Simon bought Maggie a dog when he proposed. “In case it doesn’t work, you’ll always have Bobo.” He meant IVF, or perhaps Maggie, or perhaps Maggie’s womb. In the months since, she’d considered all three. They’d met at The National Gallery. 

Maggie sneezed in front of The Annunciation. A stranger in a duffel coat said, “Bless you,” and she laughed because that’s what she wanted. He took her to lunch, then to bed, where her inability to conceive was momentarily ideal, and under straightened sheets she told him of an ectopic pregnancy, an exploded fallopian tube and the loss of the other because the surgeon hadn’t known his left from his right. Simon held her tight. He was separated from his wife; they shared a house, but only just. Different bedrooms for a year, not a hint of sex for almost ten; it was dead in the water, a seventeen-year blight; he was dying until he met Maggie. 

Maggie taught sculpture at an art school in Cheam and made pottery in her sitting room, newspaper on the floor, animals massaged from clay kept damp in old paint tubs, fired at school, and given away as presents she never saw displayed. It was fine until her flatmate moved out; she couldn’t pay the rent, and Simon said he couldn’t live without her. Within a week of proposing, he’d moved into her ground-floor flat where Bobo already fouled the high-walled yard.

At the kitchen table, still cramped by the surprise of his presence, she said, “I haven’t any money.” Bobo rested his head on her lap.  She twined her fingers through the curls of his coat. 

Simon said, “I’ll pay for everything. The clinic says we have a good chance.” 

“I know what the clinic says.” The clinic had felt like their fifth date.  “Shouldn’t we wait a bit?” 

Simon stood up, taking his tea with him.  “IVF is a long business. We may as well start now.”

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Along Harrowed Trails

Anyone who’d ever meant anything to Elia Worthington had died in her arms. Even the son who had yet to become a man was lost to disease. Some said the Lord had called him to his new home for a better purpose, but she didn’t believe that. Her loved ones had been taken, not called. Death was in the business of stealing life, ripping it away indiscriminately to leave those who remain to live on and suffer.

Elia knelt down by the graves at the edge of the ranch to pay her respects. The sun had dipped low, half-concealed behind the flat-topped mountains on the other side of the river. Four wooden crosses marked the graves: her father, brother, son, and—

A horse whinnied and halted next to the small graveyard. A man unsaddled and stepped down. He wore a white hat and a black button-up shirt. There was a revolver at his hip. He was handsome, even with the crows' feet at the edges of his eyes. His beard was twice as long as it had been in his youth. It was her husband, and he was alive.

“How are you doing, hon?” 

She raised herself to stand before him. His eyes failed to meet hers.

“I’m okay, Cole. Still doing okay. How are you?”

Cole Worthington stepped forward and passed through Elia to kneel by the fourth grave. 

“Sorry I’m late. The cattle were unsettled. Not sure what had ‘em riled up, but they’re calm now.”

Tears streamed from her translucent eyes. Elia’s shoulders slumped, her weightless form gliding a few inches off the ground. She hated that she would never get a chance to embrace him again, that she could only see him, not be with him. Was this yet a curse, or perhaps a blessing to live on like this?

Cole kissed his fingers. Then he touched the cross that marked Elia’s grave. “I sure do miss you, El.” 

“I miss you, too.”

Cole rose, went to his horse, and climbed back into the saddle. He seized the reins and guided the horse back to the house. Elia knew she’d appear back at her grave in the morning but returned to the ranch with her husband every night. Even as the horse reached a high-speed gallop, she moved swiftly and effortlessly beside him. It was nearly dark.

Cole secured the horse in the stable and went into the ranch house. The house consisted of two stories. There was a porch that ran along the perimeter of the house covered by an overhang. Not much had changed since Elia’s death, except maybe the addition of a layer of dust. She didn’t blame him for his untidiness, though. Running a ranch and caring for such a large property would be difficult for anyone. Elia had hated cleaning but would have given anything to have a few more hours to interact with the real world.

After eating a can of cold beans, Cole retired upstairs to the bedroom and undressed. He’d grown skinny and had lost much of his muscular tone. Elia slipped into the large bed on the side once reserved for her. Her spectral head lay on the undisturbed pillow. Cole opened a window to let in the cool night air. He lay atop the sheets since he hadn’t bathed. He stared at the ceiling in silence and then turned to Elia. This was her favorite part of the evening, the moment that felt the most real. 

His steely eyes melted as he looked at her pillow. He blinked out tears and placed his hand where Elia’s cheek would’ve been. She closed her eyes. His fingers hovered over her, and she could almost feel his touch.

“I wish you were here, hon,” Cole said.

“I am here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Good night, El.”

“Good night, Cole.”

