Stephen Snyder

Though I’ve tried, I’ve found no way to fill in the voids left by the Memory Police.

Lying still, eyes closed, ears pricked, trying to sense the flow of the morning air, you’ll feel that something has changed from the night before, and you’ll know that you’ve lost something, that something has been disappeared from the island

Soon enough, things are back to normal, as though nothing has happened, and no one can even recall what it was that disappeared.

We gathered on the banks of the river with our perfume. Then we opened the bottles and poured out their contents, watching the perfume dissolve in the water like some worthless liquid. Some girls held the bottles up to their noses one last time—but the ability to smell the perfume had already faded, along with all memory of what it had meant.

Even when the new job was less well paid, they seemed to have no regrets about losing the old one. Of course, had they complained, they might have attracted the attention of the Memory Police.

“And good riddance. I doubt anyone will miss them.”

The first duty of the Memory Police was to enforce the disappearances.

I stood in the middle of that emptiness, feeling myself on the verge of being drawn into its terrible depth.

Though I’ve tried, I’ve found no way to fill in the voids left by the Memory Police.

“There aren’t many people who can sit all day at a desk and make up such complicated things right out of their head. If your parents were here to see you, they would be so proud.”