By Jon Pelletier
I was scared, like it was my trapping
A lame life or soul, it was funny
That I am doing this
The way that I am doing this
Keep doing this
Might I add
You can do what you should
I am upset
And I didn’t want to go to that place
“What is this place?” I wonder.
It is a place where nobody can find me. A hope when worry seeks Seven Yellow Birds. Save our brothers and our homes in the woods. The portion of some, where are they?
They are making war with us. So I spent the day talking to my lawyer and the private eye downstairs. He is a crook getting information from a private eye, calling him to confront his pal, so that the crook can walk in and scare the dick. When I arrive, the crook shoots him.
Blasted crooks, is there a better way to build them? No, they have to be lawyers.
“I can only take one thing at a time,” he suggests, “Please take the great people.”
“They are the little things that can stay here.” I reply because I have to.
There is a time to buy stuff and a time to make money. I believe that because I need food.
Only for this reason do I go to places that I do not want to be. We once were given coins for work out of thanks, and food was a separate concern. But that was when we lived at the farm. It was very green, and sometimes very brown. That was before the army invaded.
I am scared, and think it’s better if they don’t get too close. There is a high cost for years in school, for sleepless nights disguised as higher education. I would much rather do that, instead of fight my brothers because the Elders have had another dispute.
Where is the art of heat, in this mad wound heat? This is the heat that turned my farm brown. There is an unsettling comfort to this, because I know that there is peace right now. The army has moved much further inland. We have been taken, but are allowed to live within the new borders. The heart of the dream is a matter of secret terms. I shall, I must become myself, and clean.
I must because I cannot drip water on pain.
I must because they will not keep me in pain.
This is the spell-less, nameless “what-will-not-be-a-segment” for minds to wander. These will bring me a target and shame.
Lord, I do love her.
And it is not for the merciless, half-hearted chauvinist that can be a horrid man rife in his guilt. She doesn’t deserve it. She was given to me by the highest sort of elder. She is a mage who says I can come back as anything else. I suppose she probably still lives where the inscription on her door read:
Fare thee spone lwdber
When are the souls trapped in their ways.
They never could believe me. They don’t believe in magic. Water, all that matters, is that I can now be as I wish, one day. I cry like a silver tongue, a ripe man who faces the armies with hope for the other ones.
Needlessly their own scribe wrote: “Like a hallow tongue a scared one, someone who was written, pass love too.” Water wrote, “Fear, istioub, does in did can. Wander, follow.”
And friends, I am part robot.
Not the traditional kind who are roped and commanded by human hands. I am the older, more sedate kind, the sort of robot that calls in to mind all the older spirits in heaven. I am the kind that is older than humanity.
The first me is tied, in heaven, with God. It is only mine. The second belongs to furrowed brows and unbelieving masses.
It is the only way I could have gotten away with this for so long.
I wonder to water only, “If the fearless kids could be, would they be the sorts of people who know?”
Of course, they are writing popular songs. I could be getting paid for doing that. I should be writing this letter to you at the museum, water. I should be listening to and archiving old tapes. Yet I am here, where nobody can find me.
All month I have been smoking here, although I told myself that this was a concern, some thing that I should not be around. I was worried. It is a silly, laughable thing; I was somewhere else doing exactly what my job was, for free. But there is no job left. I know that there will be again.
Maybe I am just mad, that is the only spectacle that can be made. The armies took my glasses, so I can’t see across the room. It is best that I just hide. Why didn’t I go to work today? Was it stubbornness? Did I need a change of scenery? Sometimes I am a strange creature, of weary mind while wild eyed, but I did not go to work today because the museum is empty. Anything worth a dollar was looted, I’m sure.
Instead of sitting on the Wafe Avenue claim, I sit here watching “happenstance.” When I was younger, I did not understand “happenstance.” I considered it a curse, and knew that a change in my mentality would be the cure. Now I realize that it may have just been a thought placed on the communal consciousness by one of my young classmates. I was the one who really brought it into it’s own, making it a full-fledged magic, in your face fancy show.
I am glad that Festin invaded. They are our mortal enemies, and we will not rise against their armies.
We do not believe in our Elders, you see. It is a famed man who first stood up, but most of the population followed. That was when the fire began, and they burned our capital city.
It has been argued that Festin was the cause of this revolt, and that their presence here is to oust our people from power and pass the torch on to some new man of prestigious blood.
