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Kanata liked her coffee iced. Every morning she’d fight her way through the maze of empty cardboard boxes that occupied most of the square footage of her apartment. When she'd find the freezer, she’d grab a handful of ice, crush it into smithereens, and sprinkle them into her Gorilla Gulp coffee cup.
She liked to read mail flyers when she had her morning coffee. At worst, they entertained her. At best, they led to interesting experiences. On one particular morning, she found herself scanning an advertisement for a calligraphy instructor. Attached at the bottom was a cut-out coupon for one free calligraphy lesson.
Kanata read the copy aloud, just for the heck of it. “‘Sakamata’s sublime script-supplements succor students seeking soulful satisfaction. P.S. No refunds.’” She paused and let the words slither in the air. “What the hell kinda name is ‘Sakamata’?” She picked up an apple and crushed it in her right hand over her open mouth and let the juice drip into her gullet. When the unfortunate fruit was little more than skin and pulp, she threw it over her shoulder where it hit a tower of cardboard boxes, knocking them over with a crash. “Calligraphy could be fun,” she said after wiping the apple juice from her chin. She tore the coupon off the flyer.
At the appointed time, Kanata found herself the only student in a small recreation center classroom, sized for knitting circles and small book clubs. She sat at a writing desk feeling like she was in middle school again. There was a blackboard on the wall in front of her and someone had drawn a doodle of a killer whale encircled by stink lines and flies.
Kanata was in the midst of deciphering the doodle when the code was cracked by an odor so foul it brought tears to her eyes faster than stubbing her toe while watching the beginning of Pixar’s Up. She jumped to her feet, knocking over her chair, and rushed to open a window. In her desperation, she forgot to unlock the latch and, with the strength of a cyber-enhanced silverback, broke the frame, window, and wall all in one go. The fresh outside air that gushed in diluted the smell just enough to breathe, and Kanata regained enough composure to curse the frailty of humankind and their feeble constructions.
Behind her, the door swung wide and a silver-haired young woman wearing a black hood stood in the doorway like a bounty hunter after kicking in the swinging gates of an old-time saloon. After studying Kanata with the sangfroid of a trained killer, she said, “Is that a draught I feel?”
Kanata looked back behind her at the gaping hole in the wall. She spun back around. “That was there when I got here.”
“I see.” The young woman studied her from across the classroom for a few calculated moments, then shrugged and walked in and up to the blackboard. In a less murderous tone of voice, she asked, “Are you here for the lessons?”
Kanata scampered back to her desk like a child sprinting for the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. She righted her chair, sat down, and interlaced her fingers on top of the desk. "Yes.”
The young woman smiled at her. “Have you had calligraphy lessons before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“How nice.” The young woman stared out of the hole in the wall. “I remember my first lesson. I had a disagreement with the instructor.” She laughed and looked at Kanata. “They called my writing messy. Can you believe that? Some people don’t deserve eyes if they can’t recognize elegance when they see it.”
The word ‘DANGER’ ran screaming, sirens blazing, over the tarmac of Kanata’s mind. She laughed nervously and gave a dry cough. “Yeah, some people can be real jerks.”
The young woman gave her a smile that was the equivalent of a cyanide-laced sugar pie. “Let’s hope you’re not one of them.” She turned and began scratching her name on the blackboard with a piece of white chalk.
When Kanata saw the end result, she just could not help herself.
“Dear God, is that an incantation to Baal, Lord of Lies, written in the nigh indecipherable tongue of the ancient Phoenicians? I’m afraid to even attempt to pronounce it lest I summon some slumbering demon from the Dark Dimension. Like, are you serious? Did you make that abomination on purpose? ‘Cause, if you did, you should work for the Secret Service Intelligence Agency by coming up with codes and ciphers. I doubt there’s a cryptologist alive that could solve that enigma. I’m speechless. I really am. I’ve seen slime trails left by snails with more legibility than that. Where does language even stand in the aftermath of this cataclysm? If you wanna know what I thi—”
Kanata woke up in a cornfield.
