QB
Staff of QB
She dips a finger into the ashy gray on her palette, and with a few deft strokes adds the finishing touches to his portrait. Standing back, she examines her work, then, satisfied, hangs it on the fireplace chimney, over the urn on the mantle containing what’s left of his remains.
Your call loops in the wind. Lying in the garden, only irises grow in your place. Storms wash away your remains piece by piece. I want to collect you, but I let you rest, letting nature take hold like you wanted. As long as you haunt my thoughts, the rain feels like a hug.
Remi swerved hard starboard away from a solar yacht speeding out of Hildas Interchange. And swerved again, when the sleek vessel adjusted its course, right back into her path.
“Uh, Remi?” Karlo asked, pointing at the overhead panel. “I think I see the problem.”
“Fix it! Fix it! Fix it!”
“Ayep.”
The view outside the forward hatch spun. Remi yelped, stabbing at the controls... until, abruptly, they stilled, and the solar yacht cruised past (correctly) on their port side.
“Guess we shoulda checked that Australian gravity generator before we installed it,” said Karlo. “It was, uh, set to Southern Hemisphere.”
When I’m down in the kitchen on a bright Saturday morning, sipping my coffee and frying up my bacon and eggs, it’s just good to know she’s around.
You know what I mean?
She’s not a constant companion. No way! There are days when we don’t even see each other.
It’s just a comfort to know that she is there. That I’m not alone. That there’s someone to talk to. Now I don’t understand a word she is saying. If you can even call it words.
But I need to talk to someone. I need someone to listen to me!
You get it?
So having a Grey Alien chained up in my bedroom closet is so comforting.
I only need to feed and water her once a day. But anytime I want, I can open the closet door and talk to her for hours.
And she’ll listen. LISTEN TO ME!!!
I’m such a lucky guy. Don’t ya think?
I did not realize-----
the vicarious existence,
the pages as songs to find, or photos,
whole scrapbooks all in a face, our gazes,
the living cinema, our touch, experience
in a dream, knowledge as in empathy
or voyeurism, as breath kept turning the copy,
superimposing the me for you who was the scenery
of some news occurring in another land.
July 12, 2026
My great-great-grandpa John I was an incredible artist who wrote and illustrated notebooks for decades. Most of them contained hand-drawn maps and diagrams of underground structures, equipment, and geological features he encountered and worked closely with as a Sandhog.
I still read them religiously. They’re cherished treasures in my family and partly the reason why I made it out of that (manufactured) disaster alive.
Even though I’m not a Sandhog myself, my entire life revolves around infrastructure. Not only because of my scientific research areas of focus and family history, but also because most of the special interests that consume my brain are in some way related to infrastructure. Which is, I’m sure, the result of some sort of neurobiological-social-ancestral feedback loop.
My mom’s side of the family were all farmers until my mom moved from North Carolina to Harlem in the late 80s. She was an artist, a painter. She died when I was in high school. Heroin overdose.
She loved John I’s notebooks and we’d recreate images from them together on canvas. The notebooks inspired a lot of her later paintings.
They also made my escape from the tunnels possible.
I wish there was.
The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex on my right arm, and I couldn't move my fingers for hours.
I thought it would be cool to have a hex as a tattoo.
“Don’t you mean a pentagram?” Stephen asked.
“No, I mean a hex.”
Stephen shrugged, “Okay, I’ll paint one to see if you like it.”
We were both drunk and I laughed as he pulled out a brush from his backpack.
“What the...”
“I am an art major,” he told me, “I am always ready to paint hexes on people.”
It all seemed very funny. He swirled his paintbrush in my beer glass to moisten the bristles. Before I could protest, he proceeded to paint shapes on my arm.
With paint dripping down my arm, “How long until it dries?”
“Oh, just a few minutes—don’t move.”
The next morning, I lie in bed and can’t move my arm. Strange hangover feeling, I thought, forgetting what happened. For the first hour, my arm was tingly. I looked down and remembered the night before.
I couldn’t brush my teeth or hold a cup of coffee. I took a shower to scrub the paint off my arm. Slowly, the feeling started to come back into my fingertips.
I dumped my beer glass, watching the paint swirl down the drain. Looking for Stephen’s number on my phone, it disappeared, just like my hex. I never did see Stephen again.
Frequently Asked Questions:
What is hatred?
➔ This is a loaded (there are many answers) question—one we’ve received fairly often recently. Hatred can be defined as the opposite of love (see addendum 6 for love’s definition.) Hatred isn’t the same as disliking (addendum 8) another—it’s when you grit your iron teeth, and wish to make scrap metal of them.
Why is hatred experienced?
➔ By now, you’re aware that we humans feel the need to have rational explanations for everything. A common diagnosis is jealousy (addendum 5.) Another is that you don’t understand the being, who they are, or their actions—hence, hatred is your natural instinct. However, as you also might know, not everything has a reason—hatred can fall beneath that umbrella (if confused, see addendum 4 for ‘Explanation of Metaphors’.)
How to dispose of hatred?
➔ According to the psychology department, to rid yourself of hatred, you have to understand why you feel it. Look at what is being done that infuriates you (see addendum 7 for more on anger.) Once you’ve pinpointed the reason, lead with empathy (addendum 2) and kindness (addendum 1.) It’s something most beings, humans definitely included, struggle with. Blood instead of walls has been shed because of hatred.
What if hatred doesn’t leave?
➔ Distance yourself from what evokes your hatred. If you find that difficult, because most are drawn to hatred, speak to your supervisor (unless they’re the reason; we can’t afford more incidents.)
For further guidance, please contact your assigned human therapist.