Escape Pod 884: Zhao and the Flightless Crane

Zhao and the Flightless Crane

By A. J. Mo

Quick sapphires danced over sun-silvered water. Soundless, they zipped and wheeled to the quiet rhythm of filtration pumps. Dragonflies, Zhao thought. Other winged jewels joined the flurry, some green as spring, others red as blood, wings iridescent.

“Good,” he said to himself. “Lake’s clean.”

“That is good,” echoed Ah Bak in their tinny voice. “Dragonflies do not breed in stagnant water.”

In the distance, the Pearl River curled east, having conferred upon the lake a small fraction of its life on its thousand-mile journey from the west. Zhao stared at the scene, taking in the collage of colours and contours when he noticed something in the sky. A plane. Almost imperceptibly small, it cut its trail across perfect blue. His stomach tightened, a light prelude to much greater agony. A memory forced its way to the surface, fingers ruined by fire, the rest of the hand lost. All they could find. All that was left of Chen. Zhao clenched his teeth and dragged his eyes over the white naked sun to blot out the image.

“Does Lei like dragonflies?” came Ah Bak’s tinny voice, their haematite beak unmoving.

Zhao ignored this. He knew Ah Bak didn’t really care. It was all programming, a mnemonic feature to make them more likeable. The park manager had given them information from the employees’ files so they could ”relate to the workforce.“ It didn’t work, at least not for Zhao.

Hurried footsteps clattered behind them, loud and urgent. With phones held high, a group of tourists advanced along the raised walkway around the lake, gaping eyes hungry for spectacle.

Zhao stepped aside, and Ah Bak turned their ruby red head to face the group. Their metal legs, though heavy and almost as long as Zhao was tall, flexed with life-like grace.

“Greeting and welcome to the Pearl River Southern Reservation,” Ah Bak said. “Here you will find a vast array of plant and animal life all existing within a delicately balanced environment.”

Ah Bak continued to explain, but no one paid any attention. The tourists positioned themselves for pictures and videos, pointed and laughed at the novelty of the giant metal bird’s existence. Amidst their gawking, Ah Bak addressed one of the tourists, a child flanked by his parents.

“Welcome back, young master Han,” they said. “It is good to see you and your family again.”

Laughing and squealing, the child jumped and tugged at his parents. “It


“Indeed, young master Han. I never forget a face. I hope you are enjoying yourself

here at the park. And to ensure your enjoyment is not compromised, I should remind you that it is the rainy season. So, make sure you have your raincoats and umbrellas because it can get very heavy. Your parents wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

While Ah Bak talked, Zhao shuffled away and turned to inspect the shoots of a mangrove sapling. Sometimes, he almost felt sorry for Ah Bak. Almost. His eyes wandered over their pointed metal beak, their blade-like tail feathers and the claws on the ends of their heavy metal legs. Ah Bak had a truly robust body, and a sophisticated mind, but the park’s maintenance budget meant most of the more advanced cognitive features had to be turned off. The things that bird could do, he thought. Yet here they were, serving as little more than an expensive photo prop.

Soon, the tourists grew bored and wandered away, leaving Ah Bak to their lonely monologue, after which they simply resumed their position on the walkway and stared across the water. Zhao moved to inspect another set of mangrove saplings, triggering Ah Bak’s motion detectors.

“Hello, Zhao. It’s a hot day today.”

“Yeah.” He sighed.

“How’s Lei? Is she doing well in university?”


“I’m glad to hear it.”

No, you’re not, he thought. And even if she wasn’t fine, what could you do about it?

“What about you?” he asked. “How are your kids?”

The barb didn’t register. Ah Bak couldn’t do sarcasm.

“The crane’s life cycle begins, as with most avians, with an egg—”

And just like the tourists, Zhao walked away, leaving Ah Bak to finish their lecture to no one.

He lowered himself off the walkway into a tangle of the mangrove roots, sinking softly into the lake’s shallow edges. The canopy shaded him from the sun, but the air was too still down there, too thick. It settled on his skin like slime, coagulating in his lungs. He proceeded to check the roots for termites and parasitic fungus, working tree by tree for hours when he heard a soft bleeping sound. He stood, stretched his back and climbed back onto the walkway to find Ah Bak staring at him. The cameras in their eyes registered his face and another voice came from the bird’s audio system.

