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ysabetwordsmithRecently Charles de Lint shared the story "ICE Out," from his urban fantasy setting Newford. So I decided to write one of my own, from the world of Monster House.
Warning: Here there be monsters.
"The Express Bus to Crazy-ass Death Land"
Every form of transportation
is both a place and not a place.
It's a place you can enter
to travel between places,
and that makes it liminal.
Most of the time, when
people get on a bus or
a train or a plane, nothing
out of the ordinary happens --
they pass through the Liminal
and back into the Ordinary
without even noticing.
Most of the time, when
people embark, they know
where they're going and
they want to go there --
so they hand over a ticket,
pick a seat, and that's all.
Sometimes, though,
things can go ... awry.
Sometimes, the Conductor
has to get involved.
The despondent and
the defiant had already
been shoved onto a bus.
Minutes later, two men
wearing heavy vests
and masks came along,
serving as tail guards.
Both of them bitched about
protesters and immigrants.
The Conductor stepped
out of the shadows
and said, "Wrong bus."
"Course this is the right bus,
you fuckwit!" one snapped.
"Are you quite certain?"
said the Conductor. "It's
very clean and new."
A thin hand pointed to
an older, rusted bus.
"Your ride is there."
"Oh yeah, good point,"
said the shorter man.
"Why waste a good bus
on bad blood like that?"
The two men headed over
to board the rusty old bus.
Inside it was dark and cramped,
full of huddled, miserable people.
The two men did not notice
that these were different people
than the ones they were following.
They didn't notice anything at all
wrong with the trip until the bus
groaned to a stop somewhere
that definitely was not a city.
"The hell?" said the taller one.
"This isn't the detention center."
"Driver, we need to get back to
Minneapolis," said the short one.
"No, you made your choices
and this is your destination,"
the Driver declared. "You just
don't get to drag other folks
on the ride to your stop."
"What the fuck is this?"
the tall one demanded.
"This," said the Driver,
"is the Express Bus to
Crazy-ass Death Land.
Off you get, now."
With that, the two men
found themselves standing
beside a rickety shack with
a splintered bench and
a fading metal sign that
read only, BUS SPOT.
Heat waves shimmered
in the air, the ground
was dry red dust,
and a skeletal bush
was the only plant
anywhere in sight.
The water fountain
had fallen off the wall,
rusted and empty.
No birds flew above,
and no insects buzzed.
The two ICE agents
looked at each other.
"Well, fuck," they chorused.
* * *
Notes:
In memory of:
Luis Gustavo Núñez Cáceres
Geraldo Lunas Campos
Víctor Manuel Díaz
Parady La
Renee Nicole Good
Luis Beltrán Yáñez–Cruz
Heber Sánchez Domínguez
Alex Pretti
murdered by ICE
Buses, trains, airplanes, and other forms of mass transit have long been considered liminal places. They're places you can enter, but they're actually moving between other places, which inherently makes them liminal. So they touch on all the mythic motifs of liminality, and people tell stories about the Afterlife Express or a bus that can cross dimensions.
Climate change is often described as a "road" where humanity has taken a "wrong turn" somewhere (or everywhere), leading to a "destination" that most people do not wish to visit. The immigration debate uses the same metaphor. But someone is making those choices -- some humans are driving the buses, and they are deciding to head in very dangerous directions. Indeed, one interpretation of quantum mechanics is that choices diverge into different universes, so when you make a choice, you're not deciding so much what you do as where you go. So let's not go to Crazy-ass Death Land.
Just because the United States of America was founded on genocide, kidnapping, slavery, and grand theft continent doesn't mean you have to agree with that nonsense. You can speak up and demand better.
Warning: Here there be monsters.
"The Express Bus to Crazy-ass Death Land"
Every form of transportation
is both a place and not a place.
It's a place you can enter
to travel between places,
and that makes it liminal.
Most of the time, when
people get on a bus or
a train or a plane, nothing
out of the ordinary happens --
they pass through the Liminal
and back into the Ordinary
without even noticing.
Most of the time, when
people embark, they know
where they're going and
they want to go there --
so they hand over a ticket,
pick a seat, and that's all.
Sometimes, though,
things can go ... awry.
Sometimes, the Conductor
has to get involved.
The despondent and
the defiant had already
been shoved onto a bus.
