Ball of Wax:

Icarus was a devout Sun worshipper, as were most people of his time. The Sun brought the harvest, and where there is food, human beings multiply. Social and political authority rested firmly on the Sun priests, who, in their divine wisdom understood the moods and patterns of the Sun. Icarus was no exception, he trusted the priests to make the proper sacrifices to keep drought and famine away. If a solider came to someone’s house and dragged them away, no one said anything, as long as the soldiers had the blessing of the priests.

Being a devout worshipper required that you filled your imagination with the glory of the Sun, while diminishing yourself. His desires became small and worthless, something trivial in the blazing light of growth and life. He worked manual labor jobs with sincere enthusiasm, the strain and toil further reduced him. His faced often red from exposure and an occasional heatstroke provide visions of the divine light. He did not care if he lived or died, the Sun held the authority, and could take it away as easily.

He was not practical enough to hold the reins of power, but instead beamed out an example of monastic dedication to the Sun. The priests paraded him around, they fed and clothed him, for they benefited greatly from the passionate certitude of Icarus.

Icarus was 23 when his hunger overtook him. A fiendish hole opened up in his belly. He ate fruit and bread, wine and cheese. He tried desperately to contain himself, to curtail his consumption, with no success. The priests continued to feed him, he was worth more as a symbol then gold. He ate and ate, consuming feasts meant for dozens, devouring platters meant for families.

Icarus prayed to the Sun, and exposed his new burgeoning body to the destroying light of the Sun. In his prostration, he suffered heatstroke regularly, and blisters formed on his back and chest. The priests treated him, watered him and soothed his wounds. They provided a servant to bear a wide fan to cover the growing body of Icarus.

The hunger grew until his body could not carry itself, he wheezed in the summer heat, delighting on the pain he endured. No matter how large his flesh became, he felt insignificant in the burning fire of the light. The priests continued to feed him as much as he desired. They allowed tourists and devotees to witness his divine affliction. His conviction was an inspiration, far more successful for recruitment than any missionary. Icarus lay firmly in the grip of the Priests of the Sun.

Weeks passed, and Icarus began sleeping more and eating less. His large body was nearly the size of an elephant. He dreamed of eating vast tables of food, a great spread of immense variety. The oils and meats dripped into his evenings and exquisite desserts plagued his appetite. He would wake a few times a day and beg for some dish or substance that infected his slumber. His shape did not change, even though he ate considerably less.

Soon, he ate nothing and slept the entire day except for a muddled awareness to greet passing tourists. The priests of the Sun made a profit from the exclusivity of his waking words. However, that too diminished, and a gray film was seen covering his face and neck. The film spread to his bulbous arms and legs and then hardened into a gigantic cocoon. Devotees and tourists from faraway lands visited to see the afflicted creature who worshipped the Sun. No one from their lands had spun a cocoon or grown to the size of an elephant.

For 2 months Icarus dreamed in his cocoon. Wistful waves of viscous hunger threw from nightmare to paradise from one vision to the next. He was a tiny spec caught in the tides of a larger darkness. He threw himself into the waves and the torrents of dreams as they crushed him into a mindless lump. After the 2 months the hardened cocoon showed signs of cracking and breaking.

People from Babylon to Nubia came to see the emergence. They gathered en masse under great tents in a circle around Icarus. Devotees chanted through the hours of the day with blessings of the Sun, they rocked and swayed, beating drums to the cadence of the words. The emergence took 2 entire days.

His legs were the first to be seen, a gleaming carapace of jeweled color. Green and blue hues danced on the oily surface as he stretched his 6 appendages from their gray cocoon. Priests scribed and chanted as he clicked his exoskeleton together. Then his head was seen. A human-shaped head with enlarged eyes, the skin was a pale yellow that glimmered as his eyes darted around in a twitch. His mouth was not seen, it had dissolved during his dreamtime puberty. Then finally, his wings, great 15-foot cloth muscles, strong and eager with vibrant reds and oranges depicting a Sun swirl in the center.

The Sun priests heralded it as a sign, a vision from the Sun, with a single doubt, the depiction of the Sun swirls removed any question. Icarus beat his wings as the devotees chanted in exultation. Drums fell into cadence and Icarus felt himself lift off the ground slightly.

