The next morning began like any other. Kimberly waked the prodigy at seven thirty. Silver Lodges was already up, enjoying a cup of tea and watching the sun begin to shine over the street below his window. The writer awoke with a fright as he had died in his dream, creating a worried state in which he had reincarnated and was his own son.
The prodigy began by reading a book about the struggles of France. He wondered what the radio was playing and where they broadcast. Were these the kind that help people pitch in and help the station? He believed that when he thought he was seeing other people in his mind, connected in some fashion to a world beyond his wildest dreams before connected again to a scene far from his home. These were the basis of some of his ingenious conclusions and how he became so fluent in minimax.
Silver Lodges wondered why he became so close with the Little Red Vegas. He had met him through his friend Craft Creasmore and his girlfriend, the child’s mother. The kid was now torn between the world of a child and the world of great men, told that he was special and could hold some great secret. He found peace in this thought. The child had once told him that there was nothing more to know. So he invented something new.
The writer lay awake in bed scared and feeling the mattress to resolve that he existed and the grisly scene he left had been a dream. He smelled smoke and saw Kimberly smoking a cigarette near the window that curved at the top. She was wearing a cream colored silk robe and peering out at the sunshine flooding the yard.
And fare thee well that morning, as none of them walked backwards and if they worked wonder it fixated on dreams. The strength of his love and the moldable world that lay in front of him said strongly that he had not written one note that mattered yet. He felt a deep despair and asked Kimberly why. She smiled and told him that he was getting older and one day would realize that nobody ever really felt very good. He was a successful writer and had many books to be published yet. The job provided for he family and she loved him, so that was what mattered. So Craft stood naked from the bed and got dressed.
As he walked down the stairs, mail came through the door and he picked it up. He saw that there was a note from Level Sprite. He opened it with zeal, as she always spoke in riddles. The poem read:
If right while they roam
Pass not what they know
Ask left the time
Level Sprite says to me
Writing a day away from London
The little lights are true in time
And the world is getting electric
It’s the light of these designs
Spell right of the ego
The discontent and rain
Nights and filled spaces
Just dreams of lights design
But I have found my shelter
Lined paper and a pen
If it is right they know
Level Sprite says to me
And because of this Craft Creasmere began to write this book. He was tired, but he wanted to make an entire pile of paper to show to girls. He claimed he was a writer. The newspaper usually had a story by him. They would ask for one today. But it wouldn’t be this prose that he whispered to his pen and scribbled illegibly in a notebook.
It was at university that my path changed, he would relate. I wanted to make a difference and I thought tattletale might be a good path. That thought escaped from him magically. It serendipitously led this man to a particular outlet he remained in touch with from that point forward. It gave him the idea that something peculiar would happen today.
The writer drank some juice and had a cookie as breakfast. He looked disgruntled so Kimberly Vegas walked towards him. He told her that something was going to break today. He dreamed that he was dieing. That meant his life would change. She put her hand on the table and said, “Just let me get that napkin from you. I hope the best for all your dreams. We both do.”
There are neighbors who only come out at night.
One of the two has to go away on a trip. And what is this trip? It is a label left open for a massive prequel explaining why they must. These patrons are detailed in many fashions because they become a leader of the free world. These people explain that they cannot spell their hard formulas and the prodigy maybe goes for a chess tournament and comes back or something. Who knows, this is of course, the beginning stage of a communal book written by at least three people.
“Maybe talk to that councilor you know, he’s always sucking the government teat. He knows what the new plans are and what needs to be said.”
“I need something bigger than that. They are paying me to be ahead of the game.”
“Would you like me to call him for you? I can always get a story out of him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll see him at the coffee shop. We have a good repoire.”
She began to press the buttons on the phone. Craft stopped her and took the phone from her hand. He hung it on the wall with a clang. Instead of arguing she began to make the morning coffee. The poor sap was acting crazy. He was using the last of his charisma to charm her. The lady smiled. He winked, cartoon sized. And he left the room, holding his cookie. There were a lot of crazies in this town, but a successful eccentric made his own philosophies. She had seen him walking up the street singing and expected something like that from today.
Two green men from before, these shaded spheres with legs and eyes marched barefoot in front of him. The changing colors of the road around him and speaking to the man he knew. The creatures spoke in clear tongues. Craft shifted in his chair, his imagination was running away. He was enamored by the creatures and wanted to put them in a book. His breathe became tight and he needed to travel, maybe write a book. This man knew and never mentioned his in words. They laughed and crossed in front of him. Had he wronged his girlfriend? She was a soul at his service. It was tearing him up inside. He felt certain it was something in the heart. They made pills for that. He knew he had a heart because he felt it bump. The two pulses were muscles. Muscles were skin. Skin was replaceable. He knew the reasoning made no sense. And now she had to leave town. He would keep her with him over the month she was gone. He would write her letters, and teach the prodigy everything he learned. Though the child was often wiser than he. Those words were just filler.
