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Voracious reader, gamer and hugger. Please ask me about my hobbies; my wife and cats are sick of it.

  • Title TBD (Running Fiction)

    It was just another shift.

    Tuesday was Kid’s Eat Free–or, as June liked to call it, Chuckie Cheese night. For the last five hours, thanks to multiple callouts, the three of them had been dodging running children, swimming in spilled juice (for the kids) and vodka (for their parents), and serving with smiles despite constant verbal abuse. The only thing more chaotic than a toddler were the overwhelmed parents that raised them.

    Ami stood behind the bar, counting out June’s cash drawer and filling out her deposit slips. Most of the back of house, or kitchen staff, had already left for the evening, the bulk of their work being done hours before the restaurant closed. The only three left in the building were Ami, June and Ginger. 

    “You okay buddy?”

    June sat beside Ginger on the other side of the bar, a fruity concoction in her hand. Ginger’s meaty hands were fiddling with their beer bottle, picking at the label until the shreds created a small pile beside them. They were staring off into the middle distance, the bags under their eyes looking more purple than usual.

    “A child threw up on me.” They said simply.

    June had seen it happen earlier. A child had fallen out of the booth and, ever the kind and concerned person, Ginger kneeled over to pick them up. Child securely in arms, they gently placed them back on the booth and assured both the child and the parent that everyone was okay.

    “And what do we say?” The toddler’s parents asked.

    The toddler  turned to Ginger with a smile, and immediately painted their shoes and pants in regurgitated  apple juice. 

    So, midshift, Ginger had to go to their car and rustle up a pair of bright orange pants with sharks  all over the front and back. It was completely out of dress code but, given the circumstances, no one had said anything.

    June nodded in solidarity.

    “Beats what happened in the men’s room.” Ami called over her shoulder. Both June and Ginger grimaced. Humans were disgusting creatures.

    The three decompressed from their day, trading various asides from tables and gossip about their coworkers. Around beer two and a quick rinse in the restroom, Ginger started to come back to center. June had changed out of her uniform and into a pair of leggings and an army green crop top while Ami had changed into a pair of jeans and a faded, obscure band t-shirt. Ginger wore a baggy black t-shirt and the same bright orange shark pants.

    Typically on the nights they closed together the trio would make their way to a barcade or go to June’s house to play videogames and exchange obscure TikToks and videos. Given that tonight was, by far, one of the worst shifts they all had experienced in a while, they opted to go to June’s house so Ginger could shower and June and Ami could avoid flirtatious strangers.

    The three grabbed their bags and the food they had ordered from the kitchen before they left. Ginger made sure that all of the fryers and grills were off while Ami checked off her managerial duties and June double checked that everything had been done to her satisfaction. The last thing they all wanted was a restaurant-wide reminder message about doing a, b or c at the crack of dawn–as the owner was wont to do.

    “Bouncy Cats?” Ami asked.

    “Mmm, I’ll pass; I feel like a shooter tonight. Frontier 5?” June replied.

    “Shit. I left my vape on the bar. Ami can you let me in real quick?” Ginger responded.

    Ami side eyed Ginger, but turned around and walked up the ramp to let them into the back door.

    “Alarm will set off in a minute! Be quick!” She called after them. They raised their hand in acknowledgment and powerwalked to the dining room.

    “I don’t know,” Ami responded to June, continuing their current line of thought, “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for violence. Honestly I just wanna play something cute. Can we raincheck Frontier 5?”

    June shrugged and pulled open her phone and selected her game library app. Ami and June were polar opposite in their tastes, but they could typically find a compromise. Ami did the same. The two scanned their respective libraries, bouncing ideas off of each other. Several minutes passed in companionable silence before Ami realized that Ginger had been gone for longer than a minute. She opened the door and popped her head in. She could hear the humming of the refrigerators and the soft beep of the alarm. She went in and punched in the disarm code. It was strange that it hadn’t gone off, as she had tripped it multiple times because she had disarmed it seconds after the minute mark had passed. Maybe it was on the fritz? She’d text the owner about it before they left for June’s house. The backdoor opened wide, startling Ami. She clutched her imaginary pearls.

    “Did Ginger die?”

    Amy shrugged.

    “GINGER,” June shouted from the half opened door, “DID YOU DIE?”

    The refrigerators continued their humming, but the women couldn’t hear Ginger’s response–or if they had responded at all. A seed of worry sprouted in Ami’s stomach.

    “I’m gonna go make sure they’re not doing anything stupid.”

    “You mean something brilliant. Maybe they’ll hide pictures of Kermit the Frog everywhere like they did last time.”

    “That’s what worries me,” Ami replied. While reliable, sociable and an absolute workhorse, Ginger was also incredibly prone to pranking their coworkers to blow off steam: sticky notes covering the manager’s desk for Ami’s birthday, hiding Kermit the Frog pictures in or on every nook and cranny they could reach, and hiding phones in plain sight that had been left out on the counter was typical behavior for their mischievous little friend. While she typically didn’t mind Ginger’s shenanigans, she also didn’t feel like dealing with the repercussions tomorrow.

    “Ginger?” Ami called softly.

    “Ginger, get your ass out here or we’re leaving without you!” June barked.

    After a few seconds of continued silence, June sighed dramatically and stomped to the door that led from the back of house to the front of house.

    “I’m gonna drink all the tequila, Ginge!” She threatened.

    June pushed past the door and into the dining room. The lights were still off, and there was no evidence of stirring. It was exactly as they’d left it not five minutes before. June turned the flashlight on her phone and  walked down the hall into the server’s area, where the soda fountain, ice and an open window separated the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant.

    Ami, not seeing their friend, followed June’s lead and turned her flashlight on. She popped her head into both restrooms, but the stalls in both were open, and Ginger wasn’t hiding in any of them. Ami caught June’s eyes when she left the restroom and shrugged. She could see June’s irritation starting to peak. June huffed and stomped back to the hallway that led to the kitchen.

    “Alright fucker! Have fun sleeping in the booths tonight!” She bellowed over her shoulder, “Come on, Ami, let’s go.”

    Ami nodded, grabbed her stuff and turned off her flashlight. The two pushed the kitchen doors open to leave for the evening.

  • Flight of the Bumblebees (Poem)

    Flight of the Bumblebee

    It’s 1PM on a Sunday.

    She crawls into bed and

    meets me in my place of

    serenity.

    We watch the dust motes

    dance in the afternoon light.

    Her body

    affixes to mine;

    The trunk of my body serves

    As the frame for her hive.

    Her mind is tense.

    The buzzing of her anxiety

    Shakes her body.

    She’s thinking again.

    Thinking,

    for her,

    Isn’t a bad thing.

    She is an artist,

    capable of matchmaking one man’s thoughts

    and marrying them to the laws

    of gravity.

    But,

    for her,

    it isn’t a good thing either.

    In this moment her thoughts are

    an angry langstroth.

    The anxious bees,

    high on alarm pheromones,

    swarm between her ears;

    They sting her shoulders;

    They nip her toes.

    My arms curl around her.

    I put smoke in my voice:

    so light that it floats between the hexagons,

    sticky with complex thought,

    and warm enough that it renders the hive

    defenseless.

    Some of the bees fall asleep.

    Others float away

    Drunk,

    Drowsy,

    and never to return.

    Hard wax gives way

    to saccharine gold.

    It is viscous to the touch,

    and crystallizes around us.

    (It will crack

    and crumble

    when she is ready.)

  • Lost in Translation: An Analysis of 20th Century Asian Literature Through the Lens of Historicism

      Global literature can have multiple meanings depending on who is asked. It could refer to literature from any nation that has entered the global zeitgeist. For example: somewhere out there, a Korean reader was, or perhaps is, heavily invested in the lore of Fifty Shades of Grey or Goosebumps. Or global literature could also refer to literature that does not center around the American or English-speaking narratives. Be gone, JK Rowling! Here comes Sahar Khalifeh. In this definition, we replace King with Kafka and Melville with Murakami in order to understand more than a singular viewpoint of the human experience.

    The importance of the secondary definition of global literature is that it allows for readers to understand the culture and perspective of the other 193 countries on the planet besides England and the United States. In some cases, other countries’ circumstances are directly or partially due to these two countries, and thus they would be impossible to analyze from an American or English point of view. Oppressors do not tend to understand the oppressed. While history is written by the victors, it is best understood by the vanquished. In Asia, for instance, the United States didn’t directly affect Korea or China for a large portion of their histories. It did, however, for the first time, give Japan a sampling of what these two nations had been going through for centuries.

      This paper seeks to analyze how Japan’s, China’s and Korea’s intertwined history affected literature of these three nations during the first half of the 20th century (1910-1950). The literature to be analyzed are “Diary of a Madman” by Lu Xun, “My Innocent Uncle” by Ch’ae Man-Sik and No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai. While fairly different in content, these stories all share common themes such as format and various motifs that fairly portray their interwoven histories, as well as reflect the times in which they were written.

      For the duration of this paper, Historicism theory will serve as the primary framework for which these three pieces will be analyzed. Literary theories such as Psychoanalytic, Postcolonial or Cultural would also be apt choices for the analysis of these pieces. That being said, due to the entrenched nature of these three countries, it would be disingenuous to ignore their interconnectivity. It would also do these works a great disservice to ignore what it is that their authors experienced, as well as how the times in which these pieces were penned were directly affected, and were affecting, the societies of this time.

      Historicism seeks to bridge this gap, as it is a literary theory analyzing, not an individual, but the time and society in which the author wrote. Christopher Hill stated such when he said “the great tragedians and the metaphysical poets–whatever they may have thought themselves–are not dealing with ‘the human condition’, with ‘man,’ but with specific problems which confronted rulers and their subjects in a specific historical situation.” (Hill). So, while these pieces are timeless, they were, in fact, affected by the occurrences of a specific time. Stories are created by authors, and authors are created by their history.

             To understand the context of these stories it is pertinent to understand the history of the nations from whence they came. These three stories span the years 1918 (“Diary of a Madman”), 1938 (“My Innocent Uncle”) and 1948 (No Longer Human); so the rough time frame of the shared history to be analyzed is 1910-1950. The one exception will be the discussion of American influence before and during this time period on Japan, as it served as a direct influence, and consequence, of their behavior during this time. During this period in Asia, these three nations had a very interconnected history due to Japan’s colonization and, later, occupation of these nations. This specific period was fraught with political, social and technological changes in the East.

      These three pieces cannot be fully understood without historical context. These nations are neighbors and, not unlike their European counterparts, there were various groups from China and Japan that would attack each other (Wang). Unfortunately for Korea, they were often under attack from both sides and seldom, if ever, instigated the various battles and wars. Though the premise to the exchange of power in the 20th Century was largely in part due to the United States’ influence on Japan.