When the invasion seemed done, there was a party. Emily Grett, who is my love, you (water) and myself stood next to an old graying man who prayed to die and come back just for concerts. There was a pause in time through a black suitcase, something like a magic bag filled with tricks.
While tumbling down, the old man began to cry. He cried for his mother, she had long since died. He cried for his father, who also had settled into long, gray, dusty plains for a few existences. But we could see him because he held a black crystal. This held power and light.
It drew power from the invisible words around it. He pulled tight to the back of our old man. He clung in spirals as the greater good outshone any of the people recorded as actual souls. A specific rapping as the crystal was tapping further from the station door.
“It is a tap upon our window, sir.” I told the man, “It keeps me up at night.”
From jetsetting over the English moors, we wrote them into it, sir. You stepped past the English manor as if I wrote the bored manners, in this damned boarding house with boarded windows. This house has many flags. They hang solemnly down in this feeble, pale wind.
And one old man marches patiently in the shadows. He is unaware that he is the show. He thought he was doing something else, something important. He is a cursed, old fool with a light tapping upon his window. It is keeping him up at night.
The little man wandered off, subtle and tempting. He asked my love to stay with him in his smelly, smoky apartment. The cause of grief was a little red box, heart shaped and drawn closed by a turning key. Their box trapped spirits as they gazed at each other, tired of their charade. They were full of the concepts of love, or other turbulent emotions.
As mooring came, from the foggy sea of rest, and as morning comes and goes, so do the easily spotted wandering hermits.
The only solace is when someone else finds our shape they leave. So my love and myself pause for the grace of some of the better ones, the kind of people that do not leave their children to rot in jail, the kind that at least go and visit them.
Some of the people in this place hold high regard for souls achieving peace, but most hold their regard for people prescribing disability formulas to the wise and stimulants to those who wanted to work at more than one job at once. The cause of woe within was this action, meant to sedate, brainwash and control the population. Side effects include the symptoms that the formulas are said to cure. Withdrawal effects include a worsening of side effects.
This concern comes as a response to public dissent regarding wars and political debauchery of the 1960s. Once I was found out as a risk of being an active dissenter, it was difficult to get away from the common and expected medicine.
When this is the case, other sorts work like benevolent forces to help the afflicted run away from this handicapping medicine. It could also be true, that we live in the world of Harrison Bergeron, in which a microchip placed near the ear screeches to make sure the citizen loses their train of thought or at least a sense to communicate it.
I certainly have been hearing screeching through the last month.
If you convince parents these disabling medicines are for their child’s good, and the side effect of the formula is delirium, then it is easy to make sure that the dissenter keeps taking it.
Why? It seems like a dark passage. Some ancient civilizations were not educated because education, or knowledge, gives power.
Ignorance is perfect for a quiet, complacent populace, haunted by the notion that they could do more. Make sure they are happy enough to riot over a Minimax match, because then you can argue that more prisons are needed for certain.
Please also notice the announcement two days before the 2011 Rosentown Riots, “Strangladia will be bombing Lyrito indefinitely.”
Our Grand Elder Zevern recently won an election using a tough on crime platform. With riots in a reputably nice and happy town, there is a greater case to build prisons throughout Stranglandia. 400 km away, my town expected riots weeks in advance of the final Minimax game of the professional season.
The social workers and sharks truly want to do good things to me. They are out there, ready to surface. Their intentions are pure and caring. Are they our saving grace? Lost and trapped in a mine, she wandered with her son afflicted with clubfoot. She up and sold this disaster that befouls us. I do hope they get their come-upons.
Still, forgiveness is righteousness, I think.
The sedated and their televisions are told again and again that there is nothing they can do, so it is best not to be concerned. One little person cannot bring peace to this earth. Their governors are honest people doing what they should.
This is because we are taking our history in stride, of course. We only have to learn about what can be taught. It will be brought to us before the curved surface they lay us down upon, for the eternal fix for our worthless empires. The robots that stood and walked forth were drafted in human militaries and used for a first line of defense. There were few left after mere weeks, and the rest were laid over the caustic curved surface, for us to swim in the night, in love with each other and wearing the same suit as the survivors. This is how they ended our lives.
