Remarkably Bright Creatures

by Shelby Van Pelt

Some humans are crammed full of them. How do they not explode? It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills.

Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire?

I bury my treasures. What sort of treasures comprise my Collection, you ask? Well, where to begin? Three glass marbles, two plastic superheroes, one emerald solitaire ring. Four credit cards and a driver’s license. One jeweled barrette. One human tooth. Why that look of disgust? I did not remove it myself. The former owner wiggled it out on a school field trip then proceeded to lose track of it.

If I could go back in time, I would collect all of it—the sneaker sole, the shoelace, the buttons, and the twin key. I would give it all to her. I am sorry for her loss. Returning this key is the least I can do.

After a deep breath, she goes on. “We must say goodbye, friend. But I’m glad Terry saved you, because you saved me.”

Slowly, she tips the bucket. It’s about three feet down to the water. For a moment that seems extended in time, before gravity catches up, Marcellus’s arm remains wrapped around her hand as his strange otherworldly body hangs in midair, his eye fixed to hers. Just as she’s about to be pulled down with him, he releases, and lands with a heavy splash in the night-black water.

To the somber bay that took them both, a cherished son and an exceptional octopus, she whispers inscrutably: “I miss you. Both of you.” She taps her heart.