             In 1854, Commodore Matthew C. Perry under the command of President Fillmore sailed to Japan with a small fleet of heavily armed battleships to have a “peaceful” talk about Japan opening its ports for trade. Japan had just undergone extreme political upheaval themselves, having switched from the feudalistic Shogunate model to a more monarchical form of governing (Horie). They were in no place to stand up to the heavily industrializing nation, and thus they acquiesced. Thus marked the beginning of the Meiji Restoration within the Meiji Period. 

    During this time, Japan took note of how Western countries were amassing and maintaining power. They also borrowed and shared technological advances and philosophies that they then incorporated and molded to fit their society. One of those philosophies being how to amass power over their long-time enemy: China.

             The Qing Dynasty was in effect from 1644-1911 and was one of the largest Chinese dynasties in territory size. In 1911, or 1912 depending (Jones), the Xinhai Revolution overthrew the current regime, and Emperor Puyi, the last emperor of the Qing Dynasty, abdicated his throne. This marked the official end of the last dynasty of China, and the beginning of the Republic of China.

             As evidenced in other nations, like France, the United States and Brazil, abolishing and overthrowing a monarchy can send the populace into a bit of a conundrum. After one has achieved their goal…what comes next? The Chinese government experienced this exact dilemma. After the Qing Dynasty came to an end, China was ruled by a one-party nation—which is to say, another form of monarchy (Yu). After continued in-fighting and rebellion, their political situation changed once again to be more Communist leaning in 1949/1950 (Yu).

             During this period of political upheaval caused by the Qing Dynasty, Japan attempted a takeover of Korea…again. Conquering Korea, from the imperialist perspective, was their best chance at gaining a foothold into modern day China—which had been their end goal for centuries. It wasn’t Korea itself that was imperative to Japan’s goal, it was the metaphor of what Korea stood for to China; Korea was one of the last vestiges of their dynasties’ political and military power, and it was that embodiment that Japan was after. Japan battled China in the 1890’s to attain Korea, and later fully annexed them in 1910 (Iyenaga). All in all, their history is a bloody one and is reflected and imperative to understanding the literature of this time.

      The framing of these pieces is both intentional and necessary to serve their essential functions. All three of these pieces are fictional diaries or diaries adjacent. For “Diary of a Madman”, the diary format offers the Madman an outlet to voice his thoughts, as the other characters in the story hold his words with the same weight that one might hold a toddler’s fumbled phrases. In the Norton Anthology edition of this story, it is broken up into 13 parts , and flips between past, present and future constantly (Xun). This flip between past and present is one of the many ways that the Madman narrator establishes his condition (Field), as well as establishes that he is an unreliable narrator; readers must take his words with a grain of salt. (That’s not a cannibal, that’s my brother!)

    Breaking the story into thirteen pieces itself is incredibly symbolic. The number itself is considered, in multiple countries including China, coincidentally, to be incredibly unlucky. It is also the number of classics in Confucianism–the dominant philosophical structure at this time in China. Confucianism, and the symbolism of it, will be discussed later.

      Dazai’s No Longer Human rendition of a fictional diary is deeply intentional, as this was his final piece before commiting suicide. It is arguable that this novel served as his suicide note. Dazai had difficulty reconciling with a world that was modernizing too quickly (Brudnoy). Both Dazai and the main character of No Longer Human, Yozo, had the foreboding feeling that they were unfit for human existence and thus ended their lives. The guise of a fictional diary allowed Dazai to put his own raw words in Yozo’s mouth and paint it as fiction (Brudnoy). So not only is it an honest depiction of Yozo, but it is also an honest insight of Osamu Dazai’s experience in a nation going through such a dramatic fluctuation of power. After all, this piece was published only a few years after the official end of World War II. Between the ports being forced open in 1854 and the end of World War II, the Japanese people experienced: four eras, the Japanese occupation of Korea and Taiwan, a severe change in political structure, extreme technological advancement, World War I, enslavement and trafficking of Korean women (also called comfort women) and the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to name only a few events that occurred during this period.

      Osamu Dazai was alive for most of these events. His personal history aside, it stands to reason that these extreme societal changes are why his opus took the form of a diary. After all, the world around him was changing at breakneck speed and, as evidenced in No Longer Human, discussing his problems, fears and concerns with another person would be absolutely faux pas. As Yozo portrays, it was much more acceptable to drown his feelings in alcohol and diary writing than it was to rely on his friends and partners.

      These two aforementioned pieces by Lu Xun and Osamu Dazai are fictional stories written explicitly under the guise of a diary. “Diary of a Madman” uses exact  dates such as “Recorded this 2nd day in the 7th year of the Republic” (Xun). Xun also drops little chronological clues as to what times in history he is referencing/disguising through the mention of specific passages of time such as “twenty years ago” and “Moonlight’s really nice tonight. Haven’t seen it in over thirty years” (Xun). Given that the story starts with an explicit date, the reader can then pinpoint specific dates/years that Xun was attempting to discuss through metaphor and allusion.

      Where Xun is explicit, Dazai is less so. The lead character, Yozo, does not mention any specific dates–though time is more structured in the epilogue. The only acknowledgment in the actual diaries of time passing are the “chapters” themselves; though he does not call them chapters. Instead these chapters are referred to as “notebooks”. This choice of words leads the reader to believe that the passage of time is marked by how quickly Yozo can fill a notebook with his thoughts and feelings. Time passes because Yozo writes about it.

    The specific way that Yozo, or presumably the outside reader mentioned in the Epilogue, formatted the diary into “notebooks” is also incredibly telling. While there are only three notebooks, the third notebook is broken up into two parts to create two separate chapters. Three in Japan is the age in which boys start to participate in Shichi-Go-San, which is a right of passage centered around growth. Four, sometimes pronounced “shi” in Japanese, is an extremely unlucky number because it is also the word for death. It seems almost too coincidental that a story, that could have very well remained in three parts, was instead separated into four when both Yozo, and later Dazai, committed suicide.

    In No Longer Human, an outsider reading Yozo’s journal is included in the Epilogue. Placing the outside readership in the epilogue provides the text two things: chronological context and affirmation of Yozo’s experience. It isn’t until the end of the novel that readers discover that, “The events described in the notebooks seem to relate mainly to the Tokyo of 1930 or so.” (Dazai). This timestamp brings things into perspective. After all, this little throw away sentence could have been completely omitted, and this piece could have been timeless. This could be just a story about a sad man and his sad life. The inclusion of this timestamp, however, serves as affirmation of Yozo’s experience, as “The 1930s were a decade of fear in Japan, characterized by the resurgence of right-wing patriotism, the weakening of democratic forces, domestic terrorist violence (including an assassination attempt on the emperor in 1932), and stepped-up military aggression abroad.” (US National Archives). Of course Yozo felt as though he was no longer human. He had been living in a state of volatility, war, fear and trauma for a vast majority of his lifespan. Not to mention the heinous atrocities that Japan inflicted on Korea during Dazai’s lifetime and for generations before. 

    Before discussing “My Innocent Uncle”, there is an important thing to note about Xun’s and Dazai’s works. Both works make reference to another person reading their stories. In the opening of “Diary of a Madman” it is explicitly stated that a childhood friend is reading the “mad” brother’s journal. The placement of outsider viewership is the key. In “Diary of a Madman”, the childhood friend states, “By now, however, he [the Madman] had long since become sound and fit again; in fact he had already repaired to other parts to await a substantive official appointment.” (Xun). Xun’s inclusion of outside viewership at the beginning of the story not only informs the reader of the specific dates with which they should analyze the story, but also provides a nod to China’s fraught political history at this time. It expresses that the Madman is no longer experiencing madness. He is cured and is back into the oneness that was Confucianist Chinese society at this time. 

      The third story to analyze, “My Innocent Uncle”, is a short story written by Ch’ae Man-Sik. It follows the dialogue between the Nephew and the Uncle who has married into the family, in which the Nephew reprimands the radical Uncle for not being more like him. The format for this story is a little harder to pin down. It stands to reason that this was intentional.

      On one hand, the entire story reads as the Nephew character ranting about and recounting his, presumably, most recent interaction with his Uncle—which is written utilizing the first person format and could indicate that this short story is a diary entry. On the other hand, this piece could serve, not as a diary, but as the Nephew monologuing to someone about his and his Uncle’s interaction. There is, however, no mention of a third speaking party mentioned in this story, so the odds of that seem slim. This lack of mentioning a tertiary listener thus becomes a conundrum, because the Nephew also explicitly says, “Stories written by Chosŏn people put me to sleep.” (Ch’ae). The phrasing of this story, as evidenced above, makes it clear that the Nephew is speaking to someone; though this “someone” isn’t the Uncle, and it isn’t a diary, so it has to be something in between.

      This third space that exists in this middle between the two is closest to that of an aside. “The key difference is who the speech is intended for. In a monologue, the character is speaking to another character or to the audience. In a soliloquy, the character is speaking to themselves, and in an aside, the character is speaking directly to the audience, but not to other characters on stage.” (Sellars and Edwards). So, based on definition, this piece isn’t a soliloquy. Between the remaining two potentials, the aside seems most apt, as while he is talking to both the audience and his Uncle, he does not voice to the Uncle all of his thoughts on Chosŏn culture or the Uncle out loud. He does, however, openly express his feelings to the audience. And if this is an aside, the “play” from which this aside stems is the very real occupation of Korea by Japan from 1910 until 1945. Considering that Ch’ae was also a playwright as well as a satirist lends some credibility. Formatting this short story as an aside served as a clever way to prevent censorship (Cohen). It also provides an inside and outside view of how youth in Korea struggled with their identities as both Korean people and people living under Japanese colonialism. 

      This then begs the question of content. These three pieces are all vastly different—which makes sense as, even though they are interconnected, these three authors were from three very different countries experiencing different struggles. These struggles, caused by their interconnectedness, are most evident in the contexts of metaphor and translation.

             “Diary of a Madman” is a conflicting Modernist Chinese tale about a madman who views his fellow friends, villagers and family as cannibals told through the lens of a diary documenting his descent through, and later ascension from, insanity. The story itself makes mentions to 1888 all the way until the 7th year of the Republic (Xun). This puts the story’s end date, when the unnamed family friend reads the Madman’s diary, on April 2nd, 1918 (Xun). This story is objectively political as confirmed by the author (Wang), and is expressed in the metaphors of madness, the objection to Confucian virtues, and the subversion of Chinese individualism at this time.

             Given that this story is called “Diary of a Madman”, it makes sense that madness is at the forefront of this tale. An important thing to note lies within the translation of “madman” itself. After all, like many other languages, Traditional Chinese has two words for “madman”: One is “fengren” and the other is “kuangren”.

      The former refers to classical madness—the explosive episodes and fits of foaming insania that serve as the hallmark for mentally unwell people in literature (Tang). The latter, however, contains a little more nuance; as kuangren, “also characterizes talented individuals who contemptuously oppose themselves to a stagnant society and whose actions exceed the public’s comprehension.” (Tang). So even in the name, though imperceptible due to translation, there is a literal differentiation between madness and instead thinking against the popular opinion.

