And, suddenly, it came. The sky fell upon him like one great weight. The clouds splintered his joints and the sunrise itself pierced through him like a great spear. His hair fell over his eyes, matted and graying as the acute agony in his chest numbed to an empty dullness. Atlas could see the stars themselves falling. They nearly seemed to dance, twirling feverishly about their leader, Earendil Hub of the Sky. The stars spoke in high, elvish voices, laughing and screaming and falling all at once. And the voices of the gods were mixed in with theirs, whispers of ridicule and uproarious laughter. They watched Atlas bleed.
“Pull off your skin,” the letter suggested innocuously, as if the task were as simple as tying my shoes.
It started innocently enough, I suppose. A quick memo to start wearing jeans more frequently because our boss was “chill like that,” a brief note telling me to be more assertive and ask for that raise I’ve been wanting. But then, things began to change. “Show more cleavage,” one of them read a couple days ago. Then, “Tell more people in the office where you live.”
The format of the letters were always the same, written in a spidery hand on the little yellow index cards we kept in the break room. I would find them nestled in my belongings, perhaps slipped into my briefcase or wedged next to the framed picture of my nephew.
But there was held its power, in simple suggestion. As I stared at the latest note, dumbfounded, my mind felt cloudy, as though I had not slept in days. And then, like all the others, I felt compelled to act, like a puppet on a string.
Daisies bloom from his eyes. I feel them stare at me. Coquette and coy, their siren call lures me in like a pale light from a distant pier. His fingers weave through his hair, creating and destroying the quasi-wave patterns that swirl through it. He’s always on the move, flitting gently between groups of adoring friends and skateboarding in the halls. I wish I could be like him, even just for an instant. Surfing through life on a wave of magnetic charisma and carefree laughter. Soon I will have some idea. At least how it feels to wear his decorated skin.
“And your new novel, Mr. Mallon. Well, I think the whole world would be interested in hearing your inspiration, what with the growing presence of artificial intelligence in all our lives. What motivated this intriguing romance?” The interviewer smiled widely at me, running one hand over his stiff blond coif and handing me the microphone. I cleared my throat and looked straight into the camera.
“Ah well John, it’s a bit complicated. Great question. Stories are weird, kinda like wild animals. Hard to find, hard to capture. But, when you have one, they’re near impossible to keep inside.” Canned laughter from the audience.
“Of course, Mr. Mallon. I bet you’re quite familiar with dealing with such beasts,” his eyes twinkled dangerously as he chuckled, “But that wasn’t quite what I was getting at.”
“Oh?”
“Well, some people have found it a bit disturbing. I’m sure you’re aware of the recent riots at Artifice, the pushback against their artificially intelligent companions. Would you say that your novel takes a stance in support of this technology?” The air on the stage felt heady as the interviewer grinned unwaveringly.
“Y-you see John, I’m not so sure it’s an author’s place to spread his opinion on such a political question. It certainly wasn’t my intention.” My head swam as I stumbled around my words, around the truth. No one can know about her. My shame, my secret, my love. Lady Aphrodite of waxen skin and servos. “It’s just a silly little love story for my readers to enjoy. It’s fun.”
Once upon a moonlit eve, I lay awake in bed, bereaved For the death of my beloved work, a treasured lore A story once created to settle a score but whose nature was to remain so simple nevermore But soon there came a whisper and a sort of rapping An insistent tapping upon my chamber door
“Someone must have come” I murmured, rising to stand upon the floor I stood, of course as I mentioned and began to open the chamber door Though my mind was hung in a sort of contention You see my attention Was torn As it often was in those days between living and being forlorn
Nevertheless, I pried open the door and stared straight into the face of my old score She was a specter of guile With the same cunning smile that haunted the pages of my treasured lore Aghast, I flung the door shut No, but that is what I had wished occurred deep in my gut
Instead, I fixed a pleasant expression and extended a hand, “It’s wonderful to see you. Do come in Lenore.”
And it all felt a bit like spun sugar The dulcet threads of lives twisting and intertwining in that city They bobbed and weaved round the shining skyscrapers and past the blaring displays Streets muddied by the drudgery of the underlings But the rest of us flew high In airships which hung down from the sky Yet I yearned to go home For it all felt a bit too much like spun sugar
“Excuse my interruption Professor, I was just a little unclear on something we discussed last week.”
I looked up from my desk to see a wiry boy with tousled hair and loose-fitting clothes walking toward me down the steps of the lecture hall. I recognized his face, like all my students of course, but he was especially distinct. The boy had a strange look about him, a certain weariness in the scrunch of his eyebrows and lines on his face that made him look far older than he probably was. And he spoke in class as though he had read far too many books.
“Professor, I was just confused about your argument regarding time as a nonlinear concept. Because, “ he flipped his hand through his hair and rested it on my desk, “Time must be linear. Physics tells us it can be compressed and stretched but there is no manner of traveling other than forward.”
I leaned back in my chair and took my pen from my mouth. “But there’s your problem my boy,“ I pointed at him and smiled, “You think in terms of physics in attempt to make sense of graduate philosophy. In this course, we attempt to tackle issues with regard to human nature.”
“So, we must think of time with the lens of human perception?”
“Precisely. Though time may be linear in actuality, in the human mind, it is an interwoven web of disparate moments.” I stood and began drawing a diagram of nodes and lines on the chalkboard. “Take this example,” I pointed at a node and then rolled up my sleeve to show him. “My tattoo here. I must have gotten it when I was around your age. But when I got it is unimportant.”
“Why did you get it?”
“It’s a node, a moment. It represents something both past and future. When I see it, I am transported to a different time, a nonlinear jump you might say. The human characteristics of memory and forethought obfuscate the linearity of time. I hope that might clear up some things for you, boy. I am an old man and philosophy is mostly nonsense. I enjoyed our meeting. Have a good day.”
I must return to the woods again, to the tranquil dells and thicket And all I ask is to be the girl I once was if I really dared to wish it And numbing cold and the fragrant pine And crunching snow beneath boots of mine
I must return to the woods again, to the quiet trail and the peaceful glen And the whistling wind and the skipping stones And the looking glass, it was Leone’s
I must return, one day, to the place we built together To keep warm and take shelter from the storm I’d hoped you’d remember it forever
The change happened while I sat down to supper. Suddenly, it would seem that my surroundings underwent a sort of metamorphosis. As the cruel gleam of headlights leaked through the windows, a dread chill blew through the room. The comfort of my home was no longer, tainted by the coming intruder.
Footsteps sounded on the walkway outside. My coat on the wall became a leering obelisk and the dark corners of the room seemed to grow and wriggle, no doubt concealing the interlocking tentacles of some unknowable horror.
A knock. I cowered there in my chair amid the flickering island of candlelight. Then another. With quavering hands, I approached the door.
“Sir? Are you there? I’ll just be leaving your package right here.”
The paint in my room is peeling, flaking and drooping to form incomprehensible maps along the wall. All I have here is a bare mattress and the dress they gave me of some abrasive fabric that gnaws at my skin. And the television, I suppose. We all get one, old models that work well enough for us to see what we need to. A bit of light infiltrates from the window above. Not much, but just enough to remind me of the sun’s feeling. It plays tricks with me sometimes, teasing at the impossibility of going outdoors.
The television clears for a moment. “Bombs fall in Kiev” I press my hands flat against the screen, straining for a glimpse of home. But then there was static on the screen and a spray of shrapnel against the window. That was all.
