To return to a fragment

or, to walk as though one

Approximately two stackturns¹ ago, I wrote and posted a small piece of Science Fiction. The piece was part of a larger series of fragments, all told from the perspective of a protagonist named Jisa who inhabits a broken world, navigating her way through a series of events and interactions that stretch far further—and higher—than she could ever realise.

The story and its characters have lived with me for a long time now. The intention was to tell parts of the story—temporally and spatially—from three perspectives: Jisa’s story, largely from within her ruined city of Siridan; Tess’ story, from within the (questionably) more Utopian city of Vi; and the no-it’s-not-his-real-name Cloud’s story, who moves between the two cities with a freedom not afforded to many. In doing this, and as a writer with little experience, I also wanted to explore narrative devices and shifts in style. It was to be a tragic love story. A lament. A slow-burn character study. A suspenseful mystery.

It was to remain incomplete.

Turns out that commencing what was—and remains—my first serious, large project began to feel insurmountable. It’s likely why I turned to writing single, one-post pieces, or only stretching myself out to Finnish a seven-post piece in the form of The Sernox².

I published these fragments (some of them, at least) from Jisa deliberately out of order, partly as that was the order I was writing, refining and editing, and partly (precisely?) because the story wasn’t finished. I was filling out details in both directions. Not an ideal way to proceed. But hey, what do I know? I’m just a scientist pretending to be a writer.

The truth is, though, I’ve never stopped thinking about this story—Precipice, to give it the title that’s always lived in my head.

Mr. Troy Ford

graciously mentioned it when discussing his recently published novel, Lamb. There’s something about exploring a story through snapshots that I find attractive. I love that about Lamb. Troy really nailed it. It's a wonderful story. I hope you get to read it, if you haven't already.

Since listening to that discussion with Troy, I’ve been thinking about this story of Precipice a lot. I don’t know when, if, or how this will ever be complete. I want to finish it, of course, but the mountain is high, and sometimes the words feel like boulders. But I invite you, dear reader, to dip briefly into Jisa’s world, if you’d like to. No context. Just slip in and taste the rain.

If you read this when it was first posted, thank you. I invite you back, complete with new edits. I’m sure Jisa’s grateful.

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Midjourney generated this image for me back in June of 2023. I know, I know, but I still haven’t found an artist I can pay and I just love this image so much. If you’re the artist I need, then let me know!

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“Jisa!” a man calls, grabbing my arm. I whirl and try to twist free, but then stop. In front of me stands Zinn’s friend, the one he calls Cloud.

“Cloud,” I manage, finding my words and dropping my guard. “Trying to mug me?” I shake free of his grip, sidestepping a torrent of water that spurts from a gutter above.

“Sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t sure where you lived.”

“So you just walk the streets expecting me to cross your path?” I look at him. He’s soaking. Shivering, possibly.

“Something like that.” He shrugs, then smiles, a smile coy and wry and like so many of those flashed last night, a secret exchange when the three of us met. The same smile that kindled a fire still burning within.

For a long moment we remain like this. People from the evening rush jostle past, their movement a flash of washed-out colour as they transit beneath the endless glow of the city.

“Strange,” I manage finally. “Why not just ask Zinn? He could find his way to me blind drunk. Has done many times.”

Cloud shrugs again. “I…” he begins.

I see something in his eyes. Nervousness? I wonder. I could mock him for it—to do so would come so easily—but something makes me bite my tongue and just raise my eyebrows.

“I didn’t want to ask him,” he continues. “I, ah, how can I put this? I didn’t want him to know I would see you. If I saw you, that is.” Cloud runs a hand through his wet hair, bounces a little from foot to foot. “I was beginning to think standing here a stupid idea, but Zinn told me one time that you lived in Dridok, so I just picked a busy intersection and, well …” he motions towards me, then pockets his hands back into his coat.

“Right,” I say, sarcasm lacing my tongue. “You know”—I poke him in the chest with a finger, making him stumble—“I could think that fucking weird. Some guy I just met, stalking me, lying in wait.” I burn his eyes, but smile a thin smile.