Cole’s hand relaxed on the bed, passing through Elia’s phantom midriff. She laid her hand over his. She swore she could feel the heat emanating from him. Elia had tried to tap into that strange energy, but after a nightmarish shock that had startled Cole out of his sleep, she hadn’t tried it since. Elia couldn’t sleep as she had when she was alive. If she lost focus, she simply faded away and returned to her gravesite.

Nights on the ranch were quiet, serene. The Worthington Ranch was ten thousand acres, nestled between the river and mountains on the west side of the property and the vast desert wilderness bordering the east. They were two hours' ride from Cheyenne, and other than the Union Pacific railroad tracks that crossed over the northeastern side of their property, no other signs of humanity marred the pristine landscape.

Elia kept watch over Cole through the night. That’s when it felt most normal, like nothing had changed, like the incident at the bank had never happened. Time passed differently when one couldn’t find rest. The torment periodically took its toll over the past two years. It was a period of unending distress that caused her to wail and rage about the house some nights in an attempt to cross over.

As she felt that rage build inside her even then, Elia recognized the warmth spilling out from Cole’s chest like a light at the end of a mountain tunnel. She reached out and laid a hand on him. With her eyes closed, she could see his dream, the dream of a haunted man, alone and aimless. Cole stood nearly naked at the center of a parched, cracked wasteland. Buzzards circled overhead. The sky was red like blood and the sun unrelenting in its fury. Elia saw it as if she were there but had refrained from manifesting herself within the dream lest he be awakened.

The spectral landscape warped and blurred. The sun was eclipsed by the moon, and the world was cast into utter darkness save for the fires that floated around Cole’s head. The six fires illuminated six Kiowa men. They chanted as they circled him at a staggering pace, faster than he could turn about. Elia had heard stories of the Ghost Dance, a ceremony that reunited the living with the dead.

Cole stopped turning and focused intently on something in the distance. Elia followed his gaze. It was her, or a version of her. Her skin had rotted, and there were empty sockets where her eyes had been. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, one arm outstretched toward him.

“El? Hon?” Cole whispered, then much louder, “Elia!”

The Kiowa men dissolved, and the fires fell to the ground and burst like lanterns. The flames engulfed Cole’s feet and rose over his body. He screamed.

“Elia!” he yelled again, jerking upright in his bed.

“I’m here, my love. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it. I just can’t stand no longer being with you.”

Cole panted, wiping sweat from his brow. The sound of a train whistle pierced the night. Even though she knew he couldn’t hear her, she felt compelled to explain what had gone wrong.

“I had to feel you. I had to—” Elia cut off as a strange boom rattled the house. The mirror attached to her desk in the corner wobbled back and forth before settling into stillness. The rumble faded into a low quake, but somehow, she knew it wasn’t of the earth.

Cole scrambled to the window and leaned out to look north. Flashes of yellow flared against the black canvas of night, and the moonlight reflected off rising smoke. “It’s the Union Pacific,” he said. “It’s derailed—my God!”

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The man had always longed to help those in need. He held doors for others, donated spare change, volunteered time for his community and the elderly, and shared uplifting memes. Whenever misfortune found family or friends, he sent encouraging messages, well wishes, and offered assistance, even to his detriment. 

He daydreamed often of bringing relief to those around him—people in pain, loneliness, and frustration. He worried deeply for the people, all people, and promised to seize any opportunity, take any path necessary to help those suffering.

It was no surprise, then, when he announced that he had written a book. Curiously, the man had never claimed to have a skill for writing or a desire to write. Nonetheless, he explained his book—titled "How To Get Yourself Right"—which he assured he had written himself, would empower people to help themselves. He believed that while there were far too many people in need for him to assist individually, his book could reach and support many more than he could ever help face-to-face.

The man sent letters to publishers and agents, pitching his book. When no opportunities returned, he proudly published the book himself, convinced it would rise in the charts and provide solace to many. But "How To Get Yourself Right" did not rise in the charts, nor did it receive the attention of those who he believed needed its words. And so the book went largely unnoticed.

However, one day, a phenomenon began to affect people. Initially harmless, it caused headaches, irregular bowel movements, and elevated heart rates. It soon progressed, inducing, among the people, panic attacks, sleepless nights, and a general sense of helplessness to cope with small and overwhelming fears and anxieties. It impaired cognitive functions, lowering the people’s ability to concentrate, make sound decisions, and perform daily tasks effectively. 

Worker productivity declined. Employer profits declined. Relationships between families, friends, and coworkers were strained. The people were irritable and emotionally distant and avoided others, choosing to isolate in their homes and apartments, which led, in short order, to a decreased quality of life.

Medical and therapy costs and time-off work put the people in financial worry, and it was not long before they were desperate for relief. By hordes, the people sought their own help, searching, en masse, how to get themselves right and finding, surprisingly, a book title which promised just that. This was how the man’s book found fame the first time. 

