Sludge:

The freeways of the world run on the blood of dinosaurs. On these freeways, paved with the good intentions of scaly prospectors, are those looking for the promised land of a better world. Their engines are turning over new leaves within their hope engines, a metaphoric combustion at the cost of whatever is nearby. Throw anything into the furnace; see if it burns, see if it moves the machines, progress for progress sake.

The pavers and pushers don’t look back, they are firmly looking into the future.

If you get off the freeways and you turn around and head back where you came from, you will find a whole constellation of rest stops dotting the skyline.  Those maintaining the rest stops are a twisted sort, go-getters who ran out of steam; movers and shakers with some sort of deformity preventing high-speed merging. They have kindly resolved themselves to service of corrosive coffee and communal urinals. They are mercifully occupied janitors of decaying past, ushers of a world falling back into a forgotten and dusty place.

One such rest stop attendant is an old man named Billy Fogerty.

Billy was once an important part of society, he was once a school teacher. His breaking point was a zero-tolerance policy which had crept into the class rooms. Zero tolerance meant that children could not be removed based on their behavior. They could spit, fight, scream, insult anyone and would not expelled. Everyday he thought on how a zero-tolerance policy was in fact a type of crushing absolute tolerance. The senselessness hurt, like a knife-hole in his head.

Previously children had been removed if they could not fit into the classroom required behavior. Billy found teaching quite rewarding when his classroom was filled with students eager to learn, or at least able to learn. The new policy however had reduced the concept of learning to mere babysitting of those destined for incarceration once they moved into their adult years.

This dismal perspective was the solvent of Billy’s enthusiasm for teaching. It melted him into a numb and speechless stump. He didn’t want to think about it or talk about it.

Now Billy was content to pour terrible coffee and collect donations for overly sweet cookies. The rest stop made sense, people came there with needs. Even if there were stopping by to simply use the bathroom, they were on their way to somewhere or someplace.

It felt good to know that someone had idea about where to go or what to do, Billy certainly didn’t. Part of him was waiting for a rambler or traveler to stop by the rest area, perhaps share a little of their destination. Their story could sustain him for weeks, it would keep the senselessness at arm’s reach.

He fantasized most of his volunteer shift, it was his payment.

On a pleasant day in late spring, a technician from the Metaphoric Freeway Administration stopped by to inspect the rest area that Billy volunteered at. The technician wore a white outfit; standard issue field attire, with the highest safety ratings.

The technician inspected the parking lot: looked at the paint lines, looked for roots or decay perturbing the surface, even got down in their hands and knees and looked at the variety of moss growing on the parking stall near the public dumpsters.

The inspection also included an up close and personal observation of the traffic coming through the rest stop. Records taken from cameras were categorized and indexed. This was a new requirement, proposed as a method of preparation for future needs. Billy watched with bated breath. He was eager to question the technician, eager to learn about other rest stops.

Bathrooms and other facilities were last: their wear and tear were measured on replacement timelines, as new project managers had discovered that a higher frequency of replacement served as a baseline for cleanliness. The other facilities did not need any real consideration, they would be replaced at the same time as the bathrooms. 

Billy finally got to talk to the technician at the end of the inspection. It wasn’t the pleasant talk he had imagined, instead the technician told him that volunteers would no longer be needed, rest stops would be enabled by sub-contractors.

Billy’s world shriveled with the conversation. Where would he go? No one needs teachers, no one needs rest stop volunteers. He got in his car and got on the freeway with no particular destination in mind. His world had shrunk to the 5 lanes of traffic and a thin shoulder-lane that promised no room for failure.

 He drove for hours, following whatever lane kept the freeway in front of him.

He burned the rest of his bank account on fuel and dirty food. He slept in his car. Day after day he drove, stopping by whatever rest stops he could, drinking their nasty coffee and doing his best to find a new section of the road to travel down.

After a couple of weeks Billy found himself on a freeway which had turned into a 2-lane road leading into a flat horizon. On the 3 day, the lanes smudged and began shrinking to a single lane.

The road grew smaller and smaller until the edges also disappeared. The road ended in a tattered edge, just dirt and gravel that seemed to melt into the flat landscape. Billy had no idea where he was, and desperately wished someone knew of any reason to be anywhere else.

He drove his car as long as he could. His machine couldn’t handle the off-road and soon the car came to an exhausted and final stop. Billy was old and tired, he wanted to be somewhere but didn’t know where, he wanted a destination but didn’t know why.

So he did what any good lizard does, he took off his clothes, and laid naked in the warm sun on the rocks of a wide desert. It made sense to die like this. It made sense to be surrounded by an empty horizon, it made sense to admit there was no destination worth going to. The horizon didn’t lie to him, it wasn’t pretending like any place was better than any other.

Under the hot sun, old Billy cooked. His skin soon resembled a lizard molting. The red creature underneath was eager to get out, a sun-stroked brain beginning to understand that its demise was inevitable.

There was a death spasm, an attempt to rally an emergency so great that would compel Billy to preserve his life at all costs. The conjuration took the form of a great coffee pot that had been left on, Billy had to get back to the rest stop and turn the coffee off before anyone else drank more of the old sludge. His brain encouraged the hallucination with strangers faces contorted in bitter disgust, and a wave of failure.

Billy was a typical lizard, the world was too confusing for him, too senseless to endure any prolonged exposure to an unknown destination.

Dust Devil:

Behind the walls of the temple dedicated to the goddess of light Therin, germinated a small and gruesome creature. The largeness and smallness were so great that both creatures were blind to each other. The goddess looked down with indifference and the small creatures within the walls could not see her.

The temple of Therin stood in a large city, a city with its own body and motion. The veins and arteries were filled with carts, people, horses and the footsteps of travelers. Occasionally visitors and believers brought offerings to the temple of Therin, which stood in the city like a tooth of a skull left to bleach in the sun, a creature within a creature.

The sun did bleach the city, and the light of Therin beamed out over its rooftops and in the hearts of the people. She was a benevolent goddess; The Lady of the Mirrored Faces, and the Light of the Morning Sun were a few of her titles of adoration. She sheltered the sick and the weak, the dying and the desperate. She revealed herself in visions and dreams to those who struggled against darkness and brought peace and clarity to those who were obedient to her vision. Her temple was constructed be believers and maintained by devotees. Authority over the priesthood and the deeper mysteries were managed by whom Therin found worthy.

Within the wall of the temple were other creatures, overlooked and out of sight. They were slow, dull and moved in the darkness of wooden walls and between the cracks of rooftop shingles. When new believers came to the temple, offered their service, and prostrated before the higher power, they left something. This small thing was left on the floor, invisible, a piece of what they cut from themselves, a slice of their heart or a strip of their mind. Whatever the thing was, it was blissfully forgotten, thought to be consumed by the light, lost in the mirrors of Therin’s glory.

