sad bees surround the porch with their wings drooping in the summer rain looking for a dry place to call home amidst the endless floods
ferns sprout from the mud, growing other smaller ferns from their leaves which grow little micro ferns from their own leaves after that
this particular house was full of mustard packets
that the resident had collected for his entire life as well as several preceding generations
the problem was that there was never a reason not to have more mustard packets
they were one of the few things in the world of any value that were absolutely free
other than the trouble it took to grab and transport a handful of them
and so a long standing tradition developed in the family
but the current generation and his father and his father's father did not like mustard
still they thought that they must carry on the mustard collection in the name of their own forefathers or foregreatgrandfathers as the case may be
the bees did not know about the mustard house
this was a coincidence
and as far as i know bees are not especially fond of mustard anyhow
though in honest i don't know
i'm not sure if anyone really does know
whether bees like mustard or not
i certainly haven't tested it
nor have i ever
before this moment
had a desire to seek out an expert of both bees and mustard simultaneously
to see if he or she ever thought of combining their two disciplines into one, single life-long study of the relationship between bees and mustard
if in fact any such relationship does exist
i mean personally if i had to take a guess
i would guess that they do like mustard
of the sort that winds up in packets because that shit is
probably loaded with all sorts of sugars and syrup
fortunately for the mustard house man, most of the packets remained sealed and odorless
thus concealing the mustard's existence from these swarms of drenched bees who only sought a place to dry their wings
unfortunately
the mustard man did not know this
and the presence of a hundred and twenty autonomous swarms of bees surrounding his porch drove him to the first of all conclusions a man in his position must make:
that this must be the mustard
what else could it be
there is a troubling correlation when only one man in the world
has the inclination to maintain a generational mustard packet hoard
and that selfsame hoard is surrounded by countless ravenous insects
they were there for his inheritance
they would devour it and leave him with nothing left in the entire world
a different man may have inquired of himself whether it was preferable to have nothing or to have an endless supply of something that tasted to him like a skunk had rubbed its anus on a green pepper
but not this man. he was raised in the mustard and by god he would die in the mustard if he must
having said this aloud, the mustard man ran to his bedroom slipping on mustard packets the whole way and opened an old chest in which he kept among other things the other things being mustard packets a shotgun and a tennis racket conveniently placed next to each other
the shotgun he loaded with beeshot that he had on a whim purchased upon first learning of its existence and the tennis racket he left in the chest because he did not possess enough extra hands to carry both and surely something called beeshot must be effective against bees
he ran through his kitchen and observed out the sliding glass doors the bees using their stingers to cut tiny holes in the glass like cat burglars
they were beginning to pour into the room now and he unloaded his beeshot at them which was effective
in the most relative sense as it did hit a few bees but the swarms were endless
they poured through a hundred thousand minute holes in the glass and walls and ceiling
teams of sappers burst from the floor followed by endless files of them
they zoomed down the fireplace and surrounded everything
and when there was no more space for a single bee in the entire house
they sat down and went to sleep out the rain waiting for their wings to dry
and as far as he could tell not a single one of them touched the mustard
he checked
moving from room to room to all of his various hoards and they remained undisturbed
now in addition to the mustard packets he had a hoard of bees to look after and avoid stepping on which was going to be impossible and he had a sinking feeling they would turn on him as soon as he did
but given the number of beeshot shells remaining to him he could think of nothing to do but lie down on the one open spot of floor in his house of mustard and bees while the rain began to fill up the world with itself
the bees would surely leave when it stopped
but it never would
Thursday, April 30, 2020
Monday, April 27, 2020
Only the Ocean
In an attempt to make things less than perfect, the roots of the tree dug into his back this time. A single ant crawled up his ankle. She let it annoy him slightly, then brushed it off. Her other hand rested on the lower part of his stomach beneath his shirt. Her head lay on his shoulder. They watched the grass whispering to itself, the wind touching them on its way from the horizon's edge.
"This isn't real, right?" he said.
"I've told you it's not, Robert."
He brushed her hair, touched her neck. "Why can't I remember that?"
She sighed. "I can't control your memory, if that's what you're thinking. And I wouldn't if I could. You're just forgetful."
He knew that to be true. "Okay."
"Why remember it if it isn't important?" He could see her smiling from the corner of his left eye.
He had no particular answer to the question, so he kissed her instead. "Do you know the story of Circe?" he asked.
"I know everything."
He awoke in a large, round bed covered in pillows and surrounded by sheer fabric. The room was carved straight out of the rock, the cave walls torchlit. A long table was laid out for a feast that never happened. She was still next to him, but different. Her clothes were gone, her skin bronzed, and draped in silver necklaces. Atop a bed post perched a hawk with the face of a woman. "Does this please you?" it said.
"It makes my head spin." She, the hawk and the woman, laughed together, and one of them bit his ear.