“Harsh,” he says, regaining his footing. “True enough, perhaps.” He smiles too, lips curving upwards, leading me once again to those eyes, the deep green, the pupils a black abyss of … of … I snap free from my thoughts, slap myself mentally. I’m about to tease him, an attempt at regaining myself, when some commuter bumps into me, knocking me into the water that still streams from above.

“Watch where you’re going, you shaft-dweller!” I yell after him, cursing as water slicks over my hair, inside my jacket and down my back. The man doesn’t turn around, he just keeps walking back to his home, or bar, or wherever the fuck he’s going in the evening crush.

“You’re soaked. Here,” Cloud says, moving towards me, unfastening his thick coat.

“Don’t!” I snap. “Don’t,” I repeat, warmer. “It’s fine. I'm used to it. And you’re cold enough already, I’d say.”

“You sure?” he asks, already re-buttoning the top notch so that it fits snugly back under his chin. “Let’s at least get inside, then.”

I think, then speak. “I can’t, I’m already late, I have to run Cloud, I’m sorry.” I feign a movement to leave—because I can’t help it, because I want this charade to play out a moment longer—but all the while I stare at his eyes and watch his face. That look of dismay, the slight frown and flicker of his lips; these tells are all I need to confirm everything passed between us last night as Zinn sat right next to us, unknowing.

“Oh,” he says, glancing to the side, uncertain.

“I’m fucking with you, stupid. Do I look like I have anywhere to go?” I lie, and in a move so alien I startle myself, I walk two steps toward him, loop my arm through his and set us moving, to blend into the crowd that seethes past. “Come,” I say, and we merge, become carried in their sway, passengers of routine. Cloud says nothing. I just feel his warmth, the already comfortable silence outstripped by the hustle of a thousand people chatting, of vendors peddling their wares, of street merchants hollering that their stalls offer the finest escape from the oppressive damp and cold.

We cross Ondorro Street and cut right onto Undorro Lane, silent in our path but with a steady heat growing inside the pit of my stomach. The laneway is a flurry of people, the busiest of the myriad alleyways so characteristic of the district. This is Dridok, after all, the grovel hole of Siridan, the district that tries to rescue itself through its penchant for vendor food and night markets, for bustling bars and seedy dens, for secrets and tunnels. Relics of an era gone by; an era that people would rather forget. Being so close—precariously so—to the edge of the Causeway, the vast once-river long drained of its water (long before my own life), has left Dridok tainted with all manner of wrongdoings that have inked their way into the city. The eras of smuggling, of wars, the fallout of digging too deep and for too long, the causes and consequences of The Ruin—these are things present throughout all of the city, but more so here perhaps. If only you look. There are networks of tunnels that connect dens like warrens, scars that moved all manner of contraband—drugs, of course, and weapons … but people, too. Some of those tunnels cut right out into nothing, an archaic entrance or a foolhardy exit that once would have sat far underwater. There is irony in the sustained rains being unable to ever quench that great riverbed. The bedrock just laps it up, sucks it down, funnels it away through the shafts we bored.

We keep moving, hugging the edge of the laneway, pushing our way through people who stop to snack or to warm their hands on electric braziers, passing those entering recessed kiosks that offer hot zirosh and freshly-baked dough-breads.

“You know this area?” I ask, breaking the silence. I look sideways to this man I am linked with, his stubble laced with water.

“Not really,” he says. “I grew up on the other side.” Cloud flicks his head towards the towering buildings on our right, to where the Causeway lies hidden behind.

I nod. There is little social divide between the districts that flank the cavernous once-river—little reason for Cloud to guard his words as he speaks—though that was not always the case.

“Then you know not where we are going,” I say, looking ahead, stepping around puddles as my mind steps around words. The crowd is thinning as we approach the intersection with Tanner St, the threshold that divides Dridok from the looming presence of Moiety. Most of those still commuting—the ones that haven’t nestled themselves in for a drink someplace, down into some seedy hovel for seedier deeds—are people descending underground, off to ferry themselves to wherever they started the day. The shuttle entrance is ahead to our right, but that’s not where I wish our path to go.