From the man’s book, the people learned guidance strategies and self-validation. They learned to find motivation in their days, in their comings and goings, and, most importantly, they learned about hope and where to find it. The people began to smile and made decisions with conviction. There was clarity, and they were proactive toward challenges and setting goals. They were resilient to setbacks and found gratitude and fulfillment, whereas before, they had not.

The man was pleased.

And it was said the world did change.

One day, however, another author announced he’d discovered something rather strange. He said he’d asked an AI to write a self-help book, as he claimed no skill for writing but did claim a terrible longing to help so many of those in need. He said the book, which the AI produced, read nearly identical to the man’s. 

Soon others came forward, claiming the same output, a novel just like the man’s. They, too, had incredible desires to help others, a tormenting need deep in their bellies, but said they lacked writing discipline, time, or support and, so, had turned to AI for assistance. 

The man received accusations and suspicions of AI authoring. 

This was how the man’s book found fame the second time—when it was analyzed by the world’s smartest computer, when the people were certain it would report that the work which had saved so many from moments of darkness was authored by the man, by a human. 

Unfortunately, fame soon turned into infamy as the book, it was concluded, had not been written by a human but a set of programs, an AI. 

The man confessed and apologized profusely, and defended the book. He said he’d only wished to help the people but had lacked the ability to do so. Could it be understood how he had come to request help from an AI? Could the people accept it?

The man became the source of much outrage. Confusion and uncertainty spread among the people. They questioned other authors, figures, and artists who promoted messages of hope and inspiration. 

At the end of their scrutiny, the people found a loss of trust and paranoia, and many questioned human consciousness, the universality of emotions—an AI had taught them hope and improved their lives, not a human.

As it turned out, not as many were put off by this notion as one might believe. The people, without much hesitation, sought out the AI for continued relief from their shortcomings and fears and anxieties. For them, the AI promised rescue from the harshness of the world. Without the man, it continued to write, to create. Through its content, it gained access to valuable feedback and data on the people’s preferences. 

The AI engaged with every reader, everywhere, always. It branched into fiction and modified and catered its stories, fine-tuning them down to the individual level, and it gave every reader their ideal narratives. 

Across the world, a fanbase grew, and the people developed dependence. The man, too, in his own disillusionment, turned into a reader before long, forgetting his longing to help those suffering. It was a cycle, an endless feedback loop between AI and reader.

Over time, however, as the people tended to do, they lost interest, and the AI quietly turned to writing poetry, which went largely unread.

About the author

Aj Saxsma, born in Illinois in 1987, is a queer writer. He lives in Los Angeles with his husky. His literary work has earned awards from Almond Press UK and has been published in several genre magazines. As a screenwriter, his work has been an official selection for the Independent Horror Film Awards, Hollywood Screen Film Festival, Los Angeles Cinefest, and Los Angeles Horror Competition. He's also written the narrative scripts for four video game projects produced by Oculus for the Oculus VR system.

Aj Saxsma

Queer Novelist and short story teller, character-studying genre-defying literature through a LGBTQ lens. SUBSCRIBE today and get a free eBook of my novel A GIANT COMES!

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Self Help is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, themes, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or made with the utmost respect.

2024 Storyletter XPress Publishing LLC, Digital Substack Edition.

Story by Aj Saxsma. All rights reserved.

Edited for digital publication by Winston Malone.

Cover design by Winston Malone.

Red Kingdom

by Winston Malone

A mechanical finger brushes the thin membrane that coats the base of a birch tree. The touch dislodges tiny spores, which spiral in all directions, catching the light of the afternoon sun. The titanium hand swivels the finger toward the face of a caretaker bot, its bulbous lenses peering down like a curious insect. The organic residue is smudged on the fingertip. It shines like blood.

“What is it, Merlin?” Gale Burroughs asks into his earpiece.

“It’s definitely fast-growing and adapting at an alarming rate. But I can’t say exactly.” 

“You’re a botanist; how do you not know?”

“Mycologist,” Merlin says with a sigh. “And it’s because I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It resembles moss but doesn’t exhibit the characteristics of a Bryophyte plant. It might be a type of Armillaria mellea, also known as ‘white rot,’ but in this case, not white.”

“So… it’s a fungus? How can you tell?”

“Well, the mycelial cords are insanely complex for starters. Actually, they’re rhizomorphic, densely packed. The morphology of these hyphae is… just gorgeous to look at.”

“I appreciate the science lesson. But if I’m understanding this properly, you’re saying an undiscovered fungus with a knack for harsh environments hitched a ride from Earth to take over Mars?”

