The people in the town were familiar with the old man. When they 
heard his ringing call, the wives would run forward with their pots 
and kettles and brushes and mirrors for him to fix. The men would 
come forward, and ask for scraps of metal for their homes, or to 
peruse the wares that he offered. And finally, the children came 
forward to give him their toys and their baubles to tinker and fix. 


And so, the tinkerer made his living, getting a bit of bread, cold 
meat, and water to live on, with an extra coin or two that could 
always be saved up for a special occasion. 


The tinkerer had raised a pair of boisterous boys, who in turn had 
their own children as well. The youngest child of his younger son 
was named Piotr, and the tinkerer loved him very much. 


Piotr had been born early, and his mother had died while giving 
birth. When Piotr was born, the midwife had told his father to 


smother the baby. The old man intervened, and Piotr lived. Though 
his father did not care for him, little Piotr was beloved by his 
grandfather. 


The boy could not run or play like the other children. He was too frail 
and too sickly to play the rough and tumble games of the other 
children. He had a weak heart, and could not breathe well even at 
the best of times. And so, Piotr stayed in bed. 


The father did not care for Piotr like he did with his other children: 
big, strapping boys who fought and played like real boys should, and 
pretty, quiet girls who did what they were told. Piotr, with his 
wandering mind and his physical weakness did not concern him. 
And yet, the old man favored him the most out of all of his 
grandchildren. He begged his son to let him take care of the boy, 
but, much as his son did not care for Piotr, he cared for his own 
father even less. 


The tinkerer was saddened at the sight of the boy, who languished 
in bed all day, with only a large window and his imagination for 
company. The tinkerer took it upon himself to help his favorite 
grandson. He took scraps of tin and brass from his supply, and he 
set to work. Laboring for a week, his creation slowly took shape. 


One day, the old man journeyed to his son’s house and presented 
the young boy with a blanket-covered item. Then, with a majestic 
flourish, he unveiled his creation, revealing a small iron cage. 
Perched within the cage was a bird. 


The bird was crafted of metal, yet possessed soft features and 
intricate details, as if it were a real nightingale frozen in a metal 
embrace. It turned its head and peered at the boy. Then, it opened 
its beak and began to sing. 


The song was a beautiful étude that sprang forth from the bird, as if 
it contained an entire orchestra within. Then, the bird warbled in a 
pure song of its natural calling, as it hopped off its perch. The 
tinkerer opened the door, and the bird flew out. 


It cut a delicate arc through the air, flapping its wings and singing 
mixtures of natural birdsong and scraps of music. It cut circles 


through the air with the ease of a real bird, before finally coming to a 
halt, and perching within Piotr’s outstretched palms. 


The boy cried with delight, and the commotion drew the attention of 
his father. His father was similarly amazed with the beauty of the 
bird, which continued to sing as it nuzzled the cheek of the boy. 


They had never seen anything like it before, and as the sickly child 
giggled and played with his pet, he almost appeared like a normal 

boy. The old man’s heart swelled with joy at the reward of his long 
labor. 


From then on, the tinkerer would take every coin that he saved, and 
buy scraps of metal, porcelain, and glass that he could not get 
himself. Then, with the pound of his hammer, or the twist of his drill, 
the tinkerer would make a new toy for the child. 


There were toy soldiers who would fight each other, falling in 
combat, and then rising again, over and over, as much as the boy 
wanted. There was a ball that could change its size and fly through 
the air by itself, to help the boy who could not throw. Dolls that would 
come to life and talk. A mirror that showed the viewer any place in 
the world. 


The tinkerer never got tired of making toys for the boy. As the boy 
grew older, he became less frail, and could go outside. His father 
allowed him to go to school with the other children. And of course, to 
accompany the boy on his voyage was his faithful metal bird. 


When the boy showed the other children his pet, they shouted with 
glee and crowded little Piotr, asking him where he had gotten such a 
marvelous toy. Piotr told them all that his grandfather had made it for 
him, beaming with pride. 


Soon, all of the children wanted toys from Piotr’s grandfather. The 
tinkerer was inundated with a horde of children who were 
dissatisfied with their own mundane dolls and tin soldiers. The 
tinkerer saw their expectant faces every time that he went to town, 
and soon, the children stopped asking him to fix their toys. They 
wanted him to make better ones. They wanted something new. They 
wanted something entertaining. They wanted something wonderful. 


And so, the old man set to work, making more toys. Each and every 
one of them was a glory to see, something that amazed children and 
adults alike. His hands and his tools could spin marvels out of 
ordinary tin, and legends out of iron. Every toy that he made was 
better than the last. Over time, less people wanted tinkering done. 
They wanted toys. Then, one day, the tinkerer stopped tinkering. He 
became a toymaker. 