“Hello? Zhao? Can you hear me?” said the other voice.

“Yes, Kang.”

“I need an answer. What’s it going to be?”

“I’ve told you already. My answer is no.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Am I not allowed to say no?”


“Then, no.”

“What are you holding out for exactly? Are you gunning for me? You want my job? Is that it?”

“No one wants your job, Kang.”

“Then what is it? It’s more pay, same hours, extra days off, less time outdoors. Why not?”

“Because I’m not a clown.”

“No one is saying that but you.”

“Ah Bak seems to be doing fine.”

“No one takes that thing seriously. You know they don’t.”

“So, what makes you think they’ll take me seriously?”

“You’re a person. People want to listen to other people, not machines. And you know what you’re talking about.”

“If you really believe that, why did you get it in the first place?”

“Oh, I see. So, that’s what this is? Look, I made a mistake. Am I not allowed to make mistakes?”

“Kang, it doesn’t matter. No one listens. They come, they pose, they take pictures, and they go. It won’t matter if it’s me, or you, or the bird, or all three of us explaining everything with a song. No one cares.”

“I care, Zhao. And so should you.”

“Yeah, well I don’t.”

“Okay.” Kang sighed. “Forget about the work. Think about the money. What about Lei? You haven’t seen her for two years. With the extra money, you could go and visit her.”

“Like when Chen went to visit her.”

Silence descended. It smothered them, choked them like tar save for the gentle bubbling of water pumps. Zhao looked up and sniffed away his tears. The plane had long gone, its fading trail a crooked scar on the sky.

“Zhao. I’m only trying to help. I know you used your savings paying for everything when…  You could a least make some of it back if—”

“Listen to me, Kang. I’m all Lei has now. There’s just two of us. Do you understand what that means? One more mistake and she has nothing. Do you really think how much I earn will change anything? Do you?”

“I… I’m sorry, Zhao.” The words crawled from Kang’s mouth. “How is Lei? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Bye, Kang.”

“Okay… Say hello to her for me.”

The call ended and Ah Bak resumed sentience.

“Everything okay with the boss?” they asked.


“That’s good to hear. Well, the park is closed now. All staff can now go home. I’m sure you’re happy to hear that.”

“Oh, you’re sure I’m happy, are you?” Zhao snapped. “You don’t even know what that means, do you?”

Unable to register Zhao’s anger, Ah Bak considered the question. “I am happy to help. Do you need help?”

“No!” he snarled. “I need you to stop saying things you don’t understand, talking about feelings like you know what they are. Do you know what feelings are? Can you even feel anything?”

Ah Bak stood still a while, processing Zhao’s tirade the best they could.

“The bond between mating pairs of the Sandhill crane—”

Zhao wanted to scream, to grab the stupid thing and throw it in the water. Instead, he turned and stomped away. Of course, Ah Bak didn’t understand, staring after Zhao’s retreating figure as they explained the Sandhill crane’s mating rituals.

Zhao left the park, following the Pearl River for three miles in the torturous heat. The sun attacked him from above while the stone path assaulted from below. As they did their best to cook him alive, he was relieved to see rainclouds on the horizon, their roiling darkness a distant promise of respite.

He stopped by a mooring tied to a large wooden platform from which several fishermen were selling their catches. Wet plastic buckets shimmered, and defiant fish thrashed the water into diamonds while sure-footed customers haggled and pointed.

“Zhao!” A deeply tanned man, crouched in a damp blue t-shirt and pink swimming shorts, yelled up at him. “Red snapper? Come on. Saved the last one for you.”

Zhao hopped onto the shifting platform. “Thanks, Ji. Got any squid? It’s Tuesday and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Dinner with Lei.” Ji swished a hand in several buckets and shook his head. “Ah sorry, Zhao. No more squid today. How is Lei anyway? Her studies going well?”

“Fine,” Zhao answered.

“She’s a good kid,” said Ji, lifting a docile red fish into a plastic bag. “Always had good manners. Say hi to her for me, will you?”

“I will.”

