Cave-36:
Below the scorched surface of the earth, humanity finds
itself cloistered in caves of immense size. Artificial sunlight is beamed out
from floating machines, alternating brightness to simulant night and day.
Connections to other caves are rare, demanding pioneers lay wire heedlessly
into the darkness. Technology persists, holding humanity up regardless of the
radioactive damage inflicted. Mutations are common, mortality is high, and
popular broadcasts highlight the daily lives of cave life.
A television fills an entire wall, and the luminous
afterglow fills the rest of the room. A disembodied voice began humming the
theme music for a new show on Cave-36 public television.
“Welcome to Faces of Mutants, where our guests have
undergone some epigenetic changes. Today we have 4 guests which have begun the
process of turning into spiders. They are all widows.”
The theme music for Faces of Mutants played as the stage
reveled 4 figures cloaked in shadows. Their eyes reflected the ambient light,
and their legs appeared folded on the oversized couches. A dim spotlight
introduced each one, and the light showed the rest of their spider bodies.
They were not completely spiders yet. The first widow had
lost her partner 3 weeks ago and the stress allowed for an irreversible
mutation. They survived the expansion of the cranium, and the hardening of the
skin. Their additional legs were not grown in completely, and they kept still
while the widow recalled the first time, they noticed changes of their
transformation into a spider. At first the changes were painful and paralyzing,
then the pain ebbed, and the clear instincts of the hunter took over. They
started to eat small vermin, and eventually find ways to trap them for later
consumption. The widow described how her freezer was filled with frozen rats,
and an occasion mongrel.
The second widow was the least spiderlike, she still had
human eyes and skin, but her mouth was separating into mandibles, so her
oration was filled with mumbled clicks and excessive pointing at her newly
developing appendages on her sides. They were only nubs by comparison to the
first widow’s development. She shifted uneasily in her chair, until something
caught her eye and she became silence and still.
The third widow was very chatty, she described the death of
her late husband Doug at great length, then expounded upon the various details
of her arachnid transformation. However, only the earliest signs of
transformation were seen. She had no legs, or thorax definition, no eye changes
or skin hardening. The host of the show continued to ask questions for as long
as the widow talked, until the end of the show approached.
There was 4 minutes left in the public access time slot, and
the 4th guest was being introduced. Her transformation was nearly
absolute; she hung from rafters of the stage from her spinneret. When the spotlight
illuminated her abdomen, geometric patterns of orange and black could be seen
clearly by the audience of Cave-36. The patterns were like mandalas; full of
triangles tessellating in get kaleidoscopic patterns. The widow said nothing,
unable to communicate without human vocal cords.
“We have a special surprise tonight, or this morning,
depending on what sleep cycle you belong to. In the latest and greatest of
technological adaptation to cave life, we have a neural scanner. This should
allow us to understand the syntax what mutants mean with their inhuman brains. “
A large device was wheeled unto the stage by a 2-armed robot.
The device looked like a prototype, towering uneasily with a haphazard placement
of wires and circuits. The robot paused halfway and adjusted the contraption; stabilizing
the top mechanism with one arm and stuffing trailing cords with the other. The
widows watched with a hexagonal gaze.
45 seconds later, the 2-armed robot approached the fully
transformed widow and told her to remain still while they directed a small satellite
dish at the head of the mutant insect. The widow sat motionless except for her mandibles
which clapped nervously, as if trying to say something. The host turned the
machine on. Fans whirled up and small lights blinked in confirmation.
“Now, let’s hear what is going on inside the brain of a
transformed mutant!” The host turned the microphone on, and after a few seconds
of mumbled feedback, a distorted voice whispered from the machine: “Hunger is
its own reward.” Hissed the machine. The widow remained motionless.
The host looked down at a piece of paper, looking for a
question to ask the spider. As soon as they looked down, a rumbling was felt.
The stage lights flickered, and the floor started to shake. The rolling earthquake
lasted 30 seconds, the lights recovered, and the broadcast continued. Then
there was silence.