And he needed this story to keep his job. So when his friend Silver Lodges tells him of his new invention he says he must report on this story. He protests, because he has not tested it enough to go public. Craft goes ahead with it anyways. He will lose his job if he does not. It is a self-centered move. Once the world knows, he must demonstrate the invention and it seems wonderful. The machine is built. Logging changes.
Shit hits the fan.
The momentum carries the whole situation far out of control. Other parties are using his patents to create machines that make cow worlds, for growing and harvesting cows, but I think I said that. The tree-growing machine our heaven, and we don’t even know it. The cow-growing machine must be visible hell. We are creating visual God. The visual eternal soul, the computers that regulate and measure levels in these machines are measuring the very essence of life.
The forests outside become giants and these giant cows are in charge. These giants are the visual world of the Gods. We have created our destruction, but it is benevolent.
These benevolent giants become normal in the world. We are like ants and airplanes are wasps and stuff. This is a funny story. Giant hippies and cattle.
They must ask advice from the Wise Turtle.
This cat lives on an island in the south Pacific. His cave is just big enough for him to weather storms in and he spends most his time on the beach, in a grove. He doesn’t move much as he is near 400 billion years old. The all seeing and all knowing tortoise explains that nobody really knows anything and that any statement by a creature is not a divine statement thus, any statement is false including this statement. Because there are some true statements, most are created in the human experience. The world can be viewed in many ways so no one way can be true. But he is probably wrong to most people’s reality.
This is the reality of an old tortoise.
He would like to become a giant, to move to the giant world and transcend his form. He accepts that he must stay to guide these people through the visualization of eternity that is newly happening to this group of souls. These people stay far from this reality, basing the inferences on their natural environment, and only overtones of spirituality should be said.
These people are thinking clearly and not wanderers nor wonder about these questions but the child, with his mind filled with fantasy, finds solace in these quandaries and the answers of the tortoise. It is just him in the woods with the turtle. This should deal with these issues in a children’s literature manner. It would give the effect it was like Alice in Wonderland… Just thinking. IT should be something that can be loved by children and actually understood by adults. Two stories, one about magic turtles and science and one about string theory, genetic modification and visual heaven and hell.
There is also a lady who sells plants. She is in tears right now because she sold a plant that was a dear friend. These are the advantages of being a flower. I can’t publish that in both we have to be here so this city is a pyramid somewhere and book three. But I think of that lady today, as I bought a plant that was large from a small shop and the lady seemed to need the money more than the companionship of her friend. This must be make-believe though, right? She sold me the plant for 5 dollars.
Deliverance of conscience holds no fortitude for one who has wronged another. Steeped in guilt he fretted all night, tossing to and fro in the chains of remorse. There is no moral course for the hedonist that will satisfy, nor is there release for one who is unjustified by consequence though surely reaps a deeper love due to his fallacy.
What rose could endure mistrust, or breach of trust what hope is there in the false promise of repentance?
“The possibility, in return, of a soverigen place for us to rest, is founded by the relinquishing belief that we can and must hold a likeness to our kin.”
“What is it that we are left with now?”
“These sun spots haunted our places as the scientist quietly wrote notes of lonesome moral soltitude like it was a ghastly misfortune, brought upon a vanquished king as sunspots lacking the effort to burn his eyes. Where are we now?”
“We are here, in this room.”
“I understand we are in this room, but where is the room.”
“On the street.”
“I understand we are on the street, where is the street?”
“In this city.”
“I know we are in the city, where is the city?”
“The city is in this country, sir.”
“That is not what I am asking. For how can we be sure that we are in any particular place at a given time? That is a great mystery of life. Where, truly, are we?”
WE HAVE ONLY Holy GIANT COWS and Infinite trees that continue to grow until they are too massive to stay on this planet. The symmetry of this world will be abruptly altered. We may have to worry about the balance of our rotation. We must plant these trees directly across the world from those that are growing, and fast.
The world is vast, and the mountains are not directly balanced. We are fine. There nothing to worry about but those gigantic trees”
“BUT THE GIANT COWS! What will become of us, will we become their cud?” intervened a fearful Fred Brown, a noted voulenteer fire fighter in the town of Steeple House
Nay, if it weren’t for the cows which will feed in the grove and keep balance under our trees our toes would be to big for our mouths.
“But the cows are only over here!” Shouted another affrighted fellow
Not to worry they will breed.
THEIR KIND WILL SPREAD! THEIR KIND SHALL SPROUT! Shouted the crowd.
Just then the scientist realized what he had down and bowed out leaving the crowd to their own devices.
Lights flickered and groaning air breathed in waves.
It was as if pillars were collapsing his mind.
The prickling woods stood open and tall.
Level sprite enters intent on telling the people, “What’s done is done.”