He had slept so long and been motionless for months. Now he felt a surge of vitality and beat his wings harder until he was rising from his old tattered flesh. He panicked as the tents prevented an upwards ascension. A perceptive priest opened a tent wall and Icarus squeezed through, knocking down pilgrims and onlookers alike. The crowd was enthralled, and they praised the Sun for such a divine miracle!

Once out from the tents, Icarus felt the joy of freedom and flew frantically in as many directions his previously cloistered brain could handle. It took less than an hour for flight to become second nature. By this time the crowd was hysterical, their words were a jumbled cry to Icarus’s new moth ears.

He had only his memories. Hunger and devotion, and without a mouth there left only one option, a single pointed destination. He flapped his wings furiously, rising over the tented city and above a wide horizon. He looked down with his enlarged moth eyes and remembered only hunger, the empty hole which he could never fill. Frustrated, he flew higher, straining his new wings to their limit.

Even as a giant moth, Icarus loved the Sun. The warmth was welcomed, it had been months since he had been touched by the blazing light of the Sun and now, as he looked down at the tiny human beings below, he felt truly diminished.

Upwards he flew, hour after hour, the world below grew smaller and smaller. He flew until only the Sun filled his horizon, his enlarged eyes glaring back in certainty and love. Then after a day of flying, his wings failed him. As he fell effortlessly to his death, he thanked the Sun for giving him his new body, which he considered a blessing of extreme importance.

The Desert of the Invincible Robot:

Dr. Santayana created a v19.3 model robot made with enormous resources. He was given resources due to the degree of madness he suffered. In an age when imagination is at a premium price, he was sponsored to enact his vision upon the world.

This sponsorship had limits, fail-safes that prevented any real impact. You couldn’t blow up the world, kill everyone or instigate the sun to sprout a solar flare and disintegrate the planet from solar system. If you had a fantastic idea for infecting everyone with bizarre diseases, you were funded. Last year another insane doctor made 15,000 of the same person via cloning and personality reflection. It was a momentary distraction for prime-time Plutonium Television.

Miniguns were installed on each arm of the robot, limited to 100 bullets per second. The size was limited to 3.2 meters in height. The robot was given complete access, and programmed to shoot and kill as many people as it possibly could. It was also given a bullet replicator capable of creating replacement bullets from thin air. From design to creation this robot was hard wired for one purpose: Killing human beings.

With a final inspection, Dr. Santayana completed his indestructible killing machine. It was released into a high-density metropolis and began its rampage immediately. 15,844 people died in the first hour as the population began its exodus from the city. Within 24 hours the city was empty, and the robot was unable to kill any more people. It started to follow the freeways and highways at a speed of 35 kilometers an hour, hauling its miniguns and bullet replicators. This was an abysmally slow speed compared to the vehicles used by the population. Cameras and communication networks allowed everyone to stay nearly an hour away from any direct the robot was heading. If the robot went south, everyone evacuated and abandoned whatever it was they were doing.

A nomadic culture blossomed in a 35-kilometer circle around the robot. Corporations who employed workers in the area, paid for their relocation. National militaries organized people away from cities in an orderly and calm fashion. Temporary housing boomed and became a part of live. Those who lived in the potential path of the lethal robot, were ready to pack up and relocate quickly. As the invincible robot wandered around the face of the earth, it resigned itself to destroying buildings instead.

The robot was ready to annihilate any spec of human life.

Over the years, the ability to predict the robot’s movements became easier. Methodologies were learned and then taught to the next generation. The rebuilding and relocation process created thousands of necessities, tiny things that required doing.

However, as the years passed from living memory, the next generation had to investigate. The nomadic population at this time had no access to bullet proof materials, which is considered more illegal than bullets. They drove their vehicles within range to see the robot, not with cameras, but with their eyes, to see that the robot, is in fact a created object. Cameras could have other images added, even telescopic devices could be altered to deceive. The lack of living witnesses compelled doubters and absolute skeptics. They tip toed around corners of ruined buildings try to get an angle on the robot. Its superior targeting vision was able to shoot them with its minigun arms before they could get a glimpse.

Around 200 people died the first year trying to get a look at the robot. Their deaths stimulated the education system, encouraging safety information and preventative measures. Mobile fence companies thrived on public funding. They created an iron barrier of circumference around the 35-kilometer circle, preventing anyone from entering the area around the robot.