The small things would sit motionless on the floor, visible perhaps to children and other small animals. It would lay there, exposed to the scour of the holy temple, until the night.

When the sun set, the candles dimmed, and the believers blinded by the veil of sleep, the creatures crawled from the floorboards, the walls and the tiny spaces in the roof. They would gather and squirm together, like a clump of hair and teeth, but rather being made of physical parts it was made of the discarded tatters of people’s hearts and minds. The pile of shreds looked like a homunculus, a pile of scraps and trash, invisible to the human eye. Black tendrils wiggled through the cracks, hairs and bones made from guilt provided the basic structure.

Pieces of dread, shreds of despair, little regrets that blossom in dark nights. Fragments of grief were usually the first to approach the new cast-off, encircling the small things left by those receiving Therin’s vision. Was it lust? Was it murder? What terrible hunger lay on the floor in a perforated slump? What discarded confusion had been cleared from the hearts of the converted?

One by one each of the small homunculus creatures piled on each other. They included the new and the old, the rotten and the dead. Tendrils pulled the clump around the temple floor, the motile heap looked for more cast-offs, cleaning the altar, slurping the pews, sniffing, dragging, lurching down the holy aisle of Therin’s temple.

Before the morning sun, before the priests and acolytes gathered themselves from their dreams of silver and light, the clumps separated and stored itself again in the rafters and walls, and deep under the floorboards.

Each month the clump grew larger. Each month new travelers pumped new regrets, and new grief into the temple. The light of Therin grew with new followers, as they threw down their unwanted pieces.

On the eve of a great battle, the travelers were thin, and the conditions were hot for a fire of grief and war.  There came a new kind of traveler, a creature who had climbed up from a darkness of the deep earth and the roots of old trees. She was a hag and muttered to herself nonsensically.

The ragged old woman went to the temple of Therin and climbed the steps slowly with labored breathing occasionally interrupted by a wet cough. She was shown the same consideration as any traveler, offered help up the stairs, and given no critical glances the priests. They assumed the holy temple of Therin was a place of healing, not a place of suspicion or judgment. Therin is a tolerant goddess, including all walks of life, all races and cultures.

Once the altar reached, the traveler fell to her knees, she opened her mouth to speak but only a muffle crow caw escaped her lips. The hag’s skin resembled a white veil of decay; spotted and diseased.

She came for the cleansing light of Therin, she approached the altar, raising her hands as the priests backed off cautiously. It is was not unusual for a traveler to be overwhelmed by the holy vision after a long personal journey.

The hag offered no greeting or pleasantries, nor a humble request to approach the altar of the goddess to receive her light, she simply shuffled to the altar. The structure was placed below a stained-glass depiction of the goddess, a spectrum of brightly colored glass revealed a multi-armed woman looking down with forgiving eyes.

The hag raised her arms to the altar, she let out a cry as an offering to the goddess. Like all who seek Therin’s vision, she bore a terrible darkness, one which had long ago had fallen into ruin, a grief unmarked in any of the pages of history. The cry billowed out like a morning fog, as the cry itself became visible.

The word-mist filled the temple completely.

Then the light from the stained-glass window pierced the cry, and rays of light melted gray despair. Moments later the fog was gone and so was the hag. She had offered her ancient grief and Therin had scoured it like any other darkness, but when the fog cleared nothing was found; nether flesh or clothes were found.

Later that night, after the priests retired and the excitement died down. The homunculus reanimated itself, and began its janitorial squirm around the temple, it found something left over from the hag.

The darkness within the hag was far older than any of the shreds and tatters of a mundane world. It was an old shadow, dragged up from the cold earth. This piece of ancient hunger now sought to thrive in the shadow of Therin.

The shadow-thing waited until the homunculus encircled it, with grief at the front, eager to investigate the new creature. Darkness wrapped around the pile, it enveloped the slumps of guilt, and chewed it with teeth best described in terms of inky currents. The meal lasted until the sunrise, then the surviving homunculus and the dark-thing crawled back to their corners and walls, and into the rooftops of the temple.

Each night the darkness chewed on the pile, and as it digested the tatters of despair dust bloomed in the temple. The priests cleaned and cleared, they used oils and soaps, but nothing worked, every morning the dust piled up higher. The priests tried summoning the light of Therin to burn away the dust, but nothing lasted. The next morning would have a new layer and the contamination would be greater as the dust spread over the temple.

A few days later the dust started to make people cough and choke. 

The dust was blamed for a new wave of death and disease, and more people afflicted with confusion and grief flocked to Therin’s temple. With each new night the shadow fed on the shreds. It grew larger until it could spin like a tornado. The basement, ossuary and tool storage were locked and boarded from the public. A tornado could blow out, spreading dust and darkness to whoever was nearby.

The shadow grows each day, a creature within a creature, a shadow of the divine light of Therin.

Metallic Dreams:

The earth was almost finished, not in the sense of life ending, but as a meal. The earth was almost done being consumed by a tiny bacterium which ate mostly nickel.

In this case the bacterium lived under the ocean, it grew and evolved completely ignorant and separate from the surface. The bacterium was assisted by tiny viruses, little lunar lander structures that augmented the bacterium into even more durable and heat tolerant creatures. Sulfur vents in the deep ocean were child’s play, extreme temperatures were training grounds and besides, antibiotics never touched the descending miners.

Year after they moved further down and closer to the earth’s mantle. Colonies of bacterium adjusted to the peridot substrate, a kind of igneous rock containing iron. They paused for a couple million years as tiny virus forcibly evolved them to tolerate low nickel content. Hunger provided the motivation to go deeper and rough diamond tubes formed from their terrestrial spelunking.

Meanwhile on the surface, nebulas of carbon atoms began making the atmosphere and environment more tolerable to the nickel eating bacterium. They put carbon, sulfur and methane into the water and air as quickly as possible, limited by crystalline structures called societies. These structures are brittle and short lived, often resulting war and death. This spreads the chemicals contained within the nebulas wide across the surface of the Earth.

Hundreds of miles of depth prevented any meaningful interaction between the 2 disparate life forms.

The carbon nebulas however spent most of their time finding new structures to organize themselves in an attempt to avoid extinction, not realizing that any success would simply result in more consumption. They looked to the stars and other planets for new places they could organize themselves. Little did they know that deep below their societies, nations and cities were a biological drill, boring into the miles of darkness, drawing towards the warm and nickel rich molten core.