Minutes later, two men
wearing heavy vests
and masks came along,
serving as tail guards.
Both of them bitched about
protesters and immigrants.
The Conductor stepped
out of the shadows
and said, "Wrong bus."
"Course this is the right bus,
you fuckwit!" one snapped.
"Are you quite certain?"
said the Conductor. "It's
very clean and new."
A thin hand pointed to
an older, rusted bus.
"Your ride is there."
"Oh yeah, good point,"
said the shorter man.
"Why waste a good bus
on bad blood like that?"
The two men headed over
to board the rusty old bus.
Inside it was dark and cramped,
full of huddled, miserable people.
The two men did not notice
that these were different people
than the ones they were following.
They didn't notice anything at all
wrong with the trip until the bus
groaned to a stop somewhere
that definitely was not a city.
"The hell?" said the taller one.
"This isn't the detention center."
"Driver, we need to get back to
Minneapolis," said the short one.
"No, you made your choices
and this is your destination,"
the Driver declared. "You just
don't get to drag other folks
on the ride to your stop."
"What the fuck is this?"
the tall one demanded.
"This," said the Driver,
"is the Express Bus to
Crazy-ass Death Land.
Off you get, now."
With that, the two men
found themselves standing
beside a rickety shack with
a splintered bench and
a fading metal sign that
read only, BUS SPOT.
Heat waves shimmered
in the air, the ground
was dry red dust,
and a skeletal bush
was the only plant
anywhere in sight.
The water fountain
had fallen off the wall,
rusted and empty.
No birds flew above,
and no insects buzzed.
The two ICE agents
looked at each other.
"Well, fuck," they chorused.
* * *
Notes:
In memory of:
Luis Gustavo Núñez Cáceres
Geraldo Lunas Campos
Víctor Manuel Díaz
Parady La
Renee Nicole Good
Luis Beltrán Yáñez–Cruz
Heber Sánchez Domínguez
Alex Pretti
murdered by ICE
Buses, trains, airplanes, and other forms of mass transit have long been considered liminal places. They're places you can enter, but they're actually moving between other places, which inherently makes them liminal. So they touch on all the mythic motifs of liminality, and people tell stories about the Afterlife Express or a bus that can cross dimensions.
Climate change is often described as a "road" where humanity has taken a "wrong turn" somewhere (or everywhere), leading to a "destination" that most people do not wish to visit. The immigration debate uses the same metaphor. But someone is making those choices -- some humans are driving the buses, and they are deciding to head in very dangerous directions. Indeed, one interpretation of quantum mechanics is that choices diverge into different universes, so when you make a choice, you're not deciding so much what you do as where you go. So let's not go to Crazy-ass Death Land.
Just because the United States of America was founded on genocide, kidnapping, slavery, and grand theft continent doesn't mean you have to agree with that nonsense. You can speak up and demand better.
(no subject)
Date: 2026-03-06 07:45 am (UTC)Thoughts
Date: 2026-03-06 08:26 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked it.
>> I wish it could happen like this. We all wish.<<
I've seen enough deeply odd things happen to know that, when a group of people decide to brutalize others, they are rolling a lot of dice. Sooner or later, they are going to roll snake eyes. It could be riling a nature spirit and getting hammered by a hailstorm. It could be deciding to torture a petty saint who activates underneath them. It could look like bad luck. Sometimes they do just disappear.
>> It upset me a great deal, but we've all been upset since he got into office. I hope that someday soon you'll be writing a long poem for when he is gone. I pray for this nightly. <<
Honestly, I'm going to throw a party. I'm tired of taking the moral high ground when most of the world is racing to hell. Fuck 'em. Let's roast marshmallows.
>> Thank you for writing that. We need to always remember all of them.<<
*bow, flourish* Happy to be of service. That's what bards are for.
Re: Thoughts
Date: 2026-03-06 09:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2026-03-06 03:22 pm (UTC)Thank you!
Date: 2026-03-06 06:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2026-03-06 07:24 pm (UTC)Thoughts
Date: 2026-03-06 07:47 pm (UTC)Re: Thoughts
Date: 2026-03-07 01:33 am (UTC)Re: Thoughts
Date: 2026-03-07 01:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2026-03-06 11:35 pm (UTC)You're welcome!
Date: 2026-03-06 11:52 pm (UTC)