Now and then, and then again
This didn't spring out of nothing: It fell together out of random design. It is the same as the beauty of a scar or a burn on the
victims body, observed by a lover, or more.
Its blue hue emerged from the sub-plank coastline fractions of solids, liquids, and gases. This crest
occurred/s before it had entered the inertial mass to cut passage from one binary photon to another. Reaching from aspect to aspect the way ideas carry readers from one comic panel to another, and into the plot line of a third, or one panel observed before. A sequence which has a direction only
comprehendible to the charter, or one who follows the pattern and its subplot lines closely.
There is an Atlas/a
Hercules that holds it up, the same way the
Earliest Linear Greeks posture the Earth is
burdened.
This was the kind of ability that is the supporting conundrum.
(I am posting this from Anytime, in
Cyrabillic, the common thinking form, not the original thought life of the clinical
vegetables and broken people the addition was designed for. I note that,
encase anything is lost in your translation.)
A beam of blue light carried
(is carrying) the hue and continued/s to jump upstream, backwards through the timing of the current, as if it (is)/were determined to reach an
ancient spawning pool in a time before it had dried. Leaping from the visual memory of an eagle to a point in the fowls vision it had gazed through out of a cargo hold window of a
constellation transport a while before it had passed away.
The beam materialized into the current of time within the birds vision hundreds of miles away from the cargo ship, its window, and its
intravenously sustained and restrained live stock.
It piloted through the scorched chemicals that crusted and lined asteroid after asteroid, from hydrogen surfaces, to silver chromed bodies that shot through
relativity as
pieces in each solar game of marbles they would roll in and out of maybe for a linear eternity if undisturbed in one way or another: If not entirely. If vanished with purpose in through the entangled photons of each surface, piercing a point in the image to become one with the time of the object, leaving that mass it was refracting, reflecting, or chemically fused with back in the future as they conjoined the inertia of the new point in times direction and pace: Trillions of moments back at an instant
fractioned with shorter traverses' into space forward as a stitch, or salmon out of water. Ten steps forward- a half step back; as if rewinding via the back
button on VHS with the play trigger still depressed.
Stitch after stitch the blue line
crochet its way back
needleless through images and scorched solar scars.
The next jump could be
a lot closer to its destination. Rather than going the long distance needed to get to the nearest star cluster to
Analise what photon had
entangled themselves in the surface of other matter; the pilots of the small blue beam expanded a reception photo of a port city by projection in front of the ships bow. The first jump from the projection of the photo and into the photo itself was successful. They could even perceive their spacecraft pop into
existence at the event horizon of the actual photo by looking through the electron microscope set up to record the event. However, the destination sky that surrounds wouldn't allow it. They needed to find a shorter point of objectified time. The next picture they had was too far away in space and time. The planets, stars, dark matter, galaxies, quarks and all things
sub plank moved slowly through eternity. If all the
astrologic pulls and influences were at one absolute point in the cosmos. Then in another point pulling and repelling at
completely different points that then
immediate origin. upon traversing in the
inertia through the mass barrier across the event horizon the beam was pulled apart at the sub-plank level. A size smaller than a tree if the sun the tree live from is the
rati- ed size of the sun. The space craft was gone, like a salmon being caught jumping up from pool to pool and eaten by a grizzly bares along the way.
The exponential laws of
inertia made the mass barrier of objectified time
traverseable.
The entangled pairs of photons made *objectified time*
traverseable.
The objectified time, a frozen instant.... Use the image of an ice chuck formed on a cold river breaking free and bobbing down the current of the of the
savme rio.
Note to self:
Charaters should break this down. I shouldn't let this out in the narative so quickly. It belongs in the dialog.
(Now add to that idea the concept that the ice chunk is a piece of/and whole with the moment it was formed. The photo is frozen light, with photonic bonds on tied to the flow of time it is now an object with mass in, and anchored to the moment it froze that perspective of the river.)
Stairing into photos made it possible.
Consciousness stairing through the invisible,
arguably two
dimensional, abyss between now and then that is then-now/now-then, or objectified when, among other things is at the root core that starts in the middle.
