On the last day of its life, the Elysian Phasmid decided it would be seen.

Today’s story is “And Through the Cracks, the Flowers” by Aether Breeze, who hopes you’re having a comfortable day, and thinks we could all stand to be a little more like cryptids. You can find his stories, including an interactive version of this very story, at aetherbreeze.com.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

thevoice.dog | Apple podcasts | Spotify | Google Podcasts

If you have a story you think would be a good fit, you can check out the requirements, fill out the submission template and get in touch with us.

https://thevoice.dog/episode/and-through-the-cracks-the-flowers-by-aether-breeze

You’re

listening

to

The

Voice

of

Dog.

This

is

Rob

MacWolf,

your

fellow

traveler,

and

Today’s

story

is “And

Through

the

Cracks,

the

Flowers”

by

Aether

Breeze,

who

hopes

you’re

having

a

comfortable

day,

and

thinks

we

could

all

stand

to

be

a

little

more

like

cryptids.

You

can

find

his

stories,

including

an

interactive

version

of

this

very

story,

at aetherbreeze.com.

Please

enjoy


“And

Through

the

Cracks,

the

Flowers”

by

Aether

Breeze
On

the

last

day

of

its

life,

the

Elysian

Phasmid

decided

that

it

would

be

seen.
It

had

never

been

seen

by

a

person.

Not

even

once.

And

now

its scythe-like

legs

creaked,

and

its

compound

vision

was a

lattice

of

a

thousand

blurry

worlds.

Its

head

ached,

and

its

eyes

were

sore,

and

it

knew

that

the

next

time

they

closed,

they

would

never

open

again.
So,

on

the

dawn

of

its

last

day,

it

left

the

reeds

and

went

down

to

the

village.
On

the

way,

it

found

a

flower.

It

had

seen

the

humans

bring

each

other

flowers,

and

so

it

plucked

one

with

its mandibles,

and

thought

about

eating

it

only

twice.
When

it

reached

the

village,

dawn

was

breaking.

The

phasmid scythe-walked

to the

door

of

the

closest

house,

raised

a

leg,

and

knocked.
The

door

creaked

open

and

light

spilled

out.
"Hullo?"

Behind

the

door

was

a

pot-bellied

man

who

smelled of

fish

and

ferns.

He

squinted

directly

at

the phasmid. "Anyone there?"
The phasmid perked its antennae and

presented

the

flower.
The

man

grunted. "Daggum

kids…"
And

then

he

closed

the

door,

and

the

morning

was

dark,

and

crickets

chirped

in

the

distance.
The

phasmid

tilted

its

head.
It

walked,

breeze-like,

to

the

next

door.

And

it

knocked,

and

waited,

and

balanced

the

flower

upright

between

its

mandibles.
"Hmm?"

mumbled

the

woman

who

opened

it.

She

looked

straight

at

the

phasmid,

blinking

sleep

from

her

eyes. "Hullo?"
The

phasmid

chittered,

and

the

door

thunked

shut,

and

the

morning

was

dark

again.
Little

weights

weighed

down

the phasmid’s antennae.
So it

went

with

the

next

"Hullo?"
And

the

"Hullo?"
And

the

"Hullo?"
And

before

the

sun

had

crested

the

hill,

the

phasmid

had

visited

every

door

in

town,

and

had

not

been

seen

even

once.
The

morning

sun

boiled

the

air

as

the

phasmid

trudged

back

to

the

lake.

Mud

stuck

to

its

spindly

limbs,

and

flies

settled

on

its

face.

Pulling

its

legs

out

of

the

muck

got

harder

with

each

step.

Its

joints

ached,

and

its

jaw

was

sore,

and it

let

the

flower

fall

into

the mud.

It

sat on its haunches

by

the

lake

and

looked

down.
A

thousand

blurry

phasmids

looked

back

up

at

it.

Their

carapaces

were

frayed,

and

their

eyes

were

cloudy,

and

their

front

right

legs

had

grown

in

wrong.

Their

mandibles

were

chipped

on

one

side.
The

sky

was

a

wide,

blue

sea.
From

behind,

a

"Hullo?"
The

phasmid

chittered dully.
Something

small

and

warm

grabbed

its

back

leg.
The

phasmid

spun.

