---

Fulfillment in Purpose

by Jack Windeyer

Eland was resetting his mother’s balancing sculptures when Hexben ran in from the storage room. The robot tilted its long head down while still making eye contact, managing a look of consternation despite its rigid, expressionless face.

“What?” Eland snapped.

“You should be packing those into boxes,” Hexben said without inflection. “Our lease ends next week.”

“Exactly,” Eland said. “It doesn’t end today.”

Hexben deepened the tilt of its head so far that its chin touched its chest in a spot where the paint was well-worn away.

“One big sale could change everything,” Eland said, looking back at his work. “We could renew the lease for six months with a single sale.”

Apparently satisfied with that response, Hexben returned to the storage room.

Carefully, Eland stacked the thin wooden rods one on top of the other, following the notches his mother had carved, each notch designed to match only one other—“a kiss between sticks,” she’d called it.

Once he’d used all the sticks, he was left with a one-meter-high stack on which he began to hang delicate glass ornaments in a carefully orchestrated pattern—the same pattern he’d followed daily for three years. An obsession born of grief and repetition had burned the pattern into his mind.

He was placing the final ornament when the front door to the shop opened, letting in a gust of wind. Eland grasped the structure to give it support against the blast, but he pushed too hard and the entire thing toppled down to the table. The sturdy ornaments bounced, didn’t break, but that didn’t stop a fury from rising in Eland as he looked toward the door.

“Hexben! I told you never to open that door when I’m in the middle—”

It wasn’t Hexben.

In the doorway stood a figure draped in a heavy shawl with a rebreather masking its face.

Tourists, thought Eland, so frightened by the silt outside that they would purchase anything branded as safety gear, no matter the markup.

The automatic disdain passed, allowing Eland to understand what he was seeing: a tourist. In his mother’s gallery. A customer.

“Hello!” he said with a broad smile on his face. The figure turned toward him and mumbled into its rebreather.

“No silt in here,” Eland said, motioning to the ground. “Perfectly safe to remove your mask.”

The figure nodded, then took off the mask with some difficulty. A young woman, about Eland’s age if he had to guess, but it would only be a guess; hard to get a read on her under the face paint, which must now be fashionable in the quad-cities. Yellow and orange triangles sharpened her features, glowing against her dark skin and highlighting her auburn eyes.

“How do people down here stand breathing through these things?” she asked in a tone frustrated but friendly.

Eland hadn’t worn one since he was a child, but to spare her some embarrassment he kept that to himself. “You get used to them.”

“I’m Mia.”

“Eland.”

“I’m so sorry for letting the wind in,” she said, looking at the mess in front of Eland. The expression on her face was a kind one. “Will you be able to fix it?”

“No problem, no problem,” he said, trying to keep any hint of frustration from seeping into his tone. “Please, have a look around.”

She smiled and began to walk around the studio, stopping here and there to examine some of the sculptures that hadn’t toppled during her entrance.

Eland tried his best not to betray desperation when he asked, “Are you looking to buy?”

She didn’t turn from her inspections. “Not exactly. I’m a scout for the Intima Gallery on the orbital.”

Eland had been to the local orbital once. The thought of an art gallery opening in one of those tight, sterile corridors was laughable. The place was a travel hub, too small even for the handful of people who transited daily. She took him for a fool—a bumpkin who’d never escaped gravity. But why lie? Was she a prospective tenant of this space, coming to get the dimensions before kicking him out next week?

“I don’t recall there being any galleries on the orbital. Are you sure that’s the story you’re sticking to?”

Now she turned to him, her face registering only a little surprise. “Not that orbital,” she said gently. “The Grand Orbital.”

A wave of embarrassment broke over Eland. The Grand Orbital hadn’t even come to mind. So far out of his reach even for a visit, it seemed like a fictional place. Full of the finest artwork in the system, it was where legendary sculptors and poets and musicians lived and worked together. And here was someone who lived there, standing in his mother’s shop, and he’d insulted her. She was looking at him, waiting for some kind of response; he managed to fill the silence with a hmph sound.