“I know not,” he says. “If I’m honest, I was hoping you’d suggest somewhere.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “At least for now.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “I know a place,” I say. “Quiet. Dark.” My throat clenches as I say the last.

Cloud looks at me. I see words in his eyes just as a crowd spills from a nearby eatery, the open door a brief bark of noise. The smell of food wafts upon us, fried fish and poached fruits, the incense of mulling wine; but then it is gone, claimed by the air and rain. The crowd stumbles past, already intoxicated even though it is not yet evening. The group moves out of our way. I press onwards, Cloud’s arm still linked through mine, and as I do he pulls me in, tightening our link. The warmth in my stomach leaps a notch, dropping that little bit lower.

“How long were you waiting?” I ask. We move as one, our pace now steady, our feet synced in steps.

Cloud laughs. “A while,” he admits. “A little while.”

I smile to myself, pushing back a strand of hair caught between my eyes. “You flatter a girl,” I say.

Cloud laughs again. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll take flattery over you being weirded out.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I still think it’s fucking weird.” I nudge him sideways and he, in turn, nudges me back.

We round the corner onto Tanner and then cross the road, the ground traffic lighter here. Overhead cables, relics that have never been removed, sit tangled between poles that flank a once thriving road. Once on the other side, I guide us into a small alleyway cut into one of the buildings. This is Moiety now, an altogether different place. Here the buildings are giant blocks, a mixture of strange architecture built into the existing rockmass. Buildings here weren’t so much erected as engraved, carved, faceted.

“Where were you headed, anyway? Before I saw you, I mean,” Cloud asks as we move through the alley, escaping the rain at last. The way ahead is arched and overhead the passage is lined with dusk-red tiles, some broken and exposing the underlying rock that in places drips with water.

As we move farther down the vaulted alley, the cloying sickly-sweet scent of rootdrop becomes evident, the smouldering narcotic emanating from vents that pepper the walls. A couple ahead—another couple, for that is how my brain already wants to think—pass us in the opposite direction, engaged in intimate discussion.

“Just out,” I half-lie, scrunching my nose. I am no great lover of rootdrop, but the decision to come to a darkened bar where I know the residue sits burning seemed automatic as my mind raced through options. We will talk. We have to talk, I know. At first comes talk.

“Just out?” he asks as I steer us inside and down a short flight of steps.

The Undertow is a cavernous expanse, a grotto carved into rock leaving small recessed seating along each wall. The centre of the room contains a dimly lit bar, a soft yellow glow catching on each bottle, jar and glass. A few couples occupy the nooks along one edge, but as I expected—as I hoped, I find myself realising—most are empty. Even at its peak, this is a place of intimacy and privacy. Two things I have never desired more.

“Something like that,” I say, mirroring his own words. Already these few breaths of rootdrop make me want to talk, to say more. “Come on,” I say. “What will you have? Beer, zirosh, pure arianth?” The words pour from me and I clench my jaw. These first few minutes are always the worst. Once my brain adjusts, numbs itself, talk will be fluid, exhilarating, controlled.

“You pick,” Cloud says, pursing lips together, a smugness writ there as no more words come out. This affects you more than me, that looks says.

I nod to the barman, a man named Juke, clamping my own mouth shut.

“Sure, Jisa,” he says back, looking first to me, then to Cloud. He lowers the glass he had been polishing and logs our presence onto a tab.

I move to place my finger on the scanner, but Cloud stops me. His hand is wrapped around mine, I realise. “Think I’m going to let you pay?” he says, registering his own payment. We linger like this for a moment; for too long, I wonder, or not long enough?

“Take a seat,” Juke says, tilting his head toward the rear of the bar, to where the empty corner sits in near darkness.

Cloud nods, then moves from the bar, his hand tugging on mine. “Let’s go,” he says, without looking back.

“OK,” I shiver. “OK,” I repeat and move to follow.

1. The official (as of now) unit of measurement equal to one year of publishing here.

2. RIP Emmi. My heart still bleeds for you.