A few minutes later, someone ran to the host, who was curled
up under a desk, waiting for the aftershocks. They shoved a piece of paper in their
hand and scurried off camera. The host gathered themselves, looked around with
a dazed look, then at the paper. They composed themselves and addressed the
camera.
“Cave-36 has just experienced a 6.3 earthquake, however
power has been maintained in 98% of cave. However, I am sad to inform the population
of Cave-36 of the loss of contact with Cave-17. For those with family in
Cave-17, I offer my sincerest condolences. I would like to end the show
wi- AARRrggghhhh…..mmmmmhmmthth!!”
Loss of contact with another cave after an earthquake, meant
either the corridors leading to the cave collapsed, or the cave itself had
collapsed. The sudden interruption of the host was made clear to those watching
the live feed: the fully transformed widow ambushed the host, buried her fangs
in his neck and muffled any screams with a web from her frantic spinneret.
A blanket of mutant spider silk covered the host in less
time than it took to kill the broadcast.
Eye of the Storm:
The territory of Limbo is a middle world set between the
brilliant lights cast down by the lattice of heaven, and the slimy depths of
the descending Abyss. The creation of such a place happens when the tides of a
greater darkness rise and wash up the shapes and structures from beyond the
lands of the living.
Limbo is filled with shadows; a long creeping darkness cast from
the few distinct things which populate its horizon. Perhaps a house or castle
may appear, yet when inspected, is only a ruin left to fall into dust by the
burning light above or erosive tendrils below.
There are many roads to Limbo,
either by travelling the astral sea, or through some meditative madness where
the opaque nothingness peals away and allows some traveler to slip through the
folds of a cosmic black fabric. Entering is either an accident, or a place for
battle. Some angel or guardian spirit descends from their exalted realm to
smite or challenge some crawling demon. However, if either demon or angel step
feather or hoof from their appointed realms, they are corrupted by the shadows.
This corruption is a blindness. For
the demon, they think they are seeking power, usually some great relic
containing ultimate domination, or another such egomaniacal fantasy. For the
angels, they become blinded by moral righteousness, justifying their departure
from the celestial worlds armed with some moral necessity to stop demons, or
prevent some great catastrophe. There is always a reason, and the reason
doesn’t prevent corruption.
Once within Limbo, the horizon reveals
how small such battles and moral crusades are, or how quickly power and control
can evaporate. Limbo is neutral ground and allows nothing to rise above its
landscape which was not already there when the forging of the heavens and
Abyss.
This doesn’t stop the creatures
from above and below from their designs and plans. If you were to tour the
shadows, you would find a small number of creatures, who, having lived in the
shadows of heaven, turn their faces towards darkness, and those below become
gray and bleach in the holy lights from above. Limbo consumes and flattens all
who enter and contorts them into apathetic stones; strange hallowed beasts with
empty stomachs and broken horns.
There are no mountains or valleys,
no cities or towns. There are however vague scorch marks; radial blackened circles
which resemble meteor impacts, but with no crater, as if the ground itself
filled in the holes with its own intention to flatline the world. There are a
few monolithic stones called Standing Stones which carry a mystery of their
own; they are artifacts from the world before. The stones offer no clues, no
symbols or etching, and from their shadows, cast by the holy and unholy lights,
creatures grow.
With qualities resembling an
amphibian and a humanoid, these native creatures claw their way from the iridescent
darkness as multicolored beasts. Their fates are not bound in the stories of
evil and good, but in hunger. Once able to see the pristine and orderly
structure of heaven, they may choose to travel to the cosmic light and feast on
the divine opalescence. Some look down and travel into the inky caverns of the
Abyss, searching for power or something to sharpen their teeth on; some horned
adversary to grind against. These creatures are called Slaads.