She pointed at a nearby sculpture. “Did you make this?”

Eland cleared his throat. “No, my mother made those. She was an artist, well known in the quad-cities,” he lied.
Mia turned back to the sculpture.

“Shows,” Eland said, becoming flustered as he groped for a way back from his orbital faux pas, “she sold tons at her shows, couldn’t hardly keep up with demand.”

“Hmmm.”

She looked unimpressed. Eland sensed that she was feigning interest, waiting until it was no longer impolite to leave. He was losing her, losing the sale.

He picked up two of the sticks from his pile. “Look, each stick has a notch, well um… several notches, but each one notch only fits with one other stick’s one notch. Like they’re locking lips,” he said, realizing too late how he must look, smooshing two sticks together and claiming they were kissing.

Mia raised an eyebrow and took a half step backward.

Hexben burst in from the storage room, carrying several crates. “It is time to begin packing,” it announced, ignoring the stranger.

“Not… now,” Eland said. “We have a customer.”

Hexben’s face stayed trained on Eland, but its eyes slid over to Mia—one of its more unsettling mannerisms. It opened its arms wide, allowing the crates to drop roughly to the ground. Then it turned and ran back to the storage room.

Eland turned to Mia, certain that she would frantically start to put back on her rebreather. But she didn’t. She giggled, and her posture relaxed.

“Where I’m from, robots don’t run,” she said, composing herself.

“I can’t get it to stop running. It’s a retired messenger droid, designed to cover long distances when communication is blocked by silt storms in Autumn.”

From the storeroom, Eland heard heavy footfalls then the sound of a fragile something shattering into thousands of skittering bits.

“Do not worry,” Hexben called out, “everything I have broken is repairable.”

Mia broke out laughing. “Does it always seem so… happy?”

“That was Mom’s doing. She tinkered away the serious aspects of Hexben’s personality and made it happy. She called the new routine fulfillment in purpose. But she never finished giving it a new purpose before she died, so the more it runs, the happier it is.”

Mia stopped looking after the robot. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

He waved away her pity. “It’s been long enough that it doesn’t hurt,” he lied again.

She glanced back at the storage room door, which Hexben had left open.

“What are those?” she asked.

“The crates?” Eland asked. “Those are to pack away the sculptures. We’re closing down the shop. Not by choice,” he added, hoping that sympathy might still win a sale.

“Not the boxes,” she said, pointing. “What are those sculptures?”

“Oh, that,” Eland said, sighing. “Those aren’t anything. All the real art is out here.”

Mia began walking toward the backroom asking, “Can I take a look?”

Eland followed, unsure what he could say that would steer her back toward his mother’s sculptures.

Inside the stockroom, Hexben was boxing up the sculptures Mia was so interested in: bleached white wood branches twisted together into ropy forms. “Are they all hands?” she asked.

“Mhmm.”

All along the shelves were wooden sculptures of hands. Small and large, reaching or supplicating, paired and alone. Intricate, but not hollow—beneath the first layer of branches were more layers cast in ever-deeper shadow, giving the entire sculpture an otherworldly appearance, as though the hand were emerging from some invisible center point in another dimension of space.

“How did your mother make these?”

“She didn’t,” Eland said. “These are my little hobby projects.”

Mia seemed to notice Eland for the first time, to see him as something other than a backward caricature from an outer planet. She motioned around the room. “These are interesting. Right for an exhibit? Maybe not. But still… interesting.” She put a finger to her chin. “Maybe if it were a live demonstration.” She turned back to him. “What is your process? How do you get these branches to bend and braid like this without breaking?”

“It’s kind of hard to describe.”

“Can you show me?”

“No, these ones are all finished. They need to be sculpted when they are alive. At this point, they’re… what’s the right word? Unresponsive.”

“Could you get a responsive one before tomorrow?”

Hexben stopped packing. “It is too late in the season. We could not risk a harvest.”

“My gallery’s lead curator is in the quad cities at the moment. If I could get her to come here tomorrow morning, do you think you could arrange a demonstration?”