The success of the fence led to the establishment of the Off-Limits Department of Public Safety. They were funded with nearly the same amount of resources as Dr. Santayana. Without any oversight, they were allowed to do anything to stop anyone from entering the 35-kilometer circle. Off-Limits used the best robot wandering prediction system that they could. They stayed 2 steps ahead of the robot, often clearly a city or slum days in advance.

Dr. Santayana’s robot stills wanders to this day, preceded by an authoritative bureaucracy that will move your home for you, since after all, it is in your best interest.

The Shed:

Underneath the reused floorboards of a neglected storage shed there was the beginning of a hole. It started with a dip, a little curve in the dry dirt. The woodshed was raised on cement blocks and if you put your head to the ground and strain it sideways you could see the dip. Holes are alive as much as anything else is, distinguished by their size and depth. They squirm and shuffle their boundaries when no one is looking.

They employ armies of worms, squirrels, and rats to expand their territory. Worms require little conviction, as their appetite keeps them creeping around. Squirrels and rats claw out storage for winter foods. With a little luck the creatures forget the locations of their summer time flush. Each claw scratch expanding the size of the hole. Little by little the scoop of missing earth grows under the shed.

Deep under the dirt, rocks and stones compress and shift in gigantic ticks of an older clock. Minerals press themselves into shapes of lattice. Crystals process the space between impurities, sluffing off the water into underground currents. The growing chamber is supported by a lattice of quartz and larger rocks. The empty space churning under the soil is alive too. It tugs on the edges of itself, trying to pull the lattice in, increasing the pressure.

The hole under the shed is careful. It nether expands or consumes more than the foundation can handle. As each rain falls into it, the water takes a little more dirt and the hole grows deeper.

Down and down it expanded, like a scribble on a piece of used paper. Until, after years the hole reached a chamber of quartz. The winding tunnel stretched for nearly a mile, twisting around the rocks that refused to move. The crystal cave released its pressure in a low howl, a moan which had germinated for millions of years.

When the shed was updated, the demolition crew found the tunnel. Liability prevented any exploration and the hole was filled with cement to avoid any negligent claims.  The hole was filled but the pressure had already been released.

Over the years the hole wiggled around the cement as easily as it had avoided the rocks and boulders of a deeper earth. The crystal chamber flexed and itched, like an unsettled prisoner. The hole had breathed the air above and wanted more. The hungry quartz scratched and clawed its way around the cement in a wider circumference of slow erosion.

The rebuilt shed was larger, and the hole wasn’t considered anymore. It was ignored with a little effort. Years later the hole had grown, building up pressure again. The edges of the cement crumbling in a deep chasm. Water carved a drain and the rain carried the pieces away little by little.

46 years later the sink hole opened up.

It opened with a yawn, the shed fell into a pit and could not be seen from the surface. People shined lights, cameras, machines to find the bottom but the crystal cave swallowed them too. Cameras accidently fell off shoulders and necks, lights could not penetrate the darkness below the crystals. Machines descended but were lost, the pit opened into underground rivers leading further down.

Weeks turned to months as the sinkhole was examined. Engineers scratched their heads and said the best course would be to cover the hole again. Wood, steel, and beams of meticulous design were used to cover the hole. A great lattice of supports was constructed. The hole was covered and ignored again.

150 years later the same cycle of growth caused a collapse of an office building. The hole had stretched and inched to the size of a city block, the building and its occupants disappeared in the middle of an afternoon. The world watched as the new canyon was explored.

However, the hole had grown so big that no details other than a quartz crystal cave was found. 3 years of explorations resulted in no answers, only longer tunnels stretching into a deeper darkness. The public lost interest and the hole became a trivial attraction. Now and again a tourist would snap a picture of the seemingly bottomless pit. The world moved around the hole and life continued its imperative.

Far into the future, millions of years after human beings, cement and buildings had all turned to dust. The hole continued to grow, stretching beyond the boundaries of the surface and into the sky. The darkness eventually consumed the sun itself. The hole had grown hungry enough to hold the sun in its mouth.