Soon, news of the magical toymaker and his curiosities spread over 
the countryside like wildfire. People came from all around to geta 
glimpse of him, and to buy a toy. Noblemen paid lavish sums for 
their sons and daughters to receive the best toys, wrought of gold 
and silver, while even the poorest peasants could afford a coin for a 
simpler toy for their children. The toymaker became richer and 
richer, yet, at his heart, he remained a kindly old man who wanted 
nothing more than to see the smile of his children who loved him 
and his toys. 


Although the toymaker became busier and busier, he never forgot 
little Piotr. Any of his toys would go to Piotr first, and he would make 
sure to create finer and more grandiose versions for the child that he 
loved best. 


However, there were those who resented the old man. His younger 
son was not pleased with the whole affair, and believed that Piotr 
was getting far more attention than he deserved. As they are wont to 
do, his children heard and felt the ill will that their father had nursed 
in his heart, and soon, they came to resent their youngest brother as 
well. 


The toymaker’s oldest grandson, Aleksey, was not happy. He was 
envious of his youngest brother, and how he always received the 
finest and grandest toys first. He wanted his brother's toys, and he 
wanted to please his father. One day, he decided to act on both. 


Piotr was playing in the grass with his grandfather’s latest invention, 
a puppy made of cloth and buttons. The little boy giggled at the sight 
of the exuberant puppy, running around and yipping. His bird happily 
chirped on his shoulder. 


Aleksey approached Piotr. His shadow cast a looming darkness 


over Piotr that made the little boy look up into the eyes of his older 
brother. Oblivious to the malice in Aleksey’s eyes, Piotr broadly 
smiled when he saw his older brother. 


Aleksey demanded that Piotr give him the puppy. Piotr cocked his 
head, confused, and asked why. Aleksey ordered his brother, saying 
that he was older, and therefore deserved it. 


Piotr stood up in fear as he realized Aleksey’s intentions, and began 
to back away, while holding his puppy. The bird took to the air, and 
loudly chirped at Aleksey. Aleksey demanded the puppy again. Piotr 
swung his head from side to side. The poor boy never saw the hit 
coming. 


Aleksey smacked Piotr across the head, causing the boy to cry out 
in fear, and making him drop the puppy, which ran off, yipping along 
the way. Aleksey continued to kick and punch his younger brother, 
screaming at him for taking his right as the eldest. Piotr sobbed and 
tried to get away. Aleksey continued to furiously beat the child. 


Then, the songbird dove down and raked Aleksey’s face, causing 
the older child to scream in pain. Piotr shakily stood up, and began 
to run, for the very first time in his life. The bird followed along as 
Aleksey cursed his brother while he screamed in pain from the metal 
talons that had carved furrows across his face. 


Piotr continued to run, but the sickly child could not keep running. As 
he ran, deeper in the forest, he quickly began to exhaust himself. 
His pitiful heart struggled futilely as it beat faster and faster, trying to 
keep the boy’s body going. Piotr fell to his knees as his tired heart 
exploded from the exertion. 


The boy fell face first into the grass of the forest, cold and unfeeling. 
As soon as his beloved bird saw what had happened, it flew off, 
heading for its original home: the toymaker’s cabin. 


Days after the death of the boy, people noticed that the toymaker 
had gone as well. His marvelous toys stopped being made. Those 
who went to his cabin saw that it was boarded up, and no smoke 
rose from the chimney that adorned the roof. 


People were confused and sad. The toys that had brightened the 
lives of So many were gone. The toymaker began to slip away from 
memory as his toys broke or became lost. Soon, the people began 
to forget that he had ever existed, and as time went on, he became 
more and more of a fairy tale. His cabin was swallowed up by the 
woods, and the people’s lives went on. 


All until one day, far in the future, one of the toymaker’s 
descendants came looking for the cabin of his once-famous relative. 
Though the world had forgotten the old man, stories had continued 
to be passed down in the toymaker’s family, and a few of the most 
cherished toys still remained. Through the ages, the family had kept 
quiet. Many had tried to replicate what the toymaker had done, but 
none had quite the magic in their hands that he seemed to possess. 
They could not find his cabin, and soon, most gave up the search as 
fruitless. 


This child chose to come and find what remained, and what could be 
discovered. This child would not be discouraged. 


After searching for hours and hours, he came upon a dilapidated 
cabin in the woods, which stood near the shallow bend of an old 
country road. He managed to tear down the rotting boarding 
covering the door, and he broke in. Using his flashlight, he peered 
around the former home of the marvelous tinkerer. 