This traverssia occurring with out the need of technology, while amazing to the uninitiated mind, isn't as miraculous as you and I would think.
It isn't genetic evolution that is/has made it happen(ing). No matter how you perceive, it was, is and will be memes, behaviors, moods & pressures on the body learned from technological effects: Specifically similar to learning the leverage of barrel rolling a snowmobile sixteen feet in the air: From the social memory base consciousness of general stunts, gymnastics, and malandrade of the Korean- Mandincan-and Norsemen, among others meant to dismount soldiers riding horse back while they themself leap from the ground like Hawaiians off pollockesque cliff bluffs into the estuary below without the aid of elevation. Instead the force of a run or a vault or the motion of being draged by their mark. In both forms the body memory of position and tork of the moment like olympians leaving manufacture aparatus stear themselves with a knod or a glance. Where ever the head goes the body follows.
In these photonic instances its the look, the feel, like remembering seasickness, bliss, hips, intoxication afte the effect has passed and reliving the sensations; the flash back; the deja vu realised due to having felt the sensation of mechanically crossing the photonic barrier via the use of technology initially. Like learning to flip with the aid of two towels and two spotters until you can do it alone. Its all in the right point of leverage. Like balancing on the hind legs of a chair in primary school. Not too far forward, not two far back. Or a toddler walking, learning to toggle from one leg to the next, by pushing equal to his or her weight from the floor.
Some traversers don't get a scence of avoiding the cold void for the warmth of light between instances from mechanics, some unknowingly are just near a loop in the chrochet when it will occur, and feel the duality of alternately placed bodies in the galaxy, Stars, solar system and mass in general- the diference is too acute to forget. And the thin cold void that is bridged by atomic and photonic bonds between one universe devided into the root of itself is now acutely tactile on the brink of every memory and taverseable where the photons are entangled.
Some people traverse michanically and for what ever reason don't have an acute recallection of the memorable sensation. A lot of people remember the blur of sharp cold between moments and focus on complaining about the sensation.
I don't know how exactly the name got tagged on. But the people who develope the skill to traverse through entangled pairs of photons on there own are commonly called 'Shivers'.
And some shivers learn how to swim simply by being near the photonic event horizon traversed by other shivers. Which often leaves them without any referance point to figure out what the hell just happened and little context to get back where they came from until they really think about it, and still they are lost. And if they see the memory of another shiver or on even rarer occasion are caught up in the image of a mechanical traverse to and through an image for a time that they have no reference for they can find themself lost in a temporal war or worse.
I dont want to tell the story too fast, so I'm going to let it tell itself.
The newspaper ink came off on his fingers. It was mid week and the ink was still wet on the Sunday paper. Well loose, it rubbed off as Ransom manipulated the topsy turby arrangement to find the section he would call through this week to continue gainful employment. He preoccupied his mind by doodles and a start at tic marks he hoped would reach ten thousand in number.
Meager wages backed by the empty promise of big payoffs for little goals, kept him spending long hours away from what he cared about most.
He knew the drill. He could pitch and even sell in his sleep literally. Ransom's imagination wondered with day dreams of olds pets, urban farm animals from the barrio he spent time growing up with in P.I. amidst the marble homes, card board shacks, bamboo middle class , sori sori stores, weighted super hero beating cards, school yard spider traders and the morphologies' and aggressive natures of their arachnid wares as alternates to the cock adult past time, the shaved ice- lima beans-and nippon gelatin of halo halo, the baiyon yielding(anything that goes with rice) beach front offering a different supplementation based on the tide, the pain of itching sweet on an imitation leather couch, in 90 degree heat, wearing blue jeans and jean jacket-falling asleep without a net-waking to the invested bloody swarm of female mosquitoes sipping him alive and swollen-(toes bell armpits eyelids scalp)-bloody from beginning to mash the swarm inside his clothes tossing in his sleep- the rush of his arriving parents to his aid, {(link marker- shower)}, and alternanty the grinding pressure of the sea gliding this body surfer into the sand and coral with the threatening under tow sending the torso of him and his friends from skidding across the surface of the wet beach sands for thrills, too often twisting like laundry into sundried coral edges again being unearthed as the tow reformed the beach line for its next 72 hour formation before the following recognisable contorsion of the beach front.