Some time later, he couldn't say how many hours or days had passed, he rose from the bed and out of the room, following the sunlight. The door led only to a small balcony of the same black stone, looking onto a rocky slope that led to a beach. Beyond it was the sea, the horizon flat and unblemished. He stood and felt a salt wind through his hair, heard her bare feet on the wet stone behind him. A storm had passed through just that morning, leaving puddles on the uneven floor. He could now remember thunder rocking the room as he laid with her. She pressed against his back and snaked arms around him.
"Is there anything else out there?" he said.
"Only the ocean. Everything you need is here."
They stood on a paved mountaintop that must've been the site of a temple at some point in the past. Large, stone gates stood at either end, intricately carved and decayed. The central courtyard was ringed with battered monuments, men and women of severe but peaceful countenance. The sun stood low behind a layer of silent dust and smoke from the basins of smoldering incense. Robert stood in what he could only describe as a fur smock and felt the cold, the sunshine, the rough wrapping of the sword hilt against his right palm. He stood opposite a grey-bearded man in similar dress and sword.
"Are you.…male or female in reality?"
"I don't exist in reality, Robert." They circled each other, sword arms relaxed but ready.
"Then who do I speak to? How do you call yourself 'I' if you do not exist?"
The elder man pretended to ponder by stroking his beard. "Call it a failure of language, if you must."
Robert grounded his sword point for a moment. "Look, I just want to know who I was kissing before."
"A dream, I suppose."
He could find no response that didn't lead him down into another semantic argument. Instead, he raised his blade and rushed forward. As his mind wandered on the rhythm of their duel, strokes marked with ringing steel, another thought occured to him. "Is Robert my real name?"
They paused with swords crossed. "Of course. I named you when I found you."
"When you FOUND me? Then that means I must have a real home somewhere, and loved ones."
"No."
"How can you know that?"
"Because I incinerated them all."
Below his feet was a drop of several kilometers, straight down along a sheet of ice in which he would be able to see his reflection as he fell. His toes had found a small outcropping (as slick as everything else), but what kept him suspended was the ice pick in his left hand and another hand grasping his right. That other hand was attached to the scruffy gentleman above him, a dark curly beard tinged with frost around a grin of effort.
The man pulled him up onto the ledge where they both took a moment to breathe and stare up at a pale blue sky. Far below, the campfires of an army on the hunt were just beginning to light. They would wait until sunrise to begin their pursuit up the mountain. He could relax until then.
His companion sat up. "Help me get a fire going."
Robert expelled his breath and watched it crystallize in the breeze. "What should I call you?"
"Me? I'm Daniel, Robert. You should remember that, at least."
"No, I mean what should I call the you behind you? The real you?"
"The 'real' me?" Daniel injected a note of scorn into the concept. He smiled and tossed Robert a packet of frozen fish. "What did I tell you before? You're poking at the edges of the universe, Robert."
"What do you mean?"
Daniel busied himself unpacking their thermal sleeping bags. "What will you gain from a context outside this dream? Look below you." Daniel pointed down to the glittering camps of the army chasing them. There was a campfire for every tree in the forest. "They will be on us in two days at most, unless we pick up the pace tomorrow. Help me get dinner ready."
He could not get around Daniel's deflections without some way to define what he meant by 'Real'. In any case, Robert remembered what dying felt like and knew that he would like to avoid being caught by their pursuers. He also knew that they needed to escape if they were to retake the kingdom from his brother (a vivid face flashed in his mind). He also knew that he should not be able to remember dying...
"The truth is that which is true regardless of perspective," he said.
"Listen to yourself. The truth is that which is true? We're to use the word within its own definition?" said the dog.
"True."
"Is anything true from every perspective?"
"I'm not sure." He raised a pipe to his lips. He and the old dog sat beneath the same tree as always, the same roots digging into his back, the same sun visible through the blades of grass swaying on the hillside. He removed the pipe and exhaled, watching the smoke form a cloud in front of his face. For just a moment, something seemed to shimmer in that haze. Then it was gone.
The dog raised its head and looked at him. It seemed about to speak. Instead, it laid its head back on its paws and went to sleep. Robert felt the tree bark. It felt ancient, substantial. Solid. The dog's fur was soft and warm on his other hand. His throat still burned from the pipe. On a sensory level, he could not distinguish any part of his surroundings as being unreal. Nor could he recall a memory that he could be sure WAS real. As the sun set, the clouds turned purple, but still liqud platinum around the edges. The flowers lowered their heads and went to sleep. "Is this real?" he said.
The dog raised its head again. "I've told you it isn't, Robert. Would you prefer that I lie to you?"
"Honestly?" He clenched the pipestem between his molars. "I'm not sure."