Inside, heaps and stacks of materials, long rusted and faded 
remained. Blueprints and designs for new toys were brittle and 
yellowed in their aging. Yet, throughout the cabin were hundreds 
upon hundreds of tools shone as brightly as if they had just been 
freshly polished. Large tools, small tools, long tools, and short tools. 
Spinning tools, drilling tools, fine tools, and blunt tools. Tools and 
tools and tools were scattered around the place. And in the middle 
of it all lay a true work of art. 


It was a half constructed life-size model of a boy, made of the finest 
polished gold with silver inlays. Time had not dulled the surface, and 
the metal brightly shined. A half-finished arm lay on the table, open 
and showing the clockwork and parts that lay inside. The torso had 
been left open, demonstrating thousands of intricate parts and bits 
of odd materials, such as leaves, wood, and various runes and 


paces before sitting once again, in a state of 
visible distress, remaining there for the 
following 23 minutes. 


2013: Subject moves from the stair into a 
seated position against a neighbouring 
plateau, facing away from the camera, partly 
out of the camera's field of vision. 


2040: Subject's breathing has become 
noticeably heavier. 


2130: Subject's breathing progressively 
becomes shallower, taken in large breaths. 


2209: Subject's body begins to convulse for a 
period of 34 minutes. 


2243: Subject's movement ceases, assumed 
deceased. 


ee 


1029: Subject's skin appears to be growing 
darker, or decaying at an accelerated rate. 


1656: A number of small, dark growths are 
observed protruding from the subject's right 
palm. 


2009: Growths have spread across the body's 
extremities and face, obscuring features. 
Growths appear as a large number of small, 
semi-rigid filaments. It is unknown whether 
these growths are organic or inorganic. 


ae 


0338: Subject's body is entirely covered by 
growth. 


Log-977-A-14 


gemstones. On the table sat a jar containing a perfectly preserved, if 
somewhat small and bruised heart. 


Scattered around the yet to be completed creation were pages upon 
pages of notes and scribblings in an awkward, stilted hand. They 
debated the best materials to use, what would last the longest, what 
could house a mind the most effectively. 


As the young man examined all of this, he heard a short étude 
thrumming through the air. Looking up, he gazed with wonder as a 
beautifully carved metal bird flew through the air, and landed on his 
shoulder with a happy chirp. The man knelt down as he saw a 
delicate tool laying on the ground. 


As he picked it up, it felt right in his hands, as if it belonged there. He 
began to fill his bag with all of the tools in the cabin, and he stuffed 
his backpack full of the blueprints and designs as well. Giving one 
last nod to the half-finished creation, he left the cabin and departed 
for home. 


When he returned on his journey home, he pulled out a blueprint, 
and cleared his desk. He peered at the first design, and immediately 
began to get stacks of paper and a tool from his backpack. He 
grasped the tool, and touched it to the paper. 


And then the wonder began. 


The Trouble With Amnestics 


“Hey Draven?” 


James surprises him in the kitchen; he hasn't been up at all since 
the hospital had released him, but there he was now, with his 
glasses on, head shaved and bandaged from the procedures, 
blanket around his shoulders. Bare feet on kitchen tile. Glasses on, 
but eyes bleary. Grisly scars running from the edges of his mouth to 
the back of his jaw, the kind he didn't want mentioned and that 
neither of them wanted to know the source of. Draven looks from the 
pot of spaghetti he was working on and smiles at him. 


“Yeah?” he responds. “You're up. How do you fe-” 


“Draven.” James’ voice is sleepy and serious, like he’s trying to push 
through a haze. “Did | write this?” 


He’s holding a thick book bound in a hard tan cover. Draven 
recognizes it from where it sat on one of the bookshelves in his 
boyfriend’s living room; there’s no markings on the outside save for 
a couple words stenciled into the lower spine in blocky, ruthless 
white lettering: 


TALLORAN 
2014 


“Yeah,” he responds, stirring the pasta absentmindedly. “It’s your 
Master’s thesis.” 


James blinks, holding the blankets around his shoulders with a 
sense of strange removal from reality. Master’s thesis. Master's 
thesis. He definitely remembered it- not what it was about, mind you, 
but presenting it, crying over it, hating it- but not what it was about. 


But that wasn’t the most alarming thing about the numerous books 


he saw around him in his home. 


“Do you remember writing it?” says Draven. His boyfriend hasn't 
said anything wrong, but the words already hit him in the gut enough 
to bring tears to his eyes. Master's thesis. That proved it, then. 


“Draven,” says James, choking back tears. “I think | forgot how to 
read.”