Eland moved to stand between Hexben and Mia. “It’s no problem. Hexben’s being dramatic. Any time tomorrow will work fine.”

Mia smiled. “Okay.” She looked back at the sculptures. “This could work, Eland. This could be an opportunity for you.”

Eland blinked, nodded, and couldn’t think of anything to say before Mia turned back toward the shop entrance. This was his big chance, and all he had to do was sculpt the same way he’d been sculpting since he was a child. Easy.

Or it would have been a week ago.

---

Eland and Hexben left straight away to reach the Grasping Groves before evening. They pressed forward at a quick pace through the open plain, leaving behind swirling patterns in the knee-high silt as they went. A quirk of magnetics yielded the layer of suspended, ferric oxide sand that stretched across most of the planet. It shone a bright red in the sunlight.

Every year, someone in town got too drunk or too careless and fell into the stuff, then instinctively gasped for air and got a lungful of silt instead. Sometimes their body was found, other times their family had to assume.

Beneath the silt, the muddy ground sucked at Eland’s boots gently—not enough to annoy him, but the backs of his knees began to ache by the time they sighted the edge of the grove. Bone-white grasping trees devoid of leaves reached up toward the sky.

Eland stopped. Hexben stopped beside him.

“We need a game plan,” Eland said. “By this time, the grasplings must have fallen from the branches. But I imagine there will be some hangers that I can harvest. Depending on how large those on the ground have grown, we might need to fend them off.”

Hexben didn’t respond.

“Okay fine, by that I mean that you’ll need to fend them off while I harvest.”

Again, Hexben said nothing.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Hexben pointed to its jaw.

“Oh, right.” Eland pulled a screwdriver from his satchel and used it to loosen a bolt at the base of Hexben’s head. He’d forgotten that he’d tightened it halfway through the trip to get some relief from Hexben’s protests.

Hexben’s jaw squeaked as it opened. “This plan is needlessly dangerous.”

“This plan is the only way to save Mom’s shop.”

“You don’t have to save it,” Hexben said.

Eland stared at the robot blankly, unable to fathom a response to a comment so ludicrous.

Hexben continued. “You are a multi-purpose lifeform. Although the shop is your purpose now, you can find a new purpose.”

“You don’t understand,” Eland said, turning away.

“I am single-purpose. You are of greater utility if you choose to be.”

“Stop complaining,” Eland snapped. “Either leave me alone or stay and keep me safe while I harvest.”

Eland began to creep forward through the silt.

Both of them were on high alert as they neared the grove, stopping occasionally to listen for the tell-tale stamping of grasplings, but the grove was eerily quiet. Once they reached the taller trees, they found the reason why.

Surrounding the base of the mature grasping trees, the grasplings stood unmoving, their smooth tops poking a few feet above the silt.

“What are they doing?” Eland asked. He had never been to the groves so late in the season.

“For their final 48 hours in a rootless form, they must expend no energy, conserving it for the pairing.” Hexben patted the exposed top of a nearby graspling. “We are fortunate. The pairing will begin either tonight or tomorrow night, making a harvest impossible.”

Eland shaded his eyes and looked up at the mature trees, scanning them one at a time until he found what he was searching for: an undropped graspling, still wrapped in its pod. Hexben gave him a boost to the branch nearest the ground. He climbed until he reached his target. The seed coat was dry, brittle. He could see the seedling inside clearly, its tentacle-like roots curled around the stumpy beginning of a stalk. It was about half the size of Eland but would be a quarter of his weight.

Eland took a knife from a pouch on his satchel and pressed it to the very top of the pod stalk. The graspling shifted lazily within the dried walls of its seed coat.

Expertly, Eland cut the pod stalk on both ends while supporting the pod with his spare arm. He stowed the stalk in his pack along with the knife, before tossing the pod to where Hexben was waiting below.

On the walk home, Eland looked at Hexben and said, “See. All your worrying was for nothing—easiest harvest ever. And now we have everything we need to save the shop.”

“I am very happy to be wrong,” Hexben said. Eland noticed a shudder run down the length of its metal body, which produced the tell-tale rattle of excitement.