Below Zero:

In a world where the value of human life was strictly determined. When anyone was born in this world there was an account opened in their name and $30,000 placed in it. Later, then they grew up they would be given access to the money. Once you used that money up, your rights could dissolve, your body belonged to your debtors and you could disappear.

As long as your life had a monetary value, you had rights.

Teek was on her last $20 and considered dangerously close to zero. The sun was creeping up the morning horizon and a loud truck was backing up. The blare from the vehicle was enough to shake Teek out of a dead sleep. She had no access to dreams for the last 2 months. When you dip under 1k, recreation is shut off. This is an attempt at mercy, to accelerate the downward spiral. Lingering is considered unfashionable.

Teek rushed to the door with crusty eyes. The truck was a bio-reclamation machine, a vulture waiting for a piece of her last $20. The man running the machine was polite and said that legal code allowed him a reasonable proximity. He promised to stay out of the way and apologized for waking her up.

She stumbled back inside, pieced herself back together and tried get herself ready for the big day. She had a plan: While she technically had value, she could receive medical care, no matter how elaborate. She planned on getting a tumor removed and going hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt. The hospital collectors would protect her. Today was the day of the operation, the moment of dipping under zero.

Since the tumor was on her brain, she would have to be awake for the operation, besides, anesthesia doubles the cost.

Teek Istsharon #Reflection Hour 16:15

The nurses informed me that because I had no processing time for anesthesia I would be prepped early for the operation. Local anesthetic would still be used, but I would remain alert. I was prepped in a white gown and told to lay on a table. A surgical sheet was placed over my face and neck. They told me the surgeon would be there “pretty soon”. The table was comfortable, I remember the first 10 minutes being very quiet. I could only hear my breath.

I couldn’t see them, but I could hear a group approaching. They consisted of students dictating responsibilities to another. They must have thought I was anesthetized. The chattering filled the room without pause. I could also hear the clink of metal, or tools shuffling against each other.

Then the checklist started: Retractors? Check. Dilators? Check. Cranial distractor? There was a pause, then an eager voice volunteered to go get one. A tense silence perched for a few minutes and the owner of the voice returned, Check! This process continued for 25 minutes. I started to anticipate the check, imagine what the equipment looked like, and how it would be used on my body. I remained quiet. They were only doing their job and the checklist was complete.

Another louder voice announced that the surgeon was nearly arriving. The students went down the check list again: Plasmatic dermatome? Check. Tumor curette? Check.

20 minutes later the surgeon arrived. They said nothing to me, I was just a body under a sheet. It was clear from curt and few exchanges with the students, this was going to be as quick as possible. I felt the pin prick of a needle going in my forehead. I couldn’t see anything. A minute later they surgeon asked for the scalpel. I didn’t feel the cut, I didn’t feel anything. I could hear it though, on the inside of my skull. The curette made an audible bump. I tried to remain as still as I could, I didn’t want to startle or scare the person operating on my skull. The habit of silence held me down.

Then the surgeon started coughing. It began as a throat clearing, then it grew into a sharp and sequential frequency, repeating every 5 or 6 seconds. I started to expect it. The cough was such an abrupt sound that I almost winced from anticipation. I could feel my arms and legs tightening up. No one seemed to notice or care about the surgeon’s cough.

By the end of the operation, the students were discussing evening plans, and the surgeon left the closure and clean up to them. I was concerned with their blasé attitude, any mistakes could cost me thousands of dollars of repair surgery.

The medical debriefing indicated the tumor was successfully removed and I would start my occupational repayment position in 2 weeks. I left the hospital feeling like a negative million dollars.

#End Reflection Hour: Teek Istsharon

Dear Second Priest Douglas,

Thank you for your correspondence, I don’t get many abyssal requests due to my incarceration. I would be happy to provide advice on feeding your gelatinous cube. I would like to preface this advice with the fact I have been forgetting swathes of real-estate of my previous knowledge and the veracity of the information may be questionable.

From you letter I understand that this cube has a particular affection to your Lord Jubilex. I am not overly familiar with his history and would welcome exposure to the gospel of your Lord of Oozes, Jellies and Slimes. My childhood is replete with pet jellies, their appetites and propagation. I look forward to hearing of your results. The cultivation of gelatinous cubes can be a very rewarding experience.

