Isle of Galapondra, 1856

Dearest Emily,

It is upon our return to this, the smallest of the Durindral Islands, that I come to write what I fear may be my last correspondence. If Galapondra is a name familiar to you it is because I wrote about this uninhabited, desolate grassland in a letter to you some eighteen months prior. You may remember, my love, that I mentioned we were to leave our few remaining asses on the island to feed and drink—for there is a small, fresh-water spring—in the hopes of retrieving them on our return trip home. You know—as we have discussed on many a long evening near the fire, port or sherry in hand—of my distaste for those most stubborn and ill-tempered of beasts. But, alas, they are fine workers (when the choose to be) and, as a lover of all wildlife (if only in the theoretical), I cannot simply leave them to perish. So, back to the island we did travel!

To understand what happened next you must first understand that the island was not, in fact, uninhabited, but was instead replete with myriad species of stomatopodi—commonly Mantis Shrimp. They live just off the shoreline and are proficient hunters. As not to offend or distress, I will leave the means of just how they dispatch of their enemies or prey to this: they, at least the most dominant species near the island, posses a sort of clubbed appendage with which they punch their victims with a speed and velocity that, in spite of my proficiency with the written language, cannot be adequately described. It must be seen to be believed (but even without blinking it cannot truly be “seen”). The punch carries with it such shear power that these small crustaceans have been known to disembowel a meal, or, in my case, split open the thumb of a careless scientist. (I fear, dearest love, that I, if only temporarily, violated my vow to you that I would refrain from indulging in the crudest of words. I did, in fact, become more of a “sailor” that day than perhaps any other.)

Now, to the very heart of my correspondence, and to why I write this with the understanding that you may only receive it months or years after, what I fear, may be my demise. It is also a sort of confession, even if my crime was unintentional and—based on what I now understand to be a painfully inadequate education from what I was told were some of the world’s foremost learning institutions—very much an impossibility. You see—and here, again, I must ask for you to forget all you know of nature, of these new rumors of “Natural Selection” so prevalent among my peers, and trust that every word I write to you is true—that force we colloquially refer to as “Mother Nature” has, in fact, created such an abomination as to make one fear the very future of this planet.

I find myself having trouble forming the sentences, even now; Even after all I have seen; Even after so many of the crew have been so violently dispatched. But I must. The captain has busied himself forming a plan to get the few of us remaining back to the ship, but he had as well put upon me the responsibility of explaining the events that have transpired, to “tell the world our story,” if only as a warning. He has not—would not—say so, but, by telling this most tragic of tails, I understand that I am also telling of my sin, of my hubris, of my now obvious and total lack of understanding of the natural world.

Enough of this, though. I am afraid that the deafening sounds of highly developed thoracic appendages smashing violently against our makeshift barricade mean that I am not long for this world. So, I will tell you of that which I now fear most:

It would appear that, somehow, through what mechanism I cannot—do not want to—understand, the shrimps have found a way to breed with the asses.

To describe them is the stuff of nightmares, so, please, my darling, if this is too much, stop reading now and hand this letter to Dr. Wilkinson.

I will do my best to give at least enough details as to make them easily identifiable:

The beasts have retained nearly half the physical size of the ass—the size of a Mastiff or Great Dane. They have also retained the equine head of their mothers. What is truly terrifying, though, is that they are nearly translucent: a clear, inch-thick exoskeleton covering their pale organs. Only my close encounter with the mighty Great White shark of which I wrote you some years ago has drawn from me such fear as I experience upon seeing the pale green beating heart of these most terrible beasts, to say nothing of the disconcerting nature of seeing the still-developing fetus within the light pink uterine walls of the pregnant females. Even now—as is evidenced by my very script—my hand shakes at the memory.

Of course, the most horrible trait of all is the cricket bat-sized bludgeon that has evolved out of their two new appendages. Like a club-wielding Centaur of Ancient Greek mythology, these six-legged (armed?) monsters smash and crush anything they see as a threat. And, my love, they view us as that threat! I will not describe to you the horrors visited upon the first, most curious, of the crew to stumble upon these demon asses but to say that what is left of their earthly vessels will remain on the island; there is, unfortunately, not enough of them to bury—should we make it out of this predicament with our own bodies intact, that is!

Ah, another punch, maybe two, is all I fear we can withstand before we must choose to run or fight. But fight with what, how? They strike with such fury the only hope is distance.

It is time, dearest love, that I end this letter. Please, tell the world—convince them—that these monstrosities must never be allowed off the island. They must not be removed to be studied, to be the shining new piece to a traveling exhibit. They must be left to perish on their own, or, as the captain has now decided, burned with fire, destroyed. If we prove to be unsuccessful, I fear that our place atop the natural hierarchy may be in jeopardy, should these devil donkeys ever escape their natural water-prison.

Know that as I close this letter I wish only to see your face, but that, if I must, I will give my life here and now in this, our final effort to kill or escape the Braying Mantises.

Yours truly, sweet, sweet Emily, your husband,

H. Daniel Locke