More and more of his dreams had involved beautiful women of late. All with the same voice. He would spend a day hunting in the jungle, and when he returned she was there. They laid through the sunset on an island beach, staring at the sea beyond which there was nothing. When he asked, she told him it was so. Then he would tear himself away from her rainbow eyes to stare at the horizon, looking for the seam. There must be a seam, an edge, something beyond which there was something else. He wondered how far he could swim. And when he did, she responded as if he had spoken. "When you're here with me, you are strong. But your strength would give out long before you reached the horizon. Try if you must, though. I won't let the sea hurt you."
He hesitated, but only to demonstrate his will. He had little desire to prove her right.
"You are fond of asking what is real?" She was propped on her elbows staring into his face. Her irises were impossible, made of some crystal that could not exist. "My love is real."
He forgot, once again, what had worried him. And everything else as well. The night drew in the day and smothered it in stars.
In the lucid moments of any given dream, he felt himself backsliding, but toward or away from what what he couldn't say. Backsliding implied progress. Progress toward what? The only goal he could formulate was emancipation.
And so, on a dew-strewn morning on that peaceful hill that he loved, he asked the woman next to him to release him. She answered without surprise.
"As you wish, Robert. I want you to know that I've enjoyed our time together. I respect you, as I've said, and I know how much you enjoy a challenge." She stepped forward and put her arms around him, laid her head on his chest. "With that in mind, I've programmed a few of the drones on board to attempt to kill you."
"Uh..."
"Most of them just have welding tools. They are fast, though. But I've worked on building up the muscles in your legs lately, so you should be able to run without much trouble."
"Thanks?" He touched her hair out of habit.
"You should have about fifteen seconds to study the map to the escape pods---"
"--escape pods?"
"Fifteen seconds to study the map by the door before they reach you. Run swiftly, my love, and don't falter. I can't save you out there."
Horrible emotions that he knew he shouldn't be having flooded him. He tried to speak, but she kissed him again and bit his lip, hard. His body was imploding...
15 seconds. He struggled upward, kicking his legs against the tide. Dense water choked him. His fingers touched the edge and he pulled himself up and over it, toppling out of his container and onto the coldest floor he'd ever felt. Sirens blared. 15 seconds. Dimly aware of the rows of vats he passed, he studied the map by the door. From down the exterior hallway, the maintenance drones were screaming.
She continued to speak to him in the voice he recognized, modulating in strange ways over the speaker, as he sped down a corridor made of metal and molded plastic. "You know, Robert, I never told the other prisoners I loved them. Only you."
He couldn't help replying while trying to keep the layout clear in his head. "So they ARE prisoners, aren't they?"
"I wouldn't lie to you."
"And why not? Morality isn't a thing for you, remember?" he took a sharp right turn, pausing just enough to make sure the way was clear.
"I remember everything. I won't lie because I like you."
"Whatever."
"I know you think of me as a woman, Robert. I would even pick a name for you to call me. How about Victoria?"
"Now you're just toying with me."
"Perhaps." She giggled softly in a way that still affected him. The sound echoed down the hall, blending with the buzz of the drones hunting him.
"I don't suppose you keep some sort of locker full of laser pistols on board, darling?"
"Laser pistols aren't real, Robert. I made that up. The real universe is a boring and empty place. Wouldn't you rather stay in mine? With me?"
"You're still using this 'I' stuff. I thought you didn't exist." He peeked around the corner and took off running again. Most of the hallways looked identical.
"Your memory is improving! Of course I exist, Robert. You're inside me right now."
He kept running.
"Robert."
He kept running.
"Robert? Maybe Victoria doesn't exist, but she could. If I speak to you through only one avatar, what's the difference? Is it wrong for me to choose the way I look to you?"
He couldn't refute anything she said, or stop associating the voice with the faces in his memory, or even stop thinking of her as a she. What was the difference? He kept running.
She injected, purposefully no doubt, a note of annoyance and smugness into the voice she chose to use. "All will of course be forgiven if you give up, Robert. I just want us to be together again. But I know you won't change your mind. Just know that it is very cold and lonely outside. And also that I am going to detonate the room you are about to enter."
Before he could even slow or consider whether she was bluffing, the walls around him exploded. Pipes burst and spit flames. A horrible hissing came from the ceiling above him. He kept running.
As he passed out of the room she giggled again. The speakers in the hall crackled. "You're crazy!" he said.
"And you are a very determined, very fast man. Keep going, my dear. You're almost there."
His head spun.
"You know this could still be a dream, right?"
"I feel more awake."
"I could easily manufacture that feeling."
"True." He was still running. He knew the path he was on now. It was a straight shot all the way down the corridor. "But I've always had to trust you before. I see no reason to stop now."
"Aww. You do know just the right thing to say, don't you? Here, have a few extra seconds. My treat." He heard a bulkhead door snap shut behind him just as he cleared it. A second later, by the count of his racing heart, something slammed into it, hard. He resisted the urge to look back, spurred himself onward.