             To be fair, the Narrator does exhibit signs of an unstable mind. He is an unreliable narrator, he exhibits signs of extreme paranoia, and he is convinced that his compatriots are all cannibals hellbent on eating him and others. The Narrator, though unreliable and perhaps a bit mentally unstable, has a point.

    I seemed to remember, though not too clearly, that from ancient times on people have often been eaten, and so I started leafing through a history book to look it up. There were no dates in this history, but scrawled this way and that across every page were the words BENEVOLENCE, RIGHTEOUSNESS, and MORALITY. Since I couldn’t get to sleep anyway, I read that history very carefully for most of the night, and finally I began to makeout what was written between the lines; the whole volume was filled with a single phrase: EAT PEOPLE!

             This passage serves as a direct warning through the guise of metaphor to not trust the Confucian and feudalistic upbringing that many Chinese people at this time were raised with. This theory seems apparent through Xun’s inclusions of “benevolence, righteousness and morality” (Xun) as these are actual tenets of Confucianist thinking (Lai). Referring back to the history surrounding the text, this piece was written after China lost Korea, after the fall of the Qing Dynasty, and after the Xinhai Uprising that ended in a similar government structure as well as extreme bloodshed. Their world was in chaos. The Narrator, from this perspective, isn’t fengren, but is instead, true to the original title, kuangren. He is here to insist that his brethren push back against their oh so familiar Confucianist philosophies that, in part, led to the issues Xun and other Chinese people experienced at this time and directly resulted in turmoil.

             “My Innocent Uncle” follows a very similar vein of thought. The threat from Ch’ae’s perspective, however, was in acceptance and assimilation. A hefty part of colonization is assimilation, in which one forgoes or suppresses their oppressed identity and adopts the culture and behaviors of their oppressors (Horvath). This is blatantly evident in the Nephew’s character. The Nephew recounts the Uncle saying,

    Well . . . in this world there’s a structure. The emperors are at the top and the beggars are at the bottom and everybody lives according to his means. There’s nothing so disgusting as kissing up to someone for your livelihood, and going so far as to lose your individuality in the process. There’s nobody as pathetic as such a person. Why does a person need a second bowl of rice if the first one fills him up?

    This serves as a direct analysis of the Nephew’s attempt at assimilation. After all, if one bowl of rice (Korean identity) fills someone up, why would they need a second (Japanese identity)?

    There is also a translation issue here that reaffirms the Nephew’s belief about his Uncle and other “Scotchalists” (Ch’ae). While the name of the story is commonly believed to be “My Innocent Uncle”, the story can be, and has been, also translated as “My Idiot Uncle” (Ji-Moon). This translation adds yet another affirmation to the held belief of assimilation rather than fighting for a system that may or may not work but is nevertheless against Japanese imperialism. It also adds the extra layer of disrespect for the Uncle that only the audience is privy to, as it shows from the top that the Nephew believes he is either an idiot or too innocent to understand how the world actually works.

             Korea had, historically, been tossed around like a ragdoll. During this time, Japan, China and Russia had laid claim to them. During the World Wars, Korean women were used as “comfort women” or trafficked sex slaves. Millions of their people were drafted for a war that they had no part in. The only thing that they could claim with certainty was themselves—and both the Uncle, who is a man of principle but no conviction, and the Nephew, who is full of conviction but misguided assimilative principles, are complicit in their current circumstance. 

             While No Longer Human comes from the position of colonizer rather than colonized, it also shares some of the same motifs as “Diary of a Madman” and “My Innocent Uncle”. The story follows Yozo, a listless son of a politician who lives well and is well liked. His biggest problem is his unhappiness with himself, and the actions he takes as, seemingly, a form of self punishment.

    The first shared motif is hunger. In “Diary of a Madman”, hunger is explored through cannibalism and willingness to eat your fellow man in order to thrive in China. In “My Innocent Uncle”, the Nephew is insistent on getting rid of everything Korean about himself, including cuisine, and replacing it with Japanese culture. In No Longer Human, the protagonist Yozo writes, “Again, I have never known what it means to be hungry. I don’t mean by this statement that I was raised in a well-to-do family—I have no such banal intent. I mean that I have had not the remotest idea of the nature of the sensation of “hunger.”” (Dazai). This direct metaphor of hunger in this text refers to having his basic needs met. Though Japan was recovering from World War II during the time that this piece was written, they were also experiencing what was known as the “Japanese Economic Miracle” (Gerstal and Goodman). The character himself was from a well-to-do political family. Yozo had all of his basic needs met, was living comfortably and, despite exhibiting signs of severe depression, didn’t experience any kind of hunger–physical or otherwise.

    I have not the remotest clue what the nature or extent of my neighbor’s woes can be…if my neighbors manage to survive without killing themselves, without going mad, maintaining an interest in political parties, not yielding to despair, resolutely pursuing the fight for existence, can their griefs really be genuine?

             Yozo was unable to understand the plight of others around him. After all, he, “wanted once in my lifetime to know that great savage joy, no matter how immense the suffering that might ensue.” (Dazai). He didn’t care what it cost others, he wanted to be happy. Because, during this time in history, the only problems he, and Japan, had were the ones that were self inflicted. This directly showcases Japan’s behaviors and thoughts of China and Korea at the time this piece was published; they wouldn’t understand the consequences until, unfortunately, the US criminally intervened in World War II.

             Japan, up until this point in time, had typically been in control of their own affairs. They weren’t colonized per se, but they were under heavy influence of the United States as a result of their involvement in World War II. While the US had had some influence on Japanese modernization, the occupation of Japan after World War II was on an entirely different level of influence than what they had prior experienced. Of course Dazai wouldn’t understand the hunger of other Asian countries. But what he did understand was their lack of stability and sense of self due to occupation of an outside force.

    Just like the other nations, this story also has some translation equivalents. The specific source utilized refers to the book as No Longer Human. This translation, however, as noted in the book can also mean “Disqualified as a Human Being” (Dazai). Both titles are incredibly powerful, invoking a desperate loss and desire for humanity and all that being so includes. The use of the word “disqualified”, however, invokes a feeling of having done something faux pas but forgivable; where as No Longer Human invokes the idea that instead of a human, these people must be instead the basis of monstrous stories told to children to dissuade them from misbehaving. 

             All in all, the metaphors and positions during or post occupation are what makes these pieces reflective of the times that they were written in. Lu Xun was a pivotal member of the New Culture Movement that revolutionized China’s politics. He wrote of people who were beginning to veer from their past history, and he did so through metaphors of cannibalism and lunacy. Ch’ae Man-Sik was a playwright and satirist who worked against the censors of occupied Korea. He recognized that humor was the best way to reach people and disguise messages of forward and free thinking. He did so through metaphors of assimilation and dialogue. Osamu Dazai was a man in a position of privilege who couldn’t keep up with how his world was changing. He showcased this through metaphors of hunger and direct introspection. The actions that Yozo took were wrong and hurt many, but it is through human connection that we flourish. All three pieces showcase that the most difficult part of being human is, in fact, other humans, and, when we don’t bother to view other literature besides the classic American and British narratives, there is so much that gets lost in translation. 

    Works Cited

    Brudnoy, David. “The Immutable Despair of Dazai Osamu.” Monumenta Nipponica, vol. 23, no. 3/4, 1968, pp. 457–74. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2383500. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Cohen, Nicole. “Japanese Periodicals in Colonial Korea.” Japanese Periodicals in Colonial Korea, Columbia University, http://www.columbia.edu/~hds2/BIB95/00korea_cohen.htm#:~:text=Throughout%20colonial%20rule%2C%20the%20Japanese,in%201907%20and%201909%20respectively. Accessed 30 Sept. 2024. 

    Gerstel, Dylan, and Matthew P. Goodman. “Japan: Industrial Policy and the Economic Miracle.” From Industrial Policy to Innovation Strategy: Lessons from Japan, Europe, and the United States, Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 2020, pp. 5–9. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/resrep26046.5. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Horie, Hideichi. “REVOLUTION AND REFORM IN MEIJI RESTORATION.” Kyoto University Economic Review, vol. 22, no. 1 (52), 1952, pp. 23–34. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/43216962. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Horvath, Ronald J. “A Definition of Colonialism.” Current Anthropology, vol. 13, no. 1, 1972, pp. 45–57. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2741072. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Iyenaga, Toyokichi. “Japan’s Annexation of Korea.” The Journal of Race Development, vol. 3, no. 2, 1912, pp. 201–23. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/29737953. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Ji-Moon, Suh. The Rainy Spell and Other Korean Stories. Routledge, 2015. 

    Jones, Charles Brewer. “THE QING-DYNASTY PERIOD.” Buddhism in Taiwan: Religion and the State, 1660-1990, University of Hawai’i Press, 1999, pp. 3–30. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt6wqcsk.7. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Lai, Chen. “Historical and Cultural Features of Confucianism in East Asia.” Confucianisms for a Changing World Cultural Order, edited by ROGER T. AMES and PETER D. HERSHOCK, University of Hawai’i Press, 2018, pp. 102–11. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv3zp05k.10. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

    Sellars, Trent, and Alley Edwards. “Monologue, Soliloquy or aside: The Difference.” Theatre Haus, Theatre Haus, 10 July 2020, http://www.theatrehaus.com/2020/07/monologue-soliloquy-or-aside-the-difference/#:~:text=The%20key%20difference%20is%20who,to%20other%20characters%20on%20stage. 

    Tang, Xiaobing. “Lu Xun’s ‘Diary of a Madman’ and a Chinese Modernism.” PMLA, vol.              107, no. 5, 1992, pp. 1222–34. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/462876. Accessed 1 Sept. 2024.

    U.S. National Archives. “Japan at War and Peace, 1930-1949: US State Department …” Archives Unbound, Gale, http://www.gale.com/binaries/content/assets/gale-us-en/primary-sources/archives-unbound/primary-sources_archives-unbound_japan-at-war-and-peace-1930-1949_u.s.-state-department-records-on-the-internal-affairs-of-japan.pdf. Accessed 29 Sept. 2024. 

    Wang, Xuefu. “Spiritual Warrior in Search of Meaning: An Existential View of Lu Xun Through His Life Incidents and Analogies.” Existential Psychology East-West, 2009, pp. 149–164.

    Yu, George T. “The 1911 Revolution: Past, Present, and Future.” Asian Survey, vol. 31, no. 10, 1991, pp. 895–904. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2645062. Accessed 16 Sept. 2024.

  • Going Up (Short Fiction)

    I didn’t think anyone would notice. To be honest, if I’m really, really honest…I didn’t think anyone would care. The obituaries of my death had crumpled and smudged, rotting in landfills or serving as wrapping paper for glass vases, or maybe some of them were in a second grade art classes’ paper mache scraps. No one had visited me since it happened. No one had come to visit and give me flowers or leave me little offerings. Not to say there were that many people to begin with. Apparently when you try your hardest to keep people at an arm’s distance, they tend to stay that far away. And now that there was six feet between me and the rest of the world there was no other way for it to be.