Much of a comic strip he wanted to put together took shape in his cubicle. The sketches and panel scripts made him think of how the story panels would work. He wrote notes on what he wanted the reader/viewer to imagine happening between panels, as a book head was given to read on the subject suggested for better transition between concept progressions. More fundamentally his core meditation came from acute reflection on his life, and where childhood church lectures had taken his imagination, how this had played out into the happy life he was leading with his sentiments toward love and loyalty. Ransom thought about how the 'universals' and 'particulars' could find a common ground: The "Classic Conversation" poised by Plato, Aristotle, D'Angelo, Roddenberry and others 'like a prayer' to the sacred vanity of god(dess), demigoddesses, men w/without wombs, and our mammalian origin from both the creative thought and the dirt. A good portion of art and science thinkers, quietly placed comments on this debate(in the perspective/method & design) of their work on what's big in the universe or what is small. And which one is more important; or what combination is relevant and relative. For instance Gothic architecture contrasted with pointillism dot construction of the image of a whole subject. Ransom thought about how to structure this into his work as a tool to convey a greater reality of sincere unity with his partner.
Ransom thought about the religious relevance this would have on his art pieces. He had been taught in school that this was another layer to look for in art that people cared about.
Something to think about: What is more important? The little guy/gal, or the world?
He thought about graffiti: The little guy trying to be noticed in the big sterile world. Ransom wanted to be noticed too. He felt trapped twelve hours a day. He wanted to make enough money to strike out with his young wife in new directions. But he had to strike out on his own to cut into the working world without her for everyone's sake.
All these thoughts took up part of his mind while he rolled his working mind down the columns of FISBO adds. Next to the realty add he pasted over for another for sale by owner add. He began to think about panel options for his comic.
A comic strip about a super flower that was stationary except for the freedom of the spirit.
Ransom was raised judeo-pentecostal. He was in love with the ying and yang of the Hebrew god(dess). He could almost feel the love between different same sex couples he had grown to know in his home block over a few short years.
His day dreams were very lucid in order to still talk in his sleep to each new prospect he dialed by hand and looked up with sleepy vision. It was this fusion of logic-waking action and lucid memory of casual almost subconscious reflection that brought the recording of boring sermons into close reality with the reality of a tedious job that he simply suffered through for the love of his wife.
Sermihna a pleasant person, had a part time job; what type is pointless. She left after Ransom and was home before him.
Most of there marriage he came home at the same time. It had been long enough that what added up to many times but really was now and then, he would return with odd colored flowers. She liked the purple ones.
Ransom looked forward to the smell of her hair, the taste of her mouths breadth, the care in her heart, her domestic & thrifty qualities, the variant colors inked on her skin always entranced him. Her earthen movements even with the ware of the suns visible on her inked skin; and the way she would rub his back and reach around him while he watched a bit of bed time dinner television kept him far more than interested. He was bonded and beholden to her.
He would leave Sermihna lunch since he got up first. She would make lunch the night before if he came too soon the night before, and was emotionally worn out from the previous day. She was always freshly trapped in his clutches to times end, often enough anyway. And he was beautiful when his body would give out, in her.
In her he saw the fulfillment of the feminine deity. The bob of her head to an mp3, her taste in dark girlie linens and the way she filled lacy things she found for free bargain hunting. Things he wanted to be able to send her off to buy for herself, but couldn't. And his mind would meld back into dialing quicker, marking the dial on a piece of clear paper, doodling to keep his mind from suffering the boredom and politely exciting calls after he had warn out every possible home equity loan solution fathomable, before he had warn out his forty seconds or so of welcome.
"Some will, some won't. NEXT!" the business philosopher: Darlene East.
