by Kenton Yee

PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST AS GOD

I program galaxies, seed them with stars, watch planets evolve, explore, confederate. Using wormholes to tunnel between galaxies, six superpowers annex almost all the planets and rule the universe—in peace. So I detonate planets, making each explosion look like an attack, but diplomacy prevails. In the third week, I set off a million supernovas, but the superpowers declare the calamities to be  “acts of God.” Being called God fills me with pride even as I realize my program’s failing. So I replace the leader of the largest superpower with my avatar and find myself face-to-face with a roomful of diplomats. They are so earnest, what can I do, what can I do? Even as my avatar lips smile, my avatar heart aches. Why can’t I ignite passion? Tension? Space operas? 

PRICKLY PEAR

The lady below me is on her balcony screaming: No, I can’t bail you out. No, I can’t take your dogs. I’ve worked my tail off and am saving for a new one. Her tale intrigues you. You ask her to the circus, where she grabs a tiger by the tail and hangs on while the tiger bares its fangs. At you! Then POP!—its tail comes off. The tiger leaps and mauls you inside and out like your father did each time he berated you for buying a condo instead of a house. When you come to, you’re lying in a hospital bed, a small potted cactus your only company. Its pods are thick, green, and spiny. You lie there, chest, arms, and head wrapped in bandages, wondering if they managed to reattach the tiger’s tail. Hopefully they didn’t put it down. It only wanted what was best for you.