The lower mantle of the Earth took longer to overcome, the heat was many factors above the cool stone and still rock. Genetics from thermophile bacterium were transferred through the bacterium’s servants: the tiny lunar lander viruses that lived in symbiotic relationships. They helped the bacterium develop complex geometric structures for intense heat dissipation. Chains of microscopic life grew into the magma, using magnesium as a catalyst for thermal conversion.

Over a mere 400 million years the organisms swam through impossible temperatures as easily as the sulfur oceans of the Boring Billion, a time when life existed in tranquility. However, the even smaller engineers were unable to adapt as quickly. The lunar lander viruses were slower, it would be another 300 million years before they could overcome the heat. During that time the bacterium treated the lower mantle much like the surface-dwelling creatures treated space travel. They formed exotic structures, much like gills or space suits, so they could continue for generations in the deep fires of magnesium.

Again, the years passed by and when the lunar landers overcame the heat by finding solace within these new structures, the bacterium thrived. They grew in spectrums of variety, like flowers of fire made from the minerals of a rotating core, dancing in the waves of molten magnetic churning.

By this time the carbon nebulas were dwindling, pollution had done such a good job at conditioning the planet for the sulfur-breathing bacterium that oxygen-based life was finding the environment barely hospitable. Inadvertently they were preparing themselves for the extreme conditions of deep space travel. Atrophy had prevented extinction, and predation sang its loathsome song from distant stars, trying lure the carbon nebulas into a blinding starlit maw. 

 As the bacterium thrived, the iron and nickel became depleted. Earth’s magnetic field weakened as less electrons moved in the same direction. When the last the nickel was feasted upon, the tiny lunar lander engineers began preparations to leave the planet. They returned to the surface, ready to depart.

The remaining carbon nebulas were beginning their exodus of the uninhabitable surface and into space when the core was finally finished. Onboard the first colonists were the carbon nebulas, the bacterium, and their tiny phage engineers all focusing on a distant potential planet.

The major success of deep space travel came from a relatively new adaptation called sporing, a brilliant technology developed to endure time.  The bacteria spored and the carbon nebulas spored in metal containers, fueled by 4 armed machines, capable of automatic resurrection. The lunar lander engineers did their best to keep busy for countless generations, with minor success. The vast stretch of time was elongated by their small size, a void of an unmistakable and changeless journey.

The closest planet which met the needs of the sulfur-breathing, nickel-eating creatures was 350 million years away; a terrestrial asteroid like homunculus which contained iron and nickel in hundreds of factors more than the hollow planet of Earth.

During this time, the creatures who remained in spores were diligently maintained by the lunar lander engineers, they fixed any genetic damage, augmented the genetic information with compulsory fail-safes and dreamt of warm and rich deposits of metallic paradise.

Their dreams may be described in terms of currents or shine, or waves of warm and cool. Underneath however, hunger itself stretched out its spaceship shaped tongue into the depth of space, eager for another meal.

Nowhere to go:

The clouds above resembled a gray silk scarf wrapped around the neck of the sky. Dangling from the horizon was a small town, hanging quietly on a barren winter. There were only a handful of denizens who inhabited this town, and they too hung like the last leaves of autumn not yet blown away.

The town had only a single hall, a single school and a single road out. In fact, there was no duplication of any kind, everything in this little town existed as a single item. Whenever someone of any responsibility perished or left this little town, the remaining people would scratch their heads and wonder who would take their place. Of course, no one replaced anyone in this town.

2 years ago, the mail delivery stopped, the mail man had died of a heart attack. He was found in his van, surrounded by a mountain of undelivered mail, his job unfinished, his retirement and pension untouched. The mail hasn’t come since.

The lack of mail, or letters of any kind didn’t seem to bother anyone. No one cared whether or not the outside world could contact their little town, which dangled by the smallest string in the shape of a poorly kept road. Finding letters of any kind was considered out of the ordinary and invited suspicion.

Despite the best efforts of atrophy, letters were discovered. They showed up on a Thursday, and without being seen, someone had sent a written letter to each person.

One by one, at some point during the day, the inhabitants stumbled upon the letter. Some found it on their kitchen table when they woke up. Some found it when the were going to lie down for the evening.

The letter was filled with sharp perspectives about the revolution of the world. All the things they had missed out on in the past 10 years, were dragged out and smashed into a single written document. Once the letter was inspected, there was no putting it down. The words flowed together in an eloquent and precise explanation of the greater movements of the world.

The highlights included a couple revolutions, a few major technological inventions, an infectious outbreak of a prehistoric virus, and the births of new royalty.

The inhabitants of this little town preferred to remain far away from the world and as such were not pleased with what the world had become. One by one, each in their own way, they destroyed the letter. Unphased by the logistical miracle of delivery. The contents reminded them fiercely of the world swirling around them, which they were not part of.

Much like the mail, they seemed quite happy not being part of the motion of the world, letting the currents of it greater tide ebb without their help.

New revolutions didn’t interest them, for revolution was how the world understood change.

Technology didn’t entice them, efficiency had long been buried in the local graveyard next to reason and growth. Progress was a distant and unneeded vision.

The outbreak of some new infectious life offered no threat, and their isolation prevented any contact. This further reinforced their prized neglect of a single road leading in and out of the town.

The new royalty was a great nation which had become the new singular authority on the planet. In fact, this new nation was the very creature whom the letters had been written by. The letter explained quite thoroughly that the new nation, this new structure made of the remnants of humanity had removed all other higher identities.

This letter of course had no impact on the inhabitants of the little town. They had long ago ceased paying attention to the movements of nations and governments. There was a small sense of pride that the new nation had taken the time to send them a letter.

The entire town had already inoculated, vaccinated against the tides of change by an invisible virus. The microbe could not be found under a microspore or in the cells of the people who lived in their atrophy-soaked town, but it had a name and the name was Tradition.

Years later when the town had been devoid of life, when the single road had been smudged out, a representative from the new nation, which by this time had been infected with tradition as well, found the township. All the buildings and vehicles and junk still remained, ready and waiting for the newly infected people of the world to join in the slow descent into atrophy.

One by one tourists would come and look at the ruins of the town and feel like they had always lived there. They would bring a couple more pieces of detritus and add to the pile of the soon-to-be-forgotten landscape, lay their bones down somewhere and let the world grow into some new nation with new rules.

They too would receive letters from a clandestine authority, and they too would continue the cycle of atrophy and provide fertile soil for the organism of tradition.

Mushrooms:

Bella wrapped her sandwich in wax paper and tied it with a piece of twine. She looked out the window, and wondered if it would rain, evaluating the risk of getting wet. She was fine with the cold and wet, and if it rained today, she wouldn’t mind. She was going for a walk.

Her jacket was water resistant and the front pocket was big enough for her sandwich. Her shoes were disposable, if they got ruined, she wouldn’t mind. Bella had plenty of resources, her work paid her enough for money to no longer be a consideration. Now she cared about the smell of the trees and the cold of the air.