His fingers flying at the phone keys, calculator, or pen. He paced in charting the wondering of his mind into the workflow motivated by his need to provide for a life he was missing:
The stamen- eternal feminine The Pistol - eternal masculine The Honey Bee - the living spirit that delivers the right amount of pollen to the right flower irregardless of whether the flower is mono-gendered or genderful. The drone-neither wond or set (ref. Amharic).
He checked out books on flowers-there was no Wiki encyclopedia at that time- information took a more three dimensional form called a card catalog, and the library book shelf. Ransom would read about flowers and write out panels, draw disproportionate story boards of his imaginings.
Things like the Hornet that thinks he sees a female and goes to mate her, only to be taken in by the hornet like pistol of a male flower; passed through the saucy ingestion of the pedal base coated in pollen and ejected to stumble and struggle in the thick pollen that the hornet would get all over the steamins of the female flowers, confused over what just happened, and confused about the female hornet he thought he sensed; as he staggers on. That little bit, in four panels: Imagine it.
Ransom walked to the corner thinking about the lyrics of an adored deep elum seminary punk band, he'd slam danced and dropped in with before drifting apart over the last few years.
The familiar noise in his mind made him feel sanctified. The red hair twin fins of his friend's head bobbled about in his memory while the same guy's poetry screeched in his head like a pleasant melody. "There I sit!..."
The lucid chanting made him think creatively. An idea came to him about the honey bee being volleyed by two flowers. He read that bees will be attracted to one color of flower and fly to the nearest flower of that same color. He wanted to write out a panel that would hint at two tongue tip enthroned lovers. One being represented by a steamin, the other a pistol, and the actions of the tongue(s) would be acted out by the motion of the bee. The action of the bee clearly drawn, and also implied between panels.
The Steamin, The Pistol, And the Honey Bee.
Strip: Self inseminating celibate lust sausaition
The preist and nun o the field. Designed to attract bees. The Bee Orchid self inseminates, ocasionally fufilling its natural dsign to attract bees and pollenate the Steamin of another self inseminating bee orchid designed to recieve it.
Here the effort byand for the bee; are wasted; for the drive of the dually conflicting design
After a few repetitions of the chorus Ransom reached the front door of the firm that was taking advantage of his youth.
He had stayed too late at home making sure that Sermihna spent at least sixty seconds clutching onto some heavy earthen object in order not to fall off into the vastness of god while her body shook and quivered in the agony of bliss forcing it way threw her nervous system and back into her soul.
He didn't have a pen in his pocket. Ransom figured he would right the idea down when he reached his desk. The bento stand at the base of the elevator made him think of bayan. The eight track in his head instantly hit play and as the elevator rose with a motor mone exceedingly slowly between floor. The Philippino National Anthem sung by a yard full of Illiconos Community School children at morning drill took over where Sanctified Noise had been.
As the elevator door opened and the shift crew emptied out onto the seventh floor: The voices singing Bayan Magilu lowered in his mind as his powers of lucid dreaming seemed to just turn down the volume once he set into the habit of thinking about work and the bland task of asking people about land finance for the next 5 hours.
The idea note never got written. At least not then.
He continued to maintain his goal of making ten thousands marks on the two month old monthly calendar that took up most of the desk space under his arms, elbows, sometimes napping head, and Sunday home section.
By Thursday the Sunday home section is usually dry. If he was calling on Thursday He always would try and convince himself it was Monday. This way he wouldn't get discouraged by the changing interest curve in what he was eloquently peddling, as the assistant peddler’s peddler.
Monday is happier: The slogan for a week’s potential after the starting gun has gone off. Monday is potential. Thursday is endearment. Monday’s people haven’t been retarded by their own inability to be patient; Thursday he thought people were worn out. It was a combination of the two colliding into a mood from call to call even though he was better than most. This was evident in the fact that when he believed it was Monday he could get a better reaction from Thursday’s children. Thursday’s adult children in a rush to accomplish before the weekend.
As Thursday’s child Ransom saw the day as the heart breaking fifth of a mile before the second wind sprint home of the week end schedule.
Thursdays’ are important because it is a means that hurts the working heart, it’s the emotional work just before the week’s end pay off. Thursday s’ need a mantra, a prayer, a ritual, a push.
