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This episode is brought to you by Netflix from the creator of Homeland. Claire Danes and Matthew Rhys star in the new Netflix series the Beast and Me as ruthless rivals whose shared darkness will set them on a collision course with fatal consequences. The Beast in Me is a riveting psychological cat and mouse story about guilt, justice and doubt. You will not want to miss this. The Beast in Me launches November 13th only on Netflix.
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Foreign hi friends, I'm Will, and it's story time. To the student, the teacher is already a master, carefully curating knowledge and passing it along to keep their knowledge alive. To the teacher, the student is a blank slate filled with the potential to learn, to disappoint, even to show the teacher things they did not know about themselves. What do you call a teacher who has no students? Now that sounds like a riddle, right? Something they should have, some sort of pithy answer. But I am genuinely asking because I don't know. I think teaching requires patience, and not just in the presence of the challenging student, but in the long stretches of time where there are no students to teach. And I'm about to introduce you to a teacher who has not had a student in quite some time. But luckily for them, and for us, a helpful student is about to arrive, seeking knowledge and the skills they will need for disassembling Light Disassembling Light by Kel Coleman Terce heard the disturbance in the woods long before the short, sturdy girl shoved through the overgrown hedge. He flung open the door of his workshop and she startled, nearly dropping a large knapsack dangling off of one shoulder. Can I help you? Terce asked, leaning against the door frame, balancing his red clay pipe on his lower lip. The girl straightened up and breathed deeply. Creator, she said, dipping her head. I'd like to apply for an apprenticeship. Terse never asked how the hopefuls knew they shouldn't come at night when his assemblages stalked the trees for trespassers, or how they knew where to find him in the first place. Perhaps the same way he had heard about the Creator before him, the whispers of others who were devoted to assembly. He sighed, compelled by tradition and boredom to give her a chance. Test 1 is the aspirant Bold. Terse took a drag on his pipe. The smoke filled his lungs with cotton and the rest of his body with a grim languor. The throbbing in his lower back receded. Upon careful inspection, Terce realized the girl was closer to a young woman, considering it was summer and she wore the stiff gray shirt and dark blue slacks of a novice. She'd likely just cleared her rights, had maybe even run straight from her newly assigned job into his woods. She was also clean and well fed, and her brown skin was unblemished except for scratches on her face and arms. She doubtless earned shoving through the sharp hedges he allowed to flourish about his workshop. Exhaling, he asked, so who else knows about me now? Who've you told about my workshop? A well cared for youth like this might not understand the need for discretion. No one. She sounded sincerely appalled. And why would you want to be my apprentice? He asked. It's nasty, illegitimate work. I've wanted to be a creator since I made my first assemblage. One of those school kits, I'm guessing. She lifted her chin. Yes. And I got the highest marks. Did they allow you to use Spark? A decade or so back it had been rare for people to see Spark in everyday life, but assembly was becoming less obscure, though still heavily regulated as the fabricators tried to win over the public. No, she said. But I went on a factory tour once. I saw them bring one to life. And why me specifically? He took another drag on his pipe. Tendrils of yellow smoke reeking of lavender trailed from his nostrils while he surveyed her. He knew it lent him the appearance of a venomous tri horned lizard. The habit had even tinted his wheat colored skin a sulfuric yellow. You're the best creator in three counties, said the young woman, as if this should have been obvious. And your assemblages, they're intricate and graceful. They really inspired me. He puffed on his pipe and said nothing. I have plenty of designs, said the young woman, swinging her bag off her shoulder. She undid the latch and pulled out a thick leather bound book, including some insects and small birds. I was hoping you might tell me how. He waved the book away. Can you show me an actual assemblage? Oh, of course, yes. She replaced the journal and extricated a bundle wrapped in wax paper. When she started forward with it, he stopped her with a hand. No one will praise you for it. Not these days. She shook her head. I don't care about that. Easy to say when you hadn't toiled at it for decades, watching your earnings dwindle as more and more customers chose sanctioned factory designs over true creations. Terce still sold most of his assemblages to the black market brokers, who in turn sold them to private collectors. He also kept a few in the surrounding forest for protection and released a handful into