There are others who live in Limbo,
and perhaps saying they live may be too much. The special and temporal nature
of Limbo prevents categorical understanding of time, there is no day or night,
no rising or setting of any star, nor moon pulling its weighted face down in
tidal motions. In some respects, Limbo is as unchanging as heaven, and perhaps
would be included as a stark and empty basement by those above, if such maps were
ever drawn. However, no clandestine cartographers have included Limbo as the
dominion of any creature, god, or empire, because living in Limbo grinds
everything down into a shadow of their once vibrant form.
However, even the changeless
Limbo is not beyond the tides of darkness…
An eager student of White
Crane style toiled with her self-refinement in a small monastery in southern
China. Wu trained since she was able to jump from the trunks of plum
trees as a young girl. Over the years, she proved to be worthy of monastery
training. She learned to control her body and how to move them between the
stances of the masters. White Crane style focused heavily on exposing weakness
and exploiting vulnerabilities.
When she was 14, she dreamt of climbing the stairs of
celestial light and facing the brilliant breath of the Dragon. She could see
the lattice of heaven, the pristine bodhisattvas, and the voiceless song of
radiant order.
Driven by her premonitions, she dedicated her life to White
Crane style. When she was 25, she was on the cusp of surpassing her master; a
withered figured who spent most of their time meditating and instructing Wu.
Near the end of her master’s life, they spent more time on
the lessons of meditation. Wu was taught how to face demons and devils; to
remember they are dead masters with their own lessons to learn. She was taught
to bow before celestial light, to let it pass over and through her; to become
transparent in the face of the glittering lotus of heaven.
She was shown every technique to satisfy her ambition. Her
master taught her the empty body of the southern dragon, the fearlessness of
the mantis, and the predatory eyes of the crane. Yet for all her training, the
weight of master’s death slowed her steps, dragged her feet, and pulled her
down into a twilight of gloom. Wu carried a small stone of grief within her.
One evening Wu was meditating by a shaded stream. She
focused on the impermanence of things, letting the sounds of the stream pass
through her, then letting the rocks and ground fall away. After a timeless wink
through a soft oblivion, she opened her eyes to see the gray horizon of Limbo.
She looked down to see the shadows cast from her movements,
the source of light was not seen. There was no sun, or moon, yet her shadow
persisted. Wu wandered the ambient landscape until seeing one of the few
distinct landmarks of Limbo. The Standing
Stones, remains of the world before. They loomed over Wu, and she could feel
them imposing themselves into the landscape.
The shadows of these stones contained inky pools of freshly
hatched Slaads. Wu saw their tadpole tails wiggling, and began her approach in crane
style; mimicking the irregular motions of the bird as it hunts the coy. Wu
crooked her neck and shifted her shoulders, then dropped her arms and pivoted
her feet in syncopated oscillation.
They didn’t seem to respond or were unable to leave the
greater darkness of the stone’s shadow.
Upon reaching the other side of the stones, she felt a presence
pulling her up into the sky, as if the heavens above demanded a scattering of
her body. Wu slowly separated into a vortex of currents, her legs and arms
circling different directions until they swirled together. The cyclone grew and
grew, each turn around the vortex pulled more clouds into it. Then the spin
slowed, and the eye of the storm dilated out until a still absence formed over
the Standing Stones. The once indistinct sky flowed in a wrinkle of gray silk.
The sky pulled her apart, yet within her, a stone of grief
of her master’s death kept her from assimilating into the formless horizon. The
Standing Stones hummed in reverberant satisfaction. The stones could sense the
conflict within Wu, even while transformed into a cloud. They pulled on her
grief, as if tethered to Wu. There is no language to explain the hunger of the Standing
Stones; their monstrous appetites unsated for uncounted eons.
The shadows dimmed as Wu transformed into a monstrous storm front.
The vortex slowed further and began to blacken; the clouds turned from ashen
gray to a thick violet soup of rumbling sky. The stone of grief could not endure
the pressure of being pulled between the sky and the monoliths. While Wu was
scattered into the clouds, the stone of grief hovered from the ground, until
the friction of the clouds could not be contained.