Thursday is the body’s shock and claming panic, like blood loss, as the nervous system starts to shake in the torso, arms, & legs for oxygen before the infusion of saline, dihydroxic-acid, or returning blood flow calms the silent screams of thousands of rioting individuals’ who’ve taken issue in a revolution, militant headless, armless, legless, soundless rioting torsos’ wriggling, crowded disaster victims impatiently waiting to be feed or die at a food drop thrashing about (as I too would do) : kinetic energy before a stampede. The last burst of burn off before death settles.
Thursdays’ Ransom’s mind and body wanted to quit. Thursdays are the verge of emotional break down. The track stars legs failing before we find the Gregorian chant within the rhythm of the stumble. And we roll out with the fire that burns us, set deliberately because we can, and use the burn to fuel the heart to the weeks finish at the ribbon, or at the money well.
Thursday s’ have to be pushed through; the blood will come back to the body; the finish line will be behind you as you faintly work at not swallowing your own tongue from exertion.
Ransom always tried to be the first to cross it. Or in games of pool- which wasn’t his game try to loose with less than four balls on the green, if he couldn’t make it racing to the eight ball first.
Ransom tricked his mind on Thursdays’. What ever song he was sing to himself, or his mind was playing back for him, he would sing, or use lucid dreaming in the wake world to push play in his mind for the play back. He had learned to control his nightmares as a child this way; and he was working on exercising a voice in his mind that he designed to praise without ceasing. It was this mental swiki that often brought the Sanctified Noise to his mind from the under painting of his personal composition.
He would feel the same feelings as Monday and stand in the same places. Even enact the same conversations with co-workers. Folks who both knew and had no idea what he was up to. He would eat the same food, drink the same stout and ponder the same ideas and deliberately feel the same feelings: Upto the point that the depression inducing fixated association with Thursday’s potential clients moods would be suppressed but the fruit of his effort.
If he forgot what date it was everyone would just tell him. He was able to out produce everyone this way. Ransom had a subconscious way of turning it off. But he was dull to the actual numeric date and would always have to turn to ask a co-worker. If anyone copied him to increase their production they kept it to themselves. And some of the people he trained to work had full exposure to Thursdays underplayed exercise. If he was training someone on Thursday he would share his compulsion like a bad religion. For him it was a chariot swung low that he could ride.
Ransom’s second Monday this week began Thursday afternoon. The elevator rose as the eight track in his head switched like an mp3 from thoughts of Sanctified Noise on tape to live memories of he and his school mates singing Biane Magilu.
It didn’t take long for the fruit of his effort to yield Mrs. Filzwielder. She has lived beyond her means through the Chanukah season. A widow, her son had died in a shipping accident. His daughter—her grand daughter—had gotten married. In her husband’s and son’s sted she Hilary paid for the wedding on a credit card she swore she would never use except for emergencies.
Since the wedding the company her late husband worked for had contested her claim against her husband’s pension. A middle class worker with a petty authority issue and the compulsive disorder had found out through research that she was still married to her first husband whom she had married back in WW2.
She had assumed he died as the marriage was a drunken whim some weeks before the invasion. She didn’t have any paper work. She didn’t know his name until know. And it turned out he was married for decades and had no desire to complicate his life beyond helping her stick it to the trust worker for the pension fund that had made this an issue.
The stress from having to start paying back her husbands pension income had given Hilary a minor stroke. So now medication was an added burden to her shrinking budget.
“What is the mans malfunction”; Ransom stated.
“I have no idea what he has against me. He treats me like I’m some sort of criminal.” Hilary enjoyed talking to someone who was willing to listen even if they were paid to do so.
“Mrs. Filzwielder, he is a cog.” Ransom added with a tone of reassuring disgust.
“I want to take my home off the market. I don’t know what to do. My children grew up here. Its humble and not too big for me to manage. I had to remortgage it when Henry, that’s my late husband went ill. I should have known when we had trouble with his insurance.”
“Is it handled by the same worker” Ransom interrupted.
