Z. E. Wayland

The warrior sails through tide and turns so she could take her blade, broken in two, back to the base of the volcano. Her boat settles against the soft island sands along a familiar pathway. Here, the island grows endlessly from the constant flow of lava drifting across the floor. The path back is a little longer than she remembered. The warrior carries the two pieces in a wrapped cloth cradled across her arms. She rests them gently where the lava forks a circular path around stone. With reverence, she steps back into the constant rising hear of the elevated plateau and holds her hands up towards the volcano's top. "This, child, is broken beyond repair. Cast it into my flames and let it sink into the earth," the volcano says. Its voice a rumble of the earth, a popping of a flame, a slow certainty of the world. The voice echoes all around her like the gentle touch of wind. The warrior clenches her hands together and shuts her eyes. That is the answer she was expecting, but...

When we translated light waves to sound waves, the first thing the Sun said was, "Turn it off." I thought we were supposed to celebrate the moment that we made contact, real contact, with something as immense and stunning as that burning ball of gas we orbit around. Nobody said anything in the control room. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to be the one to bring up what clearly echoed through the speakers, to be the one to point out that our message was not well received. The silence stifled me. I couldn't live with such a simple answer, not after all the work and research and resources that I invested inside of this. "Maybe, it's telling us to turn off something else we have," I said to everybody. We all turned to Samson. His eyes squint against the display of that yellow and orange ball of fury as though it was a face. They shared an intensity. Only one of them blinked and told us, "Ask why." The message is translated immediate...

A farmer walked through his field, upon all the verdant green that rolled across the horizon line, content with its beauty. Until he saw a single weed that sprouted from the ground, a disgusting blight in an otherwise perfect field. So, he leaned down and tore it out. Its roots popped from the earth with the sound of torn fabric. All that remained of it was a barren spot on the ground where once it stood. Satisfied with his work, he continued his day tending to other pastures and slept soundly. But, then the very next day, two more weeds sprouted in that greenery. Furious, he knelt down and ripped away the weeds by the neck before scouring for more hiding from plain sight. He wielded a white jug of chemicals. Poured so lavishly that the scent of citrus choked the field, but he could no longer smell it. The farmer would only be reminded of it from the incessant itch along his ankles as he returned home for the night. Even more weeds grew by the next morning. The farmer balked, baffled, ...

If only there was an easier way to forget Carey Stratford. Before that night lit by pillars of light and flame, we had two presidents. One along the west coast, the other on the east, both picking apart the states like children bickering over a spider’s legs. They carved their ownership with drones and tanks and bullets and borders and threats of mutually assured destruction. As our station was loaded up with nuclear armaments, I joked there would be a West Dakota with the other security officers. A few laughed. Ms. Stratford did not. Her first name was disallowed ever since she quit; she cast her gun and tag back to the station. “I want everybody to know exactly where I stand,” she said as she rode the wave of resistance and pulled the tide behind her like horses about to stampede. Ms. Stratford was a disruptor, an organizer, somebody who would grab Eden’s flaming sword by the handle to open its gardens to the world once again. Ms. Stratford became a threat. Did she see God’s ever-bur...

Though the sight of these snow struck hills are beautiful, nobody could forget its danger. Nobody knows this more than the exiles. Banished to the edge of the maps, they flock in the night to survive. Brenna sits on a high perch tower with weapons nearby. An owl returns to its spot along the wooden tower’s low wall with a new piece of prey, an unfortunate mouse, between its claws. “Share?” She asks. The owl promptly ignores her. It is not her owl, after all.  “Odin doesn’t know you well enough for that, Brenna.” A second owl says as it perches next to her. It unfurls its wings, feathers transform to fingers, talons to feet, owl to Cyrene, the exiled druid among them. “Takes time for an animal o get used to you. Even if it is comfortable being around other people.” The two, and the owl, on the high perch keep their eyes watchful for dangers that stalk the night. Brenna, distracted, could not take her eyes off the village itself. If it could even be called a village.  “Why do we...

That little funeral sure was the bee’s knee’s, wasn’t it? Her body wasn’t brought to the park, but she wasn’t going to be buried under the playground. You came anyways. Lucky you. Didn’t have to see her body. Crushed, crashed right as she pulled out in front of the high school. Nobody saw it coming. You even laughed when they called you, told you she died. Absolutely impossible, you thought. After all, being a teenager came packaged with the feeling of immortality. You didn’t feel it here. You didn’t feel it the day you arrived and realized that her desk would be empty forever. Lucky you. You became the best trumpet player in the band. Sure showed those skills when you lined up with your other band members. The dirge didn’t fit the tone. It was a sad pop song from a movie. And she hated this song, but none of you have any time to practice something new. You all knew that and when the song ended, laughed about it. Not too loudly of course. Not while you were exchanging your trumpet for ...