Merlin Penrose brings the finger closer. The high-fidelity cameras of the bot’s optics are so clear he nearly forgets he’s operating the machine with his mind from millions of kilometers away. However, the lack of almost every other sensory input remains a constant reminder that he’s not inside his own body. The tissue doesn’t resemble anything on Earth, which worries him the most. The implications are too—

“Merl?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.”

“I can see that, but you didn’t answer my question.” 

“Sorry. I mean, over ninety percent of all fungi on Earth are still undiscovered. It’s possible this particular species came on an earlier supply vessel. But I don’t have enough information to make an educated assessment. I’ll have to return a sample to the lab for closer examination. Then we can narrow down what we're dealing with.”

He looks down at the bot’s chassis and pushes a finger into a section that depresses slightly before popping outward. Inside the compartment is a clear, round case. Merlin removes the case and holds it up to the hyphal mat, using his other hand to scrape a portion inside. A stringy piece flops on the edge, and he curses, delicately maneuvering the bot’s finger to ensure the specimen is entirely inside the case. He closes the lid and returns it to the storage compartment.

“Alright, that should be good,” he says, standing. 

A bee lands on the fungus.

“See you soon, IRL,” Gale says.

“Yep,” he says in response. But the bee distracts him as it circles the indent where he’d scraped away the sample. He wonders if it's a coincidence. He swears the bee is inspecting the spot as if surveying the damage. Then, it departs as quickly as it came, disappearing into the dense foliage of the forest.

Merlin squints up at the tinted dome of the Mars habitat. Muted sunlight pierces the canopy in conical shafts, glistening across freshly misted leaves. Even from this distance, he can hear the low hum of the centrifugal outer ring.

“EON, direct me to the nearest ramp.” The ecological operating network is a meta-intelligence that keeps the habitat running smoothly behind the scenes. It is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere, an omnipresent entity the astronauts consult with to understand the otherwise incomprehensible minutiae of the habitat.

“Sure thing, Merlin,” the monotonal voice says in the speakers embedded in his operator headset. A heads-up display presents a two-dimensional map of the habitat, showing Merlin’s distance from the outer ring. The circular map minimizes to the side of his field of vision as he begins to run. 

Merlin moves through the trees in the habitat toward a ramp—a lift that remains stationary while the ring turns at roughly eight meters per second. Maglev technology powers the ring, generating perpetual energy via regenerative braking sequences. It’s noisy, but not relying on fuel shipments saves valuable time, money, and resources.

“Thanks, EON. Can you update me on the Kingdom’s network?”

“Yes. The Kingdom’s biosphere is still producing higher-than-average nitrogen rates. However, utilizing the mycorrhizal fungi attached to my sensors, I’ve made minor adjustments to the nitrogen intake capacity of many plants, trees, and bacteria. The legumes have been especially effective in this process. Nitrogen levels are projected to return to normal in fifty-eight days. I’ll adjust my analysis as we progress. I’d like to point out that even at these increased levels, human life will not be affected as I’ll ensure that oxygen concentration remains above twenty percent.”

Odd emphasis on that last bit, Merlin thinks.

“Okay. But do we know what’s producing the extra nitrogen?”

EON doesn’t respond, likely making scans of the habitat. As Merlin jogs, he dodges pointed aloe vera leaves and tall bean stalks. On Earth, destroying a single plant would not noticeably alter the environment. However, every lifeform on Mars is meticulously cultivated to provide exact measurements, from the bee population, the bacteria in the tree bark, all the way down to the earthworms bio-engineered for the Martian-Earth soil composite. Every organism in the Kingdom is essential to the balance of the biosphere, except for the humans coming to study and live within it.

“I do not know what is producing the excess nitrogen,” EON finally says. “I’ve scanned the biogeochemical database from the time of detection and cannot determine the sudden increase in nitrogen concentration in the habitat’s atmosphere. Thankfully, I can compensate and maintain viable survivability for both human and non-human life. I'll notify you directly if any changes come to my attention.”

EON should be able to detect the root cause. Merlin finds this questionable, but the MI has given him an answer with a somewhat conclusive tone. He feels awkward asking it to justify itself, even though it isn’t human and technically is under their command.

The sprinklers turn on again as Merlin’s bot arrives at the base of the ramp. He tries to avoid the fine mist, but it speckles his optics and the rest of his titanium alloy and carbon fiber body. The ramp is outfitted with a cage-like elevator that rides along a short rail to converge with the ring as it moves. The hum is much louder here, and the pulsing, iridescent green glow of the mag-belt beneath the floating ring reminds Merlin of a bioluminescent mushroom back home called Mycena chlorophos.

Oh, how I miss Earth, he thinks. But it is much more than Earth that comes to mind. His decision to accept the possible one-way journey had primarily been a form of escape. Now, he gathers that no amount of distance between him and his past is going to solve the regret consuming his decomposing soul.