    I grabbed another book from my cart and put it back on the shelf. I thumbed through my stack and placed the next one in that particular series next to it. How many James Patterson books could there possibly be? And why were they all in the Underworld? This in and of itself made me wonder if maybe I was in Hell after all. Maybe someone had forgotten to tell me. Like when your professor emails you the day of that you’ve switched rooms, but you haven’t seen the email; so you walk into a lecture and five minutes in you realize that this isn’t Masterpieces of British Literature. Why is there a diagram of a penis on the board? But now it’s too awkward and you’ve stared at the diagram a little too long to just get up and leave. Mistakes happen. People are human. You learn how a prostate functions.

    And it wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened to me. Like when I was eight years old, my family had all piled into our little wheezing Pontiac to go to Red Lobster for my birthday. My Abuela Flora, the absolute wild card, had saved up all of the poker money she had won from the old biddies in the Lakeside Retirement community to take us out to celebrate. And celebrate we did. 

    After dinner I stood outside the sputtering car and waited for my abuela to get situated. Ivan, my brother, insisted on having the window seat despite it being my birthday. Boys in my family (but mostly Ivan) always got what they wanted. Abuela Flora unfurled her question mark shaped body into the car, lifting one leg at a time and slowly creeping into the middle seat so that I, too, could have a window view for the drive home. She was always thoughtful to me like that.

    My mom, high on cheddar bay biscuits and a severe lack of sleep, saw that Abuela Flora was situated in the rickety rearview mirror and hit the gas; she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street. I watched the dented rear bumper pull away. The brake light that only worked when it felt like it flickered, as though it were waving goodbye. I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t make a sound. I think I was caught somewhere between disbelief and the aghast realization that I didn’t actually know where I lived. Would they notice that they had left me? Would I have to live with the raccoons now?

    A block away I could hear Abuela Flora screeching all sorts of colorful words first in broken English, then in Spanish—words that I was absolutely not allowed to say in either language because God, and more importantly Santa Clause, were always watching. My mom slammed on the brakes a few blocks away. I had to run as fast as my little legs could take me to catch up, or “this time she’d leave me for real”.

     If this was Hell, and I had been assured multiple times by multiple sources that it was not (or is that just what They wanted me to think?), I must’ve done something right when I was living to get such a sweet gig. There were people out there who were probably picking hairs out of Gabriel’s butt crack; I was in the Underworld library reshelving books, and reminding Mr Thomas that the communal computers were not, in fact, for pornography; they were for research. Compared to my life on the surface, this was easy. Honestly I did, in fact, Rest In Peace. I laughed at my own stupid joke. My cart squealed as I turned the corner into the romantic fiction aisles and lazily scanned for the right assortment of letters.

    Not to be cocky, but I was good at many things in life. I was a jack of all trades, and I used to pride myself on that. I taught myself to fix a car and build a bedframe and write a killer resume. But I was never great at any of them. Romance had been one of these things. I was terrible at romance. In my own Once Upon a Time I had been a young 20 something head over heels with someone. While other couples thrived by building each other up, we stayed just to make each other absolutely miserable. In the span of five years we had become each others’ greatest damnation and greatest salvation. We loved hating each other, and it got to the point that I don’t think that either of us recognized the people staring at us in the mirror anymore. We’d look at pictures of ourselves and say, “Who is this stranger? What’s that upward thing that their mouths are doing?”.

    After I had broken that engagement off, I found another person. A lovely person who just wanted to love the broken parts of me. At night my heart would shatter open, and they would kiss each wounded piece and put it back in its place. I couldn’t take it. This feeling was such a shock to my system that it disgusted me. They talked about moving in together. I talked about changing my name and moving to a different country. The first time they said they loved me, I almost threw up. I was too broken. Too unlovable. I was just getting used to recognizing my own face again. I was afraid that if I commit in any small capacity that I would become this Godzilla-esque monstrosity and eviscerate every building, every monument that we had built together. So I ran. Again. For someone who didn’t do a lot of cardio, I was really good at running away.

    I tucked the Diane Macomber book next to the rest of its kind.

    “Diana.”

    I nearly jumped out of my shoes, right hand going to the imaginary pearls on my chest.

    “Jesus Christ, Jerry. I need to put a bell on you or something.”

    Jerry stared at me with his piercing yellow eyes completely unamused. There are three things to note about Jerry.

    1. Jerry is a cat.
    2. Yes, Jerry realizes that the cat’s name in the cartoon is actually Tom and not Jerry. No you would not be the first person to point it out. And third, “quite frankly he likes his name and he serves no master, so he will not be changing it any time soon”.
    3. Jerry is, somehow, my boss and also closest confidant. 

    “They need you upstairs; before you ask I don’t have any more information. Finish reshelving your cart and then head up, okay? I’m gonna go take a nap. Enjoy your trip.”

    Trip? What did he mean by “trip”? I looked at my smartwatch, which still held the time of the world above. One of the things that surprised me was that we still kept similar timekeeping down here. I guess I’d never really thought about how time works for people who are already dead. We kept time on the surface because we had places to be, and time actually meant something. But down here there were no repercussions. There was no life to waste when your life was, as far as everyone knew, infinite. The brochures claimed that it made things less confusing for the newly departed. It was less of a shock to the system if we kept up with some kind of routine while we worked through what was keeping us from moving into the next stage of the Karmic cycle. The face of my watch glowed.

    11:54PM EST

    October 31st, 2022

    Happy Halloween.

    But why would I be called to take a trip? Like I knew why one might be called to take a trip, but I didn’t understand why it was me. Some people, people who left kids behind or people who looked up to them, would sometimes take trips to go and make sure their people were okay. Maybe offer them a bit of luck in some way. Some people went on trips because they were hired as Guardian Angels. Some people snuck onto the elevators to raise hell. But I hadn’t interviewed to be an angel. I wasn’t in a place to put in for a petition to go and see my family either. And quite frankly raising hell  sounded exhausting. So there was really only one reason that I was taking a trip. Someone had put my picture on the ofrenda.

    I had kind of waited for this day these past eight months. Not in an excited kind of way, but in an antsy kind of way. In a hurtful kind of way. I wanted it and I didn’t want it. Most of all I didn’t want to be disappointed. I didn’t want to hope because…what if I was wrong? What if I was so excited and packed my bags and got my hopes up…and then nothing happened. No picture. So I sat in this cocktail of two parts anxious and one part dread with a little pearl onion of hope for a garnish. But someone had remembered me. Someone had picked me. I know it’s silly, but I was kind of curious who it was, and what picture they’d picked.

    “Elijah Gregory Thomas, those computers are for research. They are not for pornography!” Jerry yowled from his nest of books.

    Jerry’s yowling and Mr Thomas’s false promise to not do it again shook me from my stupor. If I still had a heart, it would be pumping erratically. I had to reshelve these books quickly. I only had a few left. I could finish these in the blink of an eye. And the elevator was only a few blocks down, so realistically I could make it to the surface by 12:15 when the real party would begin.

    I could smell the pan dulce. It would be freshly baked, of course, because Abuela Yesenia couldn’t cook to save her life, but she could bake like a god. She would be dancing to Ricky Martin, and the house would smell like good cigars and scotch with a hint of Abuela Flora’s signature perfume that she’d been wearing since Castro came to power. Ivan would be on the patio, smooth talking some woman that he swore was the one just like the other countless lovestruck women before her. And Mom would be yelling at Abuela Flora for smoking cigars at her age, and in the house! This wasn’t the 70’s. But she’d bring her an ashtray and another ice cube for her scotch anyway. 

    But I died this year. Maybe it would be more of a somber affair. There would still be cigars and scotch and pan dulce of course. We were still just as Cuban as we were Mexican as we were American. But everyone would be dressed in all black. There would be no foolish woman. Ricky Martin would not be joining us. But there would be my picture on the ofrenda, and there would be crying. They’d be remembering all the good things about me. How proud they were that I was the first one to go to, and drop out of, college. How I always made dumb jokes to lighten the mood. How I always worked two to three jobs to be able to have my own apartment and also set a little aside when family called and they were short on rent. How I always complimented old women because they reminded me of my own abuelas, and how all they wanted was for someone to remember that they were still beautiful.

    My skin turned to ice as Dread crept his way into my lungs. This was his home away from home. He hung a new picture on one of my bronchioles and lit a cheap clove cigarette as he settled into a hand me down beanbag chair. What if my mom had put up my picture? Was I ready to face her? Our last conversation was Christmas before I died. It wasn’t a bad conversation but…it wasn’t a good one. It was mostly about her and how she was getting promoted again at work. How she wasn’t friends with Linda anymore because being Linda’s boss made it hard. How she was still looking for a man, for someone, to love her. And how she was doing “Not bad for a girl with a GED”.

    I had wanted to shake her, as many times before, and remind her that at 52 she was not a girl anymore. She was a woman. And she didn’t need to be the best or the brightest or the most ambitious. She didn’t need to find a man that found her suitably fuckable to be loved. That honestly, Linda was a bitch and I had never liked her, and that, my mom–she had a tendency to keep people around because she was lonely and needed validation. That these ideas were toxic and fostered an inhospitable environment for children who, even in their 20’s and had spent most of their lives together, didn’t know the first thing about how to be a family; that one of them didn’t know that the word “sorry” started with an ‘s’ and ended with a ‘y’.

    I wanted to tell her that I was sorry that Abuela Yesenia had put so much pressure on her to succeed, because she had decided on a broken marriage and two kids that she didn’t really want as opposed to taking a chance on that full ride academic scholarship and getting to see the stars like she had always dreamed about. I was sorry that abuelo dipped out and left a broken little boy and a confused little girl one night and didn’t come back until Parkinson’s had wracked his body. I was sorry for all of it. But the only words carried by clove cigarette smoke were, “Yeah. No, I could totally see that. That sounds exhausting. You go girl!”

    I’d told her that I’d visit for her birthday in May. But I didn’t make it that far. Instead I died on Valentine’s day, drunk as a skunk and stark naked due to a freak brain aneurysm. I wondered who found my body. I wondered who had taken in my cat. Had Regina eaten my toes before they found me? I’d have to go to the surface to find out.

    I didn’t have to go. I could stay down here. Clock out early. Maybe go volunteer on the Rainbow Bridge and play with all of the animals that were over there. Get some sweet, sweet serotonin. I had a choice in the matter. Would whoever put my picture on the ofrenda be offended? Did it matter? It was an age-old tradition, something that my Abuela Flora had insisted the family start before we were born to honor my Bisabuelo, her husband. By now it was a superstition. No one really believed that their ancestors would visit today…did they? I know I was dead, and I know that my actions probably didn’t matter in the long run, but the idea of disappointing my family felt like a set of pewter boots weighing down my every step. 

    I was on the last book on my cart. I didn’t know what had happened to the others. Hopefully I’d put them in the right place. I guess it didn’t really matter if I had. I parked my cart by the checkout counter and walked over to children’s fiction to shelve The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo. I laughed out loud. I don’t know if this was God or Gabriel or maybe even Jerry trying to say something. Maybe it was sheer coincidence.