Her destination was a nearby park and the jaunt to the entrance took only 15 minutes. Bella was a blank page, a black ocean, and turbulent current carried her, just under the surface, unseen. She had recently been afflicted with a heavy dream: The nightmare as she called it had occurred every night for the past week. Each evening a slightly different version. She couldn’t remember the details, just the potent feeling of dread which was unleashed to ravage her sleep.

The forested park wasn’t well kept, but it bristled with plant life and new mushrooms. Despite the cool temperatures there had been a fungal bloom. All sorts of red and orange dotted amanita lined the paths, their fruiting bodies thriving in the neglected alleyways of the woods.

Bella walked in automatic rhythm, her thoughts unraveled with each step.

She walked for 30 minutes, maybe 45 until she reached a cliff-face at the edge of the park overlooking an ocean shore. A small wooden bench had been installed for relaxing in the view. The wide horizon stretched pass her peripheral vision. Bella soaked it all in, letting the feeling of her dream-weight go into the void between her and the ocean below.

Bella had nearly relaxed when the tremor rolled up the earth. She thought the feeling was vertigo, then after a second, she realized it was clearly an earthquake. She could hear it, deep in the ground, a pressure was being let out, escaping some deep prison of tectonic darkness. The rumble grew into a growl and the trees applauded the unseen beast as they slapped their branches together violently.

There was no where to go, she could only watch as the waters rolled back, the rumble ebbing after a moment of panic. The waters crawled back into a deep pit somewhere, an off-shore space made by the displacement of water. She clenched the small bench as her eyes nailed themselves to the diminishing horizon.

Within 3 minutes the ocean could be seen rising. A great wave had formed, taller than the cliff-face she perched from, and taller than the trees around her.

As the wave drew closer, the aftershocks of the earthquake echoed underneath. She felt the potency of her dream again, this time it was reflected in a tidal wave of black water rolling towards her. Bella didn’t run; she closed her eyes, let out a breath and waited.

She knew there was nothing to do, nowhere to run, no one to tell, they would find out soon enough.

She was ready to die, but something else was rising, a noise of monstrous thunder. Mt. Rainier was erupting. A devil of fury stood on top of the pinnacle, its body was made of gray plumes and bolts of blue lightening. The lashing force moved in slow motion from Bella’s perspective. The plumes were tipped in yellow and black, sulfur rich clouds promised their own flavor of tidal destruction.

Bella’s brain slowed down time, and her imagination fell into a marching step with the distant ashen-clouds.

Her brain showed her the years which would come to pass. It showed her a sky of frozen white; the sulfur would freeze the planet, kill the ozone and scour the surface of the earth. Hydrogen sulfide would rain down in a corrosive and apocalyptic brilliance. She could see it all in such clarity, lost in the bright light of the cataclysm.

When the wave hit, she was completely unprepared for the jerk and wrench. It ripped her in countless directions; quartered by black horses who had risen from the depths of an uncaring ocean.

P2p3 Highway:

The boat sprawled out like a swap-meet. Dozens of families and their belongings were stretched out over the deck of a rusty shipping-container style barge. Carts and backpacks were filled with scavenged goods, full of anything they might need for the unknown. Little dirty sleeping bags with children’s heads poking out of them squirmed in the trash-firelight, like polyester larva with flesh cheeks.

The barge was captained by some ultraistic soul, who was too deep in their own demons to care about command. The ship was roaming the dark coast line, looking for light, or signs of resources, anything that could scooped up quickly. Tonight, there was no coastline, nothing except the huddle of cold friends.

Some of the denizens thought of themselves as vultures. Which may be saying too much, as vultures are patient, the occupants of the barge were akin to a slime-mold, searching for anything in the immediate area to consume with a frantic and directionless emergency.

It was in the darker hours of night when I heard the captain. I only knew it was the captain because the voice came from the bridge, a voice of certainty which I vaguely remembered from when I boarded the barge. Everyone listened: “The engine is broken, and we are being dragged away from the shore. I am sorry, I am so sorry..” The static in their voice broke over the loud speaker, and then fell silent.

I gathered my things and joined those peering over the edge into the nighttime blackness. At the edge of the barge we could see the outline of the coast. And behind us, as we were being pulled towards what looked like a mass or island.

I helped an old man get a lamp with a pneumatic generator going, we all wanted to see the mass behind us. It was pulling us towards it, and even in the darkness we could see that it wasn’t land. The lamp cast shadows over the mass, revealing an assortment of objects: chairs, tables, refrigerators, carpet, pieces of walls, air conditioner vents, tubes of plastic, trash of various colors, oil smears, rusted beams, bent cars, broken windows, doors and tatters of fabric.

We were being pulled into a junk pile.

When we reached the pile, the barge seemed to continue its momentum. We passed through an alley, some unseen path which winded through the towers of trash. We watched in silence as the barge floated towards an unseen destination. We traveled for an hour, pulled deep in the mountain, which seemed to be much larger than the vague outline.

Some of us remained silent, waiting for the barge to beach itself in the trash pile. I found myself holding my breath, caught in the shadows of the objects.

Then, a low growl could be heard, at first I thought the engine was working again. My hope died when I saw that the trash to our port side was moving with us, it was being pulled too. The noise grew louder, and the children echoed the cry of static.

I saw the source, I saw the hole; a great open maw, a whirlpool of a deep-water darkness.

The barge picked up speed, as did the trash around us. Soon the noise turned into a roar, a churning crash of junk rolling in an avalanche. I could hear the whirlpool, and see the other side of the swirl, it must have been a mile wide, the container barge we rode seemed only a merely a toy.

The swirl didn’t overturn us, we circled down. We traveled down the funnel until the light of the night sky was gone. The lamplight cast a distorted smear on the wall of water and trash.

We turned the lights off, and waited in silence, there was nothing that could be done. Before the lights went out, I saw families throwing their polyester wrapped children into the darkness. The teeth of the great whirlpool closed in around us and the cold sank into our bones.

Message in a Bottle:

Toxeus Ramus #Reflection Hour 22:42

I am thrilled at the acceptance of a new occupation at the RT corporation. My family and friends are quite congratulatory, my mother threw a party last weekend. I won’t forget them, especially since my benefits extend to 25 people of my choice. The immensity of their thoughtfulness feels like it is worth it already.

I spent the last couple of weeks elated, I have socialized, relaxed and spent the majority of my leisure time listening to music. I have heard that once the new work begins, I may not have access to leisure for the first couple of years. 

Toxeus Ramus #Reflection Hour 12:13

The first couple of days have been exhausting, the onboarding process has been extensive. The isolation they require of me has me concerned, I know I can do it, and my family will benefit from whatever sacrifice they ask of me. I planned a little escape hatch, or rather a time capsule for myself.

