“I don’t think you understand how mountains work, Pickets.”
“No, Fida, it’s you who doesn’t understand. A man with ambition can climb mountains. A man with enough yuan can move them. I climbed it twice; it was an improvement from every angle. I should’ve taken photos—though you know I don’t hold with capturing moments; an event is meant to be experienced—then you could see my vision realized. You’ll just have to take my word.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to change apartments?” Jawry said. “Found one with a view of the setting sun more to your liking?” Ever since the gift of the panda, Jawry had been trying to provoke Pickets. He insisted Pickets was trying to entice me into bed, and my dear poet was probably right. Not that it would happen. I understood Pickets perfectly and wasn’t about to let him make a memory out of me. (That mountain he moved was the only thing he’d climbed twice.) But I’d let him try. I loved my little amusements, and Jawry could only provide so many.
Pickets gave him a disdainful look. His expression did what Jawry’s words couldn’t. It made me wonder about my black-market panda: the foresight needed to procure one; the people who might’ve been saved in my pet’s place; the menu changes necessitated by the amount of food Chyna needed each day (a small sacrifice for preserving a species if you asked me); and, of course, about Pickets.
Pickets,” I said when he joined me in CULTIVATION BAY 111-G one afternoon, “I don’t hold with moving mountains.”
“Of course you don’t, Fida. You much prefer other people to rearrange things for you.”
“Well, I value comfort, yes; nothing wrong with that,” I said and Pickets nodded his agreement. “But you do things on whim—that result in destruction.”
“I am a man of vision. I seek out beauty. That is hardly whimsical.”
“You don’t argue about your destructive nature?” I’d thought quite a bit about Pickets and his sunset obsession. A man who moved a mountain might be inclined to hurry a dying planet along.
Granted, it would’ve happened anyways, but I couldn’t help feel a tiny bit that Pickets was something of a mass murderer. I worried whether it was my responsibility to do something about him. Certainly, no one else would rebuke him.
“A man can neither create nor destroy.”
“Where do you get such ideas? I swear, Pickets, the things you make up. I thought I could at least trust you to be honest.”
“Honesty?” He laughed. “Between us? Fida, it cannot be. You’d never stand for it.”
“Oh, hush. My panda’s eating and you’ll give her indigestion.” I could spend hours watching Chyna peel her bamboo, chomp and suck—if not for the smell. Pandas have an odor—they don’t mention that in the brochures. One you couldn’t wash away with strawberry-scented shampoo no matter how many gallons of reclaimed water you squandered.
I asked Pickets to see about putting up a glass wall to separate the natural habitat and its nasty scents from my viewing pleasure. He said, “I should’ve guessed you’d prefer zoo over safari. But, yes, let us indulge your little wish.”
“Why does the captain indulge you?” I asked.
“Because I own this cruiseline. Or a fraction of it. Do you require the exact percentage?”
I didn’t. “Pickets? If you wanted to make another sunset, could you?” For this was my concern. That he would grow bored. A restless Pickets might prove hazardous and we were, after all, on the same boat. I wouldn’t care for him to rock it—or worse.
“I hardly care to do a thing twice when once will suffice. Repetition is for the unimaginative. See you at dinner?”
It was Jawry’s poem that made me do it. Not that horrible astronomical one with the sun and Earth and moon all spinning about in love. No, he wrote another one: Those We Leave. There’s something about intentions gone wrong and vows we take to the grave because we kept them not. The last line—and all the goodbyes I wished I said—made me weep, especially following that list. Goodbye, sparrow; goodbye, goose. Goodbye, Mother, Child. Goodbye, rabbit; goodbye, moose. Goodbye, creatures wild.
Jawry’s courtly recitation of all the things that died along with the Earth woke the judge in me. Saving one smelly panda couldn’t make up for extinctioning everything else. (Plus Pickets rather nastily categorized my Jawry’s lovely poem as Seussical, but without the imagination or catchy rhymes.) Would Pickets’ cruelty never end?
First a mountain, then a planet. What next?
I wasn’t willing to find out. I hated to get my hands dirty, but poor Jawry was no match for Pickets. His heart was too big to stop someone else’s; his hands too soft.
I lured Pickets below decks with promise of an adventure.
“Fida, what mischief have you planned?”
“Oh, the mischief’s already done,” I told him, thinking bribery and extortion barely counted as crimes if done in redress of a greater wrong. No one has ever accused Justice of being pretty. After all, the poor woman has scales and wears a bag over her head. “I merely borrowed a key or two—and arranged for us not to be disturbed. I threw your name around some. I hope you don’t mind?”
Of course he didn’t. Although he was confused when we reached our destination. “I have an exquisite stateroom,” he said. “Why are we cramped in here? It smells like dry rot.”
“You and your sunset. That’s why. You can’t go moving mountains and vanishing planets for your own amusement.”
“It was a moment, not an amusement. Your panda is an amusement. To compare my last sunset with your latest pet . . .”
“Pickets, you did a bad thing.” I shook my finger at him. Vulgar, but it made my point. Then I locked him in with the life preservers. He banged on the door, furious. I knew once he calmed down he’d laugh at the irony. Although maybe not. You never could tell with Pickets. It’s what I found most charming about him. Dear Pickets.