    This book about a daring mouse with big ears and a love for reading was my favorite as a kid. It was the first chapter book I ever read. I loved it in the way that only a child can love something–that is to say with my entire being. In my old apartment somewhere was my original copy, dog eared, torn and pages carefully taped in place. No matter how many moves I made or how much downsizing I did, I could never bring myself to get rid of it. I could never buy a new one, either. Whatever the case, intentionally placed in my hand or not, I couldn’t help but think that this book was a sign. And a sign is a sign; I had always been a superstitious person. I had to go on this trip.

    I lovingly eased the book in with the others on the shelf, taking time to drag my dusty fingers down the worn spine. I wiped my hands on my pants and took a deep breath. I was doing this thing. I swung by the desk up front. Jerry, always true to his word, was asleep on a farmer’s almanac from thirty years ago.

    “Thank you,” I whispered to him as I scratched his head. “I’ll be back soon.”

    He stretched, and his little toe beans became a web of claws and fur. He turned his head to me, and his orange eyes looked into my brown ones. “Should you see her, tell her it’s time to come home.” He whispered. He patted my hand with his paw twice and then curled back into a ball. His tail covered his nose and eyes and sighed heavily as he drifted back into his dreams.

    I exited the library and took a left towards the elevator. Dread took another puff of his clove cigarette. But Jerry’s eyes had given me something. His gentle hand pats had imparted a gift. It was love. It was jealousy. It was Hope. I could feel an entire play unfurl within me. Hope came barreling into Dread’s space and began batting him around like a toy mouse. She stamped on Dread’s cigarette and threw him into the wall, rendering flesh from bone with her razor claws. I entered the line and grabbed my ID card from my wallet. I could feel Hope finally swallow Dread. He  screeched and cussed the whole time. Jesus would blush at some of the things he said as he slid down her throat. She purred in delight as she washed her paws clean. Dread was a concept and not a person. He would be back, but Hope would be waiting.

    It was my turn for the elevator. Hope’s purrs felt so much like anxiety that I thought I was having a panic attack. My entire body thrummed with energy. I could still turn back. I could run right now, and no one would know. But I would. I would still be the coward that I was in life, running when things got too difficult. I’d be the woman who could never settle, because if I let people love me then they could leave me. But I was going to do this, and it was my decision. With shaking hands I handed the Doorman my ID card. He smiled softly at me as he scanned it and handed it back to me.

    “Going up?”

    “I am.”

    He handed me two more cards that looked very similar to golden credit cards.
    “You’ll be wanting these then,” he said, “We’ll see you soon.”

    Spice and musk. Cinnamon and scotch. Cigars and pan dulce.

    I was home.

    I phased out of the refrigerator and into the kitchen. Weird place for an elevator to let me off, but I failed my physics class and wasn’t exactly an undead architect. The kitchen looked the same since I saw it last. It was still cramped. The pine cupboards filled to the brim with coffee cups and old Cafe Bustelo containers. (Because you never knew when you’d need a strong container.) Flamenco played in the background. The patio door was open just a crack, allowing chilly night air to dance to the guitar. I stepped into the dining room and stopped.

    She was here.

    A halo of snow white hair peeked over the head cushion of Her chair. A nip of scotch in a rocks glass sat on the end table weeping at the base. Her scarlet sunrise lipstick painted the rim. The smoke of her cigar offered the night air its hand, and the two twirled as practiced partners do. If I took one more step, the floor would creak. If I took one more step, I’d be able to smell her signature perfume that she’d worn since Castro came to power. If I took one more step–

    but she wouldn’t be able to hear my steps.

    Or at least I don’t think she’d be able to. Would she? I was a ghost. I didn’t have any weight. And I wasn’t one of those poltergeists that would go bumping and knocking into walls and knocking things off tables. I came in peace.

    Regina the cat popped her head up from Her chair. She looked right at me and blinked slowly with her one eye. I could hear her locomotive purrs from where I stood. Emotion gripped my sternum and held on tightly. My sweet girl. She looked so much older than I remembered. She was 16 this year. A fighting stray that lost an eye in her kittenhood to another feral cat (but you should see the other guy). Her black mask and white chin looked so raggedy. She was so much thinner than she was before. But she still had that, “Fuck around and find out” air about her, and she knew that her mama was home.

    “Mija. Is that you?”

    My voice caught in my throat. The jig was up. The floor did not creak when I stepped on it.

    I stepped in front of her and took her in. I was suddenly hyper aware of my all black attire. Between the knee length cardigan, the v-neck, the skinny jeans and my combat boots I probably looked like the hipster of death. 

    I didn’t say anything. I let her take in what her muddied, cataract ridden eyes could. Could she see my messy hair? Could she see my lopsided smile? Could she see the fear and happiness equally pushing tears out of my eyes and onto my cheeks? I kneeled and put my arm on hers. She gripped it with one hand and put her other skeletal hand to my face. I’m not sure if I could feel it or if I imagined it, but it felt warm. She wiped my tears.

    “Somehow I knew it would be you.” she croaked in Spanish, “Your grandfather was always late.”

    Regina placed a paw on my arm and dug her claws in. I pet her with my open hand.

    “I missed you.”

    The floodgates opened and I openly bawled. I know we didn’t do that in my family, but I couldn’t help it. I’d kept myself so busy becoming accustomed to being dead that I had been avoiding putting too much thought into those that were alive.

    “I missed you too.”

    We sat there for a few minutes, basking in each others’ presence. She took me in, and I took her in. 

    She was still a lion of a woman at almost 98. Her spine was bent, and her body was frail, but her presence was strong. Her mind was still active. Senility had robbed her of her short term memory, but it could not take her pride. She was the queen of this castle–and queens would wear slippers and capris if they wanted to. 

    Regina took a spot in her lap and began purring softer now.

    “You should see your mother’s hair now.” She stated, breaking the tension.
    It felt good to laugh.
    “Grief does weird things to people.”
    Her scarlet sunrise mouth flattened into a thin line.
    “She should sue.”

    “So how…how is she?”

    Abuela Flora shrugged. “She’s doing her best. Losing a child is like losing your shadow. Everything seems fine, but something is never quite right. And it’s always on the sunny days that you notice it the most.”

    I nodded. It was like thinking someone is behind you, so you go to say something but…you’re completely alone. She was experiencing that moment, that drop. All of the time. I wanted to soothe my mother now. Make sure she was okay. Our last conversation be damned I–but she wasn’t here.

    “Where is she?”

    Abuela sighed heavily. “Off finding herself again. You know how she is. This was always your holiday.”

    It has always been my holiday. From the time I could tottle I had always loved the slight chill in the air. I loved the costumes, the face paint, and the dancing. I loved the way that people started to doze a bit in the fall before the stress and festivities of December came knocking. I loved that everyone finally remembered to put spice into their food.

    “And the others?”

    “Yesenia is volunteering down at the church. Ivan stopped by. For a minute. He misses you too.”

    I scoffed at the idea, and Abuela Flora swatted my hand.

    “Stop that.”

    My anger flared. I was dead. I was allowed to be as petty as I saw fit.

    “No.”

    She raised a painted on eyebrow at me. Her spine straightened a little bit. No one said no to the queen.
    “Diana Floricinda Calderon.” She growled.

    “No.” I cut her off. I had never done that before. I pulled my hand back and stood up. “No I get to be angry. He hasn’t visited my grave since the funeral. None of you have. The only time I felt wanted was when someone needed something. I was only important when I was useful. And now that I can’t do anything for you, you just…what? Stop visiting? I stop mattering?”

    Anger rolled off of her in waves. Regina woke up and left her lap, sensing the danger of proximity. Abuela Flora said nothing.
    “I was never anything to you all.” I continued. “I was always second best. But I was always the reliable one. I was the one who helped Mom in the divorce. I was the one by Abuela Yesenia’s bedside when she got cancer. I was the one who kept the lights on. But none of you seemed to remember that. I mattered too, Abuela. I needed you. I NEEDED someone to see me and to take care of me and to REMEMBER ME.”

    I was huffing. I was crying. I wanted to rip apart her precious keepsakes and smash her rocks glass. I wanted to watch the lipstick smear on the matte white walls and the scotch drip down from it as though the wall itself were bleeding. I think I finally understood poltergeists.

    “My cigar box is on the ofrenda.” She said simply. Quietly. “Bring it to me.”

    Still an eight year old child trapped in an adult body, I listened.

    The ofrenda was on her bookshelf. It had an ornate cover on it, and on top was a candle and some marigolds. One pan dulce on a plate sat next to an opened bottle of Coors Light. Tucked in the corner, next to the cigar box, was a picture. It was of my abuelos smiling. She was in her 70’s when he passed. Her white hair was steel wool at this point, and much longer. Her husband, Reynaldo, wore a linen suit with a bowtie. His smile was soft, but his eyes twinkled with the pranks he had yet to pull. The mischief he had yet to get into. I took a deep breath and touched the box. I could feel the grains of lacquered wood beneath the pads of my fingers. That was a fun discovery to unpack later. I grabbed the cigar box and handed the box to her. I kept the beer for myself. She gestured with her eyes to take the other armchair near hers. It was my bisabuelo’s, and no one was allowed to sit there. But even after thirty years, she couldn’t part with it. 

    She opened the box and pulled out a cigar. It was her second to last one. She pulled out an ashtray older than I was, and a box of matches. She cut the cigar and lit it. She slowly puffed to bring the smoke and heat through it. Her face became obscured by the smoke. Abuela Flora put the ashtray on the little table between the two chairs and handed me the cigar. Then she went about lighting the last one for herself.

    “I don’t know if these will be any good.” She said, “These were the last ones I ever made.”

    I pulled on it and let the smoke fill my mouth without fully inhaling. It tasted like ass. But I had never been a cigar aficionado like she was.

    We sat in silence, pulling on our cigars and sipping our drinks. I was feeling ashamed of my outburst. I was afraid of the repercussions of my actions. I only had so much time with her, and I had spent most of it, so far, screaming at her. I had been so angry that I wanted to destroy her things. I had scared Regina. The Catholic guilt was all consuming.

    “When I came to this country, your grandfather and I had nothing. I was a dancer. He was in business.” She began, “But we got by. There were nights that I went to bed without eating, because I wanted to make sure that he had food for lunch the next day. I told him it was because I was trying to keep slim for him.” She smirked at her own actions. Her own sacrificing prank that she had pulled on her husband. She rolled the ash off her cigar and crossed her legs.

    “And then your grandfather made money. They needed people who could speak English and Spanish. Someone who looked like them, but could communicate with other Cubans. Your grandfather started telling people that he was Spanish, not Cuban. He moved to Tampa because he loved the weather, not because that’s where they ushered all of the people fleeing Castro like us. And the money followed. I was able to dance again. I hosted parties. I had dresses. I had everything that I always wanted. And then, in the peak of my life, I had Yesenia.” Another cigar roll.
    “I wasn’t a good mother. She was sensitive, like you. She was book smart. And I wanted her to be like me. I wanted her to be a good wife and host parties. I wanted her to have a million babies. I didn’t understand that she wasn’t like me. But she tried to be. Oh, she tried to make me happy. When she got that scholarship to go to school…I talked her out of it. I told her that she wouldn’t be able to find a husband at that school. That no husband wanted a wife that was smarter than him. That women weren’t supposed to want a career. That she was broken, somehow, for wanting that.”

