The Dart Frog

Sitting in a brume of solder smoke at the attic work table, Richard squints over the Swirl. His plaque-whitened tongue protrudes from clenched teeth. Through the microscope lens flipped down on his goggles, he selects a final red dwarf to fasten in place. One millimeter’s mistake and there goes the neighborhood.

Success. Praise Belial.

Richard exhales for the first time in several minutes, his lungs steamed by regular exercise with sulfur salts and bleach fumes, leathered and trained for Lawful Work. He leans back. “Alexa, what day is it?”

“Today is Tuesday, January second,” a chipper Alexa says. Richard curses. Annie arrives home from vacation today. And, his sick leave expires in the morning. He’ll go back to the lab tomorrow afternoon.

He registers hunger. When did he last eat? Friday?

Tomorrow, if Dr. Taneja has finished his calculations–some nonsense about heavy water and abiotics–he might be nose unstuck enough from his computer screen to notice Richard’s bloodshot, dark-rimmed eyes. But with a robot like Taneja, how could you tell?

The Dart Frog knocking at your door’s how, genius.

Annie will notice.

First thing through the door, she’ll roll her eyes at his burst capillaries. “Playing video games?” He’s delayed the optometrist for months. Some sort of light sensitivity. Started with the goddamn computer screens in the lab. His free time too precious for hours in waiting rooms, the Price is Right on endless loop. But not precious in some selfish, mortal sense. Precious for Law. For Debt and Law he thanks Belial, the Justice, Richard bites his lip to taste blood and prove his thanks.

Downstairs to the dishes. “Honey Do” lists. Chores unending, like he’s a child.

Richard sets the solder back on its corner of the table, on the square labeled “2” in a grid of teal chalk. A blue tic-tac-toe board etched and blessed and anointed with droplets of event horizon.

Toys in place and the Swirl stays safe.

He stands from his stool and steps backward through the barrier wafting off his magic square like the breath on the neck of a lover. He admires the Swirl, a luminescent disc hovering inches above the table, pulsing light golden as the juice of Eve’s apple.

He closes the attic door and kisses it rest. Hums the song of Belial, one of many, the hymn “Solitude.”

He nurtured the decline of his and Annie’s intimacy until she lost interest in his hobbies. She never asks what he’s doing upstairs. Richard checks his phones. Two hours before her plane lands. He unloads the washer; has no idea where half the dishes go.

The Swirl is ready, the detonator complete, praise Belial, but the wiring within its case needs securing.

Wait—it’s already January? Taneja will order a fresh count of uranium, plutonium, and lead. The swirl’s delivery must be ready. Richard will finish tonight after Annie’s dozed–

Idiot! You left the case in square 8.

Distracted, Richard forgot to return the case to its place on the table. He pictures the case, a steel box the size of a peanut butter sandwich, left sitting in the wrong square, disrupting the magic and slowly degrading the barrier. Say a strong wind was to nudge the attic tonight. There go the neighborhoods.

Either check now or forget enduring Annie’s recount of whatever it was, visiting someone? Her sister or some friend. Some chattering woman’s face. Richard “uh-huh-ing” and grunting in the proper places. Anne yapping on; Richard wishing to slip back upstairs.

He crumples the “Honey Do” and shoves it deep in the trash. Forget fucking: “Please swiffer the hall.” He’ll say he lost it. She’ll be angry. She’ll be angry and say he did his chores badly regardless.

At the attic door, he mutters the counterspell and eases it open. He gags at the sight of the case. It straddles squares 7 and 8, draped by the iodine rag. Fingers trembling, he settles each onto their proper place: case on 7, rag on 8.

Toys in place.

Back through the barrier he steps, it’s thrum like the low E note of Apollo's lyre, so gorgeous it waters his eyes. He freezes. Some racket downstairs. The broken doorbell clicking. Instead of a chime, the foolish thing tocks. Visitors, thrown, typically press four, five times.

Annie, locked out?

Richard gives his square a last, long look, takes a mental snap shot, snaps his fingers three times–a magic number–to help solidify the memory of each object in its place. Glides down the stairs, calling, “Hello? Who–” and is met by purple smoke billowing through the keyhole.

The Dart Frog.

Richard turns. Runs for the stairs.

If he activates the Swirl, at least he’ll take this motherfucker with him, nevermind the delivery, nevermind Law, nevermind Belial.

Richard always thought–or hoped–the Dart Frog was a myth. Maybe some kind of software to alert the police. A tall silhouette at the glass paneled door suggests otherwise. Richard trips on the stairs and stumbles. The purple smoke has risen to the foyer ceiling, continues to puff in, the window light is filtered through clover haze.

Coughing, Richard scrambles up the stairs. His chest burns. Neck chords. He throws open the attic door and dives through the pop of the barrier’s breaking. Blind, eyes raisined, routine guides his fingers to the Swirl. He grips the disc and hurls. The Swirl explodes against the wall. Richard’s swallowed by the ionic gasp of countless suns, a temperature to ignite an infinite chain.

There goes the universe.

***

Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear in JMWW, Flash Frog, HAD, Bending Genres, and other places. He enjoys theater, dogs, and theatrical dogs.