A bolt of lightning disintegrated the stone within Wu and
the Standing Stones below in a single release. A vibrant thunderbolt stood with
both feet on the standing stones, stomping them into rumble. The crack in the
sky was tectonic, and the shifting titans of clouds shuffled themselves around
as the stomping feet struck heedlessly in the area, marking the ground with
blackened spots.
Wu awakened to the sound of thunder traveling away until it
became the pleasant trickle of the nearby stream. Her meditation had produced successful
self-annihilation, and she took a moment to dwell on impermanence of the world,
letting her grief flow away with the water.
Limbo now echoes with thunder, a new characteristic of a nearly
empty landscape. The Standing Stones are now erased, and with them the last distinction
from the world which came before. The thunder rolls without end, unobstructed,
unchallenged, like a chamber of glass covering a candle of darkness.
A Secret Gathering of Robins:
Philip received a message from his friend on Wednesday
night; an invitation to a Black Mass themed Halloween party. Philip didn’t know
what mass was, nor the relevance of a black version. The message was
accentuated with priority; a handwritten card in the mail. Small silver snakes lined
the edges, and gold font elegantly rolled out the letters and numbers: October
31st 11:11
On the back of the card, it read: Black Mass at 11:00, Ceremony
of Jubilex, bring a black robe, alcohol will be provided.
The phrase was confusing to Philip. Who was Jubilex? The
directions seemed clear enough, and there was plenty of time to acquire a black
robe. Philip called his friend who mailed him the message; this required some explanation.
After a few rings, David answered, and with a half giggle described it as Art
Church, “don’t take it seriously”, and “it is just a Halloween party.” David
said it would be his 3rd year going, and was pleased Philip got the
invitation.
“You can use my robe from last year, I got a new one.”
Philip was lost in the evening, thinking about cultists, processions,
and cliché visions of bad horror movies. His dreams of the evening were filled
with fractured advice and haunting darkness; little irrational reminders telling
him this was how horror movies started, and usually ended with some reckless abandonment
of caution.
The party was almost 2 months away, and slowly, day by day
the idea dimmed until the week before. His co-worker asked him if he was
attending any Halloween parties. “I can’t tell you, it’s a secret.” Philip
found himself pleased in having a secret to hide, something beyond the reach of
casual conversation. He figured a Black Mass conversation may upset religiously
minded folks.
When the evening came, David arrived at his house with the
black vestments, dressed in a luxuriant velvet robe of his own. “You may want
to wait until the party, we need to get ice on our way, unless you don’t mind
walking into the grocery store.” David said with a smirk. Philip decided to
wait, he wasn’t comfortable being in a costume in public, a party sure, but a
grocery store would be full of unwanted attention and questions.
They arrived at 8:30, and the party was already filed with
buzz. A large 3 story house and a private backyard contained black-robed figures
drinking a purple liquid from plastic cups. At first glance the scene appeared
to be a circus, but all the clowns and attendees were wearing black.
There were people painting on canvases, with cups of cloudy water.
Figures of demons and devils grew with each paint stroke.
There were people playing guitar, writing poetry, chanting,
humming, twirling around. There was a button machine, a spiral graph, a puzzle
station, bubbles, streamers of red and black, a cornhole game, a harpist, and the
commanding presence of the host describing the condition of the animals living
there. There were chickens, bees, an old cat, a bin of many thousand worms, and
a sprawling squash plant, with a large gourd resembling a giant pumpkin. The
host was heard but yet visible.
The kitchen was a prep place, and 2 signs guided people to
the other destinations; one leading to the basement with the words “Unholy
Communion 12:00” and another: “Dungeons and Dragons drop in” The signs were
painted with beautiful calligraphy and handwriting. The excitement of the game
downstairs could be heard through the vents in the floor. An occasional cry of excitement
rose up, disembodied.