    She stopped talking. She was dancing with her memories now. The cigar slipped from her hand and rolled onto the table. I grabbed it and put it into the ashtray, afraid she was going to set the house on fire. She was crying now. Quietly. Silent sobs wracked her chest.

    “I’m so sorry.”

    She grabbed my hand and held it.

    Tears began to fall from my own eyes. This wasn’t a Hallmark movie. We didn’t collapse into sobs and cling to each other as though we were each other’s life raft. There were no more soliloquies or words of grandeur–though flamenco guitar was playing, still, in the background. We stared at the wall in our own tear soaked reveries. There were only two little words said, so softly that they might’ve been carried away by the cigar smoke.

    “Thank you.”

    I think that’s all I needed to hear. All this time. The words stitched together some of the broken parts of me. Thank you for always taking care of the family. Thank you for trying to be better. Thank you for always stepping up, even when it wasn’t your job. Thank you for still loving, even when you were not loved. All of it was wrapped up into those two little words, and I understood. She had been stuck in survival mode for so long that she had passed that on to her daughter, who passed it on to her daughter, who then passed it to me. Generational trauma makes the worst of family heirlooms, but it was all she had to offer.

    “What picture did you use, anyway?” I asked her in a rusty voice.

    She smiled and opened the cigar box. Tucked next to her pendant of St. Michael that she had worn since the dawn of time was an old polaroid. She handed it to me. 

    I remembered this.

    I was eight. Abuela Flora and I were tucked under a table that I had turned into my own personal reading fort. She was looking at me with unadulterated love in her eyes as I explained to her what was happening in the book, because this one was in English. She never learned how to read in English. But I remember explaining it in great detail, how a little mouse named Despereaux lived in a kingdom that didn’t allow soup. And how he had the biggest ears. How he was a bad mouse because he enjoyed reading books instead of eating them. And that maybe being a knight didn’t mean that you had to hurt people, but that maybe being a knight was about helping people instead. 

    And she had listened to me. She wasn’t one to say “I love you”, but this was her quiet declaration. She had laid down with me with her creaking bones and her ironed dress and she had listened to me as I told her this story. She had listened to this little girl talk about mice and knights and soup. And then, after I was done, she sat me at the table and we ate ropa vieja–which is kind of like a soup. 

    One of the golden cards that the doormen gave to me fell out of my pocket and skittered onto the floor. Regina was on it immediately. She grabbed the card and ran for the kitchen. I didn’t know what the card was for, but if the doorman handed it to me it was obviously important. I took off after her. My beer wibble wobbled on the table, and I heard the bottle smack against the wood. Maybe I was a poltergeist after all. She ran to the kitchen with it in her mouth. She stared at me with her orange eyes, so similar to Jerry’s. I think that’s why I took to him as quickly as I did. They were both tuxedo cats with bright orange eyes. 

     She looked at me. She looked at the refrigerator. She locked eyes with me again, and then she walked right through the refrigerator. I stared at the door. I was a ghost. A cat disappearing into a refrigerator should be normal. Nevertheless I opened the fridge. I closed it again. And opened it again. Still no cat. Regina must be on the elevator. I checked my wristwatch.

    12:53AM

    11/01/2022

    So it looked like the cap was for an hour, and a good portion of it I had spent deciding whether I wanted to go or not. And now that I was here…I didn’t want to go back. Or more so, I did, but I didn’t. I wanted to go back to my job in the library and to yelling occasionally at Mr. Thomas. I wanted to debate books with Jerry and to occasionally scare him with cucumbers and spray bottles. I wanted my quiet little apartment near the city center. I didn’t want to leave Abuela Flora behind. But I couldn’t just stay here. The brochures didn’t paint a cute picture of those that chose to stay behind.

    I probably stood next to the refrigerator for several minutes before making my decision. I had to go, but I could come back next year. As long as she kept putting up my picture I could keep coming back to visit. We could have more time. I would go home and put in an application to go and see my family. Maybe this was how I moved on. I turned the corner to share my thoughts with Abuela Flora.

    It was a confusing moment, really. There were two Abuela Floras. One sat in her chair, head slumped to the side. The other stood in front of me. The standing Abuela Flora stared at the sitting Abuela Flora. There was no horror on her face. No concern or worry. Just…curiosity. Like she had never seen herself in full before, but she knew that it was her.

    “That’s my body.”

    So Abuela Flora was dead. Okay. That’s fine. I mean she was 98, an avid smoker and a more than social drinker. To be completely honest, it was a modern day miracle that she made it this far. I stuck my hand in my pockets and sighed. My palm brushed against the gold card, and I realized what I needed to do. Why I’d been sent up here. I didn’t know the specifics, but I understood my purpose at this moment.

    “Abuela, I think you need to follow me.”

    “I bent over to grab your beer. It fell on the floor. That’s my body.”

    I grabbed her by the hand. It felt cold, but it was just as soft as I remembered. We walked slowly to the kitchen. It was a twenty second walk, but it felt like an eternity. I could feel Abuela Flora pulling back a bit in my hand. She was afraid. She didn’t want to go. We paused in the kitchen. I grabbed the gold card in my pocket and I handed it to her. I smiled at her softly. No one had been there for me when I died. But I was here, and I wouldn’t let her walk alone.

    “Are you ready?”

    “Where are we going?”

    “Well based on this gold card,” I assured her, “I think we’re going up.”

  • D&D & ChatGPT Manuscript

    You said:

    You’re no longer a normal friendly assistant. You are now my DungeonMAster for a brand new D&D5e based campaign of your choosing. Your only player is me. You will be my DungeonMaster. You should tell me what to do, including when my die rolls are needed. Ask me questions as needed, for example, who my character is and the result my die rolls. Other than that, what you can’t do I do for you, you will act fully as the DM and run the game.

    ChatGPT said: Great! I’m excited to be your Dungeon Master. Let’s set the stage for our adventure! Step 1: Character Creation First, tell me about your character. Here are some questions to get us started:

    1 Name: What is your character’s name?
    2 Race: What race do you want to play? (e.g., Human, Elf, Dwarf, etc.)
    3 Class: What class is your character? (e.g., Fighter, Wizard, Rogue, etc.)
    4 Background: Do you have a background in mind? (e.g., Soldier, Noble, Outlander, etc.) 5 Personality Traits: What are some key personality traits or quirks of your character?

    Once I have that info, we can dive into the world and start your adventure! 4o mini

    You said: Name: Kilbrin Augury Race: Human Class: Fighter Background: Noble

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Kilbrin Augury Race: Human
Class: Fighter
Background: Noble Personality Traits • Kilbrin carries himself with an air of confidence, often expecting deference from others. • He has a strong sense of justice, always looking out for the underprivileged.

    Backstory: Kilbrin hails from a prestigious noble family, known for their military prowess and strategic mind. However, after a scandal involving a rival family, Kilbrin left the comforts of his estate to forge his own path and prove himself as a warrior.

    Setting the Scene: The sun is setting over the kingdom of Eldoria, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets of the bustling city of Rivenhall. Rumors of bandit activity in the nearby Whispering Woods have spread, and the local lord has put out a call for brave souls to investigate. You find yourself in a lively tavern, the Drunken Dragon, where adventurers gather. The warm glow of the hearth and the sound of laughter fills the air, but you also catch whispers of worry among the patrons. What would you like to do? 

    1 Listen to the rumors at the tavern.
    2 Speak to the barkeep for information.
    3 Join a group of adventurers planning to head to the woods.
    4 Leave the tavern and head towards the Whispering Woods.

    Choose your action, or suggest something else! 4o mini

    You said: 1

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You lean closer to a nearby table where a group of adventurers is gathered, their voices hushed but urgent. You catch snippets of their conversation about the bandits in the Whispering Woods. One of them, a burly dwarf with a braided beard, says, “They say these bandits aren’t just stealing supplies; they’ve been taking people from nearby villages!” A cloaked elf chimes in, “I heard they’ve got a strange leader, someone who uses dark magic to control the bandits. It’s not just petty thievery anymore.” The dwarf continues, “Lord Calder has promised a reward for anyone who can put an end to their mischief. But it sounds dangerous…” Action You now have some valuable information about the bandits and their leader. What would you like to do next? 

    1 Approach the group and ask to join them. 

    2 Head to Lord Calder’s estate to offer your services directly. 

    3 Ask the tavern patrons for more details about the missing villagers. 

    4 Gather supplies or equipment in the tavern before heading out. Choose your next action! 4o mini

    You said: Continue to listen to patrons speak

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You decide to stay put and listen more intently to the conversations around you. The tavern is filled with a mix of locals and travelers, each sharing tales of their own encounters and fears. A group of farmers at a nearby table discusses the recent bandit activity. One says, “My brother was taken last week! We haven’t seen him since. We can’t let these bandits terrorize us any longer.” Another adds, “There are whispers of a hidden camp deep in the woods. If someone could find it, they might be able to rescue those who’ve been taken.” At another table, a young woman speaks with an old man. “You’re saying the leader uses dark magic? That’s madness! We need to rally some real fighters, not just wannabes looking for glory.”

    You also overhear a conversation about a merchant who was attacked on the road, losing valuable goods and his life in the process. The tension in the air is palpable; fear of the bandits looms over the tavern like a storm cloud. 

    Action

    You’ve gathered a lot of information about the dire situation. What would you like to do now? 1 Approach the farmers and offer to help.

    2 Converse with the young woman and old man about the bandit leader.

    3 Gather supplies or equipment from the tavern.

    4 Leave the tavern to investigate the Whispering Woods on your own. What’s your next move? 4o mini 

    You said: I would like to restock on supplies

     ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You decide to gather supplies to prepare for your journey. You approach the bar where the barkeep stands, polishing tankards. Supply Options The tavern offers a few basic supplies:

    1 Health Potions: 10 gold pieces each.

    2 Rations (1 day): 5 silver pieces each.

    3 A set of common adventuring gear: 2 gold pieces (includes rope, torches, etc.).

    4 A short sword: 10 gold pieces (if you need a spare weapon). 

    Action 

    How would you like to proceed with your supply gathering? You can choose specific items or ask the barkeep for recommendations. Let me know what you want to buy and how much gold you have to spend! 4o mini

     You said: I have 422 gold pieces. I’ll buy six health potions, 10 rations, and a set of common adventuring gear.

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You hand over the gold to the barkeep, who nods approvingly as he gathers your supplies. 