He sighed. “You want to run home, don’t you?”

“The very most.”

“Go for it,” Eland said, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Hexben taking off at a wild sprint, waving one arm for balance while cradling the graspling with the other.

---

It was late afternoon the next day by the time Mia returned to the shop. Eland smiled at her once she’d removed her rebreather, but she kept her face emotionless while she helped her companion with their rebreather. The lead curator was older, taller, and more severe-looking than Mia. The paint on her face was green.

“Hello,” she stretched her arms out and puffed herself up. “My name is Evelyn Margerie, the chief curator of the top gallery in the system.” She paused for a moment, expecting Eland to reply. When he didn’t, she lowered her arms and glanced around the shop then shot Mia a look nearing disgust. “What am I missing?”

“The statues I told you about are in the back,” Mia said, not withering under the curator’s glare.

She turned to Eland and demanded, “Show me.”

He led them to the storeroom where he’d cleared off the central table, placing the just-harvested graspling at the center, where it had shed its pod overnight. Its smooth core rested on the tabletop and its many roots reached toward the ceiling in a tangle.

Hexben was sitting in the corner. Eland had taken the precaution of bolting its mouth closed for the demonstration, but that didn’t stop it from waving happily at Mia, whose professionalism cracked long enough for a quick smile to show before she could recompose herself.

Eland picked up a thin piece of wood and held it up.

“This stalk once connected the graspling’s pod to its mother tree.”

He waved the branch high over the graspling, which sprang to life. All of its roots reached up toward the stalk. “I call it a guider.”

Both women leaned forward in their chairs as he flicked the guider over one side of the graspling. A dozen roots, previously frozen upwards, peeled away from the group and reached for his hand. He repeated the process five times, creating the beginnings of fingers. It looked, in rough form, like all the reaching hand sculptures that populated the shelves surrounding them. “In this way, I can slowly bend and twist them into any shape at all.” He plunged the guider into the graspling’s palm and its fingers snapped closed.

He heard both women gasp, then he played a mock tug of war with the plant before wrenching the stick free.

“Are… are they dangerous? Those ones?” Evelyn asked, pointing at the finished sculptures.

“No, they dry out after a few days. Each of the finished sculptures is entirely inert. Would you like to—”

“I’ll take them all,” Evelyn said. “The entire collection.”

Eland felt his breath catch. Through great effort, he calmed his nerves. “That would cost a significant amount.”

“Rest assured, if the museum’s pockets are deep enough to purchase original Granelian Orbs, they are deep enough for grasping trees.” She pulled a small bag from her coat pocket and handed it to him. He opened it. Inside were enough nebulae tokens to secure his lease on the shop for several months. More than that: he was now a paid artist—like Mom. Eland couldn’t help but grin.

“We’ll come back to fetch them tomorrow morning,” the curator said to Mia, then she looked around at her sculptures. “Yes. These will make an excellent addition to our outer planets exhibit in the minor hall.” She sighed. “It’s a shame—they are nearly of the caliber to reach the main exhibit, maybe even the permanent collection. But they lack size. Immensity is in vogue right now, unfortunately for you.”

She turned to walk away. A thought struck Eland, and without thinking it through, he shouted after her, “I can do them bigger. Much bigger.”

This caused her to stop and look back at him. “If you can prove that tomorrow morning, then you might just earn yourself a proportionately ‘much bigger’ bag of tokens and… perhaps, a ticket to the Grand Orbital.”

Before Mia left, she grasped Eland’s hands and squeezed them excitedly. “This is a huge opportunity,” she whispered. “She’s never even mentioned an invitation to the orbital to any other artist.”

---

“No,” Hexben said, walking beside Eland through the silt which had deepened to purple in the rays of a setting sun. “This is much too dangerous.”

“I have to do this,” Eland said, not slowing.

“Your mother would not approve.”

“You don’t know what she would or would not approve of.” Eland pressed on.

Hexben jogged ahead, then stopped in Eland’s path, barring his way forward with outstretched arms. “I cannot allow it.”

“Move.”

Hexben stood rooted to the ground.