“Yes. He’s a fucking idiot pardon my French. So we took out about two hundred and fifty thousand. We paid off our medical bills at the time and used the rest to take a cruse before He was told he would start to slip away from us.” She concluded.
“Can you ask you grand daughter and her family for help?” Ransom asked.
Her voice went cautious and soft, “No, I paid for her wedding for my son. He died three years ago. Did I mention that he was beginning to be quite a sturdy long-shore-man? I paid for there wedding in his place. I let them keep his money. To get a good start you know. They are good kids. They were able to take a proper honeymoon vacation with the money they both make because I paid for the wedding. Well the credit company paid it by loaning me the money. I don’t want them to feel guilty about that.’ Hilary’s voice went sure as she finished talking.
The Noise’s twin orange fins -bobbed on the head screaming at a whisper set to mute- singing in a screech to him in the back of his mind, as if to cheer him on for being able to help this older lady.
“I understand….”. they talked about home values, figures and modalities of converting the cost of living (food, meds, bills, & mortgage)
Ransom resumed his tick marks somewhere in the eight thousand five hundreds when he knew what to do to turn Hilary’s life back around and see that the universe rewarded her for her good heart.
He had found her add in the SW section’s listings. The section he had called through on the first Monday of the week. He had Marked the add with a b for busy the first time he had called. Now he’d changed that mark into a Y E S in lower case cursive and heavily over wrote to out shadow the capital b.
He wrote Thursday on the lead sheet. “Its Thursday right?” He asked a co-worker to be sure. “Thursday!” They called back with a smile in their voice.
He gave Hilary the name of the person she would be working with after him. And the number of a lawyer she could called that he looked up for her. The lawyer worked with personal harassment cases.
The next few calls went buy, some answering machines, a disconnected number and some depressed people thinking that they could release their toxin on him just because he had solicited them for a living.
His hand oscillated between the eight thousand five hundred thirty-something tick mark and the blue ink doodled silhouette of a slender woman with loosely curled hair. A composite of different women he’d seen on public transit that fit the general archetypal physical, (not cultural) blend of scary spice’s hair, on Naomi Campbell’s body- but would consider David Bowie pretty enough to marry for life.
Ransoms mind began to slip back into monotony after copying down Hilary’s details legibly explaining what needed to be accomplished to salvage her new beginning. The information would be bought from him for triple minimum wage and two hundred and fifty bucks. Next to his silhouette and cramping tick marks he started to doodle Hilary as a struggling super hero flower.
His mind began to wonder over to Monday with each new call. He responded differently, smiled more while talking and felt generally more positive. People responded to him better. He had hours to go, and forgot it was Thursday once more. He imagined the wet ink still on the paper. As he visualized Monday the river in his mind shook and quivered against its normal current of visual thought. Someone else had stepped into the room and vanished within the chuckles and smiles of nearby co-workers camera flashes. He had no knowledge or awareness of the transfer in and out between the camera flashes.
Like an eager runner knowing that the mile has been done in less than four minutes, or better: His body felt the natural spatial shift of the room. He had learned to trust his body with Sermihna and by the second pop of the 110mm after the first 35mm flash. Whatever had entered the room made his body aware of the entangled photons in his mind as they gave way to realize Monday. He could feel the wet ink of the South West section of the paper and he knew he was colliding with and going to fuse into his own flesh. This would fuse Thursday to Monday. He got the sense-again-physically that he didn’t want to do this.
He quickly recalled an art opening that stuck out in his memory, and a mirror that gave a minor view around a hall way corner that had been in view of his eye shot, but off in his peripheral vision at a point away from his own flesh. He hoped his other self wouldn’t notice him. He knew it is his own visual memory that he was walking through. That maybe why the schema, in his fight or flight problem solving subconscious, freely associated the visage related memories.
He had always wondered if the mirror was the here, or the elsewhere. As he walked past the time of the entanglement he did recall seeing someone there that looked a lot like him now that he thought about it. But it was a memory that had fallen into disuse over time.
Ransom was a work-a-holic. He had gone to that ‘peep show’ with Sermihna two years before. He focused on the thought of the image of the mirror and walked into the reflection which was the actual physical hall way it self.