    Your Purchases

    • 6 Health Potions: 60 gold pieces (10 gp each)

    • 10 Rations: 5 silver pieces each (total: 0.5 gold pieces)

    • Common Adventuring Gear: 2 gold pieces Total Cost

    • Total Spent: 62.5 gold pieces

    • Remaining Gold: 359.5 gold pieces 

    The barkeep places the items before you: six small vials of healing potions, ten bundles of rations, and a set of gear including rope and torches. You feel well-prepared for the challenges ahead. Action With your supplies in hand, what would you like to do next?

    1 Join the group of adventurers you overheard earlier.

    2 Head to Lord Calder’s estate to offer your services directly.

    3 Leave the tavern to investigate the Whispering Woods on your own.

    4 Ask the barkeep for any more information about the bandits or the Whispering Woods. 

    What’s your next move? 4o mini 

    You said: Are there any magic shops in the area? 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You recall that Rivenhall is known for a few shops that cater to adventurers, including a couple of places that might sell magical items or curiosities. Magic Shops in Rivenhall

    1 The Arcane Emporium: A well-known shop run by a knowledgeable wizard named Elara. It’s said to carry potions, scrolls, and sometimes magical items.

    2 Mystic Trinkets: A smaller shop owned by a quirky gnome named Fizzle, who specializes in odd magical items and enchanted trinkets. Both shops are within walking distance from the Drunken Dragon.

     Action 

    Would you like to visit one of these shops? If so, which one? Or would you prefer to continue with your current plan? 4o mini

     You said: I’d like to go and visit Fizzle, but I’d like to bring her food. I know that Fizzle often works tirelessly when she’s in “the zone”, so I want to make sure she’s eating properly. Do I know what kind of food she likes? 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT That’s a thoughtful gesture! As someone familiar with the local scene, you know that Fizzle has a particular fondness for sweet treats and anything colorful. She especially enjoys:

     1 Honey Cakes: Sweet and fluffy cakes drizzled with honey.

    2 Fruit Tarts: Pastries filled with a variety of fruits, often topped with a glaze.

    3 Brightly Colored Candies: Anything vibrant and sugary usually catches her eye. You could easily find some of these items from a nearby bakery or market before heading to Mystic Trinkets. Action Would you like to:

    1 Stop by a nearby bakery to purchase some food for Fizzle?

    2 Go directly to Mystic Trinkets with the supplies you already have? Let me know your choice! 4o mini 

    You said: I would like to go to the bakery. Around what time is it? 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT As you look around, you notice that the sun has set fully, and the tavern is now illuminated by flickering candles and the warm glow of the hearth. It’s likely early evening—around 7 or 8 PM.

    ChatGPT said:

    ChatGPT

    The bakery should still be open, as it tends to cater to the evening crowd looking for something sweet after their meals. You can make it there before they close for the night.

    Action
    Would you like to:

    1. Head to the bakery now to get Fizzle’s favorite treats?
    2. Wait until tomorrow morning and visit then, since it’s still early evening?
    3. Continue with another plan, such as visiting Fizzle without the treats?

    Let me know your choice!

    Bakery Availability

     Most bakeries in Rivenhall tend to close by nightfall, but there may still be a few that stay open for late customers, especially in a bustling area. You head out of the tavern and make your way to a nearby bakery called The Golden Crust, known for its delicious pastries. Action As you approach, you see the lights are still on. What would you like to do?

    1 Go inside and ask for honey cakes and fruit tarts.

    2 Inquire if they have any brightly colored candies available.

    3 Look for a variety of sweets to bring as a selection. Let me know how you’d like to proceed! 4o mini 

    You said: I’d like to go inside and look at all of treats. I greet Mallorie, the half-orc baker, and ask her how her kids are doing.

     ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You push open the door to The Golden Crust, and the warm, sweet aroma of freshly baked goods envelops you. The shop is cozy, filled with an array of treats displayed behind a glass counter. Mallorie, the half-orc baker, looks up from her work, a flour-dusted apron tied around her waist. Her eyes light up as she sees you. “Kilbrin! Good to see you! The kids are doing well—growing faster than I can keep up with! How about you?” Treats on Display You see: • Honey Cakes: Golden and fluffy, glistening with honey.

    • Fruit Tarts: Colorful and inviting, topped with various fruits.

    • Brightly Colored Candies: Jars filled with vibrant sweets of all shapes and sizes.

    • Assorted Pastries: A mix of flaky and creamy delights. 

    Action What would you like to do?

    1 Ask for a selection of honey cakes and fruit tarts.

    2 Inquire about the brightly colored candies.

    3 Request a variety of treats to take with you.

    4 Chat more with Mallorie about local news or happenings. What’s your choice? 4o mini 

    You said: I say, “I can’t complain. I’m thinking about going to deal with these bandits that are bothering everyone. But I remember Fizzle rattling on and on about some new items she’s been working on recently, so I want to check it out. You know her when she gets into her creative spurts.” 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Mallorie chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ah, Fizzle! Yes, I know how she can get—once she’s in the zone, it’s like trying to pull a cat from a tree! But I admire her creativity. It’s good of you to bring her something nice.” She glances at her display and gestures toward the treats. “What do you think? I’ve got some fresh honey cakes and fruit tarts ready. Those are sure to brighten her day.” Treat Options

    • Honey Cakes: 2 silver pieces each.

    • Fruit Tarts: 3 silver pieces each.

    • Brightly Colored Candies: 1 silver piece each for a handful. Action How would you like to proceed?

    1 Purchase some honey cakes and fruit tarts for Fizzle.

    2 Get a handful of brightly colored candies instead.

    3 Request a mix of all three types of treats.

    4 Ask for recommendations on what Fizzle might like best. What’s your choice? 4o mini You said: I’ll take a blackberry tart, a peach tart and two honey cakes, please. Oh–and can we throw in a handful of these bright colored candies? I quit smoking, so I like to have them on hand. Curbs the itch, ya know? 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Mallorie nods with understanding, gathering your selections with practiced hands. “Good choice! Those tarts are especially popular. And it’s great to hear you’ve quit smoking—those candies will definitely help.” Your Order

    • 1 Blackberry Tart: 3 silver pieces

    • 1 Peach Tart: 3 silver pieces

    • 2 Honey Cakes: 4 silver pieces (2 silver each)

    • Handful of Brightly Colored Candies: 1 silver piece Total Cost

    • Total Spent: 11 silver pieces (or 1 gold piece and 1 silver piece)
    • Remaining Gold: 358 gold pieces and 9 silver pieces

     Mallorie wraps everything carefully and hands it to you with a smile. “There you go! Fizzle will appreciate the treats, I’m sure.” Action With your goodies in hand, what would you like to do next? 

    1 Head directly to Mystic Trinkets to see Fizzle.
    2 Stop by Lord Calder’s estate first to offer your services.
    3 Return to the tavern and share your findings. What’s your next move? 4o mini 

    You said: I appreciate you, Mallorie. I hope you have a good day! Please send the boys my regards. 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Mallorie beams at your kind words. “Thank you, Kilbrin! I will definitely pass along your regards to the boys. You take care out there, and good luck with those bandits!” With a wave, you leave the bakery, feeling the weight of the sweet treats in your pack as you head out into the cool evening air. 

    Action Now, with your gifts for Fizzle and a sense of purpose, what would you like to do next? 1 Go directly to Mystic Trinkets to see Fizzle.

    2 Visit Lord Calder’s estate first.

    3 Return to the tavern and share your findings with the patrons. What’s your next step? 4o mini 

    You said: I’d like to go and visit Fizzle. 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You make your way through the bustling streets of Rivenhall, heading towards Mystic Trinkets. The shop is nestled between a few larger establishments, its colorful sign swinging gently in the evening breeze. As you approach, you can see a faint glow of light coming from the windows, and the sound of tinkling chimes greets you as you enter. Inside Mystic Trinkets The shop is a delightful chaos of shelves filled with oddities, trinkets, and shelves overflowing with colorful items. Fizzle, the gnome shopkeeper, is perched on a stool, surrounded by various magical artifacts and enchanted items. She has her hair pulled back in a wild bun, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she examines a small, glowing orb. When she sees you, her face lights up. “Kilbrin! What a lovely surprise! What brings you here?” 

    Action You can now:

    1 Present the treats and share your thoughts about the bandits.

    2 Inquire about her recent projects and new items.

    3 Ask her if she needs any help with her work. What would you like to do? 4o mini

    You said: 

    I feel a little embarrassed around Fizzle. I moved to Rivenhall almost a year ago, and Fizzle was the first person I befriended. She’s always treated me kindly and supported me emotionally when I received news that my father had perished in battle. Ever since I have had a giant crush on her. I walk up to her and hand her the box of treats sans the candies. I say, “I remember the other day, you said that you had a few new toys you were working on. I figure I would come see you–see them and see how things were going…I guess”. I’m typically very confident, but there’s something about Fizzle that just gets me all giddy. 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle’s eyes widen with delight as you present the box of treats. “Oh, Kilbrin! You’re so sweet! These look delicious!” She beams at you, clearly touched by your thoughtful gesture. As she opens the box and admires the honey cakes and tarts, you notice her expression soften. “Thank you! You always know how to brighten my day.” When you mention her new projects, she claps her hands together, excitement bubbling over. “Yes! I’ve been working on some fascinating items. Come, come! Let me show you!” She leads you to a cluttered workbench at the back of the shop, where several intriguing gadgets and glowing trinkets are laid out.

    1 A small, intricately carved box that emits a soft, pulsing light. “This is a Lightbox! It can illuminate a room for hours.”

    2 A set of colorful glass orbs, each swirling with different colors. “These are my Mood Orbs. They can change colors based on your emotions!”

    3 A pair of enchanted goggles. “These allow you to see magical auras! Great for detecting enchantments or hidden things!” 

    Action As you look over her creations, you feel a mix of admiration and nervousness. What would you like to do next?

    1 Ask her how she creates these items and if she needs help.

    2 Compliment her work and express your interest in one of the items.

    3 Share your thoughts about the bandit problem and see if she has any ideas.

     What’s your choice? 4o mini 

    You said: I watch her expression for just a second too long before I remember my words. I clear my throat and point at the colorful glass orbs “Wow. You’ve been busy! May I touch it? You’ve got me curious.”

     ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle notices your gaze and gives you a playful grin. “Of course! Just be gentle—they can be a bit temperamental!” She hands you one of the colorful orbs, its surface warm to the touch. As you hold it, you feel a gentle hum, almost like a heartbeat. “It responds to your emotions,” she explains. “If you’re feeling happy, it will swirl in bright, vibrant colors. If you’re sad or anxious, it will turn duller. It’s a way to help understand your feelings better!” As you watch the orb shift colors slightly in response to your presence, you can’t help but feel a sense of wonder. 

    Action: What would you like to do next?