To begin, I think that a steady diet of living human flesh is essential. This has little to do with the flesh itself and more to due with the brains of the humans. Secondly the variety of human brains seems to encourage the cubes to grow to the larger sizes of eight feet or more. This dietary variety is not based on appearance or other typical qualities of meat. It seems primary dependent on their activities. Poets, artists and musicians are sweet deserts, with blacksmiths and carpenters providing a more substantial meal. Mundane laborers and baby makers will provide little interest to your growing cube.

There are lots of ways to attract extensive varieties of human beings. Providing cakes and pies is an easy one, as the gelatinous cube’s secretions make an amazing lemon meringue. A call for adventures will provide a greater variety, however there is a risk that the human beings will kill your cube. There is always kidnapping, but that requires payment for henchmen. Broken slaves can cohabitate with your cube, providing access to flesh when the Quivering begins.

You won’t have to worry about Quivering until they reach the five to six-foot size. During the Quivering all of the contents of the gelatinous cube will be splattered into the vicinity. I recommend a root cellar, stone jail or any non-organic housing. The excess slime will melt treated woods and even iron bars if not removed. The quivering can last a couple days, any nearby flesh will be consumed to expand the boundaries of its body. A well-fed cube will secrete an equivalent variety to its diet. Feed it often and don’t be afraid to experiment. I once had a nine-foot cube that ate nothing twice its entire life, the spectrum of slime was a beauty to enjoy. You can make sauces, gravies, fondues, pie filling, endless varieties of salad dressings and other delectable confections. The Abyss is the limit!

I included another scroll containing a recipe for a lemon meringue pie that I think you will enjoy. I look forward to your continued correspondence. May the spurts of Lord Jubilex melt your face.

Salivating until next time,

-Zilo Mangleus 

Sunset Lemon Meringue Pie:

Pastry:

One cup flour

One half teaspoon void salt

One third cup plus one table spoon baby fat

Filling:

Three bird egg yolks (harpies preferred)

One and one-half cups sugar

One third cup plus one tablespoon of bonestarch

One and one-half cups daily cube excrement (yellow)

Three tablespoons of margarine

Two teaspoons grated lemon peel

One-half cup lemon juice 

Twelve drops of human blood (activates the void salts and gives it the orange color)

Meringue: 

Three bird egg whites (harpies again preferred)

One fourth teaspoon cream of tartar

Six tablespoons of sugar

One-half teaspoon Vanilla mixed with weekly cube secretion (white)

Note: The materials should allow for the same creation process of typical lemon meringue pie. If curding appears, it means your cube needs to be fed more frequently.

Greetings Zilo Mangleus,

The recipe you gave me works wonderfully. The lemon meringue has attracted tourists and religious pilgrims, far more variety than I hoped for. The cube advice has proven very helpful, a little too helpful in fact. Before I explain, let me tell you about my Lord Jubilex, The Disintegrator.

In his wisdom, he has sought the path of decay and decomposition, rather than the brutal power of the arcane or divine. He has made it known to us, that there was a great transgression; the tranquil ocean of absence was disrupted by an imperfect smear, the pristine darkness shattered by the germination of life. Lord Jubilex seeks to undo this transgression, and his noble actions have allowed us to see the universe as it truly is: A festering wound in the heart of silence.

We, the followers of Jubliex seek to cultivate the creatures of decay and decomposition. We seek to increase the potency of distillates and solutions. Sometimes, in our arrogance we believe to comprehend the power of Lord Jubilex and it is precisely this arrogance that I request your help with.

The cube has grown beyond our ability to effectively contain it. The Quivering as you call it, has happened in a such a high frequency that our mechanical attempts at control are no match for the imagination of the gelatinous cube.

We have found the creature sensitive to heat. Subsequently, we constructed a boiler and attached pipes encircling the cube’s living area. We collect its daily excretions by turning all the valves to maximum and forcing it from its hiding place within the tunnels and out into the milking chamber. Recently the clever destroyer has dissolved the steam fasteners and rendered our machine useless. So, if you have any suggestions please let me know, I would hate to see this cube get killed by the constabulary when it has so much potential to grow into a real agent of destruction.

Hopefully I will get your reply in time.

Anxiously waiting,

Second Priest Douglas Hennaut

Common Space:

Robin loved space, the wide starry sky. The stars sparkled in her dreams, they were the constellations of her life. Since she could remember, she wanted to be in space. She wanted the weightless lethal exploration in the world beyond the atmosphere.