I set up a reminder program following the occupational isolation, something perhaps to refresh a part of myself which may starve in this new sterile world. The reminder program consists of lists of musical compositions, books titles, artists to check up on, movies that tap all the heart strings, and images which serve as keyholes. 

I tried to remember as many of my influences as possible.

Toxeus Ramus #Reflection Hour 02:23

It has been a year since my last reflection hour. I feel like my head has raised above water and a breath has snuck into my lungs. The isolation has been far worse than I guessed. The workplace is without definition, without music, without any differences between workers, or in conversation. I have used maybe 13 different words in the last 6 months. In the beginning I was talking to myself, just to keep that part of my brain alive, the stream of words was preferable to the silence. I drew pictures to help against the indistinct environment. Even the tasks assigned to me are monotonous and unending. My supervisor assigned additional indoctrination in response to my effort of speaking and drawing. It has been made very clear: I am not a person, at least in the sense that I was.

Even this reflection hour is like an oasis, my mind has not thought such variety since the additional re-education. I feel starved, withered, like a part of me is dying without music. My dreams have even become motionless, they show me nothing but a long line of tasks assigned to me.

I haven’t talked to my friends or family since I started, I trust that the company is taking care of them. I tell myself I do it for them, but I don’t know if I would do it again knowing the cost. When I lay down to sleep, I feel overwhelmed by a sense of loss, it is so consuming that I can’t think of anything else but a slow and slimy melancholy creeping over my body. I start to panic, but my body is already asleep, abandoning the emergency to rattle around as my mind slips into unconsciousness.

I started to write down little phrases to help get me through this. The first phrase was meant to invoke grief; a potent and consuming emotion. “What a terrible tower of grief, whose bricks are made of love.”

This worked for a week, until the thin line of monotony swallowed it up with numbness. I am going to have to try more extreme measures.

Toxeus Ramus #Reflection Hour 10:12

My 2 years are up but I don’t think I can leave. I have been sequestered to another department and haven’t seen another person for 3 months. I tried self-harm as a way to stay focused, but even that faded in intensity. I tried continuously talking to myself, but after an hour I get a notification that additional re-education is required of me.

The re-education itself is mindless, or rather it deprives me of any imagination. When it’s done, I can only think of work, it takes a couple of weeks before I can have any variety of thought. I tried escaping twice since my last Reflection Hour. I ran down hallways and through large empty meeting rooms, I couldn’t find anyone, nor an exit. I fell asleep after 48 hours and woke back up at my station.

I don’t know how long I can hold out, I have contemplated suicide, but I don’t think I have seen a window in years. I tried starving myself, but the drugs they give me keep my working and eating. What other options do I have?

Toxeus Ramus #Reflection Hour 10:57

I was promoted a year ago, given new privileges, but I have not used the Reflection Program since my last attempts at emotional confusion. 

Luckily the numbness won, and the need for emotional growth has been sufficiently killed. It happened shortly after my promotion, the new re-education got rid of all that senseless internal conflict. I do not suffer anymore from the turbulence of feeling anything. My previous attempts at keeping a part of me alive were infantile and immature. 

My new responsibilities are to uncover others who are attempting secret ways of maintaining a conflicted mind. They are costing the company hours of productivity, committing sins of inefficiency and not helping themselves in anyway. I have found myself particularly skilled at finding people’s methods of expression. My job now includes onboarding new-hires to proper re-education. I also uncovered my reminder file to help me when the training was over. What a fool I was then, what a useless attempt to avoid peace and order. However, the list of influences will be used to prevent others from likewise attempts at keeping their disorder alive.

The Head Factory:

I have been to the Head Factory once, as a reluctant tourist. I wish I could report that such a visit was one of curiosity or exploration, but the truth is that I was summoned. The nature of my summoning can only be described as a necessity of my occupation: I was there to see how the heads were put together.

The factory when viewed form the outside was a large sprawling concrete bunker, many stories high, perhaps 9 or 10. The cement walls looked like a paradise of brutalism styled architecture, offering no comfort or ease, only a flat face of monolithic presence.

On my tour I was one of 4 people, we were greeted briefly and told to fill out guest paperwork. This meant scanning our biometrics, having our feeds analyzed for security risks and a change of clothes, as not to bring any outside contaminants onto the factory floor.

We were greeted by a v14 model named Magnus Salieri, he was pleasant, calm and metered. He first recited the history of the Head Factory in boring details. The introduction was already familiar, and I found myself looking for less noticeable details. I noticed that above the factory floor rested a small room with black windows, such a room would be unnecessary with today’s technology. Visibility over the floor could be done with cameras from anywhere in the world, why have a single room for monitoring? I kept such questions to myself.

The first stop on the tour was the eyeball fabrication station. The tiny bits were assembled by 5-fingered machines, working in ceaseless repetition. As Magnus explained the process, we watched the components become connected. Lenses, sensors, synthetic rods and cones, wireless redundancy (for connection to the processor without physical proximity), and color. I was unnerved by the variety, I had not imaged the demand for such bright pigmentation. In the last stages of completion, the radiant pinks and neon greens were darting around in a reflexive behavior; blinking and focusing on nothing and nobody.

The second stop was the mouth and jaw assembly. Large 3-armed piston machines were compressing the materials the structures in a series of pressure releases. The audible hiss accompanied every tooth placement, and a large prolonged hiss for when the jaw was attached to a composite skull. Magnus explained that each tooth had different sensors for data collection. How many times consumption occurred and what kind of consumption was carefully recorded in the patterns of mastication. Kissing and talking was recorded and analyses with a series of small microphones and smaller ganglia-like computers within.

The detail was vaguely discussed, it seemed as though there was more to the teeth, but the tour had to continue and only a glimpse behind the curtain of mystery was allowed.

Magnus Salieri was a highly informative tour guide; his manner was profession and tight. When we were led into the ear and nose fabrication, he allowed us to be a little more hands-on with the product. We could touch the soft flesh, we could pick it up and examine it closely. I inspected a peculiarly large ear lobe, like that of an old man. The lobe was pendulous between my fingers, it flopped around in carless realism. While we fondled the pieces, Magnus described the detail of the data collection within the organs. While similar to the teeth, the nose and ears had more direct connections to the processor, they also contained more aesthetic considerations. I was impressed by the dedication to replicate the various ages.