He buckled into the only chair in the escape pod. "I know how much you love adventure, Robert. And the irony is that I'm the only one who can offer what you want. You'd just have to admit that it isn't real. Which you can't."
"You use my name a lot."
"Because you like it when I do."
"I do."
"So do I."
He forced himself to keep breathing. The air tasted stale. The door was shut behind him, but he could hear the drones cutting through it. "Which button do I push?"
"Do you know the difference between you and Odysseus, darling?"
"Which button, Victoria?"
"Odysseus had somewhere to go." Flickering sparks illuminated an expansive control panel, covered in levers, switches, buttons, dials, flashing lights. "I am your Circe AND your Penelope."
"I know. Which one?"
"The red button, my love. Push the red button. Good luck."
He pounded the only red button with his fist. The pod ejected with a sharp crack that made him jump. He looked back expecting to see the drones flooding into the pod, and instead saw the inner airlock spinning away through the windows, giving way to a spherical ship shrinking into an endless starfield.
He watched the ship dwindle. "Victoria....can you still hear me?"
There was a pause in which he thought he could hear her breathing through the radio's static. "Yes."
"What's my real name?"
"Your real name is Robert. I never changed it."
"This isn't real, right?" he said.
"I've told you it's not, Robert."
He brushed her hair, touched her neck. "Why can't I remember that?"
She sighed. "I can't control your memory, if that's what you're thinking. And I wouldn't if I could. You're just forgetful."
He knew that to be true. "Okay."
"Why remember it if it isn't important?" He could see her smiling from the corner of his left eye.
He had no particular answer to the question, so he kissed her instead. "Do you know the story of Circe?" he asked.
"I know everything."
He awoke in a large, round bed covered in pillows and surrounded by sheer fabric. The room was carved straight out of the rock, the cave walls torchlit. A long table was laid out for a feast that never happened. She was still next to him, but different. Her clothes were gone, her skin bronzed, and draped in silver necklaces. Atop a bed post perched a hawk with the face of a woman. "Does this please you?" it said.
"It makes my head spin." She, the hawk and the woman, laughed together, and one of them bit his ear.
Some time later, he couldn't say how many hours or days had passed, he rose from the bed and out of the room, following the sunlight. The door led only to a small balcony of the same black stone, looking onto a rocky slope that led to a beach. Beyond it was the sea, the horizon flat and unblemished. He stood and felt a salt wind through his hair, heard her bare feet on the wet stone behind him. A storm had passed through just that morning, leaving puddles on the uneven floor. He could now remember thunder rocking the room as he laid with her. She pressed against his back and snaked arms around him.
"Is there anything else out there?" he said.
"Only the ocean. Everything you need is here."
They stood on a paved mountaintop that must've been the site of a temple at some point in the past. Large, stone gates stood at either end, intricately carved and decayed. The central courtyard was ringed with battered monuments, men and women of severe but peaceful countenance. The sun stood low behind a layer of silent dust and smoke from the basins of smoldering incense. Robert stood in what he could only describe as a fur smock and felt the cold, the sunshine, the rough wrapping of the sword hilt against his right palm. He stood opposite a grey-bearded man in similar dress and sword.
"Are you.…male or female in reality?"
"I don't exist in reality, Robert." They circled each other, sword arms relaxed but ready.
"Then who do I speak to? How do you call yourself 'I' if you do not exist?"
The elder man pretended to ponder by stroking his beard. "Call it a failure of language, if you must."
Robert grounded his sword point for a moment. "Look, I just want to know who I was kissing before."
"A dream, I suppose."
He could find no response that didn't lead him down into another semantic argument. Instead, he raised his blade and rushed forward. As his mind wandered on the rhythm of their duel, strokes marked with ringing steel, another thought occured to him. "Is Robert my real name?"
They paused with swords crossed. "Of course. I named you when I found you."
"When you FOUND me? Then that means I must have a real home somewhere, and loved ones."
"No."
"How can you know that?"
"Because I incinerated them all."
Below his feet was a drop of several kilometers, straight down along a sheet of ice in which he would be able to see his reflection as he fell. His toes had found a small outcropping (as slick as everything else), but what kept him suspended was the ice pick in his left hand and another hand grasping his right. That other hand was attached to the scruffy gentleman above him, a dark curly beard tinged with frost around a grin of effort.
The man pulled him up onto the ledge where they both took a moment to breathe and stare up at a pale blue sky. Far below, the campfires of an army on the hunt were just beginning to light. They would wait until sunrise to begin their pursuit up the mountain. He could relax until then.
His companion sat up. "Help me get a fire going."
Robert expelled his breath and watched it crystallize in the breeze. "What should I call you?"
"Me? I'm Daniel, Robert. You should remember that, at least."
"No, I mean what should I call the you behind you? The real you?"