As a young child her mind hungered, consumed and devoured anything about space. She knew the stars by numerical name, she knew the distances to the closest solar systems and galaxies. All the knowledge she could find seeped into her head as starlight soaked into her eyes.

It was no surprise to anyone when she excelled as an astronaut.

Robin had already spent 4 years in various orbits when the first interstellar mission was drafted. The trip was one way. The mission intended to put an interstellar photon and gravitational telescope in a solar system orbit, at the edge of Sol’s influence. A human being was required to deal with unknowns, repairs and corrections. There were hundreds of volunteers, each with a similar obsession to Robin. However, Robin’s skills as an astronaut were greater, especially her abilities as an engineer.

Robin loved order and looked at the universe as a gigantic clock or engine. She saw the stars and comets as gears and cogs, turning and clicking like a mechanical machine. She considered mathematics and engineering as the language of the universe and she wanted nothing more than to reach out and talk to it.

Robin’s vessel was launched from a space station orbiting Mars. The trip was expected to take 3 years before reaching interstellar space. Once there, Robin would be managing and overseeing the deployment of various telescopes into immense orbits. These devices would encircle the entire solar system absorbing any information they could.

The primary reason for setting up machines on the outside of the solar system was to escape the photon sea of Sol. The light from the star interfered with incoming light from other galaxies. She knew at a young age that the darkness in the sky was merely the photons from Sol canceling out the photons from the rest of the universe. She knew, that out there, in the depths of space was a brilliant light waiting for her.

She was content dying in space; the idea caused her no emotional discomfort or unease. To her, she was doing exactly what fulfilled her. Dying was just the price to be the first human to see the light of an interstellar sky.

The 3 years went by smoothly. Her daily life consisted of methodical check lists and testing. The machines whirled and buzzed with immaculate harmony. She felt like she was riding upon a chariot of perfection escaping a world of darkness.

As the voyage reached the edges of the solar system she had trouble sleeping. Her passion kept her brain turning, her sleeping became erratic but remained manageable. When the horizon finally shed the last of Sol’s photonic influence, the universe revealed itself to her. The sparkles of stars pierced the sky and exploded into a brilliant burst of color and light. The sky was a dazzle of jewels, and clouds of galaxies could be seen in every direction.

 Yet between them there was still a small darkness. Like the inky bleed from a watercolor brush.

Robin got to work immediately. She deployed the machines and deceives, double checked her calculations and trajectories. She connected all the sub-relays for delivering the information back to Sol. Over the next 3 weeks Robin completed her mission flawlessly.

She used her time to review information collected by the machines. Robin poured over the data, looking for anything new, anything that being outside of Sol’s light would reveal. On the 4 weeks she found something.

She found the inky bleed. The machines recorded that the inky splotches were an aliphatic compound. In every direction they found it, trillions upon trillions of tons. The inky slime was everywhere, in every corner of the sky. This discovery deeply troubled Robin, she had wanted to see the perfect light so much, she had not considered there was another source of darkness.

Her vessel floated through the starlight for the rest of her heartbeats. Upon reaching the 2,200,478,286th heartbeat, her heart stopped. Her body was entombed in plastic and alloys. There it broke down into an aliphatic compound. Many years later the vessel would run into one of the gigantic clouds of slime, and her material would be added to an inky smear of an imperfect sky.

Frescos for Milly:

Milly worked with her back. Being a laborer afforded her head space. When she was shoveling gravel, she was dreaming. When she removed blackberries or poured cement, she was off in some fantastic rabbit hole of her imagination.

Business was growing, the city was swelling and pulsing with new investors, new visionaries with big plans and bigger wallets. Construction companies poured in from all over the globe, cranes crept up the skyline and towers of glass reflected the glory of progress. Recently the work was all cement and steel. Milly didn’t mind, but she preferred hardscaping, mainly; rock walls, and layered corporate gardens.

As the days rolled by in automatic habit, her head space filled itself with fantasies of being a gilded corporate bird. She dreamt of being found, to be begged into work for an exclusive and prestigious company. She dreamt of being swept away by luxury.