David stayed with Philip, and as shadows they floated around
letting their eyes soak it all in. The garden was wearing its winter cloak, and
the twilight of evening cast no shadows over the grape vines, which looked like
bone briars, laced with iron lattice. The combination of nature and manufactured
materials stood as a shrine, and there were people taking pictures within it,
framed in the vines and black metal.
The attendants rarely used names, and some embraced in
friendship when the robes failed to hide their identities.
The back yard was being prepared by 2 robed figures and a
booming host. They were pointing and discussion the placement of a large
circle, and the host could be heard guessing at a number; “34? No at least 45”
When Philip finally saw the host and matched the voice to
the face, he was not surprised to see the Devil. The host was wearing a tuxedo,
long white hair and red skin paint. He was a dashing gentleman of a Devil; hospitable,
graceful, imposing, His beard and mustache were also white with touches of
gray, yet he appeared a young man, and his smile stretched with genuine affection
and warmth. There were 2 others near him, handling his commands, their faces
were unseen and did as he instructed.
Philip and David stood in the backyard overlooking a hill
leading to a typical junction of suburban property, divided by a weak chain-linked
fence. One side of the hill was covered in plant material percolating in
different states of decomposition, the pumpkin plant dominated the greater
slope of rot with large prehistoric leaves. One of the Devil’s attendants
approached David and Philip and offered them some purple punch. “Would you like
a sip of darkness?”
They both said yes, and cups of semi-alcoholic punch was
poured for them and dramatically offered with both hands. The drink was mild,
like a sweet sangria, with a little elderberry aftertaste.
As they looked around, their eyes were lost in the little
details. Animals bones hung from trees, rotten apples were pilled up in
makeshift pyramids, dear horns were affixed to the house and symbols decorated
everything with thematic detail. There were pentagrams, 7 pointed stars, the
leviathan cross, upside down crosses, a couple versions of goat heads, talons,
teeth, and coiled serpents. There were images and symbols Philip did not know; elder
signs with angles and shapes of unknown imaginations. There was a guest book of
sorts; a large canvased square in which everyone took turns drawing or signing.
Personal symbols, and names like “Stay Asleep”, or “Hellhound””, filled the
edges of the shape with visual confetti.
After some time, they wandered into the house. Since their arrival
a dozen more artists and activities blossomed, and their flowers of art were displayed
for the neophytes to enjoy. There was dollmaking, amulet construction, book discussion,
more poetry with endless spoken phonetic slime. The air itself oozed in a manic
tension. Philip felt electrified, charged in some way, and he could see the
same in others around him. He felt a startling awareness when he heard the
Devil shouting from the nearby vent. David elbowed him, “Sounds like the
Dungeons and Dragons is going well. The Devil is in the details, right?” They
giggled themselves silly at the terrible pun, and their laughter echoed in the
jubilation around them.
Philip was handed his 4th cup of purple punch.
He loosened up a bit more and found a chatty figure in a
winkled robe. The figure was talking to a small group about Jubilex, and Philip
wanted to know more. The figure seemed to start the conversation over, and as
they repeated a monologue, a more neophytes gathered and listened. “Jubilex is
a fictional character from Dungeons and Dragons, but he symbolizes much. Our
world has lost the vision of decay and disintegration, they have forgotten the
purpose of decay; to return to the pristine silence of the void, to drag
existence back into the darkness. There are those who have come before us, the microbes;
the slimes and jellies, who have been rulers of the world beneath, the
underworld of life. “
The figured stopped a moment and played a small flute, as if
the brief noise was ceremonial nod. Then the figure recited a poem about a falling
flower:
Petals born beneath,
Roots growing in the darkness,
Flowers for the night.
Behind Philip, someone blew bubbles and told a joke about
cars having too many wheels.
A couple hours rolled by, and flame of art burned until the
Devil could be heard calling everyone to the back yard. His voice rose over the
music and chatter. Everyone turned silent, and Philip likewise followed the
robed figures to the backyard.