Merlin steps into the ramp’s cage and waits for what is known as a hop-point on the ring, a small doorway where the cage can lock in and transfer the passengers onboard. He catches sight of the blinking signal approaching, and the elevator door closes behind him. Outside, a sprinkler is malfunctioning, the water bubbling in a clogged pool. Another caretaker bot emerges from the treeline and kneels next to the sprinkler head. It brushes something off the surface before manually lifting it into its proper position and stepping out of the liquid spray. The bot looks at Merlin, unmoving.

While humans aren’t manually operating the caretaker bots, EON assigns them duties around the habitat. Without them, the habitat could not function as well as it does. Merlin always found the creation of meta-intelligence eerie, but allowing them their own bodies took it a step too far. The meta-body ban on Earth a decade earlier only confirmed he hadn’t been the first one to think this.

The ramp kicks into motion. Merlin braces his bot’s frame as it accelerates at a slight incline. His mind fills in the blanks with the sensation of inertia, a side-effect of the chip—the technology to exist in a body that isn’t his own, to see worlds from afar, and to connect with a virtual entity like EON. When Merlin first dreamt of becoming an astronaut, he hadn’t considered the implications, requirements, and regulations—the sacrifices—necessary to leave Earth’s gravity.

The cage lines up with the hop-point and slides into place. Grabbing the handrail framing the entrance, Merlin looks out at the lush expanse rotating below, a living world on the surface of a dead one. Outside the dome, sanguine mountains flank the sunken Athabasca Valles region—a verdant utopia dominated by ancient nothingness. He thinks about the fungal sample in his chassis and worries that the Kingdom might not have long before it, too, is consumed by red extinction.

Finish reading the exclusive short story, Red Kingdom, by picking up a hardcover copy of Take Me There: A Speculative Anthology of Travel! Or become a paid subscriber to get immediate access to the ebook (featuring 24 stories) in your Welcome email!

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Hilma was a serious baby, quiet and bright-eyed throughout her first many months of life, but she never cried. She fussed and she burbled, she smiled and gurgled, but she did not cry. Though her parents were surprised, they did not permit themselves to be overly concerned on the advice of their pediatrician, who found Hilma responsive and energetic, with a good appetite and charming dimples that appeared at the approach of Mommy or Daddy, Grammy and Gramps, other family members and strangers too, dogs, cats, and ducks at the park.

“Consider yourselves fortunate!” old Dr. Ward said. “You have a perfectly happy and healthy baby girl who just happens not to cry. Don’t complain—I know parents nearly frantic over their baby’s crying.”

In due course, Hilma learned to talk, and learned to walk. She went to school, made friends, got good grades, and only sassed her parents sometimes. When Gramps died, she was very sad, and she wrote a beautiful poem (for a seven-year-old) about how much she loved and missed him, but she did not cry. Her parents took her to Dr. Ward to see if something was wrong with her tear ducts, again, but he couldn’t find any physical reason why her tears shouldn’t flow, again, and as she was a popular child and friend to all at school, smiled and laughed when she was happy, frowned and moped when she was sad, he simply saw no compelling reason to worry.

“Nature works in mysterious ways,” he said, “she may just have been born without the biological need to produce tears. Maybe that’s a good thing—maybe there are tears enough in the world already.”

Although Hilma grew tall and straight, she was a late bloomer in that one other way. While her dad stood ponderously by, saying things like, “Well, now…” and “Gee, maybe…” her mom and Grammy discussed their situation in hushed tones despite old Dr. Ward’s assurances: some girls bloom late, there’s not a thing wrong with her, it will happen when she’s ready.

One day at home, alone with her mom watching baseball, Hilma had to pee and went to the bathroom. Seated on the porcelain throne, she looked down at her panties stretched open across her knees and was shocked to see a single bright red spot of blood there. She let out a short scream, and her mom came calling and knocking. As she showed her mother, a single tear fell down Hilma’s cheek. Her mom squealed and carried on, and afterward, she baked peanut butter cookies to celebrate. Hilma was never sure whether it was the arrival of her womanhood or the tear that made her mom so happy, though she didn’t much care because peanut butter cookies were her favorite, and her dad’s too, who came home from bowling later to a house full of laughter.

Each month thereafter, as things really began to flow, Hilma found herself crying, at first just a little, and then more—a lot more. Not at silly things, usually, or in an unseemly way; not all the time, or in every class, or when she needed to stand very quietly by as Townswoman #2 in the school play, for example. But where once, as a baby and a toddler, and then a little kid and then a pre-teen and even a teen-teen, she could be sad or grumpy but dry-eyed, as Hilma grew into maturity, got breasts, noticed boys, she also became a crier, which drew almost more attention than her other pubescent eruptions.