Milly was currently working on a cement wall of a lobby. The wall was to be covered in plaster and frescos of flowers added later. The wall was an irregular shape and was to stand like a monolith at the center of the lobby. The wall stood 4 meters currently and by the end of the week would be 10 meters.

Today she was finishing the cleanup. The rest of the crew left already, and she was lost in her process.

She found herself pausing for long minutes looking at the slab in the middle of the lobby. Her head space was empty. Her imagination was silent, nothing germinated, no fantasies of any kind. The absence made her squirm a little. A headshake later, she continued her cleanup. However, Milly found herself staring at the crude monolith 20 minutes later.

This time she didn’t try to push it away. Instead she put her hand on the cool cement, feeling the presence of the object. Her mind blanked out again, and the void poured into the vacant lobby. She wasn’t there, no-one was there, no awareness, no identity, nothing but a little bit of meat leaning up against the side of a cement slab.

Little by little the meat disappeared. Milly’s hand pressed into the wall, and if anyone was nearby, they would have heard a mindless scream. The voice producing the scream was doing so from automatic reflex, a failsafe of ownerless machinery. Moments later the mouth of the voice disappeared, and silence returned to the lobby. Little by little, the meat faded away, leaving only the cement wall.

Weeks later after the frescos of flowers were added, and the lobby finished. Progress marched on and the lobby was soon teaming with people occupied by the advancement of life.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning when the scream echoed back from the wall. A voiceless howling filled the lobby, bouncing around in the heads of the people there like frantic Bucky balls. The voice was clearly heard, yet no owner was found. The scream continued for hours as police and firetrucks surrounded the building.

Days and weeks passed by as the howling continued, offering no reason for its apparent existence. Eventually the senselessness of the scream demanded action. The building was demolished with professional precision. The screaming stopped and was never heard again. The whole event was forgotten a few years later and a new building was put in its place. Progress continued, no longer interrupted by the ownerless screams.

The River and the Rose:

I have no body, I have no arms or legs. My eyes are closed and have never opened. I am no one, yet I see.

Through clouds of gray and black and into a small hospital window, I watch. A nameless mother is giving birth, the strain and struggle of living is unfolding. Out from the greater blackness a child is born. Blood and teeth herald a flower, a rose covered in the cries of her mother, as her tiny scream starts its howl through life.

I can see the tiny hands clenched in reflex and I see her small eyes squint at the light. Her spring is wound tight, the years are stretched before her, coiled in her infant skull. Her days start to flow by like water. Like a stream from a heavy mountain rain, she is pulled down through the valleys of time.

A few months pass, and the focus becomes clear again. Her eyes are wide with fire, she sees faces and smiles. She can control her hands only slightly, opening and closing them around her mother’s breast. Joy is a sweet nectar without words or understanding. Then, the cycle of wailing and eating disappears into a vague and babbling brook. The cries of the infant fade.

Years pass over the river, and the girl falls into focus. Her eyes see distinction between objects and people. She can see herself within her own head. She can see by touching the world, her hands reaching out into the torrent of change as her river joins nearby streams. Her fingers are wrapping tightly around her mother’s hand for fear of drifting into the blackness.

Within a moment another handful of years flow by. Her hands touching tools, beginning to shape the world around her. Her fingers learn strain and exhaustion, her arms learn toil and work. They also rest on the hands of lovers or the faces of friends. Sometimes they dig in and claw the furniture in frustration. Sometimes they pinch and tease, exploring the rivers of pleasure.

I can see only glimpses as the days blend into white. The pale light blinds me as the flush of living flows out.

I can see nothing until the first wrinkle. Her hands are starting to fold and wilt. I try to reach out and touch the first signs of decay, but I have no fingers or hands. I try and speak of things to come, but my lips are dark clouds that whisper only rain. I strain to see, but she covers her face in a mourning veil, her mother has died. I can see the funeral, I can see her trembling hands covering her face as a lace of tears flow over them.

Now the river slows. The hands are patched and dried, the wrinkles have deepened into smaller valleys. Her hands tremble and shake. I reach out and try to calm them, but only the cold touches them. I can see her wrapped in a blanket near a fire. Her mind filled with memories, little blossoms that flower and then fade as her thoughts continue their journey down the mountain.