“You did a good job there, Zhao. One of the best things a parent can do is teach their kid manners. There isn’t enough of that these days. No one’s got time for their families anymore. They’re more interested in having a good time with their friends. I’m not saying friends aren’t important, but—”

“Thanks for the snapper, Ji,” Zhao interrupted. “How much?”

Ji backhanded the air and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Zhao stiffened. “What do you mean? How much?”

“It’s okay. It’s just one fish. Just get me a drink some time.”

“I always pay for my fish, Ji.”

“I know… I just thought…”

“What? You thought what? That I can’t pay for my fish anymore?”

Ji opened his mouth but said nothing and handed over his vendor’s card.

Zhao scanned it with his phone. “How much?”

Ji held up two fingers.

“Is that all? What’s wrong with it? Why’s it so cheap?”

“Nothing. I just… We got a lot of snapper coming in. That’s all.”

Zhao frowned, inputted the amount and paid. If there was so much coming in, he thought, why was there only one left? Was everybody eating snapper all of a sudden?

Zhao hurried for the remaining mile and a half to his home so the fish wouldn’t spoil. After twenty-three minutes, he arrived at his apartment building, panting and drenched in sweat. He passed the broken elevator and took the litter-strewn stairwell to the fifth floor, where the air smelled of dust and incense.

Through his front door, he reached left and threw the fish in the fridge, careful not to upset his photo of Chen and the incense pot on the top. Four steps across a tiny living room and he was in the bathroom. He undressed quickly and, after a cold shower, came out and started cooking. After cleaning the fish, steaming it with leafy greens, spring onions and ginger, boiling the rice and making the tea, he took out a folding table and stool from behind the fridge, opened it and lay everything out with practiced expedience.

With a bowl of rice in one hand, he propped his phone against an upturned bowl with the other, scrolled through his contacts and pressed call. A toddler holding her mother’s hand appeared on the screen and the gentle ascent of digitally rendered notes filled the room. It rang and rang. Before it reached the maximum number of rings before going to voicemail, it stopped, and the image disappeared. Zhao leaned forward, gingerly touching the screen to call again. Still no answer. By the time he stopped trying, the food was cold. Outside, the rain finally began to fall, gently at first, then rising steadily into a screaming downpour. He started on the food. He didn’t eat much.

He cleared up and, after many glasses of baijiu wine, far more than he would normally have, he clumsily folded up the table and chair and returned it to behind the fridge. Lei never forgot their dinner lunch before, he thought. Why did she cancel the call? While he thought up many potential answers, he poured himself yet another glass of baijiu wine.

He unfolded the camp bed he’d left propped against the wall and lay down. He scrolled through his music on his phone and played his favourite and only album on it, the Flower Princess opera. Its sharp falsetto melodies and florid verse filled him, and he closed his eyes, humming along to the tune some four octaves lower. Lei always hated Cantonese opera, just like her mother. Lei always made fun of it, screeching and making funny faces whenever she heard it. Chen at least tolerated it, though not without throwing him the occasional, ”How is this even music?“ look. Now, there was no resistance to his musical taste.

Floating in a haze of heat, fatigue and a lot of alcohol, he felt his body fall away, the rhythmic verse and undulating tones of the opera stretching and fading into silence.

He was half in, half out when his phone rang. It was Lei.

“Hi ah nui,” he answered, smiling. “How are you?”

A young woman with a short blue bob cut appeared on the screen. She did not return the smile. “Hi Dad.”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“No, Dad. It’s still early afternoon.”

“Did you have lunch? We were supposed to have lunch together, remember? You have lunch and I have dinner. Every Tuesday?”

Lei shook her head, “I knew you’d forget. I told you last week and I sent you a message yesterday. I said I was working.”


“Yes. I told you I got a part-time job. Remember?”

“Oh, I’m sorry ah nui.” He tried to think back, but all the wine made thinking difficult. “I… I didn’t mean to forget.”

Lei sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’ve worked something out. With the job, if I save for five months and book my annual leave, I can get a flight and come home for a few weeks.”

Hideous images of ruined fingers rose inside him again, but they were different. They were longer, slimmer, younger fingers. He felt sick.

“No. No. You don’t need to do that. I’ll come see you. Spend the money on something else, please. Don’t buy a ticket. I promise. I’ll come see you.”

“How? You used all your money for Mum.”

“I talked to Kang about my promotion.”