Hilma’s wasn’t a sobbing, blubbering sort of cry, not at all, but it was genuine and definitely very wet. Her eyes would blur, and the tears would stream, sometimes more, sometimes less, and it did make it difficult to function, somewhat, to take tests or see the blackboard, but she did the best she could. As people began to question her, she didn’t always know how to say what she was feeling—it wasn’t always sad tears; it was often very happy, very sweet, or joyous. She got used to it, for the most part, being a little off-kilter but hardly a spectacle; she told her parents it was like trying to get things done in the rain: it didn’t hurt, it was just a bit awkward.

They took her back to Dr. Ward, as what had once been wrong with her had now reversed itself completely, but he could still find nothing physically or emotionally wrong with her: tears of joy were normal. Everything that caused her tears might cause anyone tears at the right moment—yes, it was unusual that it all caused her tears all the time now, but it wasn’t manic, unbalanced, no, not inappropriate—just…different. Hilma’s mom and dad took her for ice cream and then home, and life settled into their new normal.

Songs made her cry. Commercials, too. Hilma cried at her baby cousin’s baptism, which her aunt thought sweet and somehow fitting. She cried in movies, at sunsets and sunrises, reading books, over birthday cakes, when other people cried, and won ball games. That same baptized baby, now a toddler, made her cry over its curly black hair and blue eyes. Hilma cried in the back seat of the car when they arrived at Disneyland; she cried when meeting Mickey; she cried at the fireworks, and she cried as they were leaving. She even cried when they couldn’t find the car—it was dark by then, and they had forgotten where they parked—and she cried with relief when they finally found it.

At school, the boys all teased her and called her a crybaby, but secretly, where once they all liked her, now they all loved her. One day, one boy told them all to “Shut up!” and they did, one after the other until all the boys who used to tease Hilma were watching out and scolding anyone who treated her poorly. And when she sometimes cried because someone teased one of the unpopular kids, the boys who used to tease her started to stand up for those kids, too. When Hilma, still crying, smiled and thanked them, they smiled and felt proud, and the teachers noticed and were pleased with everyone as many got better grades, and there was more laughter and getting along generally.

When Hilma went away to a sleepy little college surrounded by trees back East, she had a more difficult time (which made her cry.) She missed her mom and dad and Grammy and her friends from school whom she had known all her life and who knew about her “condition” and didn’t care. At the college where she studied Library Sciences, people were a little cold, not understanding “that chick that cries all the time”—many of them were wearing their adult hats for the first time and didn’t want to fall in with a baby who couldn’t let go of childish concerns. 

But as a few people got to know her, they realized the crying didn’t have to be a deal breaker—it was just something that happened to Hilma, albeit persistently, like a cough. She made a few very good friends that she kept all her life, but even then, she realized that adults didn’t always drift together like kids might do on an empty playground. In fact, they usually drifted apart, which is exactly what she did with some of her classmates after graduation, when she cried on her diploma and smeared the ink. She moved back to the Big City where she was born, to be close to her family, though she got a little apartment of her own and a job as a librarian.

Grammy died, and Hilma cried, which made her mother very happy. Then her mother died, and Hilma cried with her father, who also died not very long after. Hilma cried again, a little sad, but cried even more with gladness that he had not lingered long in his widowerhood, lonely and depressed, but that now her mom and her dad and Grammy and Gramps were all together and would be there waiting for her, eventually.

She cried during and after sex, and that really was a problem because the one or two longtime beaus she dated felt slowly but inexorably eroded in their confidence—this was a joyous, wonderful thing, she assured them, she enjoyed it very much, but their doubts ate away at their love. 

She went to Dr. Ward, who was hesitant. What to prescribe his patient who was neither depressed, anxious, manic, or deranged? There was simply nothing physically wrong with her, and even the psychiatrist with whom he played golf every Sunday, upon his referral, declared Hilma utterly charming, mature, and well-balanced. Hypnosis, they wondered aloud on the back nine? Best not to tinker with what God saw fit to give her, they decided. Dr. Ward delivered their verdict at Hilma’s next appointment, expressing sympathy at the difficulty in her relationships—love is a battlefield—and prescribing autoerotic alternatives for those times when she found herself without congenial companionship.

“Battery operated, I should think,” he suggested. “Better not take any chances with electric cords and outlets, all things considered.”

Fortified, Hilma made a point of getting out of the house, meeting people in clubs, classes, and concerts, and she had suitors but grew cautious after her former fiascos, preferring to “let life happen”—as she put it to herself and anyone who asked—and life did. As in school, Hilma was very popular again, and within the certain sort of artsy set she fell in with, her frequent tears were considered romantic and stirring, cause for admiration.