The Sun Falls Apart
written by
J. W. Alden
illustrated by
CHRISTINA ALBERICI
* * *
about the author
J. W. Alden has always had a fascination with the fantastic. As such, he’s made science fiction and fantasy his literary domain—though some other weird things sneak in from time to time.
Growing up along the coasts of Florida, James learned to hate the sun and love the shade. While most kids his age spent their weekends at the beach or on the basketball court, he buried himself in books. He now lives just outside West Palm Beach with his wife Allison, who doesn’t mind the odd assortment of musical instruments and medieval weaponry that decorate his office (as long as he tries to brandish the former more often than the latter).
J. W. Alden is a graduate of the 2013 class of Odyssey Writing Workshop. His fiction has appeared in Nature, Daily Science Fiction, the Unidentified Funny Objects anthology series, and various other publications.
about the illustrator
Christina Alberici is a freelance illustrator and BFA graduate of the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where she studied illustration and animation.
Her style features a combination of surreal and fantastical characters, each painted in deeply imaginative settings. Her work is created completely in digital form, and her portfolio includes book covers and editorial articles, as well as sci-fi and fantasy artwork.
The Sun Falls Apart
A crack between the boards revealed a meager smattering of light, but Caleb took any glimpse of the sun he could get. Thick wood and rusty nails denied it everywhere else in this house. Here in the old guest room, it struggled through. The razor-thin sunbeam cut a swath through the darkness and landed on his chest. Stepping into the light felt like stepping out the front door.
“Wait until Dad hears,” Josh said.
“What?” Caleb put a hand over the crack. Too late this time.
His brother’s silhouette loomed in the
doorway. At fifteen, Josh was only a few minutes older, but half a foot taller. “You’re trying to look out that window.”
“So?”
“So that’s cheating. I’m getting outside first, so you’re trying to cheat. If you’d earn something for a change, maybe you wouldn’t be such a shit-stain.”
Josh took off, yelling for Dad before he’d even reached the stairwell. The one thing he loved more than getting Caleb in trouble was letting him know first. Caleb slunk out of the room and ran his fingers along the bronze picture frames lining the upstairs hall. Portraits of people he’d never met and would never know the names of glared like a jury with sentence in hand. Dad was already pounding up the stairs.
“Show me,” he said when he reached the top.
Caleb led him to the musty guest room and gestured at the window. Dad broke the stream of light, sending an array of dust motes into a wild dance. He approached the crack much the same way Caleb had—slow, deliberate, as though facing a holy relic. He traced it with his thumb, shaking his head.
“I’ll seal it after the next supply run.” His eyes left the boards and took a quick survey of the room, stopping on the attic hatch above the bed. “We’ll have to cover it until then. Don’t run off. I’m not done with you.”
Dad climbed onto the mattress and yanked the dangling cord. The hatch popped open, and a metal ladder descended with a high-pitched wail, its feet pressing dimples into the mattress. He stepped up into the dark, returning a moment later with a framed canvas tucked beneath one arm. When he held it up to the window, he revealed the blurry golds and greens of a glistening meadow, the type Caleb pictured when daydreaming about the outside. Dad hung the old oil painting from one of the crooked nails, stifling the only sunshine in the house with a two-dimensional imitation. He didn’t even hang it straight.
“Okay,” Dad said. “Talk.”
“I wanted to see the daylight,” Caleb said. “Why can’t—”
Dad seized Caleb’s chin between thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard. Caleb didn’t resist. “You know why. That privilege is earned. Have you tested today?”
It always came back to this. Work harder. Practice more. “Yes, sir.”
“And?”
It all felt so useless. “Failed again.”
“Then don’t talk to me about daylight.” He released Caleb with a jostle, then cocked a thumb toward the covered window. “That’s cheating. If you want to see the sun, follow your brother’s lead. He’s almost ready. In the meantime, you don’t set foot in this room until that crack is sealed. In fact, consider upstairs off limits until further notice.”
“The whole upstairs? What about the library?”
“Closed for business until you finish the maze.”
“But Dad—”
CHRISTINA ALBERICI
His father silenced him with a look. Not the look, but one that made it clear what pressing his luck would get him. “You’re not ready for what’s out there, Caleb. Hunting for shortcuts takes you further from the finish line. Until you’ve proven you have what it takes, your world ends where these walls begin.”
Caleb ground his knuckles into the dining room table, jaw tensing and relaxing in a steady rhythm. The chandelier above seemed like the closest thing in the house to daylight, which made this his favorite room to test in. He frowned at the wooden maze in front of him, trying to will the steel ball inside to move. Josh had beaten this test at thirteen.
“You’re trying too hard.” Mom leaned against the arched entryway. “You’re quivering like a leaf.”
“I wouldn’t know what that looks like.” Her looming presence made this harder.
“Don’t get smart, Caleb. I’m trying to help.”
“Why? I’m not like you and Dad. I’m not like Josh.”