He could feel his body double at once. He blended into the crowd of girls and boys in the bifocal room off the reflected hallway. A room full with plenty of sexy clean cut full figured girls wanting to get out the natural saucy side of wholesome. He recalled staying away from what he saw before as the white drug corridor where now he noticed some trinities taking shape. He thought someone would become from all those birthing hips.
All the meter carrying metropolitan boys changing sizes as they walked around the geometry of the quarta in the glass and other magnifiers around the room. Blew up the pitched tent and flaccid pleats. Individual flat chests would explode with magnification to give off the function of slender torsos and also the supported busts of others with the beat of the function over form mix of the magnified digits and vinyl of the sinque technicians’ binary seduction of complex primordial maladies.
Some grapes, havarti, and dill rye wafers pulled him closer to the door. As he pulled his samples from the offering, he obeyed the notion of his feet to walk out the door.
Out doors he exhaled: Looping the dharma back in on itself. In a smallish college town like Seagate Falls there is little doubt that he was exhaling the dead cells of someone who hadn’t exhaled these parts of their internal structure themselves. Since we breath out whole organs and bone structures over relatively short periods of time. Its possible what he was exhaling was not even created yet. He didn’t know it but he was also loosing greater than microscopic material from the heals and soles of his shoes.
Millions of tincy animals with figelia for propellers, membranes for various wonderful things, and something other than eyes to see with were both falling from and floating onto the shingles of his shingles of his skin and cross breeding into the trillions if he’d walked an inch. Pretty much the same way our solar system sustains us, well less like the solar system and more directly mother Earth tolerates our feuds and pleasures without incident. An entire reassertion of the strong survive had begun to manifest and balance out on the terrain of his skin and the surrounding breeze and surfaces. Inbreeding and natural selection all warranted a micro history that to him never managed to make a nerve itch.
With quite literally the casual sense of a walk in the park. He ate the o’durves; while lying on a park bench. His sense of loyalty and love for his with got him thinking about being at home. Home got him thinking about responsibility. Responsibility Is what got him to work. It was an easy step for him to find himself back in his cubicle reaching for the pen and receiver in order to provide for his family.
Never unestimate the motivating anger of a good man.
In nearly another universe entirely, as some would call it.
Dead bones were fused to the tiny cavern walls. A long since spent air tank had settled to the floor of the tiny underwater cavern passage. Its barer drown, in a moment of clostrophobia and panic. The emotion of the get away, the kill, the long quiet dive through the water way in rock, the family troubles that lead to the moment. When his air tank pinched as he tried to snug his way through.
The panic, and peace that fallowed had long passed. His flesh had long been feeding microbic flesh eating animals that for hundreds of thousands of years hadn't lived in this cave. The swarm of carnivors laid in hybernation waiting for the oldfactory of fresh flesh to bring them to a hungry conciousness, not that far from that of midevil diabetics who'd been presumed dead. Only to have them wake up sick and hungry with recessed gums and lost hair, and discolored skin.
The appearent creatures were not evil, only good hunters. And less decearning than the near death diabetics presumed to be the undead.
The bones were picked clean. They had come to block the way in an attempt to flae the seen of a crime were a high powered rifle sit a little over a mile from the target that it was used to hit. The police would have the air and ground covered.
But a careful study of the states underground gave him away to remove the intereferance and get away. only to be trapped below.
Ransom is a poblem solver; raised on religion he could resolve to die in peace rather than panic. And this is what drew in Sevinha, more than once.
The first time he meet her was not the first time she'd met him. But the second time she met him was as endearing as the first.
Neither of them knew that at roughly those same moments he was in two places at once. Hundreds of feet below them. Just below the cliff face, later in his life, he was trying to go someplace he'd never been before. He needed to see it, leave undetected, and show others' what he had seen. And at this moment the him below them is trying to take off his air tank, fit it throught an opening that is jammed with a dead mans tank and his petrified bone structure.
Her son Vejai the first time he met her was visiting a little over three years old. She was camped seven hundred and fifty feet above the cliff face base. He wouldn't have seen her above him in the night sky. The rock face would have prvented that angle.