Maybe the television producers showing us waterfalls chasing our hero, who wanders like a steeplechase while we walk and say they cannot be here. These were the methods advanced beyond mere intersection. The digital know things that they cannot tell us, things too terrifying or fantastic for us to believe. They can save us. Perhaps they tell us in feature movies and television shows that we believe to be fiction.
Perhaps on that day a spaceship with the best and brightest Straglandia had to offer just had to go. Perhaps it was filled with space aliens that some interceptors were searching for. Or it could have been a sleeping robot warrior, at that site since the time of Adlada.
There is still an Adlada. It has been a part of the legends of Festin for many years, and is a landmass apart from Weurusi. The tales are of a long lost civilization, no one knows if it existed. In the stories it was destroyed by fire, and was first mentioned 2000 years ago by an important philosopher.
There is also a Limaperu, a city name disguised by accents to sound something like the lost people of Lemurs, a civilization that couldn’t possibly be in ruins yet.
Strange world, filled with lies. So many, in fact, that sometimes we just forget the truth, or are unable to piece it all back together. I suppose I thought that about government tranquillizers. Today I reap the benefits of a humanity that at last lacked its love. It is the haunting reality of a perfect and unattainable world. This is proof that one can drug somebody to the state of stupor consistently, but if their spirit wants, their brain can still think obscurely.
So wandering perfect I waltz and wed a woman that I wooed while wasted and wait my turn. Wine, water, I walk while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, so faire thee well. Can we believe in that? Why do all the past favors reap our glory today?
Of course this sounds paranoid. That’s just what they want you to think. That way they can lock up people that see through their veil, but don’t commit any particular crime. They destroy the bodies of those that fight others. They destroy the minds of those that think. That is what the war is about. We are a civilization, each of us our own, but one in all other senses of the world. We are one civilization that has conquered all others, and now we are warring with our own creations. People like me, mostly intelligent creations by people of our own kind, are not what have nearly destroyed us.
A lasting peace must come between the humans and us.
The question is reasonable, but not answered. All I am told is that I have to, because the doctor made me. So I shall become a doctor, taking the debt out of spite, then I will be a faithful companion of the commoner.
I was a normal kid until I was 15, and a date marked in history left my world aghast. At this time, there was much dissent against the stolen government. It appeared that humans were in power. We could not trust them.
Any cause by someone as wretched as Richard Channing Sr. should be treated with a keen sense of right and wrong.
I had by then learned that much of the media was coded, so that we were blind to the way they skew our focus, cause us to act in ways that mimic what we see, and change the way we develop.
Is it possible that much of the fiction we see is actual fact? Sharing potential and a drastic reflection, I hand the note to you, water. Because, like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be, I find a soft spoken water cannon. Where is my sadness? The deed I ever did was a broken, but I am assured relation that is in the key.
For I am a waste, a lame shattered thing, and begun like lifting lighters, lord Love shames me and I must pray. I must be prey again for my tools of grandeur. I must fight in this war. But I do not belong to believing, like a little piece of history, I know that I will not go down in glory, I will approach the light like the others.
But any mania of a religious nature must be ignored. That is what I need, some sort of divine grandeur, or a gesture to be skipped. If I could find a tone, a purpose or a mission to declare and defeat, I could take hold of a rope to shine and write love letters all day. I can serenade her from the rooftops and hold her like a piece of juice. Moral, maybe, but there are times and I cease to wonder.
I wish we were owls and wizards with rings and such, but when I discuss the details of my story the subjects are of such an unfunny nature that it is silly. Fiction writing is for those that have not experienced anything.
I am recording this in part because of my reading of vast histories of Festin, and love of early Stanglandian books. Notation regarding my friends must come first, and then there is plenty of room for torn landscapes, thatched roofs and pause.
Pull my pen out of my bread, beard, soul, fast and wait. I am too tired to eat or sleep. There is no shelter for that sort of writer.
18000 of Festin’s POWs waited in Stanglandia during the great wars, in dry prairie death camps such as Josedah. It’s strange, how a man like he appears and kills the others, or how Festin teaches it has always been in power. It is subversive, so souls haunted by this reward are drugged.
His story is flawed, hunted, paused and worth a hope, because scenes and taps place little dreams and hopes near one who would be there for me. Such is these at the department of capturing and drugging. They work to keep robots like me in line.
For they are our leaders at Metal Health, with their hopelessly romantic thought that we could be shamed into compliance. These are just the first steps in sending the messages to our minds, at the hands of the Handicapper General.