neighboring towns each year. The latter was a taunt for the fabrication party and their cronies, who thought spark should only be used to animate their brutish and utilitarian assemblages. Terse made single minded sentries and one of a kind companions for the common people, risking his neck. And when was the last time he had been shown appreciation? When was the last time one of his vendors had passed on a note of praise or a few additional coins for an assemblage well made. The problem was there was so much competition now. Please, said the young woman, at least take a look. Still mired in thought about the assemblages he'd sent out into the indifferent world, Terce forgot to draw out this part, which was meant to test her determination, and nodded absentmindedly. By the time he came to his senses, she had already come forward with her bundle, and he hastily blew smoke up into the warmth. Forest air Inside his brick workshop, the heat of midday was not to be found. A few insulation and venting tricks kept it cool even in summer. The cramped single room doubled as his home, the front half dominated by his kitchen, and across from it his bed. Drying flowers, herbs, and meat hung from the ceiling, and shelves lined the walls, loaded with cheap, low effort staples like rice and dried fruit. Ter shuffled to the back half of his workshop. Here, instead of food, the shelves held loose metal trinkets, pipes, sun bleached bones, and wide necked jars brimming with blood and tissue and small animals in preserving fluids. Put it on the workbench, he told the young woman over his shoulder. She had, to her credit, stepped inside his darkened workshop with only slight hesitation, and give me something to call you. She waited just inside the door, clutching her wrapped assemblage and frowning. My name is Cenarius. It's I apologize, Creator, but I can't see. Terce had forgotten how dark it had seemed in here during the early years of his apprenticeship, when he was always bumping his knees into the iron legs for the workbench's interchangeable tabletops. Darkness was often necessary for creation, and he'd gotten into the habit of leaving the lights low. He turned up the wick in two lamps behind him he heard the door shut, followed by soft footsteps. He set his pipe down on one of the shelves, leaning it against an ash pan next to a leaking jar of tallow. The dregs of crushed esh flowers were a darkened yellow and still smoldering. The lavender scent curled around the earthy smell of rendered adipose tissue. I don't mind if you smoke, said Cenarius. My father smokes stronger stuff than esch, sometimes wick and the like. He grunted, but left the pipe where it was. Next to the ash pan and tallow was the square vivarium that held a large frog with wooden legs. It butted the glass with its snout, its cavernous throat emitting excited clicks and burrs. Terse remembered he'd been in the middle of supplementing its feeding. He flicked open a tin of powdered green spark and cracked the top of the vivarium just enough to sprinkle a pinch onto the frog. Its gray eyes flashed green, then dulled again. When Terce finally turned around, the young woman was standing on the other side of the butcher top workbench, staring at the tin of spark. Assemblages, inert or alive, skirted the edge of illegality, but getting caught with concentrated spark meant ruinous finds and lengthy prison stays. That was why most assembly shops didn't sell it, and the ones that did only sold it under counter to discreet, experienced creators. The young woman's eyes skated purposefully away, scanning the other shelves. When she lingered on a crate of human femurs. He watched her closely, a shadow of a frown, but nothing more. Go on, then, he said, pleased. Is the aspirant bold? She hesitated. And what should I call you? Creator. Bold enough? Creator will do. She ventured a smile, which he didn't return, then placed the bundle on the workbench. Test two Is the aspirant talented? He pulled his binocular goggles down over his eyes and began carefully opening the wax paper. The broker, who ran one of the oldest assembly shops in town ribbed him because, though he was always complaining about his aching hands and back and insisting he needed to retire, he returned. Month after month, year after year. Someone had to take over his work and his workshop, and it wasn't his fault. The pool of skillful aspirants was dwindling. Yet despite his aging body and the endless disappointment, he found that his vigor and curiosity surged forth at the sight of something new, unexpected. The creature Cenarius had emulated was a cross between a hare and a hound, reduced in scale by a median factor of three or so. The body was a small perforated barrel bulging with organs, and each of the four legs was 2 DM of bone wrapped in copper wire and screwed to a complex of gears. The skull was actually a rabbit's, not a hare's, but the ears were metal, disproportionately long in an eye catching made of copper, beaten sheet thin. She had used sunflower light to glue much of it together. It shone through wherever meat, bone, and metal were joined. Once Tursa's father had