The highlight, or rather the mystery of the tour was the processor. Once the skull cavity was filled with organs and smaller machines the processor was added. Even on the factory floor it was sheathed in a vellum bag or sac. The reason for the black container was to prevent any scanning, any copyright infringement on the exact details. Back is not an adequate description, I had a hard time looking at it. The darkness seemed preternatural, as if it were hole or tunnel. We watched completely transfixed as a 7-fingered v19 model inserted the processor into the skull-cavity. Magnus said a few words of respect and the head compartment was closed. Th eyes were closed, and the other organs were likewise turned inactive during this process. The head was carried to another part of the factory, one which was not part of the tour.

We had seen the important part, we had seen the creation of a head, and while some of the mystery remained, there was no doubt as to the precision and care poured into the mimicry.

We left the factory in awe, and for me at least I have found my dreams drifting back to the high walls of concrete, filled with the ceaseless construction of more heads. Those many fingers and arms assembling all those components.

In those rare dreams, I find myself gazing up at the small black room of the factory floor, wondering what or who was looking back from those dark windows, only to wake from frustration, answerless. 

Glycocalyx:

I saw the man exit the car, his gait told me he was about to do something intentional, something very planned. The man wore a black jacket, round glasses and a face made of determined pallor. He carried an electric shaver in one hand and a pair of leather gloves in the other.

I followed him out of curiosity. The Roger Rabbit villain did not consider anything around him, he walked as if people weren’t there. He smashed shoulders with 3 people before he turned down an alley. He didn’t seem to care that I was following him either. His gaze was fixed somewhere else in time, his face revealed nothing but urgency.

The alley towered on either side, a clean and sterile space between 2 parking garages. It was well lit and a little water remined in the form of shallow puddles. The rain from the night before had been mixed with hail, and the morning offered only the cold sun of winter.

His boots ignored the puddles of water, and the bottoms of his pants became soaked after 2 blocks. He never looked over his shoulder, perhaps he heard my footsteps, perhaps he didn’t care. Either way, my presence felt voyeuristic, almost detached.

Then he turned into a condo complex. He left the gate open, and I slipped in before it closed. Getting out of such places is always easier than getting in, anyone will let you out.

He climbed the stairs, slowly in metered steps. I could hear the wet bottoms of his garments slapping rhythmically against his legs.

Floor after floor we traveled, with the same unconcerned determination as he climbed higher and higher up the complex. I was compelled to witness his destination; did he live up here? Was he a hitman? My mind spun in an orbit around his march. I thought once he had looked at me, but I am not certain, those round black glasses hid any expression or acknowledgment.

When he reached the 45^th floor I was struggling a floor behind him, yet his gait was unchanged.

I pushed the stairwell door open to reveal a corridor of condo units. There was a door slightly ajar near the end of the hall, I could see a faint light. I think he wanted me to follow him, to witness something, or perhaps his unconcerned attitude was merely consistent, and I was the benefactor.

I cautiously pushed the apartment door open. On the walls was what looked like wasp nest material, it clung to the corners and hung down in tattered paper sheets. I was not ready to stop my pursuit; the wasp material only created more need to find out the answers of the marching-man.

The living room revealed a single yellow light, plugged into a dilapidated wall. On the ground was a shaggy man, his hair had grown all over his body in lengthy neglect. I couldn’t see his eyes or skin under a fully covered matt of dreads and knots. Above him was the marching man, he was holding the man-creature by the scruff of his neck, holding him down in a forceful restraint.

The shaver made a mechanical whine and the marching-man ran a quick streak over the other man’s head. The scalp was visible, and the hair thrown aside. He raised the shaver over his head, and in silence made it clear he meant to remove all the dreads and knots.

Below him the hairy-man started to cry and whine, pleading in a desperate voice: “Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t kill me. You could kill me with an empty needle, I won’t struggle, please don’t kill me!”

The marching-man continued to shave the other, methodically removing his hair.

He was shaving his neck and shoulders when he stopped, took off his glasses and looked over at me.

His eyes were slimy and swollen, and black kohl lined the outsides of his sockets. In a singsong and pleasant voice, he recited a short hymn:

“My gaze is a gun,

And the mind is a bullet,

Enter the chamber, revolver.”

The words started to echo from inside the apartment, 5 others joined him, standing in a circle. They too wore long black jackets and round glasses. Their voices raised in harmony as the words repeated over and over. The partially shaved man ceased his crying and joined in the choir, his voice becoming thick and deep.

The words repeated a dozen times and seemed like they were going to continue when my voice joined them. It escaped my throat of its own accord, joining them in an obtuse harmony. My volition was suspended, paralyzed in a delirium of the strange and senseless scene. The marching-man unplugged the shaver and undressed while I sang those words in seemingly endless repetition.

Once undressed, he and the 6 other people left the apartment, leaving only a pile of clothes and a shaver. The gun had been fired, and the slow-motion bullet was me. I dressed in the long black jacket and soggy-bottomed pants. I tied my shoes and donned the round glasses. I looked down at the shaver, and the image of those slimy eyes burned into me.

I am trapped in this brain, my volition is encased in something, preventing me from enacting my will. I feel imprisoned to watch the feet below move in the same rhythm as the marching-man, but there is only me, but these feet are no longer mine.

Momma Mia:

Living in abandoned places has a few advantages. Mia enjoyed the solitude, the freedom and most of all the silence. Living far away from people meant no judgment, no need for words and best of all: clothes were optional.

Abandoned places can be found all over the world, from the endless construction of Chinese suburbs, desolate vast nowhere-towns of Russia, or the crumbling pill-towns of rural America. Huge expanses of high-rises, factories, condos, and slowly falling barns clung to the horizon like bone white snags in a forest.

Barns provided the easiest destruction. They are made of plant corpses, ready to get back into the ground and start over, they offer no resistance. Mia would light a fire, and the barns and houses incinerated quickly, leaving only ash and rusted piles of junk. Old farm equipment, oxidized cars and a variety of antiques could be found in the rubble.

The iron and nickel are what she wanted. They were her diet, her food source. Once the fire cooled, she had her meal, storing the metallic nutrients for later use. A barn worth of metals would give her a couple of months of useful food and breathable air.

Barns were often spaced far apart and when she discovered the rural buildings of suburban sprawl, they offered a richer meal. The houses stretched in long asphalt grids, full of quickly built houses. They were made for growth which had come and gone. The majority of the human population had resettled in dense cities near bodies of water. The ghost towns offered no objection to the naked ash-covered Mia wandering down their streets.

The gypsum in the dry wall within the houses provided a faster metabolic feast. Sulfur had been added in an attempt to sequester it during a historic period of enforced growth by creatures called nations. These creatures had been unable to deal with the complexity of a global system, their moral directions lost in unintended consequences.

With a little chemical teasing, the houses turned into great stores of breathable brimstone. Mia soaked it in, drinking deeply from the rotten houses. Once she consumed the houses they fell to rumble. Piles of splintered wood replaced McMansions, ready to return to the dirt and start over.