Gathered in an awkward circle were the party goers, and the
variety of black robes were clearly seen. The Devil walked around the circle,
moving and spacing them out until the circle grew to include everyone. Then
after everyone was placed, the Devil took the center, and read out something
from a piece of paper. He raised his hands and took on the presence of a
practiced public speaker. His voice boomed over the wooded yard, over the birds
and the bees, and over the purple-punched figures.
**
“Welcome everyone to the Black Mass, a gathering of Jubilex
the Disintegrator, Lord of Slimes Jellies and Oozes. We are gathered here in a
fellowship of shadows on this joyous Halloween night.
The robes we wear symbolize the Darkness; the eternal
silence, for which all things return. Gathered here we leave behind our lives,
our faces, and our roles in society. Here we are shadows; here we are equal.
Tonight, in celebration of Halloween we recognize the agents
of dissolution, the spirits of decay, the ghosts of the endless horizon, the
demons of the abyss, the serpents of the garden, and the haunts of the deep. We
acknowledge the devils and demons, elder gods, fallen angels, vengeful spirits,
monsters of sublime and unspeakable madness, and banshees of shrieking grief.
May their cries erode the pillars of creation. May their claws rip down the
heavens.
Join me in a twice spoken poem. Let the words melt your
mind, as we arrive together in the greater darkness.
Scatter the stars,
Throw them into the ocean,
Sinking in slow motion,
A tar pit, a hole with no bottom.
Throw yourselves down,
Follow the lights,
Break into shadows,
Become transparent,
Disappear.
(spoken twice)
Please join me, the Dark Lord, in a moment of silence, after
which barbecued pulled pork will be served in the basement for the Unholy Communion.
The silence was tense and wonderful, Philip listened to the
night, and nothing was heard; nether creature or tree broke the moment. Then a night
wind joined and rustled a handful of windchimes, filling the silence with a
gentle tone. Soft conversation bubbled up and the crowd moved casually to the
basement.
The Devil was preparing to serve the meat, but before he
did, he offered a quick poem: “May this creature to remind us of the Beast; the
endless chain of being for which we are a part of. By eating the Beast, we acknowledge
our place in the line of cosmic digestion, in which there no escape.”
The Devil then slowly placed a serving of meat on a plate
held by a robed figure and said, “Let this flesh become your flesh.” Then repeated
the slow service and words for the next robe. A few people into the line and someone said “no
meat”, and the Devil instead placed a small piece of 93% dark chocolate on their
plate, and said “Hunger is its own reward.”
Philip was buzzing, and when he came face to face with the
Devil, he managed to say “Can I have both?”, and the Devil said of course,
placing the chocolate and pulled pork on his plate. He gave Philip a wink and
said both lines.
The basement was full of fantasy artwork, small miniatures
creatures for games and display, there were maps of places Philip didn’t know.
Objects hung on the walls; swords, a flail, elaborate plastic models of
dragons, sigils of fictional gods and demons, and handmade scrolls depicting unknown
figures.
The night continued its electric vibe until 2:00pm. Philip
was starting to fade; and it was time to leave. David and Philip left the Black
Mass in elation. When he crashed into sleep, his dreams were filled the
laughter of the evening.
Later the next day, Philip went for a walk, thinking of all
the strange things he saw the night before, and on his walk he saw a gathering
of robins in a neighbor’s yard, and wondered if they too held fellowships, or
joined each other in silence, even if to listen for worms, they were part of
the cosmic digestion.
Philip was eager for next year.
Hoarfrost:
I should probably keep my mouth closed. Many times, my teeth
have failed to respond to my plans of discretion. They chatter and hammer out
telegrams from inside my head. Their dark substance slips past my ivory guards.
They creep under my tone, waiting for those guards to slip into a comfortable
stupor. Then with a sharp twist of the tongue launches the shadows into a
vaporous flight, propelled with immediate regret.