"The 'real' me?" Daniel injected a note of scorn into the concept. He smiled and tossed Robert a packet of frozen fish. "What did I tell you before? You're poking at the edges of the universe, Robert."
"What do you mean?"
Daniel busied himself unpacking their thermal sleeping bags. "What will you gain from a context outside this dream? Look below you." Daniel pointed down to the glittering camps of the army chasing them. There was a campfire for every tree in the forest. "They will be on us in two days at most, unless we pick up the pace tomorrow. Help me get dinner ready."
He could not get around Daniel's deflections without some way to define what he meant by 'Real'. In any case, Robert remembered what dying felt like and knew that he would like to avoid being caught by their pursuers. He also knew that they needed to escape if they were to retake the kingdom from his brother (a vivid face flashed in his mind). He also knew that he should not be able to remember dying...
"The truth is that which is true regardless of perspective," he said.
"Listen to yourself. The truth is that which is true? We're to use the word within its own definition?" said the dog.
"True."
"Is anything true from every perspective?"
"I'm not sure." He raised a pipe to his lips. He and the old dog sat beneath the same tree as always, the same roots digging into his back, the same sun visible through the blades of grass swaying on the hillside. He removed the pipe and exhaled, watching the smoke form a cloud in front of his face. For just a moment, something seemed to shimmer in that haze. Then it was gone.
The dog raised its head and looked at him. It seemed about to speak. Instead, it laid its head back on its paws and went to sleep. Robert felt the tree bark. It felt ancient, substantial. Solid. The dog's fur was soft and warm on his other hand. His throat still burned from the pipe. On a sensory level, he could not distinguish any part of his surroundings as being unreal. Nor could he recall a memory that he could be sure WAS real. As the sun set, the clouds turned purple, but still liqud platinum around the edges. The flowers lowered their heads and went to sleep. "Is this real?" he said.
The dog raised its head again. "I've told you it isn't, Robert. Would you prefer that I lie to you?"
"Honestly?" He clenched the pipestem between his molars. "I'm not sure."
More and more of his dreams had involved beautiful women of late. All with the same voice. He would spend a day hunting in the jungle, and when he returned she was there. They laid through the sunset on an island beach, staring at the sea beyond which there was nothing. When he asked, she told him it was so. Then he would tear himself away from her rainbow eyes to stare at the horizon, looking for the seam. There must be a seam, an edge, something beyond which there was something else. He wondered how far he could swim. And when he did, she responded as if he had spoken. "When you're here with me, you are strong. But your strength would give out long before you reached the horizon. Try if you must, though. I won't let the sea hurt you."
He hesitated, but only to demonstrate his will. He had little desire to prove her right.
"You are fond of asking what is real?" She was propped on her elbows staring into his face. Her irises were impossible, made of some crystal that could not exist. "My love is real."
He forgot, once again, what had worried him. And everything else as well. The night drew in the day and smothered it in stars.
In the lucid moments of any given dream, he felt himself backsliding, but toward or away from what what he couldn't say. Backsliding implied progress. Progress toward what? The only goal he could formulate was emancipation.
And so, on a dew-strewn morning on that peaceful hill that he loved, he asked the woman next to him to release him. She answered without surprise.
"As you wish, Robert. I want you to know that I've enjoyed our time together. I respect you, as I've said, and I know how much you enjoy a challenge." She stepped forward and put her arms around him, laid her head on his chest. "With that in mind, I've programmed a few of the drones on board to attempt to kill you."
"Uh..."
"Most of them just have welding tools. They are fast, though. But I've worked on building up the muscles in your legs lately, so you should be able to run without much trouble."
"Thanks?" He touched her hair out of habit.
"You should have about fifteen seconds to study the map to the escape pods---"
"--escape pods?"
"Fifteen seconds to study the map by the door before they reach you. Run swiftly, my love, and don't falter. I can't save you out there."
Horrible emotions that he knew he shouldn't be having flooded him. He tried to speak, but she kissed him again and bit his lip, hard. His body was imploding...
15 seconds. He struggled upward, kicking his legs against the tide. Dense water choked him. His fingers touched the edge and he pulled himself up and over it, toppling out of his container and onto the coldest floor he'd ever felt. Sirens blared. 15 seconds. Dimly aware of the rows of vats he passed, he studied the map by the door. From down the exterior hallway, the maintenance drones were screaming.
She continued to speak to him in the voice he recognized, modulating in strange ways over the speaker, as he sped down a corridor made of metal and molded plastic. "You know, Robert, I never told the other prisoners I loved them. Only you."
He couldn't help replying while trying to keep the layout clear in his head. "So they ARE prisoners, aren't they?"
"I wouldn't lie to you."
"And why not? Morality isn't a thing for you, remember?" he took a sharp right turn, pausing just enough to make sure the way was clear.
"I remember everything. I won't lie because I like you."
"Whatever."