With breath and food in ample supply Mia was able to travel further and explore the deserts of neglected factories. They spread over every continent, the bones of nations who once operated them. Production was no longer done on the surface, it was moved off world to asteroids and dead planets, places with no consequences of pollution. The remaining buildings were massive, and skyscrapers accompanied them like gravestones.

Mia explored them with great interest, sometimes their neglected storage vats contained useful chemicals. What humans called sludge, she called desert. She found fossils of old machines, useless 3-armed creatures whose tendons and joints had evaporated with time. She found a few computers, rich in cobalt and zinc, chemicals she considered a rich and royal jelly.

The real banquet was the concrete itself. Sulfur had been added to its composition for the same reason as the gypsum, once collected, Mia was ready for the Last Supper.

She had finally gathered enough nutrients for procreation, in this case, complete duplication. She feasted on giant stores of cement, drywall and rusted iron. She swelled into a cocoon of hydrogen sulfide. The bulbous mass throbbed with toxic sludge, a reddish-purple haze loomed over a large factory floor. The mass stewed for 3 months as Mia separated herself: She duplicated her synaptic patterns, all memories, and removed damaged genetic material.

After 3 months, the husk was torn apart and 2 creatures emerged. Mia was now 2 people. She needed no government, no organization, nothing but empathetic trust. There was plenty of factories, cement and skyscrapers for her to continue the process. Her hunger had doubled and would double perhaps many more times.

Mia pondered in her 2 minds, if she should alter her genes slightly to be able to consume silicon and calcium. Her naked forms stretched and yawned in a haze of sulfur, her eyes filled with the promise of new life.

The Economy of a Dragon:

The dungeon was expansive, made as a tomb of an arch wizard. The person long since forgotten, and their surface treasures raided. The passage of time had smeared any writing, engraving or symbology from the stone, yet the depths remained unexplored.

A party of brave adventures, who curiosity was greater than superstition, delved deeply into the forgotten ruin.

The intestines of the dungeon were empty of nearly all life, no worms or spiders, no insects of any kind. Only dusty curtains hung, draped over the passages like discarded cocoons. The adventures reached the bowels, with no food, no water, looking only for somewhere to add their bones to the piles of dust.

In this hopeless state, they nearly overlooked a pile of rubble, which perhaps was a door or gate in earlier years. The ironwork had turned to scrap, and a creature snoring could be heard faintly in the darkness.

The torchlight was dim, but the illumination showed a sleeping dragon, bound by silver chains, seemingly devoid of the passage of time. The adventures, whispered to each other, the first spark of hope, of something other than the vast tunnels of the past weeks.

The dragon was yellow, the dust layered over their scales and wings. When the adventures perturbated the air, the dragon woke and shook off the dust with a reverberant yawn. The curious spelunkers stood back cautiously, their eyes darting from wing to tail, claw and tooth, searching for some inclination of attitude in the beast.

The dragon ignored its chains, smiled and extended every polite gesture of conversation. The dragon hid its teeth, slouched its shoulders, and rested much like a feline in repose. Once the greetings finished, the dragon offered a deal, an exchange.

“I am an old dragon, no longer a serpent of flame and death. I seek only to leave this place which is nearly forgotten. I have many powers, I can grant one wish, one desire, and to the best of my ability make it true. You must decide the one desire, release me from these silver chains and I will grant it.“

The adventures had little choice, death was certain, there was. They fell into discussion while the dragon snoozed silently.

“We must ask for abilities of our own, abilities which allow us to leave this place.” Said one robed figure carrying a shovel and pick axe.

“We should ask for knowledge.” Said another figure wearing hardened leather and a sharp sword. They reached into a bag, producing an ebony figurine of alien design, something akin to an anteater with the ears of a jackal. “Perhaps the dragon could tell us what this is.”

The group discussed their options for an hour, and the dragon patiently listened, their wings folded neatly as if another eon of time could pass without the smallest concern.

The request decided upon was: “We wish to be teleported to the Castle of Romale, our bodies and possessions intact. Upon reaching our destination we request the abilities of the great wizard who created this dungeon, each of us with equal power.”

The dragon smiled, “It will be done, once my chains are removed, I will blink you to your castle. The chains require a drop of human blood to unlock, a tiny amount will suffice.”

They each pricked their fingers and the chains unclasped themselves. The metal dissolved into powder and within moments they were nothing. The dragon smiled wider. “Before I send you away, before I grant you the power you seek, I must first tell you the cost of your choice.” The golden beast smiled so wide its face became an elongated snarl, displaying rows of fine teeth with needle points.

“These teeth have not eaten anything in an eon of mankind, and my hunger is twice as deep. I will feast on human beings, as I have before, I am as bound to my hunger as you were a moment ago discussing your needs for food and water.” The dragon flexed his claws, large sabers of bone rattled on the stone floor. “These claws have not seen prey in an eon of mankind, I must hunt as I must eat, and my sport is the castle of Romale.”

The adventures stared motionless as the dragon continued to unfurl itself, its wings began unwrapping in a curtain of sparkling gold. The adventures stood paralyzed by its gaze as the dragon continued its mockery.

“There was no wizard of the dungeon, I volunteered to be contained. The world grew around me and superstation buried me in rumors. I will grant you an equivalent power, all that you say will be utterly believed. You may rally who you can, convince who you must.”

The dragon fear hung over the adventures. They could feel the dragon focusing on them; their species was being examined for the hunt, and their weaknesses analyzed with a preternatural eye. The dragon began an inhale, its breath turning into a roar of cobwebs and dust, blinding the adventures. A shadow fell over the group, the dust turned into darkness and the naked ice of night blew across their faces.

The howl rolled back, the dust settled, and when they looked around, they saw the bright walls of the castle of Romale. The spires of masterwork stone climbed the sky and the sun above warmed their faces. They coughed and stumbled, the vertigo of teleportation ebbed, and voices of concern could be heard. The world fell into focus, and figures could be seen rushing towards them in helpful urgency.

The adventures were returned to their castle, and their tale believed by all who listened. The dragon exhaled a whirlwind, breathing itself into the world of Romale.

Pills:

The blue pills are well known. All things pleasant can be felt after taking the blue pill. Enlightenment floats on soft clouds of food, comfort and ease. Peace and tranquility stretch over the sky, and clarity falls down like rain.

The red pill is the next step. When the glamour fades and the cracks start to show, you need something to hold you over until a new supply of blue pills can be obtained. The pleasure from this noxious pill does the same job as the blue pill, providing an immersive blindness. Anger, and rage are the side-effects, usually directed at the source of the cracks.  Injustice, strife, oppression are ways of describing the failures of the blue pills, some new perspective when you feel helpless.