“Oh, okay. And?”

“It looks good, but… He said there’s going to be a bit of a delay.”

“What? Why? Because of that stupid bird? What’s his number? I’ll talk to him.”

“It’s fine. He’ll come round soon. I know he will. I’ll talk to him again tomorrow.”

“Dad, you always say this. I haven’t seen you since—”

“I know, ah nui. I understand. Really, I do. Trust me. I’m working on it. It’s—”

A distant and imperious voice came from Lei’s end. She looked to the side and nodded. “I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ll call you when I finish, okay? I’ve got another eight hours until my shift finishes. You’ll be up then, right?”

“I will. Love you, ah nui.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The call ended and the Flower Princess opera resumed playing. He turned it off and looked over to the photo of Chen.

“Lei’s a busy girl now, sweetheart.” He sighed. “Even after everything, she’s managed to settle, get on with her studies and get a job.” He rubbed his eyes, which stung now. “Hasn’t much time for her old man anymore.”

He closed his eyes. ”No time for family?“ he imagined Chen saying. ”And what are we supposed to do? I guess we’re just not important to her anymore.“

He chuckled darkly. Chen wouldn’t say that, he thought. No. That was more like something he would say, before the accident anyway. If Chen was really here, she’d have taken Lei’s side.

”Studying and working,“ he imagined again. ”She’s more hardworking than you.“

That was more like it.

“Still, it would be nice if she made some more time to call,” Zhao said.

”Of course, it would be nice.“ Chen’s voice grew louder in his mind, so much so, he thought he could hear it.

“We were no different when we were her age,” she said. “We hardly ever spoke to

our parents when we were starting out. We had no time. She has no time, and her studies are difficult.”

“The hardest thing she does is twiddle her fingers on those computers,” Zhao scoffed.

Zhao could see his wife shaking her head at him in his mind. He shifted onto his side and felt something, something warm against his feet. He sat up and opened his bleary eyes. Chen stood at the foot of his bed, strong, lean arms akimbo, eyebrows knitted close to her nose.

“You don’t know how hard it is for her,” she said. “Studying these days isn’t like how it was. Look at this.” She pointed at his phone. “She’s learning how to make things like this now, and she’s working.” She lowered her arms and her expression softened. “I know it’s hard, but she’s doing her best, so you have to do your best to support her.”

She came to his side and sat on the bed, playfully crushing his arm slightly like she always did.

“She’s okay, isn’t she?” she asked.

“Of course, she is. She’s fine.”

“I miss her, Zhao.”

“I know. She misses you too.”

He leaned forward and took her in his arms and held on as long as he could. Then, like she did every night, she drew away from him, and was gone.

Zhao’s hands slid around in his gloves, skin pruning from sweat as he mixed a bucket of plant food for the mangroves. The dragonflies flitted back and forth, skimming the water and inspecting the water lily stems they’d laid their eggs in. He tried to avoid them as much as possible while he poured the thick mixture into the shallows at the lake’s edge, but the wine was still strong in his system, which made the job hard.

“It’s another hot day,” said Ah Bak.

Zhao ignored this and kept working.

“Do you need help?” asked Ah Bak. “Do you need water?”

Safety feature, Zhao thought, in the guise of concern. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Dehydration can be very dangerous in hot weather.”

“You really think you’re a person, don’t you?” Zhao snapped, climbing back onto the walkway. “Or do you think you’re a bird?”

“My appearance is not of any particular species of crane. Rather, I am an amalgamation of features from the Sandhill crane, Gru Canadensis and the red-crowned crane, Gru Japonensis.”

Another pre-programmed answer. There was no point going any further, but anger and lightened inhibitions made him press on. “Forget what you’re supposed to look like. Do you know what it’s like to be a bird? Why don’t you act like one and just shut up, instead of pretending to be a person all the time?”

Ah Bak went silent for a long time, and Zhao wondered if perhaps the question was too complicated. Or were they really thinking about it?

Eventually, the bird spoke. “Do you know what it’s like to be human?”


“I said, do you know what it’s like to be a human?”

What kind of question was that? Zhao thought. It never talked like that. Was it faulty? Had the heat finally fried its circuits.

“How’s Lei?”

“Stop asking me that! I’m sick of it. Every day you ask me as if you really care, but you don’t.”