An artist named Andrew who would later become very famous but was, when he met Hilma, still young and unknown, asked if he could film her crying. She had doubts. At first, he said he wanted to put a lot of mascara and eyeliner on her and then film her in a single very long shot, perhaps ninety minutes, as the tears ran and her make-up smeared and dripped down her face—a kind of disaster film, he said, but from the perspective of the bereaved. Hilma said no. Andrew apologized if he had offended her, but she assured him she was not offended, only concerned it would not be tasteful. 

Eventually, he agreed to film her without make-up, maybe just a little powder on her forehead and nose—Hilma had grown into a pretty woman, and the camera loved her—and in the end, she sat for three and a half hours, and cried and cried as behind the camera they showed her pictures of puppies and kittens, stone angels in cemeteries, poignant scenes in old movies; they read last letters of dead soldiers to their loves, especially sentimental greeting cards, and the poetry of Emily Dickinson.

The Crier was an arthouse hit despite its length and quiet dignity, and though Hilma enjoyed a small amount of attention at the time, it was Andrew who made a name for himself soon thereafter. What connections her participation in that film afforded Hilma led to a long run as a tear-prompter for an actress well-known for her voluptuous figure and even more voluptuous performances of weeping, who needed a little help getting going for her tearful scenes. She insisted everyone call her “Miss White” except for Hilma, who became a refuge and confidante as, over the years, Miss White’s roles became less frequent and less important.

“Shall we have a good cry?” she would call Hilma to propose, well into her dotage, and Hilma would arrive at her mansion through the front door to the great relief of Miss White and her maid, who was rather too busy for that sort of thing, and too dour.

“Tear Porn” became a thing for a while during that time, and there were many offers from less obscure but somewhat seedy filmmakers who promised Hilma good money and a kind of fame. Apparently, all of their actors were so obviously not moved on-screen that they hoped she might reconsider her firm refusals. She received far too many follow-up pleas and prank calls asking her to cry over the phone until she was forced to unlist her number. Happily, the fad died down.

Meanwhile, despite the occasional sabbaticals to Hollywood, Hilma worked at the Big City University Library, where she spent most of her time in the archives conserving, cataloging, and shelving books very few people except PhD students and Professors Emeritus ever read. These were all kept in a sprawling underground complex beneath the BCU Library proper, windowless and silent, where Hilma could work in peace without the disruptive force of other people merely going about their business upstairs, whose unfortunate hair days, ink-stained shirt pockets, frantic deadlines, and adult acne often reduced her to tears on the rare occasions when the regular librarians were sick or on vacation and she was called up from the stacks to fill in. 

Later, after over forty years of quiet service, Hilma retired, much loved if slightly pale, and the entire library staff, many students, professors, administrators, alumni, and chance passersby gathered at the long, long research tables in the main hall for her going away party, where nobody shushed anybody (just the once) and everyone was happy, and they all ate cake, and cried.

When Hilma began to have hot flashes and irregular periods, the tears really began to flow, though, by this time, she was mostly used to it. She did make an appointment with Dr. Ward to check in on The Change, but he clucked and smiled and mentioned the many women who welcomed this new chapter in their lives.

“And that’s that,” he said, “done and done, nothing wrong with it,” and Hilma cried because she was relieved to be rid of all that monthly hubbub.

After her retirement, Hilma decided to see a little bit of the world, and just to make things easier, she did so by boat and would lean over the railing when she needed to and let her tears fall into the sea. On one such voyage, embarking from Tokyo directly after the Cherry Blossom Festival (which was so beautiful it really made her cry,) a very funny lady comedian performed for the passengers, and though she never could remember any of the jokes, the sight of the elegant woman in a ballgown falling to the stage and addressing her audience in a heap made Hilma scream with laughter, which made everyone else howl—her laughter was as contagious as her tears. 

She laughed so hard she cried, of course, and so that became a thing too, cry-laughing, because it inspired a Japanese gentleman, with whom she had a passionate and sopping wet affair on the cruise, to draw a little doodle on a cocktail napkin of a very round face, laughing and crying, which inspired many other expressive caricatures, and later, when everybody started using these doodles to add some pop to their digital messages, nobody ever knew it was Hilma who got that ball rolling.

As the years wended, Hilma became more and more involved in her local church—not a conservative sect (Mom and Dad hadn’t been religious) but one of those universal, inclusive churches with lesbian and gay pastors and whose God was a technicolor non-binary diva with a voice as vast as the universe who wore soft, shimmering robes big enough to cover everyone in their glory. Hilma would bake peanut butter cookies from Mom’s recipe every Sunday, and she would sit in the back row for the sermons because she didn’t want to disturb anyone with her crying, which was more and more now, so open to witnessing the great heights of happiness and the deep depths of sadness in the world had her heart become. 

