The Last Released

 

1.) The Would and Wouldn't Guy

He had a habit,

the grandpa down the road without

a grandchild anymore, and while

he’d share enough about, say,

time in Vietnam or how to brush a carburetor

clean, he wouldn’t

indicate a thing about his family. We

gathered they were left two states away,

by the license plates of pickups that would stay

a night or two in early May,

when walleye, pike and bass were chomping

at the bit to start the summer right.

He had a habit,

those who shared a dock would know,

to throw the first and last of minnows to

their freedom from the pail:

one to lure the luck, 

the other to affect the opposite, somewhat like 

the evil eye.

Don’t get greedy, now, he’d tell the lake,

as if the place he’d cast his bait

was just as interested in netting him, 

or, presumedly, the grandchild on his mind.

He’d do the same in winter months, 

when holes into the ice

would close at night and beg 

the morning question whether it was worth 

the opening again. 

If so, 

he’d need more minnows, and that

would mean he’d stay until the last one

would compel the letting go. And that is why 

we whispered him the Would and Wouldn’t Guy.

 

2.) Guesswork

Also down that road, a little further in

the woods, and not as public as 

the Would and Wouldn’t Guy, lived a widow on 

the brink of blending in

to Mother Earth.

Difference was, like Hester Prynne

a half a dozen decades old, she had her Pearl

to dance them through the solstices of

social workers’ questioning.

An Istanbul of cats they also had to 

ward away the rats that wanted nothing more

than rinds from melons, chicken bones,

stuff to throw behind the shed

for reasonable control; no need to cover up

a compost heap

and breathe in deep the herbs

that smile upon this scene.

Fruits and poultry not enough,

the matron and her granddaughter had knit 

a casting net for catching fish, heading for 

the closest dock.

They had no license, naturally, and felt it best to

operate at night, when no one 

would object, or so the story went.  

3.) Shadows Overlapping

For her part, Pearl seemed happy as

a glacial basin clam, if sad to know 

the Would and Wouldn’t Guy no longer had a

grandchild in tow. 

Not that they were chums—more like

shadows overlapping shadows in the dark. 

The spotlights never were in synch,

and maybe shouldn’t influence the things

worth looking for. Minnow number 1 may find 

the last released,

assuming neither are deceased.

And now the lake has turned, as naturally

as algae reproduce a certain way;

the bottom gurgles up like lava busting free or

earthworms after rain.

The fish may scarce survive such soup, if

some have seen this scene before;

humans know to stay at home a week or more.

‘It will be fine,’ the widow reassures,

glossing over what the pronoun wouldn’t say.

‘Okay’, Pearl nods, then runs to tell her shadow.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2026)

In the Overlap

Despite thumbs down from the likes of Elon Musk, efforts were underway to repair the broken dreams of the International Space Station. The tin can was up there, anyway, and launchpads from French Guiana to Kazakhstan needed business, let alone reasons for relevance. NASA had to sign off on whatever research would take place, but was far more invested in private-sector contracts to profit from satellites and James Webb data. China and India had set their sights on the moon, ostensibly to operate on its dark side. The ISS had lost its sex appeal, if still attractive to a faithful few.

Like now: half the crew of astronauts was checking on the captive tardigrades—water bears who’d get their daily drop in complications of their airless atmosphere. In an ISS module adjusted for this experiment, Michal (technically a cosmonaut) sent prayers into the windowed diorama of moss and measured light. He looked through lenses that magnified the creatures’ prosperity or plight, if only guessing what the long-term data would determine, well beyond the scope of human observation.

Masha (fellow Slav, if from a land politically at odds) was asleep—they’d need to trade their conscious hoursupon the ship and share their findings in the overlap. There’d be other jobs between them, and some that wouldn’t need as much attention, yet tardigrades were the closest thing to having pets upon the station. Water cubs, to keep them cute. 

Any debrief had to wait until both were wide awake. “Your breathing is a lullaby to me,” the man whispered in the English both agreed to speak, wanting equally to drift into her dreams. “Our oxygen exchanged is of some divine design to guard against a life enclosed from other life.” His breath expired, he needed to absorb the very thing he mused about. “Our lungs must trust the space beyond ourselves, and these poor tardigrades are trying to prove the science wrong—or right.”

Masha stirred as if to nudge the needle to the side she’d so decide would indicate her truth. She might have whispered word for word the stuff her partner hoped would never enter loveless ears, not that those were hers—yet how is anyone to know how any language lives within a vacuum….

You’ll realize, came the tacit thought, from one M or the other, in the overlap. Meanwhile, don’t forget those drops—we can’t deprive the sample set to that extent.

Days passed into nights, if sunsets aren’t as obvious from outer space. The engineers of ISS are more concerned the nights turn into days and time is not so warped to feel like nothing much is worth the rising for. Masha liked to work the hours that weren’t so light, lending homage to the fact the cosmos had enticed her childhood, gazing at the gaps between the stars. Early on she learned the Kelvin scale and the paradox of how those blazing suns could not create a livable temperature between them.

“Unless a capsule could be made to insulate the molecules,” she whispered to her other half, asleep, “at least in terms of water, and then eukaryotes, and then…” She thought of air and shuttered at the lack of such for the tardigrades next door. “We’re burying them alive,” she spoke at fuller force, “like Edgar Allen Poe.”

The consul raised its voice from earth, waking Michal as a consequence: “is everything alright up there?”

The Ms looked at each other, equally unsure of what to say to Ground Control. “Roger. We’re just in the overlap of being asleep and being awake.” Their eyes acknowledged also passion for their tardigrades, bearing all the weight of human curiosity (if not to overstate).

“Roger back. We’re here for you, you know.”

“Indeed, we know.”

“And a shuttle’s coming soon.”

Not so happy news, if truth be told. We’ve gotten rather used to the atmosphere and wouldn’t want to leave things out of hand. Instead, they spoke as colleagues to the business of the day—or night, depending on the point of view.

 

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2026)