider.

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[Estimated reading time: 8 minutes]

[Author's note: this story is part of the on-going Space Surfers storyline.]

It's another boring and empty Tuesday at the office.
Everyone except for Joe is working from home, and has been for the past three years, even before COVID offered the opportunity.
Joe walks back into the cement two story building, a brutalist structure from the 70s when it was poured and lovingly dedicated to a dead mayor.
The office building shares a parking lot with a small strip mall, the only other building around here, and Joe is carrying a white paper bag with a logo of the burger joint next door.

The whole complex sits on Route 240, an east-west route that connects far-off places no one goes to in the midwest.
On the north side of the route is a corn field, green and ten feel tall at this point in the season.
The office building and the strip mall are on the south side of the road, in a small concrete patch that is carved out of an empty field.
A lone green Civic sits in the parking lot in front of the office building, Joe's old beat-up car.
From inside the office, Joe pushes the Lock button on his remote key fob and the car beeps once.

Just a regular day.

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