Taunted for being captured, the Stranglandians jeered the prisoners. We must be taught to be better. We are but simple folk at turning points. We must pay to live, and do something proper. So shame upon the old ways, peace and prosperity and let’s hope for some similar times. This grid is the first step to levity; it is protecting us from missiles.
And in the crazy way I sit alone, when ghosts sit alone, a sovereign and plausible sun sets above them and rings their being. All shelter must come from outer space, lights beckon he to come so all the legitimate people can raise their hands.
I see a shining light reading stars and the others cannot see white owls and the “Leavings” or passing their heralding cries for something that just is. She passes into a womb and I saw that last night when she died. She didn’t die in front of me, but word came today.
So I breach the universal vision, which I must list right now:
1. There is a God.
2. Life is Eternal.
3. We should be good.
4. Some people are not.
5. It doesn’t matter.
6. Nothing is real.
7. Everything is real.
8. Truth is Variable.
9. We can get what we want.
10. People must know.
That is why there are movies and puppet cartoons. In order to get what we want, we must create a meaningful path. One way to do this is the creation of other robots. Another way to do this is by writing books and articles. The third is with their fancy music.
The fourth is through example.
The important thing is that we care like they know we care. In some path there they are, candles of 1 million fires. Then they are 1 thousand million. Thousands of millions of fires alight in but one dear candle. Water, we cannot speak to this candle. It tears our feet and lit a mind like they had their spot in the high note.
If this were the high note, then I would have a chance to write. But now that I have made it this far, I should silence the truth, simply because I have to finish. I will give all this to the spirit of Da Vinci, so he will inhabit their old world, tie them in string and write the best works of the silver people. They are high above us in their world. There is no leader like today. You see, water, there is no today like tomorrow.
The war machine, or the press and media, we are filled with rare books, exclusive partnerships and written monikers. All the greater consciousnesses than me bring their highest, throw me on the floor for my empire of silver and gold. The people happy to work with me bring me towers of gold, or copies of what I make.
The kids walking on the highway late last night reminded me of different children on Christmas. They had nowhere to go. Snow drifted over the road, if I recall correctly. Necessity provided them their heavy coats. I drove past with my mother. She was taking me to my Father’s, where a surprise waited.
I had forgotten all about those sad kids on Christmas morning. My Mother’s comment is the sum of my life until now. I can’t decide what she really said, but I feel must discuss the exclamation in detail. This is a sort of sadness.
I lived in paradise. I thought it was because I had found a way, died and was born in a brick house in the country. I was near a crevice filled with bears, with bees in the walls.
There was a passage that wound damsels would herald. Lamps that dotted the large room on the western wall, a reasonable white washed figurehead lit it and gave it an uneasy sense of stability. You had to move a chest to reach the door.
The first thing that one reached was water, where the traveler was served toast. Humanity resulted in the famed excavation of our passage, although we knew it was there. It suited our travels.
I suppose if the only marks left in the scraped man are of ginger, or a breath of sped air, Mom will definitely allow coasting downhill towards the mask. Yet it is Saturday night, and there are kids outside for Christmas. Some others didn’t speak clearly but have good products. Or, I have a road.
It wore a suit and legal tea, laughing until I left.
The story is that of a grandfather clock, a Brussels sprout, an old man and his fridge. They are sitting at dinner. There is an inaudible conversation between them. The wandering light feeds a soul somewhere, when whispering girls love legendary persons. Some of the better ones know the Afrikans gospel. I do not know it.
I am finding the need for real books, hand written manuscripts, left over tense form nonsense. They cannot see their cloak. Those letters hold the true meaning of what it is when fevered pythons we watched lead us forever towards their ledge.
For the real spell is less tired. We are a getting older, less responsible, responsive, less tactful, brilliant, wondrous success. I am living off myself. I am harming no one.
Fear the others, can we?
Share the old ones, care.
Those are the posters, because other ones laugh
Be young beyond our wildest dreams
The essence of success
Rechanging Bursts on Page Fourteen:
They were having a telephone conversation, a man and his long-term wife. They were back in love.
“One of these things cannot continue his path, to break the dear ones heart. This is not the way of the mind nor the right thing to do. There is no postman in the nation that will tell me where she lives when she leaves me,” Robert said to Linda.