My tongue also seems to be conspiring against me; it is
eager to thwart, and hopelessly masochistic. It spares no opportunity to throw
itself under my teeth, especially with food which resembles small fleshy bits,
like strawberries or salty mango salsa. So perhaps it is no surprise my tongue
conspires with the shadows to catapult my indiscrete words into the world.
My lips are no better, they do nothing, and they also throw
themselves at my teeth in painful swollen gnashes. They would rather trace the
edges of seashells or velvet shirts, than guard against things coming from
corners of mind-valleys. They spend so much with the tongue, it is no surprise
they do nothing to help me find discretion.
While I think of my betrayers, my non-collaborative
extensions of myself, who seem to be unable to understand the rules of society,
I am drawn to one of the worst offenders; my ears. How I wish they could filter
the sounds of the world with my understanding. I could sit in total silence,
and wait for something truly worthy to be presented, presented by loyal
servants. Yet they cling to my head, shouting the mundane and infuriating
messages, washing their uneasy waters with a sloshy ocean of noise. They tell
me nothing I want to hear, just the chatter of a senseless world falling into
smaller pieces, and the further breaking of dishware. All of which bring their
own tidal nausea.
Regardless of my slow suffocation of inseparable organs, I
have made an appointment with a dentist. The dentist promised to install loyal
teeth, ivory guards of determined purpose, whose sight is always set upon
guarding the exit of my corporeal form. They will keep my darkness bottled up,
contained with certainty. No longer will my teeth allow the psychological
blueprints of my inner workings to slip past in inky words.
I arrived at the dentist with much apprehension. The
anesthetic they use promises to be complete, but they offer no solvents for any
pre-operation anxiety.
The chair was illuminated and comfortable. They explored my
teeth, figuring the best way to operate within my mouth. I was given drugs and
soon fell asleep. My dreams were cold and icy: I could feel my limbs tingle
with a lack of oxygen, and my teeth felt as if glaciers where slowly moving
down my throat with audible cracking and shifting. In retrospect, I wonder if
the cracking was the removal my teeth. I am grateful for the anesthesia.
Recovering was a breeze, and my new teeth seemed to behave
themselves. I was at a party yesterday and thought the most violent thing and
was about to explain the gory details to someone who seemed interested, but my
teeth prevented the words from escaping. I felt the cold air in my throat, like
from the dreams of the operation. I muddled the description with the repetition
of the words horrible and tragic, which seemed to express the general ideas of
the gory bits well enough.
However, on my way home, my arms and legs failed to respond
to my commands, and I was involved in a car crash. No one was hurt, except the
glossy plastic body of my car. I woke the next morning with a wonderful idea: I
was going to get my legs and arms replaced, especially since I am young enough
to recover from the surgery. My dentist gave me a solid recommendation, and a
few hours later I had an appointment scheduled for cybernetic augmentation.
My quality of life is considered significantly above
average, to the degree my distraction, failures and opinions could send me
tumbling into a dusty corner. I told the cybernetic surgeon my concerns with
getting elective surgery, why I wanted it and if they could meet my needs. It
would cost me 2 years of disposable income, with a 6-month recovery time. I
scheduled a sabbatical, wrapped up some work responsibilities, and set up the
managerial responsibilities to be able to work from home during recovery. I
would miss out on the politics of the workplace, perhaps miss a promotion or
get passed up for new training.
I would rather get passed up, and skipped over, than be
thrown down from the mountain of power because I tripped during an important speech
or stumbled during a vital encounter. The surgeon was sympathetic, and found no
issue doing an elective surgery for someone of my position.
The anesthesia was like a boat ride; the drugs sent me to a familiar
port with the same dark and icy waters as during my tooth replacement. I walked
the deck of a black ship and listened to the crashing waves of a cold ocean.
