Agrathea's Other Works

This novel is incomplete. There is much left to write...

December 1, 2004

Dear Sarille,

What can I say? No number of words can make me feel any better for what I have to do. These two days have been marvelous; I only left before you woke because I couldn’t bear to say ‘good-bye’. Not to your face. Especially when I feel such a strong link with you. But, I know I have to go. It saddens me to think we may never meet again.

I doubt I will meet anyone so unique as you again. I know that sounds like an empty compliment, but I mean it sincerely. However, though I may find you intriguing and of great importance in my life, I do not believe we could live together without destroying each other. Our philosophies on life are far too different. Even if we could live together in love and happiness, one of us would be sacrificed in the effort to make a sort of mental peace. I think you understand and would probably agree with me. Please find solace in the fact that you will be with me forever in ways even you won’t be aware of.

I am sure I have yet a great deal to learn from life. You have given me a great deal to think about for the future; there is no doubt in my mind about that. Now I would like to leave you with a legacy: One day you will begin to question your way of life. You will wonder about the pain and suffering instead of accepting it as a matter of course. You will wonder what all of your sacrifices have amounted to. When that day comes, take a good look at yourself, and, if you still don’t think you can find happiness for yourself, please seek it out. Do not accept the pain as your lot in life. Do not let life pass you by. You are too special to live life in aimless misery, like the multitudes of people. I know this doesn’t make much sense now and that you probably attribute my words to hopeful naivete, but I think you will understand in the future. There is so much joy to be found that it would be a terrible pity to leave it hidden in the depths of what seems to be a junkyard world.

I must be off. Two days and I have fallen in love with you. It amazes even me. I will remember this time with great reverence. I will miss you. I wish things could have been different.

With love,

M. H.

____

Sarille took another sip of his coffee as he gazed absently into the depths of a holographic monitor. It flashed images of unreality at the speed of light and filled his ears with empty messages. Only thirty minutes to go, and another mindless plot to carry the stream of thought on a thin trail that led to the survival of another thirty minutes, maybe a lucky hour if the station was feeling up to displaying a little class. Nothing like consistent mind-consumption to quiet the masses in times of depression. The dollar was deflating like a wounded floatie, the spirit of the world was escaping through the holy ozone layer with a hissing sound that resembled the murmurs of a gossiping crowd. What a coincidence; gossip was all there was to live for. It had the vague sensation of a holographic show.

Sarille rose from his chair and flipped the switch that quieted the squeaky voice of an imaginary businessman and pinched his face into dark nothingness; the room fell into darkness, as the holographic projection had been the only source of light. Suddenly, Sarille felt empty. His hollow eyes glimmered in the blinking of a neon sign across the street. A black hair fell across his brow; he pushed it away aimlessly, drawn by an inner compulsion to look out the window. He heard faint screams, muffled and busy voices, shuffling, scurrying. Disturbing sounds that had once been blocked out by the constant hum of his projector. How many times had he turned it on in an effort to drown out the yells of the neighbors? How many times had he delved into its false light to escape unpleasant thoughts? How many times had he sought reassurance and faith in the world through watching the daily news? How many times had he mocked his own existence by immersing himself in the enchanting power of the technology that surrounded him? What was going on down the street that made women whisper in the bars? And why did Sarille only just begin to care about these things? Well, he had cared once, but he wasn’t sure how long ago it had been, or what it was he had cared for. He was going through the motions of life, and his motion got slower and slower. Was it the world that was at fault, or was the evil planted somewhere within himself? Perhaps his heart had rotted out as everyone else’s had. He was the only one who could save himself.

He looked down at his coffee with a sudden disgust. With a splash, it hit the floor, uncaring, a black river trickling into the hairs of the carpet. The stain spread, like a pool of blood. Soon, the ceramic cup fell next to the pool with a thud. Sarille’s feet passed by, steady in movement, but equally aimless in purpose. Or was he? He wasn’t sure where he needed to go right now, but he knew it was not here. Wherever “not here” was. Beyond the city? There had not been such a thing in a long time.

Thoughtlessly, he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on with a semblance of purpose. So he was going. Was it for good? He thought so. But they would take his things if he left. Did any of it matter? It was supposed to, but, for some reason, he found himself unable to care anymore. So he would leave them. There. A decision had been made. Perhaps the beginning of his end.