She however, had his communication frequency on her locator.
She called him, "Patrick". He (the him camping on the cliff face) figured that the park knew they would both be there, so they gave her (this woman) the frequncy he was using so they could call each other if the need arose.
She called him again, "Patrick?" She liked calling him that, and remembered this was the first time he'd met her and critisized her self unecessarily for a moment, then let it go.
"Pat," she called again. He thought she was reading his name off so form they gave her where he'd accidntally wrote out his legal name.
"Pat Ransom" she called out again. He took notice because he hadn't been called Ransom since middle school. And not as a last name. The name of the other half of his family.
"Geese", she thought to herself:
She realised she'd screwed up and that he would think she knew them.
"I need him to talk to me", ah thought to herself without the need to think it outloud in English or any language for that matter. She had been hanging there waiting for nearly a day, waiting for him to get there.
"I'm supposed to meet in now." thinking still internally, she knows she has to get him talking to her now.
"Okay honey, don't force it, you know this man and you have known him for a long time. He likes you for who you are." she still thought to herself in a moment between blinking below the stars. "Flirt with him" apart of her vocal thought life chimed in. "No', she replied quit naturally away she was thinking to herself offering up images in her mind of him smirking pleasantly at her advances in the past like a child getting away with tacking chair of a teacher, but also openly taking candy from the same teacher's desk as well; "...not too soon', she knows him to be a hornball and a familyman. But it was too late... The flirt had taken over her voice for a moment.
He was curious because he called in to the park rangers to tel them which part of the face he was headed for only hours before. And no one he knew personally worked there.
"She sounds intelegent..." he told himself without using internal voice or vernacular thought. "hair twist", again ne noticed it, thought it, no intenral voice or verbage. Moments were too slow and too often. But the thought made him glace up at what her could make out of her bag, and notice how her ass settled into its suspended form, even from that far away.
Not taken in so easily by a piece of ass, beyond neat one nighters, since he'd made the mistake of letting them go longer, as well as cutting them off at the right time... He could think it's best to hit it, and leave it: Kinda like the "Palmer-Straight" approach to subluxation.
Still, she wasn't letting on how she knew who he was. In fact she came off pleasent, he sensed no bad intension from her. And He also heard her control letting out her full bore flirt. She was there, he determined thinking still to himself barely to himself inside of language to support notion... ...she was there to find him because she liked him. "But who the hell is she", he thought to himself in English.
He could have rattled off the trueistic line, 'I'm your good boy fetish, and your bad boy dream'. But then he would have to prove it without falling to his death. In the cold joint stiffening night air. Give up him warm bedding. And climb in to her sack to 'take her' without getting them both killed. So he kept his mouth in check, and pulled out a scanned version of a book he had via PDA and PDF.
He had braught up translations of the poet Vijai of Sub continnental India antiquity.
The wind often beat the cliff side for momments at a time. making communication useless. One would have to hold the exact thought for up to fifteen minutes until the wind settled and thy could hear each other talk again.
"Hey lt me read you something, since we are both still awake-over", he called up to her.
"Okay, what cha got-over"
"I'll just read it, and if you like it I'll tell you what it is-over"
"Sure', she dragged out the word in a playful interested tone, "its just good to hear a soft voice up here against the big sky, hanging from a hot rock".
He cracked the book open and it fell to a folded in corner of a page that was lite will with the moon. "Subtext to what I'm going to read you"
"Emhm"
"This poet was set up and an atempted murder on his life was made so that someone could claim his work. How is not quight clear to me. I saw it in an old back and white movie on a satillite channel a few years ago. The author goes through all this suffering, only to be revealed as the true author of this poems. I had to find out if this guy was real. It was another kind of ella of the cindars, or woman of the ashes story that appealed to me.'
"So, I found this book on the interlibrary exchange, made a copy and scanned it into my laptop.'
(we are here)
She seemed intent on him reading the entire book to her since she was hanging there til morning day break and couldn't seem to sleep.
Labels: science fiction