Its

limbs

wound

like

clockwork,

independent

of

each

other,

and

behind

it stood a

thousand

blurry

copies

of

a

small

fox

girl

holding

a

muddy

rose.
"I

think

you

dropped

this,"

she

said.
A

thousand

forgotten

joys

flooded

the

world.

The

sun

warmed

its

carapace;

fresh

berries

burst

in

its

mandibles.

Its

head

was

clear

as day.

Its antennae

relished

the

air.

It

pranced

and

leaped

and

bounced

around

the

girl,

dewy

grass

licking its

legs, and

it

was

young

and

spry

and

the

sky

had

never

been

bluer.
And

it

spoke,

using

the

sounds

of

reeds

and

waves

and

clicks

of

its

mandibles.
You

can

see

me

you

can

see

me

you

can

see

me.
"'Course

I

can,"

said

the

girl. "You're

the

size

of

a

horse."
The

phasmid

let out

a

trill

so

high

that

it

fell

down.
As

it

sat

back

up,

the

small

girl

stepped

closer.
"My

name

is

Gloria,"

she

said. "What's

yours?"
The

phasmid

tilted

its

head.

Then

it

rubbed

its

legs

and

clicked

its

mandibles

and

mimicked

the

sound

of

wind

whispering

through

the

reeds,

and

slender

limbs

wrapping

around

its

long-ago mate's

carapace,

and

their

hearts

thumping

as

one.
And

when

it

was

done,

its

song

trailed

off

in

a

sorrowful

aria.
"Why

are

you

sad?,"

the

girl

asked.
No

one

can

see

me,

whisper-clicked

the

phasmid.
The

girl

furrowed

her

pudgy

brow

and

thought

for

a while. "When

I

want

people

to

notice

me,"

she

finally

said, "I

put

on

a

play.

I

make

sets

and

puppets,

and

I

put

it

on

in

the

town

square.

Then

they

have

to

notice."
The

phasmid’s

antennae

perked

up.
Gloria

bounced

a

little. "Do

you

want

to

make

a

play?"
The phasmid

looked

down

and

rubbed

its

forelegs

together.
I'm

not

sure

how.
"Here."

She

wrapped

a

hand

around

its reed-thin

leg. "I'll

show

you."
They

went

together

into

the

forest as

the

sun

rose

high

in

the

sky.
The

first

thing

about

a

play,

said

Gloria

as

they

ducked

under

branches

and

clambered

over

logs,

was

the

story.

And

she

said

more,

but

as

soon

as

she

said

that,

the

phasmid

knew

what

it

would

be.
The

story

went

like

There

once was a phasmid who

was

very

lonely

and

very

hungry.

He

ate

and

ate

anything

that

looked

like

reeds,

until

one

day

he

accidentally

bit

another

phasmid’s

front

right

leg

off. The

other

phasmid

ran

away. Then next

year,

the

phasmid

saw

another

phasmid

whose

front

right

leg

had

grown

back

wrong.

He

chased

her

and

she

ran

away

again.

But

then

the

phasmid

had

an

idea.

He

sat

down

and he

chewed

his

own

leg

off.

And

when

it

had

grown

back,

he

approached

her

a

third

time,

and

she

did

not

run

away, and

he

nuzzled

her

and

they

danced

the

same

wobbly

dance

and

he

put

a

flower

crown

on

her

head.

And

then

they

were

mates

forever.
“Do

we

really

need

the

part

about

him

eating

his

own

leg?”

asked

Gloria.
The

phasmid

assured

her

it

was

very

important.
As

the

sun

peaked

overhead,

they

made

sets.
Gloria

could

not

walk

on

water,

so

the

phasmid

gathered

the

reeds.

But

then

it

ate

all

the

reeds,

so

it

needed

to gather

more.

This

happened

a

few

times.

Finally

it

skated

back

to

shore,

where

the

girl

had

made

little

twisted

strings

of

grass

to

bundle

them.
Does

that

mean

I

can’t

carry

them

in

my mouth?,

clicked

the phasmid.
“If

you

did,”

asked

Gloria,

packing

together

balls

of

mud, “would

you

eat

them?”
Gloria

carried

the

reeds.
As

the

sun

crept

lower,

they

made

puppets.

The

girl

gathered

sticks,

and

the

phasmid

tried

to

help,

but

it

couldn’t

hold

them.

Instead,

it

hunted

spiderwebs.