________________

Pavo picked up his calculator, furiously punching in another set of numbers, coming closer and closer to another answer that led to another question, a new equation to solve. Had he ever gotten closer to the truth? Sometimes he felt that, the closer he got, the further away he was. But there was a measure of peace in the search. So few continued the search, at least, in a way honorable to human life and worth human suffering. The answers would continue to come, even if he was the only one to reap their benefits. Even if those answers only shone a few moments of peace on what the world had made into a bleak life.

“If only we could get away,” his wife, Renee, said as her eyes gazed somewhat mournfully upon a collage she was constructing out of miscellaneous junk. “Go to an island. Somewhere that has sunshine.”

“Don’t fool yourself. There is no such place.”

“There was.” She glued another piece down into the incomprehensible mass of ornaments, then held her work at a distance, smiling a twisted, sad smile, one that wore years of pain. She seemed pleased with her work. “Another completed piece! Look, Pavo!” She held it before her breast, a black and green conglomeration that dripped horseshoe cement and smelled slightly of perfume. “What do you think?” Her eyes looked toward him eagerly and somewhat insane.

“It’s beautiful, Darling,” Pavo replied mournfully. “What is it?”

“It is the ocean.”

“You’ve never seen the ocean, Love,” Pavo answered, looking back to his calculations as if seeking comfort from the knowledge that his wife was a byproduct of the times.

“I know, but I knew it was water... So I made it as close to water as I could. I can imagine the ocean, can’t I, Pavo? I can still make believe that I am swimming in an ocean, can’t I? A beautiful ocean... Black and green and glowing in the moonlight. No people around, only water and water and you, Pavo. You and me. It would be happy, like old times, wouldn’t it? Do you still love me?”

“You know I do, Darling.” His pencil moved furtively, scurrying like a frenzied animal.

“Yes, I know you do, yes, yes, I love you, too... Like the old times... You remember, I wore that dress to our wedding?” She giggled with delight, but the noise she made came out like the bleating of an ewe. “Yes, it glittered, like water... No, I don’t remember how the ocean was, not exactly. But I can picture it, you know, put the pieces together like a puzzle... Yes, your face and my face and moonlight and the rocking of the boat... Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop...”

Pavo’s pencil broke under the pressure and his grey marks blurred with the drizzle of tears. He did not stop until she had rocked herself to sleep.

He went to the back bedroom, where brown sheets yelled at him, crumpled, on a downtrodden bed. He kneeled next to the back post, near a crack that extended from wall to floor, where he pulled back a loosened board, retrieving a battered cigar box from the depths. With a maudlin smile he counted the money within, then threw it with new disgust back into the box. “Oh, what’s the use? We’ll never get out of here. There is no such place. And goddamned if I’ll ever have the money. Whenever I pay something off, they create a new bill, a new place to drain my soul. And money is just numbers! How could anyone twist the numbers so badly?” He rose and looked at himself in a cracked shard of mirror that hung on the wall, its mock frame created from collaged material only making its appearance less cheery. “When did the math go wrong? Has it always been like this? I’ll find out something, the numbers will lead me to the answer... I’ll do it for you, Renee. I promise that you’ll see the ocean.” He turned around and gazed at her figure, sleeping contentedly in the dirty crook of an old easy chair. She smiled blissfully, her face hinting of fairies and elves, her face dirty with the crimes of an old and jaded world. “Oh, Renee, when did it happen? Maybe it was happening all along.” He brushed his fingertips across her slightly wrinkled face. “Sleep peacefully my only one. Perhaps you are the only one who can sleep in a world of enchanted dreams.”