“Move!” Eland shouted.

“This is not the right way—”

“Command sequence: inner-aspect-three-wilding,” Eland said, using the override command his mother had shared before her death. “Return home and wait for me there.”

Hexben paused a moment before loping off in the direction of the shop.

Eland would have to do this on his own, a thought that frightened him more the closer he got to the grove. He’d never tried to harvest at night.

What if he was too late and all the grasplings had taken root last night? If they were still mobile and he managed to bag one, would it even respond to a guider this long after falling from its mother tree?

He drew as close as he dared to the tree line and peered deeper into the grove, trying to see if he could spot any newer, shorter trees. None.

Then he heard it, the stamping of unburied root legs. As he stared, he could see a large current moving through the silt in the dark. Behind it, another current, chasing the first. The two sped up, looping wide apart before coming back together. Once, twice, three times they met. On the fourth, two large grasplings shot up from the silt high into the air. They collided, roots intertwining in a flash of violence. Once combined at the zenith of their jump, their shared roots pressed down into a point that drove deep into the soil on their return to ground. The upper halves of the two grasplings stood above the silt and wound together, making a scraping sound. The gap between them closed tight. They shuddered, then fell still. Now and forever: a single grasping tree.

Another ripple in the silt fell against Eland’s knees, shaking him from his reverie. It looped around a tree and headed toward him alone. As it passed him, he reached down and felt its smooth top. He took a breath and dove onto it.

This one was larger and heavier than the graspling from yesterday. The cold, sharp particles of silt pricked at his skin while he wrestled the graspling over to get onto his knees and then hoist it up and stand. Free of the silt, Eland could breathe again.

The graspling clung to his chest, writhing slowly. Eland began to walk, holding it above the silt to avoid attracting others. Within ten steps, his arms were tiring. But once clear of the grove he could drag it.

Then a force struck his back and he pitched forward but managed to keep his feet under him. From behind, root ends struck forward, reaching. Eland tried to throw the one he held, but too many roots had already connected. They squeezed and shifted to his left side.

He fell into the silt. The constricting pair of root systems began to crush his ribs. Every bit of Eland wanted to scream, but that would only create an opening for the silt to rush into.

He tried to roll and failed; tried to free an arm, failed. Using the last of his energy, he made an explosive effort to stand, but the grasplings were too heavy and he only sagged into the mud.

In the darkness, panic. The silt flakes cut at the soft skin of his nostrils, eyelids, and lips. Behind that sharp pain, exhaustion grew and gave rise to a feeling of acceptance. Then panic at what was being accepted.

Eland thrashed. More pain. More exhaustion, acceptance, panic. The more his chest ached for breath, the faster this loop of agony spun until his mind grew fuzzy and only exhaustion remained.

He opened his eyes, felt no pain at the inrush of iron oxide against his sclerae, and saw his mother, smiling, speaking of—

A sudden force wrenched him and his captors up and out of the silt: Hexben, who pried the two juvenile trees from Eland and threw them to the ground with such force that the silt receded in waves, leaving them visible as they ran off by flinging their many root legs in a kind of windmill motion.

Eland coughed. He clutched his chest and curled into Hexben’s arms, unable to speak for much of being carried home.
Finally, after much coughing, he was able to ask, “How? I used the override commands.”

“There are no override commands,” Hexben said. “Your mother told me that if I ever heard those words, I had to protect you more vigilantly but more secretly.”

Being held by Hexben and still protected by his mother, Eland felt like a child.

“I can walk now,” he said, squirming to be released.

They traveled the rest of the way in silence except for the occasional murmur from Eland as he discovered some new source of pain.

It wasn’t until they were back in the light of the storeroom that Eland noticed there was something wrong with one of Hexben’s arms. It bent inward at the midpoint of the forearm where the metal was twisted violently.

He pointed. “From the grasplings?”

“Yes.”

Eland found a wrench and attempted to pry the arm back into alignment, but he lacked the strength. Hexben took over with its good arm and applied a sharp force to the wrench, which bent before it had any effect whatsoever on the injured arm.