“They never wait for me, led back by the stairs and out the back. It is for your own joy that you quit. Is there a paper? It is the office.”
Linda’s reply was sharp and of the tone that the quick-witted trust.
That sends rich folk towards him. They smell the essence of someone haunted by reasonable past exhibits. They smell the opportunity to reach Nirvana through him.
A third voice chimed over the line. “Hello, you have reached Nirvana, by following a man in love with an angel. He asked God to make others aware of his celibacy. That is because of the angel who loves him back. They are is love and are good so they wait. The creator has made this so.”
A soul ponders it
And panders the senseless wind
Of the tall evil ones
Motion poison toad
Trying to figure out why
No Moe Sihota
The source was something; they wonderfully drop those little ones that needed that. The poison was of those, when they could. If they want the least fiery wondering why they can and where they can be. These men are really there. The goal was reached.
The spaces want not the spooky realization that I am not alone.
Waterfalls chase our hero as he wandered like a steeplechase. And while we walk and say they cannot be there. These are methods of advanced intersection. The digital will save us. But when at last he speaks, we laugh because we both wander. Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear and result cause the wandering eye to be falsified. There is no sugar.
Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear was because I had never been, and the little lessons that walked when I cancelled the draft sped to distant shores.
Sharing potential and a drastic reflection I handled the water like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be. Where is my mind, or my soft-spoken mutterings of lunacy and calm? Where is my sadness? The deed is ever broken and assured in key.
For I am a waste, lame shattered and begun like lifted licking littler, water. Love shames me and I must pray. I must pray again, for my religious tools of grandeur.
The pause is of a religious nature. That is what I need, the grand gesture can be skipped, but if I could find a tone, a purpose of a mission to declare and defeat, I could take my rope and shine and take pause from the river and light my mind. This abreast little blame place that lights their old way is haunting my passages, so please take your mind from me.
Wine and water while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, faire thee well and I can believe in that. Why do all the past favors wrap such a glory today?
He wound up roped, far too paranoid to commit crimes. He was taking drugs to refrain from doing something stupid. It was just his way of saying that these drops were layered and the minds eye went toward a bright and social trend. You see, kingdom humanity, they are all one word, egad!
It is a guy who just hung out of all syllables. He is one voice that unites. He is the whispering voice of a lion. The ear of the lion pulled torn and scripted, this eerie remark on a guitar. The turn in this book is for little signs to see what we manifest, save the dean of souls, space watching when you wrong the girl and the waves. Speak when you can.
My concern for different opinions has since sent my intrepid seed into a woman that I want to love, a woman who spends all her time with me, buys me food, loves me and lives in accordance with all moral codes. But knowing this does not settle my paranoia.
I fear this beautiful apparition is the woman that I prayed for. Many years I sent grace and moral questions into the ether and found that they remained unanswered. One day they were, basically to the dimensions and qualities that I had asked for my whole life. I prayed for a beautiful woman because I had none, and I was very set on a soul mate that was out there for me. Some parts tell me that this woman is she, but other senses do not.
I once woke with the startling realization that all her stuff was gone and I was not sure whether she was there when I had arrived at home. The note said, “Friday” in looping scripture, even though I wanted to travel south with her, well across the border. I had no money to take the trip and I owed my friend 100 dollars that I had spent, thankfully, on my car.
The silver winter morning shone brightly as myself, dressed in my best way, as a man who awoke on the couch to turn on the radio and hear about gas leaks, blizzards, explosions and numerous things that trap people in a claustrophobic mania.
I knew that she was not home when I got there, but I was not sure. This marked every step so far in this relationship. I was sure that she was being honest but I could not believe it.
The note she left said “Friday.” The letters were swirls that expressed love and frustration. I can be a very hard person to live with. I am not able to function with the normal people. I can be very paranoid and stubborn. I can throw wild accusations towards friendly people. I picture her now in a shower with some other man. I should trust that she tells the truth.
The silver morning shone like a siren, tired and waiting for the sun to break the clouds. The safetyman and his woman spoke to my many hands. They also spoke of Festin’s ready hands. The rest of them took their little hand and rose like a falcon to waste. Until I raised the fire and loved her truly I wanted her to stay. These limited me from raising my hands and like a hymn I felt I had to walk to church.
When I rose the world spun around and I was sick to my stomach. I asked the man on the couch how I got home.