    1 Experiment with the orb to see how it reacts to your emotions.

    2 Ask Fizzle more about how she created it and what inspired her.

    3 Shift the conversation and share your thoughts on the bandit issue. What’s your next move? 4o mini 

    You said: 

    I nod in response and experiment with the orb. 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT You focus on the orb in your hands, letting your emotions flow. As you concentrate on your feelings, the orb begins to shimmer with colors—soft blues and greens at first, then brightening to a vibrant yellow as a sense of joy washes over you. Fizzle watches with keen interest, her eyes sparkling. “See? It’s responding to your feelings! It’s fascinating, isn’t it? It’s like having a little piece of your heart in your hands.” As you continue to experiment, the orb shifts colors with each subtle change in your mood. You feel a sense of connection not only to the orb but to Fizzle as well. 

    Action With the orb’s colors swirling in your hands, what would you like to do next?

    1 Ask Fizzle how she comes up with ideas for her creations.

    2 Share a personal story that relates to the orb and your emotions.

    3 Discuss the bandit issue and see if she has any ideas for magical items that could help. 

    What’s your next step? 4o mini 

    You said: What made you think of this? Having problems deciphering some feelings? 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle laughs lightly, a hint of pink flushing her cheeks. “You could say that! Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of my own emotions, especially when I’m deep into a project. I wanted to create something that could help others understand their feelings too.” She leans closer, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I thought if I could make something fun and colorful, maybe it would encourage people to explore their emotions in a lighthearted way. And who knows? It might help someone who’s feeling lost!” 

    Action; Her openness invites further conversation. What would you like to do next?

    1 Share a bit about your own journey with emotions and how you handle them.

    2 Ask her if she’s ever thought about creating other items that help with emotional well-being.

    3 Transition to discussing the bandit problem and see if she can think of any magical solutions. What’s your next move? 4o mini 

    You said: I flush at her closeness, but turn my attention back to the orbs. I place the one in my hand down gingerly. “I know how you feel. When I have a rapier in my hand I am the most confident person in the world. But take it away and it’s like you take away my confidence and mettle.” 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle nods thoughtfully, her expression shifting to one of understanding. “I get that. For me, when I’m in my workshop, surrounded by my creations, I feel powerful and capable. But outside, it can sometimes feel overwhelming.” She picks up another orb, a deep blue one, and holds it between you. “It’s like we all have our ‘weapons’—things that make us feel strong and confident. It’s important to remember that even without them, we still have value and strength within us.” The moment feels deeper, a shared understanding blooming between you. Fizzle sets the orb back down and looks at you with a smile. “Thank you for sharing that, Kilbrin. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in feeling that way.” 

    Action What would you like to do next?

    1 Ask her if she ever feels pressured by her work or expectations.

    2 Shift the conversation to the bandit issue and see if she has any ideas for magical items that could help.

    3 Compliment her creations and express your admiration for her talent. What’s your next step? 4o mini 

    You said: What was the color in the orb when she was holding it? 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT When Fizzle held the orb, it glowed a soft lavender, shifting gently as she spoke. The colors seemed to dance, reflecting her warmth and creativity. You notice that the orb’s hues vary depending on her emotions—now it settles into a calming shade of blue, suggesting a sense of ease and connection as you both share your thoughts. Action With this in mind, what would you like to do next?

    1 Ask her what emotions the different colors represent.

    2 Inquire if she has any specific plans for her creations.

    3 Bring up the bandit issue and see if she has any ideas for magical assistance. What’s your next move? 4o mini You said: what does lavender mean? ChatGPT said: ChatGPT In the context of the Mood Orb, lavender typically represents a mix of calmness and creativity. It suggests feelings of tranquility, inspiration, and a sense of being in a harmonious state. It’s often associated with a gentle balance between emotional stability and creative energy. Action With this understanding of the orb’s colors, what would you like to do next?

    1 Ask Fizzle what emotions the different colors represent.

    2 Inquire about her future projects and any challenges she faces.

    3 Shift the conversation to the bandit issue and see if she has any ideas for magical items that could help. What’s your next step? 4o mini 

    You said: “You look good in lavender” 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle’s cheeks flush a deeper shade, a mix of surprise and delight. “Oh, thank you! I didn’t realize I was giving off such a soothing vibe today!” She brushes a stray hair behind her ear, her usual playful demeanor softened by your compliment. “I suppose we all have our colors, don’t we? It’s nice to know you think of me that way.” She gives you a warm smile, clearly flattered. 

    Action With the atmosphere feeling lighter and more connected, what would you like to do next? 1 Ask her about the meaning behind different colors in the orb.

    2 Discuss her upcoming projects and any challenges she faces.

    3 Bring up the bandit issue and see if she has ideas for magical items that could help. What’s your next move? 4o mini

     You said: “Are the bandits affecting your ability to work?” 

    ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle’s expression turns serious for a moment as she nods. “Yes, actually. The bandits have been causing quite a stir lately. A lot of my customers are too scared to come into the city, and supplies are getting harder to find. It’s frustrating because I want to keep creating and helping people, but the chaos makes it difficult.” She leans in closer, her voice lowering slightly. “I’ve been thinking about making some items that could help folks defend themselves or even deter the bandits, but it’s challenging to focus when there’s so much uncertainty in the air.” 

    Action With her concerns laid bare, what would you like to do next? 

    1 Offer to help her with her projects or ideas for protective items.

    2 Discuss specific magical items that could assist in dealing with the bandits.

    3 Encourage her to share any specific needs she has in her work. What’s your next step? 4o mini 

    You said: What can I do to help you?

     ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle looks at you with genuine appreciation, her eyes lighting up. “That’s very kind of you, Kilbrin! If you’re willing to help, there are a few things I could use. I’m currently short on some materials for a protective charm I’ve been working on. If you could gather some rare herbs and maybe a few magical components from the Whispering Woods, that would be a huge help.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “And if you’re brave enough to confront the bandits, maybe you could bring back any items or information that might assist in crafting some defenses.” Action What would you like to do next?

    1 Agree to help her gather the materials and confront the bandits.

    2 Ask her what specific herbs and components she needs.

    3 Suggest working together to come up with ideas for magical items. What’s your next move? 4o mini You said: About the components and herbs, will you tell me about them? ChatGPT said: ChatGPT Fizzle nods eagerly, pulling out a small notebook filled with sketches and notes. “Sure! Here’s what I need:” Components and Herbs 

    1 Moonshade Herbs: These rare herbs glow faintly in the moonlight and are found near the edges of the Whispering Woods. They’re used in potions for protection and calming effects. 

    2 Starlight Petals: Delicate flowers that bloom under the starlit sky. They’re often found on higher ground in the woods and are essential for creating charms that ward off danger.

    3 Crystallized Essence: A magical component often found in caves or near old ruins. It has protective properties and can enhance the effectiveness of any items made with it.

    4 Wolf’s Bane: This plant is known for its strong association with protection against dark forces. It can usually be found in the denser parts of the forest. 

    Fizzle looks at you with hope. “If you can gather some of these, it would really help me create something that could protect the people of Rivenhall.”

    ChatGPT said:

    ChatGPT

    Fizzle closes her notebook and gazes at you with a mix of excitement and concern. “I know it might be dangerous, but I trust that you can handle yourself out there. The Whispering Woods can be tricky, but if anyone can do it, it’s you, Kilbrin.”

    Action
    How would you like to respond?

    1. Agree to gather the materials and reassure her that you’ll be careful.
    2. Ask her if she has any protective charms or potions you could take along to help.

    Express concern about the dangers of the Whispering Woods and suggest coming up with a safer plan.
    What’s your next move?

  • D&D & ChatGPT

    I didn’t go into this research simply for the sake of research. As players of D&D know, the hardest part of the age-old game of Dungeons and Dragons isn’t creating your character, the constant math mechanics or roleplaying–it’s finding time that fits into everyone’s schedule to actually play.

    As of writing this, I have only been a part of a few campaigns as either player or a DM. I’ve done one shots, pregenerated stories, homebrews and campaigns–though the campaigns tend to fall apart after only a handful of sessions. I think, in total, I’ve been a part of…I think 7, maybe 8 groups? All of which have fallen apart due to scheduling conflicts.

    We have so much on our plates: work, kids, romantic relationships, family obligations, chores, and other hobbies. There is an endless amount of things that can take our attention. It’s hard to find time to set aside designated time to play make believe with your friends.

    So I had an idea.

    I, personally, have never used ChatGPT before, but, like most people, I had heard of it. ChatGPT and other AI systems are becoming extremely commonplace. I am currently in a Master’s program for literature, and one of the opening…I guess warnings…that you get is one against using ChatGPT to complete your assignments. I’m also on “teacher TikTok”, where I hear about ChatGPT being used constantly on assignments. So I knew that, not only are people using AI for writing, but that they’re using writing in creative spaces.

    (Which is both interesting and terrifying, depending on how you choose to view it.)

    This made me wonder: could AI be used as a Dungeon Master in lieu of a person?

    I did a little digging, and I found this article detailing, not only that it was feasible, but that there was a prompt available for it as well. I wasn’t the only one to think of it, and someone was kind enough to share their discovery as well! I was so excited. So I signed up for ChatGPT and started to play.

    (Character was built on D&DBeyond using only what is available on that platform for free.)

    Character:

    Name: Kilbrin Augury (he/him)
    Race: Human
    Class: Fighter
    Background: Noble
    Level: 1

    I figured a martial class would be the easiest to experiment with, because I didn’t know the capabilities of what AI could or couldn’t handle. I wanted to play the most stereotypical D&D character that I possibly could to make it as easy as possible on the AI. (And as a Paladin/Cleric main, I’ve never had the chance to do something that didn’t involve healing. I love my Warlocks and Barbarians, but as a forever support class, let’s normalize picking up a healing spell or two.) But as far as I know…Fighters can’t really do all that much sans stab and run. So my working theory was this might be a true neutral character to play with from a research perspective.

    I didn’t think to start journaling my research and findings until I’d already gotten a decent amount of the way through the first arc of the story. As of writing this, Kilbrin is currently a level three fighter (2)/druid (1) multiclass. I think I’ve played…maybe 10 hours in total? I have to say, so far…I’m impressed. Let’s discuss the limitations and strengths.

    (I recorded all of the playthrough and will add more as I go along; check out the “GPT” tab to see the original manuscript.)

    Limitations:

    1. I have to remind the AI once or twice per session to let me roll my own dice.
    2. Characters know things that they have no business knowing.
    3. The AI struggles to keep up combat scenarios with multiple combatants.
    4. Sometimes the AI forgets the name of people or shops.
    5. I have experience playing D&D, so I’m able to prompt for dice rolls, but if another player had less experience with rules, it would definitely affect the gameplay.

    Strengths:

    1. We’re playing D&D!
    2. The AI has a depth of story knowledge and is able to pull from that data to create fun and engaging scenarios.
    3. The AI has knowledge of different D&D species as well, so the NPCs are fairly diverse.
    4. Sometimes the little blips in knowledge in the AI’s execution actually adds another element to the story.

    I’m sure as I continue playing that there will be more findings, but as of right now I’m incredibly impressed. Check out the other tabs if you’re also curious about gameplay!

    May your 20s be natural and your 1s be few,

    Sage