The muon is our hero, a thing that begins with being cast away: a proton shimmies from deep space into our planet’s atmosphere, collides with one of anything, decays into a pion, which in turn decays into our muon. She is given two millionths of a second to explore this strange country we call Earth: were it not for the relativity of time—objects moving fastest experience time slowest (and she moves fast indeed)—our muon would decay well above our heads. She would become an electron and two neutrinos; no helper could reordain her old spin. Decay is more permanent than being magiked into a deer, into a raven. The pieces are harder to find, when they too decay: imagine a deer becoming eight rabbits becoming a hundred butterflies becoming a trillion muons.
Then we have to ask what it is the muon means to accomplish here, because she is not going back home. One possibility is that by her transformation she transforms us: she might pass into our upturned palms, break apart one of our cytosines, alter our genetic happenstance. There’s a rumor that’s how some species, even ours, were made: the most kind muon mutation. Maybe instead of fearing her radiation, this thing we ordain her bremsstrahlung, we should embrace her: she could know a way to make us better.
This pilot who has survived a high-speed cartwheeling from the center of our galaxy or beyond inside the belly of a proton—let’s catch the muon as she falls. She is one in three million to survive the fall. So we should ordain her with speeches about our three lives of water and other such nonsense. We should make her feel at home. Let’s remember to hold out own palms. We could let her keep falling—what is a dozen feet of bedrock after galactic travel—but then she would be like people: purposeless, unsure, our palms turned to the sky, trying to hold a conversation with bones.
This Editor’s Note was written by Tiny Donkey Editor and Fairy Tale Review Managing Editor Joel Hans.