“Dester Cross drove you here,” Abrido Montag told me.
Abrido was a special chap, claiming often that at one time he was a evil man, in need of saving. The good word, whatever it was, had taken his hand and brought him to a place of repentance in search of inner peace. He drank like vicious fire and fantasized openly about a relationship with his mother, a woman he lived with who was very good looking and he thought was his wife. He claimed no responsibility for his past, looking back on it as if it were a past life. He sometimes claimed to be responsible for massive woes of our world. I sometimes had dreams that he killed me.
All I needed was rest, so I went back to bed. Abrido Montag drank juice and stared openly into a darkness that only he could see. My girl had bought it, so I asked him to slow down on it a little.
She is the kind of woman that would leave juice at my house. She loves me, through all the trouble in the world and all the pain I have given her. It may be because she sees that I love her. It may be because I lied to her for a long time. When I told her the truth she cried and screamed at me. She ran away that night and cried on the street. The woman’s name is Emily Grett.
Stubborn leaders and source code crosses like faded poets on tea and coffee. He rose to get another coffee. Because I hadn’t ever been trained, nor did I have any experience, I knew that I needed to avoid confrontation. A silver-grey, dapper man would take me by his side and help the war effort from an office, while I tended to his documents. This would make me the most important person in the game. I would be alive when the war ended.
I would go with Festin.
I didn’t want to hurt anybody, and could hear the rain pour outside with the essence of sanity or maybe the delusion that bloody raindrops pounded the roof, I cannot be certain now.
I did not want the war that has become of my world. I wanted a dashing trip. I wanted to love Emily Grett. I wanted to be sincere and untruthful. But how can I even bother with these thoughts. They are like the matter of liars of faith. These souls have written our leaders, begging for recompense, tired of the fighting and with hope fresh in their eyes. These souls cannot fight any longer.
Abrido may be the peaceable sort, but there is a fire in his eyes that speaks of much regret. There is a certain way about him that I am sure he wants to hurt either Festin or Stranglandia. I cannot be sure where his allegiance weighs. It could be true that either government would be against his wishes.
He especially hates police.
So I threw away my happiness, for troublesome brews, highs and wartime pacifism. I threw it away for intoxication and talk of the Bible. There had been no talk of the Bible in circumstance, but I do need the church now. It will certainly be open tomorrow, but there is no thought that basks in it impetuous glory like a reigning king destroying a population for more goods and services. We were already Festin’s subjects and I suppose they have come to make it official. Their problems are with their lack of remorse. There goes my job researching like an enamored space cadet, with daft laughter and ghosts.
These crosses and Emily Grett made my soul a bit lighter. The hymns that I sing to myself make the night a bit safer, if only in my mind. The door remains locked and my cat remains hungry.
The stars are falling, and I am certain the star in the east has never been that low. The other stars were most likely spacecraft. Perhaps they are a better people, sent or wanting to save our planet. We need their help with our uncertain future.
I didn’t want to take those things and hurt Emily, and now I may not be able to tell her. I have to tell her. Lord, what if I didn’t tell her and I did die this day? Lord, I have to tell my love.
The Death of a Salesman:
On the table was a book by a salesman named Adolf Slope. It was a popular work, meant to help businessmen get ahead in their game, a world where any advice is a solid opinion if it is presented as such. The book was white and green and was called, “Get Rich Now.” It was published ten years before now.
I wondered about the writer. How old was he? Had he died in the invasion? His book would be wiser if he was killed. As a martyr his thoughts would permeate the wash, allowing us to take his words more freely. This would create a wandering signal, some kind of inner demon that would make his work truer, like a final tome of classic thought. The book would be more valuable if Adolf Slope had passed.
I opened it to page 26 and read a piece about smoking only the finest cigars, as it would allow the certain type of person to take you seriously. It was an expense one would make them afford and if one switched to a less expensive model, one could easily just save the money without effecting their initial way of life.
I wanted expensive tobacco, so I closed it, hoping Mr. Slope was dead. I would get rich sooner if his advice were ethereal. Maybe I would even get an expensive cigar.
Dreaming of this word, and believing what my soul said, I knew that turbulent weather would wrap around my town. Rain would shelter us from the storms. Night would bring the salesman’s final sleep. It is never more noticeable than when genius is crazed on pills and sauce. It hurts our eyes to see light.