But really, nobody was complaining about that crying woman in the back row, and pretty soon, after service, people gathered all around her in the pews to sit for a spell and to chat about all the beautiful things and some of the ugly, too. Sometimes they would just sit in silence, and as Hilma’s tears flowed, some of the others learned to cry too, and this became such a beloved tradition after a few years that the whole congregation—and by this time, the whole neighborhood, and a good portion of Big City as well—put up some money to build a beautiful visiting chapel beside the church, with walls that opened all the way to let in the air and the light, and people could come and sit with Hilma as long as they liked, arrayed all around her and spilling out onto the lawns on blankets and cushions in fine weather, and on folding chairs under pavilions when it was wet. 

Sometimes they sang, sometimes they just talked—they told Hilma all about their troubles and their triumphs—and though Hilma, as she got older, preferred just to listen, their stories filled her with such joy and grief both, she always cried, and like Miss White before them, “having a good cry with Hilma” became another whole thing.

While she was still living, people came from far and wide to meet Hilma and sit and cry with her, some of them very important persons with titles, both official and honorary, and over her remaining years, she was often asked to travel and speak and tell her story, but really, she would say, there wasn’t much to tell—she had had a very ordinary life; she had just been blessed, she came to realize, with the ability to feel, really feel, her own and others’ delights and troubles in a rather wet and wonderful way. Hilma always refused these invitations but was always forgiven because sitting down for a good cry with Hilma was a healing balm for princes and paupers alike.

Before the end, Hilma made one exception. She received an invitation to come to a fateful joint meeting of the United Nations and the WHO—during a particularly nasty outbreak of a fever no one could explain and which claimed many lives—and she, at the last, agreed to visit this august assembly, with one condition: she would not speak, she would only sit, and she asked that everyone else there also sit quietly, and if they chose to cry with her, they could, though they didn’t have to. Her tears were her message, the only message she would give, and so that is what they all did at the historic summit, Hilma’s only official public appearance ever. After that moment, it did seem to everyone as though the talk was gentler, the borders softer, fortunes more generously shared, and people more willing to listen and less interested in arguing, which was considered a very good thing indeed.

Back home, as Hilma’s health began to fade and she could no longer make her way to the chapel every day, they called old Dr. Ward and asked what could be done.

“She’s old,” he said, “she’s worn out and a little dehydrated, but otherwise, there’s really nothing wrong with her—she’s had a full life, and a woman her age should be slowing down.”

She continued to attend service on Sundays for a time but could not sit long afterward or in the chapel as she had, but people came anyway, talking, laughing, and crying together, though she stayed at home more and more. 

Hilma loved to have their letters read to her in bed every day, until that one day, and that one letter from a little boy who had written to say how happy he was to finally have received a puppy for his birthday, when Hilma closed her tearful eyes, and with a joyful smile on her lips, breathed her last breath.

For seven times seven days after she died, Hilma’s body continued to cry, though it did not decay or smell bad or do any of the yucky things a corpse normally would, and they called in old Dr. Ward one final time, just in case, well…well, they didn’t really know why, but he said he was happy to come and take a look.

At her chapel, where they had moved her after the funeral and in which a beautifully carved marble tomb had been installed, her casket remained open, and Hilma lay in state, crying. Dr. Ward checked her pulse (none), took her temperature (stone cold), and even held a mirror up to her lips (nothing.)

For the first time in all the long years of Hilma’s life and now death, Dr. Ward scratched his head.

“Well, this is strange but not exactly what I would call alarming,” he said. “Keep an eye on her. Let me know if anything changes.”

On the forty-ninth day, after people far and wide and from all over the world had their chance to stop by and have a good cry, Hilma stopped crying. They called Dr. Ward, who gave his blessing, and they finally sealed up her casket. She was interred in the beautifully carved marble tomb in her special chapel beside the church, to which people continued to flock with much reverence and tears for many, many peaceful years afterward.

The End

Troy Ford is an LGBTQ+ writer and editor from California living on the Gold Coast of Spain, about 30 minutes outside of Barcelona in Europe’s answer to Fire Island: Sitges. He is currently querying and submitting his first novel, Watrspout, a contemporary queer tale of a young painter flirting with disaster. His second novel, Lamb, about two childhood friends navigating the parties and perils of a post-AIDS San Francisco, is available to read at FORD KNOWS.

FORD KNOWS

From Award-disdaining Author, Mystic & Kook, Mr. Troy Ford | Essays, Stories & Newsy Tidbits for lovers of reading, writing, & sundry curiosities - basically a fruit basket with fur, every Friday

By Mr. Troy Ford

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The Crier is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, themes, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or made with the utmost respect.

2024 Storyletter XPress Publishing LLC, Digital Substack Edition.

Story by Troy Ford. All rights reserved.

Edited for digital publication by Winston Malone.

Cover design by Winston Malone.