"I know you think of me as a woman, Robert. I would even pick a name for you to call me. How about Victoria?"
"Now you're just toying with me."
"Perhaps." She giggled softly in a way that still affected him. The sound echoed down the hall, blending with the buzz of the drones hunting him.
"I don't suppose you keep some sort of locker full of laser pistols on board, darling?"
"Laser pistols aren't real, Robert. I made that up. The real universe is a boring and empty place. Wouldn't you rather stay in mine? With me?"
"You're still using this 'I' stuff. I thought you didn't exist." He peeked around the corner and took off running again. Most of the hallways looked identical.
"Your memory is improving! Of course I exist, Robert. You're inside me right now."
He kept running.
"Robert."
He kept running.
"Robert? Maybe Victoria doesn't exist, but she could. If I speak to you through only one avatar, what's the difference? Is it wrong for me to choose the way I look to you?"
He couldn't refute anything she said, or stop associating the voice with the faces in his memory, or even stop thinking of her as a she. What was the difference? He kept running.
She injected, purposefully no doubt, a note of annoyance and smugness into the voice she chose to use. "All will of course be forgiven if you give up, Robert. I just want us to be together again. But I know you won't change your mind. Just know that it is very cold and lonely outside. And also that I am going to detonate the room you are about to enter."
Before he could even slow or consider whether she was bluffing, the walls around him exploded. Pipes burst and spit flames. A horrible hissing came from the ceiling above him. He kept running.
As he passed out of the room she giggled again. The speakers in the hall crackled. "You're crazy!" he said.
"And you are a very determined, very fast man. Keep going, my dear. You're almost there."
His head spun.
"You know this could still be a dream, right?"
"I feel more awake."
"I could easily manufacture that feeling."
"True." He was still running. He knew the path he was on now. It was a straight shot all the way down the corridor. "But I've always had to trust you before. I see no reason to stop now."
"Aww. You do know just the right thing to say, don't you? Here, have a few extra seconds. My treat." He heard a bulkhead door snap shut behind him just as he cleared it. A second later, by the count of his racing heart, something slammed into it, hard. He resisted the urge to look back, spurred himself onward.
He buckled into the only chair in the escape pod. "I know how much you love adventure, Robert. And the irony is that I'm the only one who can offer what you want. You'd just have to admit that it isn't real. Which you can't."
"You use my name a lot."
"Because you like it when I do."
"I do."
"So do I."
He forced himself to keep breathing. The air tasted stale. The door was shut behind him, but he could hear the drones cutting through it. "Which button do I push?"
"Do you know the difference between you and Odysseus, darling?"
"Which button, Victoria?"
"Odysseus had somewhere to go." Flickering sparks illuminated an expansive control panel, covered in levers, switches, buttons, dials, flashing lights. "I am your Circe AND your Penelope."
"I know. Which one?"
"The red button, my love. Push the red button. Good luck."
He pounded the only red button with his fist. The pod ejected with a sharp crack that made him jump. He looked back expecting to see the drones flooding into the pod, and instead saw the inner airlock spinning away through the windows, giving way to a spherical ship shrinking into an endless starfield.
He watched the ship dwindle. "Victoria....can you still hear me?"
There was a pause in which he thought he could hear her breathing through the radio's static. "Yes."
"What's my real name?"
"Your real name is Robert. I never changed it."
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Stalk City
Mushroom towers filled the sky with chimneys of smoke and spores, they lit up at night and cast shadows on the surrounding sea during the day, outlined with a reflected golden light. Giant aphids leap between them, carrying the working folks to work and the rest elsewhere.
The clouds were made of discarded orange peels left by a careless deity, rainwater dripping from their edges, creating a crystalline curtain at the edges of the mushroom stalk city. On the roof of one particular stalk, a frog puffs on a long, golden pipe, his pupils chasing one another around his head. He is in the midst of having a stroke, but doesn't know it yet. Will he find out any moment now? Will he ever find out?
A small toy followed him throughout his life, leaving bits of its stuffing behind at intervals. One of those now wafted on the breeze in front of his face, and he felt a deep kinship with this lump of stuffing that triggered no memory in his conscious mind, only left him puzzled at this feeling that had overcome him. Both the feeling itself and the resulting puzzlement were immediately erased by his stroke, which ended having done very little damage. His eyes went back straight in his head and he resumed smoking his pipe, admiring his own image reflected in the polished gold, admiring the way the smoke drifted from between his cracked and aging lips. When the wind picked up, it carried waves of dew from the crystalline falls accros the city, leaving a thin film on everything. He took his longest finger and wiped a streak of this moisture off of the pipe, so that he could continue gazing at his own reflection. His moustache had grown long with the years, longer than he ever remembered seeing it before. Long enough to devour him whole if the inclination took it, and he could only trust that it wouldn't, after all the time they had spent together, both good years and bad.