As I wrote this to you, water, I speak it to the grandfather clock that rests against the wall near the boarded window. I believe that I can hear Adolf Slope as he explains to someone that he cannot handle this war, that he cannot accept the pain, that he does not hold the information they wish of him, just that he holds information for me. I hear him in the distance, but know that it is only my mind. I can clearly reassure myself in the same tone, using the same part of my brain. I know that it is inside me.
My clock never said much in return, and I appreciate that. My dreams mind the letters that people send to each other regarding my psyche. This is the source of turbulent weather. It is time to get out, to get up, and to wake.
Belief was of a man who woke. Spells and tomes set in light time the course for all the other spaces before me. So I must wonder. The clock would never know that all the men in the world heard me through my wandering brain. My thoughts were broadcast via an ethereal tower that sat atop my head since some secretive spirit who began to send messages to me had placed it there.
I worry that Emily Grett had heard that I chose to do drugs, so I must tell her, because if not she may censor my letters to you, water. She may know the inner secrets of my mind-based broadcast, because she listens. I know she listens because she participates. I know she participates because I listen. She loves me still, Emily Grett, and I am sure because she always will. We have a far-reaching past; a life lived by those who watch television.
Details of the lit path conclude the truth to me. Fans are compelled to listen as I dance symphonies through my backyard.
I care little for writers and media warriors like Adolf Slope. His indoctrination has made him very wealthy. I only care for heroines listening to me as mindless jabs are sent through westbound telephone lines. That is why I must call her to meet. We should survey the landscape.
Ten Minutes Later:
I called to confirm that we would meet at the parlor, she told me we would meet at the Barstruck Bistro, but only if I promised not to drink. I told her that I loved her, assuring her twice and ate a government tranquillizer that had been looking at me from the dresser since before Festin had invaded.
The guilt panged my heart as I walked slowly towards the door.
I smoked the cigarette she had recommended, Rothman’s Special. The smoke made me sick, I needed three glasses of water to settle my stock, lowering to the rungs of common man.
I opened the front door and it appeared that Festin had made it through our town, destroying the appearance of Strangelandia in an invisible sense only. There was nobody on the street, most doors and windows were boarded, paper flipped and traveled in the wind, everything was dirty but it appeared that no gunshots were fired.
It did not look like an invasion. There were neither flattened buildings nor bodies, just an eerie quiet that emanated like the morning. I began to stroll idly as trees past me on either side creating a shady enclave that lit me as a silhouette as I crested the first small hill.
I looked at the corner shop, where I bought my Rothman’s cigarettes. The boards were on either side of the barred windows. The neon lights that jutted above the building were out. On the other side of the street was a hardware store. There was a board lifted off the window and the window smashed in, probably to gain access to weapons, or perhaps boards and hardware for home defense. I knew of some sort of biology or physics, but not a discerning name given to those who write their words.
If only I could make such a picture: In the early morning is the dust had settled like no one had been about in many weeks. There were no bullet holes in the buildings, any rising water nor destruction. We had leant them our ear and they had lied about this war. I was certain. But what were those loud noises that had filled the street for so long? The crashes were so roaring they shook the foundations of my house. The walls swayed as they deafened our ears. Yet there was no destruction.
I could not take a picture, nor mix a drink. I could not blend in to the fog that surrounds me. Spaces settled I was ready for the weasel and harmoniums sent towards their leaning patience without a close-knit wink. Perhaps I do not exist, for without these people who can, I suppose that teachers find their harm or the details of God? It is the strangeness that unsettles me because there are no dead.
We would belong to the purposes that take their minds. There is not a needless spot. Hope can space their minds apart.
These are but letters to souls, water. This is of people being fired from grand schools for personal spite and the children leaving them for government tranquillizers. They give their sheltered lives a good name. But the school appears closed for good, too.
A number of times I had noticed mistakes in the school. It is why I left so many years ago. It was always teaching us about Festin, not our land, it was as if they were heralding this kind of new age. Surely they knew this invasion was coming, and surely someone was pilfering the safes.
So never mind, water, because these people want us to help. I mean, it didn’t make me any better than the rest. If the others were like me I’d say we are off worse for going there. The Robot School of Metal Health, they say it is in my blood.
With this thought I arrived at the café to meet Emily Grett.