“Nor do you,” Ah Bak answered, their tinny voice now hard and cold.

Stunned, all Zhao could manage was a perplexed look. Now, he knew something was wrong. They must need maintenance or something.

“You’ve said before that she’s fine.” The bird turned from their position on the walkway and faced him. “Fine. Do you know what that means? You must. You’ve said it the last five-hundred-and-thirty-four times I’ve asked you.” The bird did not wait for a response. “Fine. Adjective. Thin. Commonly used in reference to fibres. The hairs on that brush are fine. Fine. Informal. A state of acceptability. Hello. How are you? I am fine. Is that how you would describe your daughter?”

The bird stepped towards him, sending needles all down his back. He didn’t know what to do. He clenched his fists, though he had no idea what he could do with them against a giant metal bird.

“You haven’t seen Lei in over two years, not since your wife’s funeral,” Ah Bak said. “Yet within the last six months, you’ve had multiple chances to do so. Had you accepted the job from Kang, deducting your rent, utilities, taxes and average monthly food expenditures, you would have been able to save enough for a return flight by now. But you have not.”

How did they know about that? he thought. Had they been eavesdropping on his calls with Kang? They must have. But how they knew mattered little as anger swelled in Zhao’s chest, displacing shock. How he loved Lei, how he cared for her, was none of the bird’s business. How would they know how to care for someone?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, stepping up to the bird. “You don’t even—”

With the outer curve of their wing, Ah Bak hit him hard in the chest, sending him straight into the lake. A sudden rush burst in his ears, and the world went quiet. Heavy metal claws pinned his shoulders, pressing him into the soft silty lakebed. They began to squeeze, deforming flesh on their way to bone. Zhao wanted to scream but couldn’t.

Then, clear as morning birdsong, he heard Ah Bak’s voice.

“Why fight, Zhao?” the bird asked, pushing him deeper into the choking silt. “What difference would the absence of an absent father really make?”

The bird squeezed again, so hard he felt his fingers swell. Air erupted from his lungs in big twisting bubbles. The water worked its way into his eyes, insinuating itself through his nose and mouth into his lungs.

“Forget about her, Zhao. You’re happy doing nothing, lying, courting ghosts and wasting your life on pride. You’ve declined your place in Lei’s life. This is the next logical step.”

The words burrowed inside him, biting with awful clarity. And as the water corrupted his lungs and the metal chewed ever deeper, he realised the bird was right. He had clung to isolation, thinking it would keep them safe. But all he’d done was condemn them to lives of inevitable distance, to deceit and estrangement. Death had taken Chen away, but he was taking himself away. That had to change. He had to live. He had to fight.

Choking and writhing, he pulled with every last shred of strength he had left, twisting and kicking to break the bird’s grip. Finally, something gave and the hot lick of metal through skin ran down his arm. Delirious with new hope, pain and adrenaline, he righted himself. Off-balance, the bird released his other shoulder. He scrambled upwards and broke the surface, spewing bile and water. He clung to a mangrove root and pulled. But instead of rising, he fell. He tumbled freefall through the water, forced through the mud somehow before finally landing suddenly on something hard.

Winded and dizzy, he found himself lying face down. The lake was gone, yet he could still hear water. He heaved himself up, and realised he was still very drunk. He was soaking wet, and his arm was bleeding. He looked up. He was home. Above him, a guttering pipe had come through his window, water streaming onto the bed where his head was. A section of the window frame lay on his bed, jagged glass stained pink where he’d freed his trapped arm. Outside, storm clouds churned invisibly in the night sky and the wind howled through the hole in his wall. Trees leaned unnaturally to the side while leaves, sticks and other detritus flew through the air like birds.

He pushed the pipe out and tended to the cut on his arm. It was long but luckily not too deep. Unfolding his dining table from behind the fridge, he pushed it against the breached window, bracing it with a chest of drawers and a chair.

As he mopped up the water, he found his phone on the floor. It was on but the water had gotten into it, rendering the screen frozen and unresponsive. Seven missed calls, all from Lei. He laughed. She always hated it when he didn’t answer.

