A wasp made a nest outside my bedroom window. I imagine the architect as sleek and svelte, her carapace like a slinky gown. I can only think to describe her eyes as “a bulging squint.” She kept her home small, but to me, it remains ominous hanging in the corner of the sash.
I can’t decide if it’s a threat or a protective talisman.
I’ve gone so far as to open the window a few times while making my bed—a habit of mine most mornings at this time of the year. Nothing comes of it. No wasp emerges. I keep wiggling at the nest, and I think, maybe today is the day I learn my lesson.
Go ahead, I will the universe, drop the other shoe. After all, that’s what we’ve all been saying these days. The other shoe—I’ve been missing it, I’m sure. I thought I packed it with the rest back in 2021 when we moved houses thinking further into the country would give us room to breathe.
Yet, I still long for a change in the air.
The coming change of seasons isn’t enough. I need an angry, buzzing guardian of the Earth to usher us all into a new era when accounts are tallied and consequences are handed out. So, I keep shaking the nest, opening my window to trouble.
Clearly, I’m ready to do drastic things as I continue to await the reckoning.
In this month’s issue, what-we-hath-wrought is readily apparent in the ecofiction, “An Obituary of Birdsong” by Tehnuka, and in the political sentiment of Annie ZH Sun’s “The Right Hand of Justice.” Both of these will be released on our website in the run-up to the launch of our resistance-themed anthology mid-June.
We’ve also gathered stories of personal reckoning like “For the Birds” by Sarah Gane Burton, in which the main character must make peace with aging.
We even have some echoes of the “regret” theme we explored in January. For example, our opener “FLEKKE” by Joshua Jones Lofflin takes a look at how infidelity shapes the main character’s life.
But, as in Christine Hanolsy’s story, “Festival,” we wanted to go beyond regrets to promises and wishes.
Last week, when I opened my window, a wasp did come in. To my surprise, she wasn’t angry. She didn’t fly at my face or even zip about frantically. She seemed curious. She practically danced along the sill, then landed on my curtains, rubbing her bony paws as if appreciating their satiny texture.
A protective talisman, I think.
I caught her in the cave of my shoe and sent her away to terrorize those that deserve it.
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Ⓒ Rebecca Halsey