Outside the building is light grey with soft, rounded edges and small turrets with small white on black Stangladian flags hanging from either corner. Two small people stand outside the large door holding guns and I pass thru the dull black archway to enter the Barstruck Bistro. People mull around the front chatting aimlessly, losing interest in their topics and drinking hard liquor. Only Emily is in the back, sitting in a booth in a far away corner nursing her regular coffee. Dull thoughts muffle this sudden exposure to her modern way of thinking. She gives me a yearning for historical inquiry by appointed hobbyist wing nuts, in order to befoul the truth with idealistic sympathies and grandiose arguments by rich white people.
The radio speaks, “This is the story they need to have. It is a wordless wander because they need their part. We never can tell, because of all those that can see. I know that we will have 21 more minutes of arguments, easily followed by another 26. These words and the triumph they cause matter, you see, because the leaders enclose their matters. Someone smart leads them. He prides his intelligence, and I doubt people like him.”
Emily sees me standing there and knows she has to buy me a coffee. She has more money than me because she has a job. She calls me over, but I am trapped in the radio.
“He could afford the important position and fund the loud speakers that lied of the war. This is what I will tell Adolf Slope if I meet him. That when I am rich like him and our leaders. Then I will likely turn blue. I would like to have all the things that I wanted, without turning keys to the shore. I would like to work difficult savings out of turnips and might I add, they are torn. I am sure that the light near the back of the fountain had places to hide and strength among herb, but somewhere at the back there is someone who is certain that there is nothing left to us and certain we are there.”
The leader, he was buried with $1000 of bullion. It is worth more now than back then. The crime is that nobody took it from him.
Felt Markers of Truth:
I argued for them that lunch soon after they invaded. They had not learned. Forever, he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, such fervor and legislation were made to belong to them. When I became one of them Emily Grett had nobody else. These voices are recorded so as to find the legitimate excuse. One is that the illness brought us somewhere between the little war and the big one. We have nothing, but make our way to the reception on the wharf. And as others carry us, the story is created.
There is nothing to learn. Forever he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, for some leave there, pace and drink coffee and write like I. It is reloaded once a year, and there is less of it to ruin. This person had the first store in Stagladia, I am sure. And it is empty from fear, but not in ruin. We never heard from the rest, perhaps he was lost for the purpose, finding a difference between the fictional stereo and mono plug.
She unwound a long wrapper. I moved in my spot on the pillowed, plush bench. There is one limit, with none to come. Many years will wrap this city in gold. She knows that. There are many people who will bring their sun towards us. While I am explaining these bugs to her, like that time we were sitting on the wharf counting them, Emily told me not to mind. I need this dry lemon like I need a slap on the hand.
She is one like the rest. Someone not raise quite so functionally as to rest inside a heavy handed righteous learning chest that mattered. And I can have this, a sign that some kind of dry lemon is taken from the ladder. More fast-talking for the day, something special, like this, that I can hear, an audio file that must be slowed to an available speed. It is some sort of history, and I am not concerned by what I do.
Then, of course, there is a space reserved for illness and men who can be feared. And they must, it is only fair.
I told Emily of a space reserved for Water, and I must write that only Water should have known forms in this manner. I cry to her like that sometimes, as if I were talking to myself. There is no matter left, she took their weight and I speak like the little man. But saved me. The man who stole me sold my books to men who only read stolen books. He is a man of fine tastes, living up north where there are few with fine tastes. He is intelligent and well traveled.
Emily told me that she was reading the daily news posts on BfZW Channel Two and they are reporting on Water’s Creek, about six hours from our town. Festin’s highest guard currently occupies this land. They are creating a large fortified base easily accessible by air because Festin has eradicated the Stagladia port city of Water’s Creek. There is a large air force base that has lost nearly 82% of its population. The citizens of Water’s Creek were subjecting to the plagues of Festin, namely extended power outages and flooding. The most fatiguing are the madness sent as subliminal audio waves from helicopters and trucks blasting very loud screeching noises. Only the military installations were struck fatal blows.
The news was reporting our military failure as if Festin is our new government. We have not unconditionally surrendered, but we are being asked nicely to step aside. It seems the government radio station is the first to go. The speakers had no accent, which is strange.
"They must have been well-trained Festin spies," I tell her.
She agrees, "Because it was not the regular 3:30 lady." Emily was unnerved.
...To Be Continued...