allowed him into the greenhouse, his father had plucked a sunflower and dribbled the collected light into his son's cupped hands. The sticky droplets had clung to Terce's skin for days, long after his father sent him away and returned to his plans and experiments and forgetting his son existed. She'd used too much of the adhesive, revealing all the minute errors in the glare. But it was an interesting enough choice to have used it at all that he didn't mind. Most went with animal glue, the best of them extracting it from the connective tissues themselves. But rarely did they use the rest of the beast. Wasteful. The sunflower light, though tedious to collect, was cheap, renewable, and something he hadn't seen much of in recent years. Whimsical, paired with copper as the foundational metal, he was put in mind of torchflame. You did this yourself, Cenarius? He asked, indicating the metalwork, both the leg mechanisms and the ears. Yes. Hmm. He let a little of his admiration show as he rubbed the ears between his fingers, delighting in the smooth texture. Cold as ice. It would be warm if it was treated with spark. If she passed his tests? Unlikely. But he felt a nostalgic, hopeful thrill. You kill the animals yourself? She shook her head, briefly meeting his gaze across the workbench. Just as he was about to lower his expectations, she said, I scavenged them. I found the rabbit when I was looking for reliquary petals. She indicated the shimmering see Blue eye sockets and. And what? He asked impatiently, flicking a magnification lens into place and bending closer to inspect the eye sockets. The dog was mine. He died in his sleep. My parents buried him because they wouldn't. They. They hadn't wanted me to. Okay, okay. He knew enough of parents and how they loved to stifle creativity. Tell me the names of the bones you chose, and why you chose them. Cenarius nodded crisply, like she'd been expecting the order. I chose the rabbit's skull, jaw, and cervical vertebrae because I'm given to understand that true cranial tissue makes smarter assemblages. I chose the tarsi, metatarsi and phalanges from the dog because he was always light on his feet. She sounded more confident now. He liked that. He also liked that she'd limited herself to the lowermost segments of the legs, matching the scale of the rabbit's skull. It was deft work. Defter than anything he'd made at her age. Is the aspirin talented? She was certainly that. It's good, he told her. It had been so long since any of them had shown true promise.
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Cenarius stood taller, a smile lighting up her face even in the Gloom Test 3 is the aspirant teachable, but he said there's a lot of room for improvement. He noticed that she didn't shrink at this. He poked a finger into one of the caverns in the skull, rubbing its inner walls. Touch here. She did as he asked, rubbing the socket as she'd seen him do. What do you feel? She frowned and shook her head. It's like sanding paper. You're supposed to grind the petals finer. Oh, she said, frown deepening. I thought it added something unique. I know a lot of you grind it down. He interrupted to spread the luminosity more evenly, thus improving eyesight. Understand? She relented with a stiff yes. And don't be so shy about coverage. He indicated the gaps where the skull showed through a thin layer of tinted coating. The paint retracts when it dries, which is how you get these bare patches. You should also consider painting it with something more vibrant next time. This ivory color is fine with more complex designs, but with something this simple, you need to raise the intrigue. He pointed out more mistakes, some amateur, others he still made on occasion. Little by little, she did shrink until he felt he was towering. When he was finished, he asked, does this all make sense? One hard nod, her lips pressed thin. Grunting from the ache in his back, he reached under the workbench and produced a small toolkit, one he hadn't used since he was an apprentice, but he'd kept the contents oiled and sharp. He undid the buckles and splayed it open, running his fingers over the pliers, screwdrivers, scalpels, a small hammer. Cenarius eyes gleamed at the tools. They were old but elegant and built to last. Anyone who'd made it this far in the process would appreciate that. Terce pointed at the harehound. Disassemble it. This was a change from the old third test, something he'd added when he took over the workshop. If he could do it, so could anyone who wanted to learn under him. When Terce was 19 and seeking an apprenticeship, he had marched fearlessly into the workshop and given his assemblage over to the Creator for examination. It had been a dragonfly the size of his hand, a daring balance. He thought, of clarity and delicate work that had required increasing levels of magnification to complete. He had toiled over it for years, both as an escape from his mother's sporadic rages and his father's indifference, and as a curiosity and an enrichment of his days, something all his own. Terse had endured the Creator's judgment with his fists tight at his sides, his knuckles