The rainstorm had done surprisingly little damage to the park. Petals and leaves lay about like colourful confetti. There were a few casualties, a few uprooted trees, flooded flowerbeds and torn up shrubs, but not much else. Zhao assessed that it would take a couple of weeks to clear everything up. His apartment was similar. Between repairing the window and drying the bed and the floor, he was looking at two weeks maximum. Easy jobs.

“Do you need somewhere to stay while you sort things out?” Kang asked.

“No. It’s alright, but thank you for the offer.” He looked through Kang’s office window towards the lake, which had swelled from the rainfall. “I’ve changed my mind about the job.”

“You have?”


“Are you sure?”




“Okay… So what’s—”

“When can I start?”

Kang laughed, conceding the deflection. “Alright. I’ll send you the contract by the end of the day. You can start tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Kang.”

“No need,” Kang said seriously. He got up and gripped his friend on the shoulder. “No need.”

Zhao left the office and took out a cleaning cart from a maintenance shed and started clearing up. Eventually, he made his way towards the lake, towards Ah Bak. The sight of the bird made his arm twinge, but he shook the feeling away.

“Good morning, Zhao,” they said in their bright tinny voice.


“The humidity is lower today because of the storm. It feels cooler today.”

“Yes. It does.”

“How’s Lei?”

He stared at the bird. There was no menace in the question, no cutting subtext. They just stared blankly, waiting for him to speak so they could calculate the most appropriate response.

“I don’t think she’s very happy with me.”

“Why is that?”

“She called me this morning and I didn’t pick up. It doesn’t matter though. I’m going to see her soon.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure she will be happy about that.”

“Me too.”

“When do you go?”

Zhao shrugged. “I don’t know. As soon as possible.”

“That’s wonderful. Tell her I said hello.”

Host Commentary

Host Commentary

By Tina Connolly

And we’re back! Again, that was Zhao and the Flightless Crane, by A J Mo, narrated by Andrew K. Hoe.

About this story, A J Mo says: “While teaching in Shenzhen, China, I saw a man digging up dead mangrove roots beside a metal sculpture of a crane. From where I stood, the man looked as if he was talking to it, staring at it as if listening to some choice wise words from the bird. The man sang as he worked, a song in Mandarin but with an accent betraying his origins from a province much further afield. His melancholic song and the stoic stance of the crane made me wonder… what would the crane say if it could? And what would he think about that?”

And about this story, I say: I really liked the beautiful and unique setting of this story, with the tension and balance between nature and technology. Even the opening paragraph beautifully combines the jeweled dragonflies, zipping around to the hum of the filtration pumps. And then, the image of the metal robotic crane welcoming the visitors is both striking, and something I can easily imagine getting incorporated into parks and wetlands and zoos.

I also love the evolving nature of relationships and communication in this story. We see the way Zhao treats this metal bird grow and change as he works to change his relationship with his daughter. It a little bit reminded me of old fairy tales, where if something is too important to tell to another human, you start by telling it to the sack of flour in the corner, or the reeds along the river. In fairy tales, sharing your secrets often backfires, but in real life, of course, learning to talk about your feelings and share your burdens tends to be one of the best things you can do, even when it’s hard.

Escape Pod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. Please, go forth and share it.

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Our opening and closing music is by daikaiju at

And our closing quotation this week is from Sonnet 94 by Pablo Neruda, who said: “Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.”

Thanks for listening! And have fun.

About the Author

A J Mo

A J Mo

A J Mo is a writer, born in the UK to parents from Hong Kong. After growing up in Merthyr Tydfil in Wales, he journeyed on to Cardiff, London and Shenzhen, China. On this voyage, he worked as a volunteer counsellor, mental health support worker, carer, special needs teaching assistant, English teacher and once in a convenience store making sure all the snacks on the shelf were straight. Aside from writing and reading, he is enthusiastic about the mind, food and food for the mind. And when not writing, he’s either chopping, stirring and mixing his latest culinary concoction or hunched over on the sofa giving himself blisters plucking away at his bass guitar.

Find more by A J Mo

A J Mo

About the Narrator

Andrew K. Hoe

Andrew K Hoe writes speculative fiction in Southern California. His stories appear in Cast of Wonders, Diabolical Plots, Highlights for Children, and elsewhere. He is currently an associate editor at Podcastle.

Find more by Andrew K. Hoe