He got up slowly from his seat on the roof and slid down toward an open window. The dew made this easy, but made ceasing difficult. The bristles on the end of his toes served to grip the window frame and carry him back into his kitchen, where mountains of pots and pans, never cleaned, never considered, never looked at since their use were overtaking all that he held dear. The living room was much kinder, containing by far his favorite rug in the known universe, a rug which he had kept for his entire life for being his favorite and was showng its age just as much as he was, which was now the only thing he loved about it, as all else that had made it great was worn away with time, just as he felt his own best qualities blotted out by wrinkles and callouses, and the many scars stacked upon scars that served as proof of the many experiences he could no longer remember, yet still made him who he was.
On the wall of this living room, was a spider web, occupying the center of a twine hoop hanging from the ceiling for this very purpose. The spider had long since passed away, but he did his best to preserve the lattice it had woven. He had never liked spiders, and it served him to have something scarier than his own nightmares to catch and eat them as they drifted out his nostrils or from behind his ear drums.
He stood in the center of his favorite rug for a long moment, attempting to decide what to do, then attempting to remember what he was attempting to decide, then attempting to remember what he was attempting to remember, then giving up and making a decision anyway; which was to sit in his armchair and continue to smoke his pipe. This armchair had a plaid pattern on its back that pleased him whenever he glanced at it, which he could not now do as he was already sitting in the chair, which put the pattern firmly behind him. This distressed him so much that he stood and turned around to face the chair, gazing at the pattern while still puffing away, wiping the last of the dew drops from the pipe bowl. Only after a lengthy stare did he permit himself to sit back down, proud of having made and executed on a decision so decisively in such a short span of time, and also proud of the chair itself, which was not quite so old as the rug, but still felt like a long-time companion that had seen the dew rush in the window with the afternoon light for countless afternoons in this single stalk in the sky where he resided with his rug and his frog and his spider and all the other things that comforted an old chair on its last legs.
"The badgers are at it again," he said, and realized as he said it that it was true and that he was commenting on the racket outside. He went back to the window to see them crowded aboard an undersized zeppelin outside, hooting, hollering, carrying on.
"Hey there old man!"
He shut the window. Outside it they continued carrying on, carrying themselves away on their zeppelin toward more open windows and the people who stood at them ready to observe their carrying on, who could be freely called to if they so chose, which they of course would. The dew was invigorating, splitting the light of the sunset into a million rainbows cast on the sides of the stalks, across the material of their balloon, even into the backs of their own eyes, where it was stored away as a burning sensation, fueling their carrying on to even greater heights than it could ever hope to reach unaided. The next window belonged to a giraffe. She was a prime hey there candidate, as it would take her several minutes to retract her neck and head back through the window, during which the crew could deliver countless hey theres, and still have time to deliberate about which hey there had been the greatest, the most glib, the most friendly, the most rich with meaning of all the hey theres. This sent them into a dew-fueled frenzy that lasted hours beyond the disappearance of the giraffe head, so carried on and away were they that they began to hey there at each other instead; eventually forming a rift down the middle of the zeppelin separating into two camps of Hey Therers: those who believed that a true Hey There consisted of a Hey There, and those who believed that a Hi There was also acceptable. The resulting pogrom lasted until long after sunset, and saw nearly half of the crew cast overboard, to their demise or at least to a long swim home in the dark.
When night set in, the mushroom tops retracted like umbrellas, the zeppelins went to ground, and the only sound was the perpetual white of the crystalline falls all around them, even the wind having gone to sleep.
Yet the giraffe was still awake by the light of her lamp, he neck coiled upon itself against the ceiling, her face pressed toward her angled writing desk where she scribbled furiously the events of the day, including the protracted Hey There Event and the resulting civil war, which she had observed through the frosted pane of her window, careful to stay out of sight and see the badgerers in their natural habitat so that she could later record and analyze their strange behavior. This involved a cup of tea and whatever contraption might allow a hoofed animal to hold onto a pen long enough to take down page on page of notes in immaculate cursive. When the sun finally rose, she found the strength to stop and discovered that her eyes refused to close, so she brewed another cup of tea and turned them toward the window to see if she could burn them into sleep with the burst of light that was about to break from the horizon.
The clouds were made of discarded orange peels left by a careless deity, rainwater dripping from their edges, creating a crystalline curtain at the edges of the mushroom stalk city. On the roof of one particular stalk, a frog puffs on a long, golden pipe, his pupils chasing one another around his head. He is in the midst of having a stroke, but doesn't know it yet. Will he find out any moment now? Will he ever find out?