groaning. Then he had failed. After his predecessor finished detailing every improvement he would need to make, Terse had gathered up his assemblage and headed for the door. Only the Creator's grip on his arm had stopped him. He said he would give Terse another chance because he showed such promise. Terse hadn't known when, if ever, another opportunity like this would present itself, so he had acquiesced. The Creator had worked with him through supper and into the night, pulling tools and jars from his shelves, talking Terse through each step, occasionally taking over and showing improper technique. In the morning, Terce had slid off his cot and brought a lamp over to the workbench. While his new teacher snored, he stroked the dragonfly, fingertips thrumming with pain from the modified abdomen, which was now covered in needles. As he sucked the blood from his fingertips, he was torn between hating the original assemblage for all its failings and hating this one for not being the original. He would never be sure which loathing had driven him to do it, but he had taken up the toolkit and swiftly reduced the insect to its 87 individual pieces. He was better for having done it. He knew he'd been able to weather these years of thankless creation because that day he had armored himself against caring too much for any one assemblage. Cenarius reached for the harehound, but her hand hovered in the air above one hind leg as if she was afraid to touch it. Is there another way? No. You will disassemble it as completely as you're able, or you fail. I want to see the gears and bones and coiled wires all laid out, the organs arranged as they were inside the barrel. He understood why there were tears in her eyes. She had probably spent seasons saving for the metals, months gathering the sunlight, weeks working the wire, and she had shown patience in waiting until fresh carcasses presented themselves. But she needed spark, his spark, or her assemblage would never be more than parts. After long seconds, she pulled the toolkit to her side of the bench and selected a screwdriver. She set about it, tentatively at first, unscrewing the vertebrae from the copper plate at the top of the barrel as slowly as she could, as if she hoped he would take pity and say enough. When that didn't happen, she shrugged off her knapsack and dropped it to the floor. She rolled her shoulders and her movements became brisk and practiced. Now the head, next the ears. Then the barrel opened and the organs removed. One by one, six in total, alternating between rabbits and dogs, starting with the rabbit's chestnut sized brain and ending with a section of the dog's small intestine looped around and threaded through itself. The braid was simple, but Terce would never have thought of doing something like that. Surprising him with her thoroughness, she started unbraiding it. He had to fight the urge to stay her hand so he could take a closer look. When she came to the wire work on the dog's bones, though, she froze with the pliers gripped tight in her hands. He waited, watching. He listened to the pattering of wood against glass as the frog paced in its vivarium. She looked up, the components of her assemblage arrayed before her, lit with sunlight and reflected in her eyes. I'm sorry, I can't. Is the aspirant teachable? Terse felt a heaviness in his chest, a tightness. Are you sure I can't? It was hardly a whisper. He shook his head. That's disappointing. He turned his back on her to retrieve his pipe from its vivarium. The frog watched him with curious pale gray eyes. Its creator, a man old enough to be Terce's son, had shown up a few years ago, an hour after sunrise, looking embarrassed about the state of his clothes after his trek through the woods. The man had been fearless in his innovations and malleable but lacking in technical skills. His apprenticeship lasted two days before it was clear he couldn't meet Tirsa's standards. This young woman was similarly gifted with imagination, and she was technically proficient. But if she wouldn't follow all his instructions now, when he had the greater knowledge and the spark, when would she ever. Her ideas were useful to him, though. He thought of her journal, likely full of complex chimeras with exquisite metalwork and braided entrails. He might even try his own twist on the rough textured sockets because upon reflection, he thought the assemblage might see the world differently. But in a good way. Terce could almost feel himself opening the letters of admiration for his newest work, could almost feel feel the rain of hard coins putting meat and metal on his tables. He clenched his pipe between his teeth. He touched a match to one of the lamps, turning down the wick to give his eyes a rest. He lit his pipe and inhaled deeply. Like his tendency to keep the lights low, Terse had inherited his smoking habit from his predecessor. He swung around to face the young woman, but he hesitated when his eyes met hers. Then he glanced at her bag under the workbench sagging against an iron leg with the weight of her designs, and he exhaled a cloud of bitter yellow. She couldn't know that he was