“Hold on, I have an idea,” Eland said, grabbing the demonstration sculpture from the table along with the guider. “If a graspling can break it, then a graspling can repair it.”

He held the sculpture against Hexben’s arm, then used the guider to weave a portion of the graspling’s roots tightly around the wrist. The rest of the roots, he wound around the elbow. Then he had Hexben clamp his hand to the table and worked the guider slowly into a straighter position, bending the metal forearm back into a straighter position. But the metal must have become brittle during the accident and the strain became too much. A thousand hairline fractures appeared as it began to lose integrity.

Quickly, Eland plucked roots one at a time using the guider and wound them around the broken section until the entire forearm was braced by the white wood tendrils.

“That should be set by morning,” Eland said. “It’ll work until we find a metal-worker who can fashion a new arm.” Then he went to tend to his own wounds, which stung far less than the shame of failure.

---

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” said Evelyn the following morning. “Only top-tier artists can change their process at the drop of a hat and still create art.” Here she raised a hand and fluttered her fingers, signaling (it seemed) that the conversation was superfluous and finished. “Now, can your robot please help with loading those statuettes I already purchased?”

“He’s out,” Eland said, speaking softly so as not to stretch the cuts at the sides of his mouth.

“Can’t you recall him?”

By way of an answer, Eland took a controller out of his pocket and keyed in a code.

Mia looked concerned by the sight of Eland’s swollen eyes and his limping. But she said nothing.

Before long, they could hear Hexben’s steady tromping which grew louder as it approached, then it burst through the front door.

“Any luck?” Eland asked.

“The metal-worker is unable to accommodate us at present. Her schedule is full.”

“Damn,” said Eland. “Do you think your arm can handle carrying the statues to Evelyn’s transport?”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” said Hexben, who began to run toward the back.

“Stop!” commanded Evelyn.

Hexben complied.

“What is that on your arm?”

“Eland repaired me after I rescued him from two juvenile trees attempting to mate with him.”

Eland shushed Hexben. “A temporary repair, but it should hold for the task.”

Evelyn walked over to the robot and lifted its broken arm. “You used your wand to wrap this robot’s arm. It’s… a whole new form of art.” She turned to Mia. “I’ve had an inspiration! Instead of an exhibit, what if this were a show?”

“A live performance?” Mia asked.

“Yes, of course we’ll have to get a residence permit for him,” she nodded toward Eland. “But I think this could be a major draw.”

“Exciting,” said Mia, winking discreetly at Eland.

Evelyn put a hand up, palm out. She closed her eyes. “I can see it now: a dark stage. This robot enters from the left under the spotlight. It mimes some industrial work and experiences an injury, no—multiple injuries. Its arm breaks, and its leg. Maybe even its head falls off. (We can magnetize those sections to break them at will.) Then the boy rushes in with his wand and baby trees and repairs the robot in front of the crowd. A kind of dramatized demonstration.”

Eland stifled his excitement at the prospect. Giving in to thoughts of practicality.

“That won’t work,” he said. “The groundlings aren’t pliable unless they are freshly harvested.”

Evelyn flashed him a look of annoyance. “No matter, no matter. We’ll devise some kind of nano-bot-infused putty that looks a little like the trees. No one on the orbital has seen them. And they wouldn’t really care if they had.”

“Is there room to run?” Hexben asked.

Evelyn looked as though her dinner had started speaking to her. “What?”

“On the orbital. When I live there, can I run?”

“I’m afraid your running days are over. With the magnetized breaks you’ll be lucky if you can walk much further than needed for the stage act.” She turned to Eland. “We’ll compensate you, of course, for the loss of your robot. Not that you’ll miss him; a famous artist on the orbital will have all the help he needs.”

Behind her, Mia gasped—her professional facade cracked—Eland watched as she tried to will away the look of sadness on her face and failed. She looked at Hexben and wiped away a tear, smearing the painted yellow triangle under her eye.

If he agreed, Eland could afford dozens of more helpful and better-behaved robots than Hexben. Ones that didn’t break sculptures, didn’t argue. But none that Mom had programmed.