“Nonsense. You have the same genes, kiddo. You just need to get out of your own way. You beat the last test in half the time you’ve spent on this one.”
“That was just knocking a domino over.”
“And this is just rolling a ball around.” She walked up to the table and rapped her knuckles against it. “Your perception of this table, this room—it’s a distraction. It’s all made of the same stuff. It’s all intertwined. The space between is an illusion. One little stir in the right place will get things moving. Don’t think about the maze. Don’t even think about the ball. Think about the goal.”
Caleb squinted, trying to puzzle out what she meant. The maze was the goal. Still, he pretended it didn’t exist. He let his focus blur and imagined the walls of the dining room dissolving away. He pictured the vivid beam of light upstairs. How wondrous its source must be, if such a small part of its brilliance could dispel the gloom that swallowed this house. A light like that would envelop him—free him. It would cover him in warmth and burn away cold moments like this, when he thought he might never leave the house.
The sun entered his mind now, suspended somewhere above, far from reach. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and he swore the temperature rose. But when he took in this phantom sun, its rays began to fade. A giant, spherical mass rolled in front, eclipsing its beauty and ushering the dark back into Caleb’s world. With an audible grunt, he reached for the enormous obstacle—not with his arms, but with his mind. When he did, he felt its cold, hard surface, as though he’d pressed naked flesh against it. He threw himself at it, yearning to push it aside and reclaim the light. The object yielded, tumbling away under sheer force of will. Daylight poured in, warm elation gripped him, and—
The ball moved.
The imaginary sun vanished and the wooden maze returned. The ball rolled along its corridor, heading straight for the first obstacle hole. But Caleb’s mind was back in the dining room now, and he couldn’t steer it. The ball refused to turn or slow. It just kept gliding toward another failure. Without thinking, he reached for the maze and gave it a jerk, sending the ball back toward the starting point.
Caleb sighed, expecting a reprimand for using his hands. But Mom didn’t yell or scold. She hadn’t even seen what happened. She stared above Caleb’s head, brow line frozen and distorted. He followed her gaze to the chandelier. It swayed to and fro in a violent arc, like a giant crystal pendulum.
“How long were you upstairs this morning?” Mom said.
“What?”
“You’d better head to your room for a while.” She bent forward to collect the maze from the table. It almost slipped from her trembling hands.
Mom and Dad beamed as Josh took his first step past the yellow line and into the front entry hall. Caleb glared down at it. He’d imagined himself claiming this privilege a thousand times. He’d even crept up to it when no one was looking, sliding a toe or two across the yellow paint to see if the floor felt different on the other side.
“Watch and learn,” Josh said under his breath as he passed. “Until you take things serious, this is as close as you’re getting.”
Mom squeezed Josh when he joined them in front of the door. Dad gave him a firm handshake, then reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a white, plastic keycard. Black marker spelled Josh’s name on one side. Josh grasped for it, but Dad yanked it out of the way.
“Nah-ah,” he said. “Don’t treat this frivolously. It’s part of your outdoor trials. Keep it on you at all times. The card lives in your hand. Your hand lives in your pocket. Lose your key, I lose my temper.”
“Yes, sir. I’m ready.”
“Then the world is yours.” Dad handed the card over. “Show me you’ve grown and you’ll get to keep it.”
Josh smirked at Caleb from across the hall, displaying the side with his name like a first-place trophy. He slid the card into the receiver next to the door. The indicator light changed from red to green.
“Caleb, congratulate your brother,” Mom said. “He worked hard for this.”
“Congratulations,” Ca
leb said, then left them.
Most days, he loved hearing the thud of the maglock retracting, watching the door swing open. Sun would spill into the entry hall, glorious and warm. But he couldn’t love those things today. He couldn’t bear to watch Josh step into the light.
Caleb rifled through the open drawer of the dining room hutch, running a hand from corner to corner. He slammed it shut and traced a slow path back to the table, scrutinizing the floor. Mom walked in as he turned the maze upside down again, shaking it.
“Thought I’d find you here,” she said.
“I can’t find the ball. It fell out somewhere.”
She pulled up a chair and sat. “Your father took it.”
“You’re kidding.” Caleb let the maze clatter on the table. “He’s the one telling me I’m not testing enough. He just lectured me the other day.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo. We had a long talk after your last attempt. He thought you should take a break. Just for a little while.” Her gaze flickered away, bouncing from the chandelier to the overturned maze.
“You don’t agree. You know he’s wrong.”
Mom smiled. “We both want what’s best for you, Caleb. Sometimes it’s tough to figure out what that is. Your dad gets tunnel vision. He finds a way that works and sticks to it. Me, I think it’s possible there’s more than one path to the finish line.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Neither did he.” She drummed her fingers on the table, silent for a moment. “He’ll be out with Josh for another couple hours. How bad do you want to test?”
“Bad. I’m tired of these walls. I’ll probably fail, but I want to try.”
“There’s a catch. The ball’s in your dad’s pocket, so the maze is still a no-go. You’ll have to skip to the next test.”
A wisp of heat crept up Caleb’s neck. He didn’t even know what the next test was. How could he tackle something new when the maze still gave him problems?