primarily smoking farron, a leaf that soothed his myriad aches. Couldn't know that its telltale stark white smoke was cloaked by a pinch of golden esh and its damp woody scent made bearable with lavender. Couldn't know he'd built up such a tolerance that he was using six times the recommended potency. Regardless, she backed away. Clever, but too late. She dropped the pliers and covered her mouth through the first few bone rattling coughs. He blew a second mouthful in her direction and she cast her hand out, grabbing for the table but finding no purchase on the oiled wood. Her hand knocked the rabbit's skull to the floor and it rolled under a shelf. She swayed, stumbled to the door, viscera slick fingers groping for the handle. She collapsed. Terse stood over her and was reminded of his dragonfly. Her tunic gleamed in stray light from the kitchen window and her arms were splayed like gnarled wings. She was so still that he knelt to check that she was breathing the pipe, hunger cold from Terce's lips, neglected while he secured Cenarius to the back of a horse like assemblage. It wasn't clever. Its brain tissue had been needed for another project, but its legs were made of steel and its daily grazing led it to the outskirts of the woods where the young woman could be dumped and easily found. By the time night coalesced, her breathing had recovered and Terse allowed the assemblage and its load to disappear into the trees. He finally unclenched his jaw enough to pull the pipe from it. She would wake by morning. She would wake. True, she wouldn't remember her last three or four days and she would be missing her pack. That had been unavoidable. But if she was as determined as she seemed, she would sketch more designs and build another assemblage. Maybe she would come seeking an apprenticeship again when she was ready, though now he didn't think he could take her in. As soon as he was inside, he was drawn to the disassembled harehound. Each bone and organ and wire glowed with its own light. He got gingerly to his knees to retrieve the rabbit's skull from under the shelf and pick up the pliers she'd dropped, meaning to set them on the workbench. Instead, he began reassembling pieces with the apprentice kit he'd lent her. The tools fit oddly in his hands. He worked all night like he had when he was young, in a fury as if stopping would mean death. He did have to stop eventually, for T to stay awake and Farron to soothe his back, but he rushed back to his workbench afterwards, the pipe still fresh on his lips, and in the haze of smoke and creation, he didn't have to think about what he'd done, who he'd become. When the sun was on the horizon, the harehound was as complete as it could be. Terse, dusted the assemblage with viridian powder and waited with his hand heavy on the barrel of its body. He felt, when it spasmed to life, spark flashed in its eyes, and instead of the usual green, the coarse reliquary petals made the sockets hum with an eerie underwater light. It was singular and exquisite, and he fought the impulse to crush its skull to prove that he could. Kel Coleman is a Mom editor and Ignite nominated author. Their fiction has appeared in Anathema, Speck, from the Margins, Apparition lit, the Best American Science fiction and fantasy 2022 and others. Although Kel is a Marylander at heart, they currently live in Pennsylvania with their husband, Tiny Human, and a stuffed dragon named Pennsylvania. They can be found at kelcolman.com Disassembling Light by Kel Coleman was found in Beneath Ceaseless Skies 385 It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton is available wherever you get your podcasts. You can find us at patreon, which is patreon.com storytime, where you can find a bunch of fun extras including some marked up scripts, some behind the scenes video of me struggling to pronounce easily pronounceable words, and my reflections on the material. Material as I sort of muse after I finish reading and sort of think about and talk about and begin a discussion about the story that I just read that you just listened to. I really enjoy it. If you'd like to be part of that, you can come check us out@patreon.com storytime. You can also find us at YouTube and at my blog wilwheaton.net podcast thanks so much for listening. I am Wil Wheaton and I'll see you next time. Until then, take care of yourselves and take care of each other. It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton was produced in 2025 by Traveller Enterprises Incorporated, who holds the copyright. Our producer is Harris Lane. Our story producer and director is Gabrielle Dacure. Our content editor is Michael Thomas. Our podcast is edited, mixed and mastered by Alex Barton of Phase Shift AV Very special thanks to Wes Stevens and Christopher Black. It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton is recorded at Skyboat Media. Thank you so very much for listening. If you've enjoyed the show, please like subscribe, rate and review us wherever you get your podcasts. I'll see you next time. Until then, take care of yourselves and take care of each other.
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