“I think we’ll need to think about that offer,” Eland said. “And let you know.”

Evelyn stood taller and looked down her nose at him. “This is not an offer, it’s a gift. You don’t think about gifts, you accept them gratefully.” She stared Eland down for a moment. “Now, since that’s settled, why don’t you get packed? We can all leave in the—”

“No,” said Eland. “We aren’t coming with you.”

Evelyn’s face scratched into a sour look of superiority. “What ungratefulness. What small-minded, outer-planetary idiocy. I was trying to help you, but you know what? You aren’t even necessary to the show. I’ll hire a performer and a robot on the orbital. Much less headache for me that way.” She turned to Mia. “You coordinate loading those little things we already paid for.” Then she turned and left.

“I’m sorry,” Eland said to Mia, who smiled through tears.

“You did the right thing.”

Hexben held up its repaired arm between them and said, “I am artwork.”

Mia laughed.

Eland snorted. “I think that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“You are an artist,” Hexben said to Eland who was left dumbstruck by the realization that the robot was right; orbital or not, he was an artist now.

“I am a multi-purpose lifeform,” Hexben said, proudly. It looked back and forth between Mia and Eland, then it began to shake.

“What’s it doing?” Mia asked Eland.

“You want to run, don’t you?” Eland asked Hexben.

“I want that the very most,” Hexben said.

Eland didn’t even finish saying, “Go for it,” before Hexben was out the door, sprinting across the plains, leaving a widening wake behind him in the silt.

---

Host Commentary

Sometimes you find your art and sometimes your art is found. I’m writing this on the night of 27th February 2024 and this is the exact time I needed to read this story. Last year just over 10,000 people who work in game development were laid off. Coders, artists, community managers, audio designers, narrative designers. 10,000 people. I was one of them. 7000 more people have been laid off this year. So far.

I don’t mention this to bum you out, although you should be bummed out. I don’t mention this to make you angry although you should be. I mention it to show you that the fragility of creativity is very real and is probably refreshing linkedin just like the rest of us tonight. It’s not just game development either, there isn’t an industry out there, it seems, that hasn’t been massively impacted and continues to be massively impacted by these murderous cuts that somehow never seem to quite make it to the C-Suite.

But when we talk about industries we don’t talk about people. What Windeyer does here is talk about people, and why they and what they do matter. I had a moment earlier this week where I looked at the work I do outside Escape Artists and wondered if there was any point to it. I’m a voice actor, a journalist, a TTRPG designer, a narrative designer. Looked at one way I’m versatile. Looked at another way I’m part of four industries, three of which seem to be collapsing and one that definitely needs some Pepto Bismol. Whichever ones you think are which, yes.

It’s impossibly difficult for almost everyone out here right now and sometimes, I suspect, all of us have that moment. Is it worth it? Have I wasted my life?

Yes it’s worth it.

No you haven’t.

And neither have I.

Make a thing. Write fanfic. Write a story. Write a poem. Paint something, draw something, yell the Ezekiel speech from The Walking Dead in your backyard apart from maybe the ‘murderers thrilled by blood’ bit. Make some food. Sing a song. Go for a walk, a run, three rounds on a kickbag.

Make. Something.

You’re going to worry that no one will care. You’re wrong! You will. The people who love you will see how much happier you are for making it and if they don’t care about what you made they will care about you. Anything you make ONLY YOU CAN MAKE.

So go make something. Go fulfil some purpose. Go find your art and if you can’t find it? Make it! Thanks everyone, I needed this one.

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We’re back next week with “The Rhythms of the World” by Johnny Caputo and narrated by Abra Staffin-Wiebe. Adam’s on the desk and Tina’s on host duties. Then as now it will be a production of the Escape Artists Foundation and distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license.

We leave you this week with this quote from Zima Blue by Alastair Reynolds

I will immerse myself. And as I do, I will slowly shut down my higher brain functions… un-making myself… leaving just enough to appreciate my surroundings… to extract some simple pleasure from the execution of a task well done. My search for truth is finished at last. I’m going home.