Its

joints

began

to

ache,

so

it

sat

down

in

front

of

one

web

and

slowly

unwound it,

until

globs

of

sticky

silk

were

wrapped

around

both

its

forelegs.
The

girl

hated

spiders.

She

sat

under

a

tree

while

the

phasmid

stuck

the

sticks

together

with

globs

of

silk.
By

the

time

they

were

stuck

together,

the

sun

hung

low

in

the

sky.
Won't

your

parents

be

missing

you

by

now?,

the

phasmid

stridulated

as

the

girl

picked

flowers.
The

girl

cocked

her

head. "No,"

she

said,

after

a

moment.

Then

she

plucked

a

rose

and

wove

it

into

the

crown.
The

phasmid

tried

to

help,

but

its

legs

wouldn’t

knit.

They

were

creaky

and

stiff.

Instead,

the

girl

made

it

tear

up

some

flowers.
Why

do

we

tear

up

the

flowers?
“For

confetti,”

said

the

girl,

her

blond

hair

tinged

orange

by

the

setting

sun. “It’s

not

a

real

play

without

confetti.”
Finally,

as

the

sky

smoldered,

everything

was

ready.
The phasmid

stumbled

as

they

walked

into

town.

There

were

people

talking

and

people

eating,

and

none

of

them

looked

at

them.

Not

even at

Gloria.

Its

heart

pattered.

Its

breath

rattled.
Are

you

sure

this

will

work?,

it

chittered.
“Now,”

said

Gloria,

sticking

reeds

into

mud. “When

I

say ‘for

eternity’,

you

drop

the

confetti.”
Then

she

pulled

back

the

curtain,

which

was

two

parts

of

an

old

bag

the

phasmid

had

chewed

through,

and

they

began.
The

he-phasmid

trotted

in

from

the

left.

He

swayed

on

strings

of

silk,

and when

it

was

time

for

him

to

eat

the

reeds,

the

phasmid

leaned

down

and

masticated

them

itself.
On

a

nearby

bench,

a

lion

and a

cheetah

continued

their

conversation.
Gloria

was

supposed

to

control

the

she-phasmid.

But

she

yakked

when

she

touched the

silk,

so

instead

the

phasmid

played

both, and

Gloria

did

the

voices

and

sound

effects.

She

ran

around

the

set,

snapping

twigs

when the he-phasmid ate the she-phasmid’s leg, jumping

up

and

down

and

stomping

as

the

she-phasmid

ran

away.
A

deer

leaned

against

a

lantern-post,

staring

straight

through

them.
It

was

time

for

the

he-phasmid’s

big

scene.

It

rubbed

its

forelegs

together

and although

they

were

stiff,

they

did

not

ache.

He

chirped

the

song

of

the

birds,

then,

and

the

fish,

and

the

frogs,

and

the

water

lilies.

He

chittered

mournfully,

and

a

thousand

suns

set

fire

to

a

thousand

horizons,

and

a

thousand

couples

were

young

once

more.
And

the

two

phasmids

danced,

kissed

by

the

reeds,

and

they

were

then

and

now

and

forever.
Gloria

lowered

a

flower

crown

onto

the

she-phasmid’s

head.
“And

they

were

together,”

she

proclaimed, “for

eternity!”
The

phasmid

tossed

up

its

legs,

and

rainbows

showered

upon

the

square.
It

held

the

two

puppets

together,

tangled

in

their

webby

embrace.

Then

it

straightened

its

creaky

neck,

and it

shook

the

petals

from

its

head.
The

square

was

empty.

Every

lantern

was

out.

Every

door

was

closed.
Shredded

flower

petals

floated,

lifeless,

on

a

sea

of

bricks.
Only

crickets

bore them witness.
The phasmid’s antennae drooped.
Aches

spiderwebbed

through

its

legs

then.

Holding

up

the

puppets

was

a

lot

of

work,

so it

let

them

fall.

Standing

up

was

a

lot

of

work

too.

And

sitting.

And

keeping

its

head

up.
A

thousand

town

squares

were

very

dark,

and

very

empty.
Something

warm

wrapped

around

its

leg.
“Are

you

okay?,”

Gloria

asked.
The

phasmid

did

not

speak.

Speaking

was

too

much.

Instead,

it

stretched

out

its

legs,

cracking

and

popping

like

a

thousand

sticks

underclaw,

and

draped

them

over

the

girl’s

shoulders.
She

paused

for

only