Septemus 19

Dear Sept,

You’ve been playing a lot lately. You turn everything into spacecraft.

Sometimes, your games look painful.


I asked you about it.

“This isn’t the good ship,” you said. “This is a very bad ship!”

You made engine-sputter noises and shrill shrieks and crashes and the sounds of explosions.


The sound effects alone were terrifying.

Whenever you play with RedCarSpaceShip, the game ends in a crash, with you screaming in a hushed, echoing, falsetto that sounds like the cries of a hundred infants.


“Have you ever met anyone who didn’t come here on a spaceship?” you asked me.

“Of course,” I replied.

You shook your head. “NoIdon’tmeananyonelikeeveryone–”

“Spaces,” I reminded.

“I don’t mean anyone like everyone,” you said, slowly.  “I don’t mean like Miko and Darling. I mean…” You looked puzzled. “Like so, me and the bizoopagotogo, we came on the bad spaceship that crashed, right?”

I nodded.

“But what about the others like me?” you asked. “How did they get here?”

“What others like you?” I asked in return.

And then you told me about images you’d been seeing.


Small children, blue like you, in a room with lots of toys.

An older girl, nearly as big as Miko. Another girl, as big as you. And one more little one.

“There are stars,” you said. “Are there stars inside houses? I keep seeing stars.”


“Where are they?” I asked.

“They’re in a room with stars and toys and something delicious. Like maybe spaghetti. Can we have spaghetti?”


I asked you if they were your bizoopagotogo, and you said, no. They were pajotojo and bajotojo.

“That’s how come I don’t know how they got here. Did they come on another ship?”

I didn’t know what to tell you. So many of the questions you ask have answers I don’t know. You’re starting to accept that.

This evening, after supper (we had spaghetti), I watched you playing in the park with Kizuu.

“Kizuu isn’t a cat,” you told me. “Kizuu is the good ship. The good ship Kizuu-Cat! It runs on purr power!”

You held your finger above the ship like a transporter beam.

Ti, pi, ki, ji, li, ri, fi, di, zi, ni, bi, tui!” you counted. You kept counting to one hundred.


Then Kizuu The Good Ship floated on the strains of your song.

“Home, home!
It’s got spaghetti…

“Home, home!
My little night light…

“Home, home!
Bring the stars inside

“Home, home!
Safe. Home!”


You landed Kizuu down so softly onto the ground, and I could feel your feelings of peace inside.

“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” you said. “Can I sleep outside?”

It’s a funny habit you’ve developed, sleeping on the bench in the park next door. But I think I understand it.

For one thing, our neighborhood is safe, and I’m right here.

For another, when you are with me, inside our home, we form our own world of just the two of us. But when you are out, with the stars to amplify your transmissions, you have connections with all your gotogo and jotojo. You aren’t alone, under the stars.


I went inside to put fresh sheets on your bed, after writing this letter to you. I’ll let you sleep out there for a little longer, and then, when the cool night air crawls up from the river, I’ll carry you back inside, in our world in our home, and I’ll tuck you in.


Since we’ve found your some of your siblings, you don’t seem like an orphan anymore. You seem like a member of a big, loving family. I’m happy you’re letting me join it, too.

Your loving pops.

<< Previous | Next >>

Author’s note: Many thanks to kkira555 of KK’s Sims Stories for the telepathic transmissions from the jotojo!

Septemus 6


Dear Sept,

Now that I know you can understand me, I’ve decided to keep you in the loop.

If I know it, you’ll know it.

I had to piece out the truth about my mom and dad from what little clues Nonny and Poppy gave me. I don’t want you to have to do that.


So, that’s why I told you everything today.


I realize now it was maybe too much. Maybe it’s not that great of an idea to tell a little kid everything you know.

I mean, just because you’ve got the linguistic capacity doesn’t mean you’ve got the emotional capacity.


You about broke my heart when you said, “SebationIwon’tseebizaabgotojonomore?

Now I see why Nonny and Poppy always dodgedthe question when I asked where my mom was and when she was coming to get me.

It’s tough to tell a little kid he won’t be seeing his mom again.


Septemus, I’m sorry your mom died in that crash. I don’t know why she wasn’t in the protective pods like you and the other kids. Maybe she had to drive the ship. Maybe something went wrong and she was getting out to fix it. Maybe the reason you all survived was because of something she did, and she saved you, giving up her life so you and your siblings could keep yours. Maybe it was just one of those millions of stupid, random pointless things that happen for no reason–or at least no reason that we can figure out. It just happened. I wish it hadn’t, and I wish she were still here to lay her blue hands on you, and I know that this something you’ll carry with you for all your life.

It’s your defining circumstance.

You asked me, “Sebastionwheretheygoall99?”


I don’t know where they went, Sept.

I asked at the agency, and no one would tell me.

But I’m going to look for them.

Youlookalloverthewidewholeeverything?” you asked.


I promised you. “Yes, Septemus. I will look all over the wide whole everything, and I’ll keep looking until we find them.”



I’ll find them as quickly as I can. I told you my idea to start with the alumni association for the ECE program at the University of MP. It’s only logical, since I know the agency sent letters to all us recent grads.




Yes, Septemus. I will keep writing and keep writing until they answer. Until we find as many of your brothers and sisters as we can find.


Sebastionwhenwefindthemwehavebigparty? Anddance? Promise?”


Of course. We’ll have a big party and dance with all your brothers and sisters and all their new bizaabgotojoto.


It might not be that easy, though.

I mean, the paranoid vibe I’m picking up on from the agency is pretty strong. And it could be that they’ve told the others not to say anything. Or even if it’s nothing explicit, you know how people are: paranoia spreads like the flu.

But even if it’s not easy, and even if it takes longer than I think, I’ll keep looking.



“It might take a while, Squirt,” I said.



When I tucked you in tonight, you whispered to me as you fell asleep, “Sebastionwritefastletterstheycomequickly.

Well, little guy. I’m writing my first draft tonight. Then I’ve got to read it over. It’s got to be written just right if we want to persuade the other caregivers to take a risk and meet us. But I’ll write it as quickly as I can while doing a good job to be persuasive. And reassuring. And trustworthy. And calm. While still expressing the urgency of my little squirt needing to see his bizoopagotogo ASAP.


You won’t have to grow up a solitary kid, like I did, Sept. Not if I can help it.

Your bizaabgotojo,


<< Previous | Next >>