The duration of the experience was longer than previously, and rather than the
movement of indistinguishable glacier, I was able to see the forms of jagged
icebergs drifting near the ship. I could almost see their bodies under the
water; their black and distorted forms creeping beneath the surface, as if
dancing in some secret gathering where icebergs exchange the secrets between
themselves, secrets thrown into the waves of distant beaches. I heard the
whispering of the icebergs, and as I tried to make out their words, which sent
me falling back into the land of the living, and the whispers where replaced by
the small masked faces of the surgeon and their assistants.
Recovery went as planned, and I missed 3 promotions during
my 6 months. My arms recovered quite quickly, the surgeon said it was because
arms and hands have larger nerve systems due to higher use, they would have no
problem finding new routes into the implants. My legs took a little longer, but
by 5 months my arms and legs responded obediently. My legs no longer twitched
or shook restlessly, my hands and arms ceased their nervous habits; no more
nail biting, nose picking, or hand ringing. They remained motionless, until I
commanded them to move.
Before the end of the 6 months, I was able to run a marathon
without any soreness, fatigue, or difficulty. These new arms and legs may have
cost me an arm and a leg, but I am still in the black; a most profitable exchange.
During my months of recovery, I had time to think. I watched
movies, read books, absorbed media of every kind. I was not prepared for the
boredom, even with doing some work tasks from home, my imagination was
restless. The hunger for variety felt insatiable. I found myself binge watching
or losing myself in a book for countless hours. At first the time melted away,
and recovery seemed smooth. However, my dreams were intruded upon, influenced,
infected by all the media consumption.
Once I realized what was affected the discomforting dreams,
I controlled my consumption immediately, and reduced my leisure time to more
productive activities. However, the experience
suggested I should control more of what I see and gave me the plan to visit a
cybernetic optometrist. Having my eyes replaced could help avoid blind spots,
reduce impact of advertisements, or benefit from enhanced detail resolution.
Getting the referral to the optometrist was easy, my economic
position allows a great deal of medical access. I waited 9 months following my
arm and leg surgery to seriously consider the operation. I am optimistic the
procedure will go as smoothly as the other 2.
I was put under much in the same manner as previous
cybernetic surgeries. However, the passage of time was significantly stretched,
extended out like a sinking stone, falling further into a cold world. This time
a wind blew for days, filling my ears with aching. After what felt like days, I
could see a harbor and a black ship. The tips of icebergs were clearly seen on
the horizon which surrounded the harbor. I proceeded in the same manner as before;
boarding the ship and walking the deck as the ocean moved around me. The icebergs
floated by, and their leviathan bodies rolled over the course of a heavy gray afternoon.
There was no sun, no orb or source of light, like a thick and luminous scarf
wrapped around the neck of the harbor.
I waited for an unknown time, because I could not tell the
passing of day or night; there was no geological ceremony, except maybe the
occasional beaching of the crystalline icebergs, whose underbellies exposed the
coldest waters to the indifferent light. I waited until my whole body ached as
my ears ached, like a ringing of a single note, until I could not bear it any
longer. I felt as if the unchanging world would claim me if I did nothing, and
a directionless panic rose up in me. I jumped from the black ship and felt the
waters wrap around me with a cold thirst. My body heat was quickly dissolving into
the water, my hands and fingers cried out pain. Normally my implants would have
prevented any such pain, but the experience seemed to reflect no discernable
rules, other than the heavy weight of changeless order.
I awoke in a flash of vorpal ice and was created by a warm
and comforting darkness. I could hear a voice explaining the details of my
surgery; I was in an interim room, and my new eyes were installed but not
activated yet. They were waiting for me to regain consciousness. The voice indicated
I was in good health and there were no complications. Then a second voice
joined, and told me there would be a bright light, but no pain. Within a few
seconds the bright light occurred and rolled back, leaving a vibrant and
completed focused world for me. I could see the detail of small threads of
fabric, or eye lashes of the owner of the voice.
I am very satisfied with the procedure; my vision is utterly
controlled. I see no distortions, no blindness, I can omit or enhance as I need.
However, it was my last surgery, I do
not think I can endure the icy harbor again.