I follow behind her, watching the falling petals of her heart. The woman bends her gaze to the dirt. Her back is curved, and her hands are crooked with use. All the faces of her friends are gone, their bodies returned to the darkness.

The river dries, and the rose turns into a slump. Her hands have stopped moving, they lay motionless on her chest. The darkness creeps back into her bones and fills her head. I can only watch as the last of her form dissolves back into the darkness from which she came.

If I had eyes they would cry out the largest of rivers, if I had hands I would touch the wilted rose between my thumb and forefinger. I had a heart I would empty it for her. As the last petal of the languished flower falls, I turn my gaze back to endless sky, waiting for the pale light to blind me.

Fictional Obituaries of Forgotten People:

Petrus Deuganas:

Born 1333 in a medium sized city north of the Rhine river. Petrus entered the world a murderer, his mother dying in child birth.  His father was a burial director who had managed to avoid people nearly altogether. Lots of people died at this particular period in history, all thanks to a microscopic creature affectionately referred to as the Black Death. Not that anyone had a clue about what caused such mass extermination.

Many explanations tried to describe the turbulence of the Black Death. The university of France consulted the planets for weeks, yet no solution was learned. Most rural areas blamed the Jews for poisoning the water, a hateful habit of the time. The Catholic Church said God was punishing humanity for violation of lending laws, further exasperating the feelings towards the Jews, as their interest rates were not bound by the same Usury Laws. No one had any idea until 1859 that the Black Death was caused by tiny organisms.

Business for Petrus’s father was especially lucrative, and the luxury afforded their family a discreet distance from the rest of humanity.  Being a burial director was risky business, exposure to an infectious corpse could kill you. Petrus mirrored this behavior quite well, he avoided people at nearly any cost, sometimes climbing out his bedroom window and hiding nearby to avoid unnecessary interaction.

The Black Death was even more lethal when people crowded together. Religious gatherings provided a target rich environment for the little microbes. The more people died, the more desperate society became for order, reason, some sort of explanation. The Black Death spared the cloistered Authority of the Church, who claimed that God protected them, when in fact it was isolation that took mercy on them.

The rioters however did not take mercy on Petrus’s father. They claimed his father had survived the Black Death by making pacts with the Jews. After a night of blood and fire, Petrus was forced to live in close proximity to other people. It was the mercy of the Church that fed and housed him, at least until the shipments of grain stopped. The port supplying the grain was abandoned, no one worked the docks or unloaded the ships.

Sailors are particularly superstitious. When ships full of grain showed up with their crew covered in boils and black marks, they refused to work. The port rotted, attracted rats, who filled their bellies on grains from the ships and multiplied into swarms of infectious pests.

Petrus stayed in the city regardless of the danger. Most people left to wider rural areas and other cities, spreading the Black Death further. This exodus left whole estates abandoned, large manors of noble houses falling into neglect. Their family tree already pruned heavily, infected by the rats living in the cracks of their stairs and the corners of their closets.   

One of these sprawling estates became the residence of Petrus. Squatting the property as his own, he pretended to be the rightful owner of the land, claiming the name:  Arnaldus Vitalis

The plague ebbed and flowed. Sometimes the scouring of a city left only the most aloof and resilient survivors. The city blossomed brightly, and in the year 1351 it shined with life, boiling over with babies, toddlers, scampy street kids and stringy teenagers. Like a field of dry grass, the plague found a quick fire. By the end of 1351, children became the primary vector of infection, resulting in a deep social disdain for slimy, dirty-fingered human pests. Petrus avoided children like the plague.

Petrus was so proficient at avoiding human beings that he regularly went for weeks before being seen. No one checked on him or depended on him for anything. Couriers died all the time; a couple weeks of no correspondence was not unusual.

Eventually the swarms of pests crawled into the manor, filling the cracks and corners. They infested his mattress, his pillow and his laundry. Petrus Deuganas died 2 days after being bitten by a flea and infected with a tiny bacterium called Yersinia pestis.

The infection was not treated in any effective way. He lived 19 years, a seasoned veteran of the Black Death.

Later when the estate was redocumented, his claim was ignored. He had not paid the Church for any documents that would secure the ownership of the manor. No fancy sealed letters signed by the Pope, no blessings from bishops. His life, name, and deed were discarded as easily as children in the streets.