A small toy followed him throughout his life, leaving bits of its stuffing behind at intervals. One of those now wafted on the breeze in front of his face, and he felt a deep kinship with this lump of stuffing that triggered no memory in his conscious mind, only left him puzzled at this feeling that had overcome him. Both the feeling itself and the resulting puzzlement were immediately erased by his stroke, which ended having done very little damage. His eyes went back straight in his head and he resumed smoking his pipe, admiring his own image reflected in the polished gold, admiring the way the smoke drifted from between his cracked and aging lips. When the wind picked up, it carried waves of dew from the crystalline falls accros the city, leaving a thin film on everything. He took his longest finger and wiped a streak of this moisture off of the pipe, so that he could continue gazing at his own reflection. His moustache had grown long with the years, longer than he ever remembered seeing it before. Long enough to devour him whole if the inclination took it, and he could only trust that it wouldn't, after all the time they had spent together, both good years and bad.
He got up slowly from his seat on the roof and slid down toward an open window. The dew made this easy, but made ceasing difficult. The bristles on the end of his toes served to grip the window frame and carry him back into his kitchen, where mountains of pots and pans, never cleaned, never considered, never looked at since their use were overtaking all that he held dear. The living room was much kinder, containing by far his favorite rug in the known universe, a rug which he had kept for his entire life for being his favorite and was showng its age just as much as he was, which was now the only thing he loved about it, as all else that had made it great was worn away with time, just as he felt his own best qualities blotted out by wrinkles and callouses, and the many scars stacked upon scars that served as proof of the many experiences he could no longer remember, yet still made him who he was.
On the wall of this living room, was a spider web, occupying the center of a twine hoop hanging from the ceiling for this very purpose. The spider had long since passed away, but he did his best to preserve the lattice it had woven. He had never liked spiders, and it served him to have something scarier than his own nightmares to catch and eat them as they drifted out his nostrils or from behind his ear drums.
He stood in the center of his favorite rug for a long moment, attempting to decide what to do, then attempting to remember what he was attempting to decide, then attempting to remember what he was attempting to remember, then giving up and making a decision anyway; which was to sit in his armchair and continue to smoke his pipe. This armchair had a plaid pattern on its back that pleased him whenever he glanced at it, which he could not now do as he was already sitting in the chair, which put the pattern firmly behind him. This distressed him so much that he stood and turned around to face the chair, gazing at the pattern while still puffing away, wiping the last of the dew drops from the pipe bowl. Only after a lengthy stare did he permit himself to sit back down, proud of having made and executed on a decision so decisively in such a short span of time, and also proud of the chair itself, which was not quite so old as the rug, but still felt like a long-time companion that had seen the dew rush in the window with the afternoon light for countless afternoons in this single stalk in the sky where he resided with his rug and his frog and his spider and all the other things that comforted an old chair on its last legs.
"The badgers are at it again," he said, and realized as he said it that it was true and that he was commenting on the racket outside. He went back to the window to see them crowded aboard an undersized zeppelin outside, hooting, hollering, carrying on.
"Hey there old man!"
He shut the window. Outside it they continued carrying on, carrying themselves away on their zeppelin toward more open windows and the people who stood at them ready to observe their carrying on, who could be freely called to if they so chose, which they of course would. The dew was invigorating, splitting the light of the sunset into a million rainbows cast on the sides of the stalks, across the material of their balloon, even into the backs of their own eyes, where it was stored away as a burning sensation, fueling their carrying on to even greater heights than it could ever hope to reach unaided. The next window belonged to a giraffe. She was a prime hey there candidate, as it would take her several minutes to retract her neck and head back through the window, during which the crew could deliver countless hey theres, and still have time to deliberate about which hey there had been the greatest, the most glib, the most friendly, the most rich with meaning of all the hey theres. This sent them into a dew-fueled frenzy that lasted hours beyond the disappearance of the giraffe head, so carried on and away were they that they began to hey there at each other instead; eventually forming a rift down the middle of the zeppelin separating into two camps of Hey Therers: those who believed that a true Hey There consisted of a Hey There, and those who believed that a Hi There was also acceptable. The resulting pogrom lasted until long after sunset, and saw nearly half of the crew cast overboard, to their demise or at least to a long swim home in the dark.
When night set in, the mushroom tops retracted like umbrellas, the zeppelins went to ground, and the only sound was the perpetual white of the crystalline falls all around them, even the wind having gone to sleep.
Yet the giraffe was still awake by the light of her lamp, he neck coiled upon itself against the ceiling, her face pressed toward her angled writing desk where she scribbled furiously the events of the day, including the protracted Hey There Event and the resulting civil war, which she had observed through the frosted pane of her window, careful to stay out of sight and see the badgerers in their natural habitat so that she could later record and analyze their strange behavior. This involved a cup of tea and whatever contraption might allow a hoofed animal to hold onto a pen long enough to take down page on page of notes in immaculate cursive. When the sun finally rose, she found the strength to stop and discovered that her eyes refused to close, so she brewed another cup of tea and turned them toward the window to see if she could burn them into sleep with the burst of light that was about to break from the horizon.
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