An Impartial Third Liminal Opinion

20251223

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 4” event.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Kyle murmured sympathetically, trying to angle the bottle so baby Robin could latch. “You much prefer it from tap. I hear ya. But mommy’s shift ends at eight. So it’s bottle or nothing right now.”
“Mya!”
“Duly noted. Your complaints are important to us, and will be passed on to the manager. Once she’s awake.”
This satisfied Robin - and in a remarkable stroke of coincidence at that precise moment Kyle finally found the right angle. Either way the hungry grumbles were replaced with happy slurping.
“Why do so many of these precious, formative moments have to happen close to midnight, eh?”
Kyle leant back and admired how the nightlight projected stars onto the ceiling. Savouring the lull.
“You’re CHEATING! I know it!”
While hallucinating wasn’t a new experience for Kyle - tending a newborn often did that to you - he’d never heard full voices before. He jumped, startling poor Robin, who promptly lost hold of the nipple and lodged an indignant piece of customer feedback.
“Sorry, sorry, shhh shhh shhh…”
“Now look what you’ve done. You haven’t even started and you’re making people miserable. They’ll hate you worse than me at this rate.”
“That - this is your fault!”
Kyle looked up and found the wall between the nursery and the outside no longer existed - and seemingly neither did the outside. There was just a dark void with two nebulous glowing figures seated at a games table.
“Uhh…”
“Well, since he’s slipped in here, perhaps he can referee.” The figure on the left, the larger and more stooped of the two, turned its featureless head to peer at Kyle. “Do you know how to play backgammon?”
“Sort… of? But I think I need to call myself an ambulance.”
Ideally without disturbing Robin, who’d latched back on and was happily feeding, oblivious to the fact their father was having some sort of mental breakdown.
“Not at all, not at all. You’ve just slid into liminal space. Happens all the time. Usually only for a moment or two, but I, how to put this, collared you as you went past. You’re free to go whenever, I promise. But if you have a moment…”
“...Sure?”
In an instant the figures and their table were right in front of him. Despite them still being in that void and him still being in the nursery. Kyle blinked and wished he had a hand free to rub his eyes.
“Don’t think about it too hard.” The larger figure said kindly. “Just focus on the table.”
Right. Ok.
Gosh, that backgammon board took him back to childhood family holidays…
“Allow me to introduce myself - I’m Twenty-Twenty-Five. And this is Twenty-Twenty-Six.”
What?
The smaller (but currently taller, what with sitting upright) figure scoffed “Oh, just call us ‘Old Year’ and ‘New Year’. Or even ‘Old’ and ‘New’. Less of a mouthful.”
“But… but the New Year isn’t for-”
“Spare us that Gregorian twaddle.” Old flapped a hand in dismissal. “This is longest night. The sun will rise on a new year.”
“It’ll rise on the transition period.” New said sharply, then added to Kyle “That’s what we need mediated. There’s supposed to be a handover period with length based on our scores. Normally it’s about two weeks. But they want to jump straight to me handling everything!”
“Oh.”
Kyle had always felt that the fortnight around New Years wasn’t quite real time, but had assumed that was partially buried hibernation instincts talking. The idea of jumping solidly into a brand new year felt unpleasant. Like being shoved into a swimming pool.
“Exactly.” New sat back and somehow beamed without a face.
“Well, but, look, there’s nothing to hand over, really.” Old fiddled with their dice. “And everyone’s always complaining about not having enough time, so giving them a little extra-”
“You just want to ditch early because you’re tired of everyone hating you.”
Old slumped a little lower.
“Pretty sure there’s people who hate every year.” Kyle offered tentatively. Not at all sure if that would help.
“Yes, but it’s only getting worse.” Old sighed heavily.
“The fact they’re going to hate me regardless of what I do is no reason to dump me in untrained!” New grumbled. “Who knows how long it’d take to get everything on an even keel!”
“Easy for you to say now, with youthful vigour!” Old said sourly. “They started making memes about killing me or kicking me out in October. As if I have any control over what happens during my shift! That’s all them. And you expect me to stick around for a proper handover?”
Kyle uneasily wondered if he’d ever shared such memes. He didn’t think he had, but… he might have laugh reacted a few. Hopefully Old hadn’t noticed.
He cleared his throat and said “Look, I totally get wanting out of a toxic workplace environment. What’s the, um, minimum standard period?”
“Call it a week.” New said, cutting off whatever Old had started to grumble.
“Then would that - ah, sorry…” Robin, who’d finished eating, was indicating that they needed to be burped.
“No worries.” Old shot him an eyeless sympathetic glance. “What a cutie!”
Despite himself Kyle grinned.
As his hands worked through the well-worn burping ritual he fumbled for how to put this. “Would a shorter transition be a good compromise? I know you normally sort that out with the game, but with this being a, a personal need…”
“We can’t use the game anyway - they keep cheating.”
“I am not! You’re just terrible at backgammon.”
“I saw you moving pieces out of turn!”
“No you didn’t.”
Kyle coughed and, politely but firmly, said “You wanted my opinion and I’ve given it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to put Robin to bed.”
And perhaps call that ambulance.
“Oh, of course. Thank you for your time.” Old waved a hand, and in a blink the nursery was back to normal.
“…Alright.” Kyle slowly stood. “Let’s get you tucked in, because daddy definitely needs sleep.”

Prompt was: “On the solstice, the old year and the new year play a game to determine the terms of transition. Tonight, they need a mortal to break the tie. You weren’t supposed to be awake to witness it. But you are. And now they’re both looking at you.”