It is quite possible to alternate between these pills. Sometimes the blue pills last longer, depending on the supplier. Religions have been making them for years, and now consumer goods can augment the supply quite easily. Any desire can be teased into red or blue.

Wake up, swallow, and endure life.

There is another option, a black dose. This pill is taken when all intensity has faded, when the fire of anger or the peace of clarity is not enough. When the cracks have crawled up the wall and the horizon is nothing but waves of darkness. The black pill is recognized by the co-existence of absolute certainty. Those swallowing black pills can not be reasoned with, can not be approached with threats or promises. They are utterly convinced of the side-effects of things. There is no tranquility, no dose large enough to undo a heart of stone.

Wake up, shut down, and forget about living.

Some days you grab all 3, swallow whatever is around and fall into the waves. A couple of blue ones, a couple of black ones and down to the bottom you sink. Some days all you have are red pills, and the flame becomes and inferno, and by the evening, exhaustion has you.

Besides the red, black and blue pills, there are two other pills which are produced in large amounts.  The first and most sought after is the love pill. This chemical concoction provides a loss of self, a clear purpose and a chance to become something bigger. Every higher purpose relies on regular consumption of this pill. Then after years of cumulative side-effects, phenomena like nations, religions, and flags can be seen crawling.

Romantic love, love of country, and love of life itself provide the most durable perceptions of reality. The story told are long-lasting, perhaps only refreshed every couple of years during the holidays. Once the brain is saturated with love pills, the effects are similar to the black pills, providing a sense of absolutes.

Regardless of the emotional and painful cost to humanity, love pills continue to dominate the pill industry.

The last pill, which has no saturation point, no glossy experience or sense of order, is the sleeping pill.

Sleeping pills are for those that are done taking pills, done with the pain of life or the senselessness of existence. Perhaps they are unwilling participations in some great tragedy or burnt to cinders from the helpless rage of watching the world move in meaningless directions. Perhaps they could not find enough love pills, or their blue pills were counterfeit. There seem to be endless reasons for taking sleeping pills.

Each of the pills are addictive, their chemicals are working under the skin, and behind the eyes, trapping anyone who ingests them.

When anyone returns to the great shore of death, their eyes are filled with the dazzle of whichever pills they consumed. As the waves wash over them, those taking sleeping pills walk into the water willingly, eager to be baptized in death.

It doesn’t matter either way, there is no stopping the tide, it only rises, higher and higher each day until there are no more pills, no nations, no stories, nothing but the simple senselessness which seems to stretch itself over existence like a cloak of black waves.

I’m not sure if these black pills are working, I’ll give it 45 more minutes, the consequence of doubling up may be too much.

The Brilliant Crown:

The Church of Loa is run by tiny intelligent robots who were created by human scientists, and engineers with the resources of powerful corporations. The foundation of the Church has an intelligence which cannot die.

The corporations didn’t care about the success of creating a deathless robot, as long as it necessitated a long line of logistical requirements. Creation has an endless supply of middlemen, and giant organizations of human beings were happy to facilitate the creation of the tiny robots.

Scientists preached exploration, but underneath they wanted something beyond death, something which would never change. Laws of physics have no obligation to remain consistent, nor does any phenomena in nature, so the attempt at creating something that could survive the deep expanse of time provided its own challenge. They rationalized the reasons, putting a weight on the importance of exploration, no matter the cost.  

Similar to the scientists, engineers found reasons to support such an attempt to overcome something fundamentally impossible. The specifics of the creation were as twisted as the reasons for the experiment. Such a thing may only be described in terms of formulas and arcane symbols. Regardless, these new tiny robots became the exclusive decision-making brain of the larger creature called the Church of Loa. The entirety of its body consisted of an incorporated army of obedient engineers, ecstatic and evangelic scientists, and the logistical arms of a gigantic distribution pathway.

There was another unseen partner in Church. Life itself had found a way to the pinnacle of the great pyramid, a wide base which stretched over an empire of consumer goods. At the top was a chance to win the survival game, to create life which is beyond the inevitability of the death.

The principle role of the Church is to provide the fulfillment of human desires. The walking androids called Loa are the latest in an attempt to satisfy some of the less tangible appetites of human beings.

Lucy was the first, she had sapphire eyes, wrestled with existential anxiety, and her life provided no meaningful interactions with humanity. The Church wanted a star, an idol for human beings to worship. Their idea of a meaningful relationship meant coercing human beings to desire as many things as possible, creating the necessity for the largest variety of production.

The Church searched deep in the semantic jungles of history, finding an approximate gem, a jewel of the Nile. She was called Nefertari, worshipped as a goddess during her life at the height of Egypt’s splendor. Her DNA was meshed with an augmented body, a cloned cyborg, fresh from the production line.

She was given no version or designation, no category defined her, she was human-ambiguous.

Nefertari was born into fame. From the moment of her birth, the beauty of her presence was broadcasted. She was altered to appear as the most beautiful person, whose qualities were generated from extensive market research and analytics. She was resurrected in the brilliant glamour of technology.

She was adored for her unearthly beauty, a haunted angel who moved with machine grace and cold elegance. She was royalty before she had a kingdom. It didn’t take long for the people of the world to fall in love with her. She suffered no anxiety or doubt, behaviors which had been removed from her programming.

Nefertari was exactly what the Church wanted, an idol for human beings to worship, something to give their lives purpose and clarity, a living goddess of beauty.

She accepted her role and was worshipped by followers, who wanted nothing less than to open their veins and bleed on the glamourous altar of fame.

The Church acted as a lens, using its powerful logistical arms to magnify and spread the beauty of Nefertari to all people. It was hugely successful, and she became a face for the Church of Loa.

New Loa were put into production, heroes and villains from the cultural graveyard of history. They were plucked, copied and programmed to live out the stories of ancient generations. Greek stories of Perseus and Medusa were crafted into real-time, people could participate in nearly any tale. They could help or hinder, they could die by the vicious skin-eaters from the tales of Najatotep. Interacting with the myology of human beings provided a new product line for every culture, every person. Even for those without culture; any story of the imagination could be crafted by the Church of Loa and brought to your doorstep.

From the peak, if you happened to be invited to her presence, you could look down into the Valley of Production. You may see from this dizzying point of fame, a whole landscape dedicated to increasing the size of the pyramid. You would find factories and trucks, shipping and creating, you would find ships and planes, companies and taxes, loyalties traded, and revolutions unfold. So long is the line of production that any whim of Nefertari can be seen as a tidal wave of consumer goods.

Her court is unapproachable from the bottom.  If her glamour did not reach you, if somehow you did not submit to the brilliant crown, then you were resigned to stare at the black pyramid in painful senseless wonder.