_________________________

Nicole poured soup into the last bowl of the last soul who had no place to go for the evening. The man’s haggard features spoke of a lost pride and an old futility. He looked up at her with eyes pinched with crows feet, irises that spoke to her, saying, “Well, that is that.” She had seen that face millions of times before; in the beginning she tried comforting words, until she realized that there was no other comfort for these lost souls than the thought of death. And even that was not something anyone hoped for with any strength, for death came so late and without any sense of timing, especially in these places and times. She offered the only gift she could give; she smiled and held his hand a moment before pouring the last broth into the plastic dish. He smiled wanly from beneath a graying beard, then scuttled off to the nearest bench. “Well, we have to keep each other up, if nothing else will,” she thought to herself. She tried to remember joyful times, but they seemed so unreal now that it hurt to much to try to dredge them up. “Gotta make the best of the reality that’s here. Just take each day as it comes.” Nicole picked up the bowl and took it into the kitchen. She passed several faces, most belonging to the volunteer workers that ran the shelter, each of them downtrodden and mostly silent.

“Here’s the last bowl, Janice,” she said as she sat the bowl onto a counter filled with dirty dishes.

Janice looked up at her with large, tired eyes that seemed too big for her slender face. “Thank you, Nicole. God bless you.”

“You too, Janice,” Nicole replied with a warm smile. “I hate to leave you all, but I have to go to class. You will be okay?”

Janice and another woman answered, “Of course.”

“Well, then, I will be off. Good-bye. I will see you again next Tuesday.”

The women nodded as Nicole pulled on a tattered coat and tightened it close around her full frame. She waved and silently stepped into the misty streets. She passed several homeless people in her journeys, several prostitutes, several cults and gangs. “Poor souls,” she thought sadly. “No one seems to know God anymore. I wonder what will happen to us all? How do things end in a war? I keep thinking ‘death’, but I have to hope for more. God will not fail me, if I keep faith. Only faith can save us. Faith in Jesus. Jesus is the only one.”

Soon she has passed all of the neon lights, gradually becoming immersed in an ever darker surrounding. After turning one last corner, she approached a door that led into a ratty building of flats. She climbed the steps leading inside, her face suddenly bathed in darkness as the doorway possessed no light. Quietly she eased the door open, went down the hall and entered the last flat. A dim light met her on the other side, lighting the youthful, hopeful faces of other people. All were huddled around an elderly man in a semblance of a suit, who had a book open on the floor and was giving a lecture. Sometimes Nicole thought they all looked as if they were in group prayer. Perhaps, in some way they were. She sat alongside one of the students and gazed into the aging face of the teacher, eager to learn the art of living.

_________________________

Mara flipped the page in her tattered paperback novel, gazing up momentarily from her mental travels to gaze upon the sleeping face of her lover. What a sweet treasure for this moment, my love, to see your smiling face, enamored in honey dreams. A relish for the present. She stared longingly a few more moments, then turned back to her reading. The words swam across the page as in a torrential river, fast and furious, bringing life and destruction as they went. She would probably complete this book in the evening, then start afresh with another literary masterpiece in the morning. Then to practice she would go, and then to another evening of knowledge. Each moment led to another moment, another relish, another glimpse of light in a bleak world. Many told her that the bright moments were few. Funny enough, she ran into them constantly. Maybe she was looking in different places. Or maybe she was so callous to the things that surrounded her that she didn’t notice the suffering.

“Will you ever sleep, Mara?” Joseph turned toward her and put a lazy hand on her cheek. “The books will be there in the morning, Love.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “You know that I never sleep, Darling. I just can’t. Besides, if I sleep, I will miss quite a few books. This is the best time to read; the nation is sleeping and there is nothing other than the sound of wailing to disturb my thoughts.”

Joseph chuckled. “You make it sound so harmless.” He sighed and brushed his fingers across her cheek. “Sometimes I wish I could possess your mentality. I don’t know how you can remain so unaffected by these things. Your world... one minute I think you’re totally oblivious to the serious things that happen around you, and the next you mention something that makes me think you’re paying attention... but you don’t ever seem to care. You are quite the walking contradiction... You don’t belong in this world, but in wooded lands with your fellow nymphs, where all is carefree.”

“Ah, Joseph, you are so serious, my love. You’re enough serious for me. You know, you interrupt my nightly reading more than the plaguing thoughts of our reality... Are you trying to hinder my pursuit of knowledge?” She grinned flirtatiously at him and put her book aside.

“No, of course not...” He looked up at her, seeming unable to shake the solemn tone of his thoughts.

She took his hand in hers and placed it on her breast. “See, there you go again, trying to distract me from my work...”

He fondled her softly, then consented to a smile. “I am doing nothing. This is all your doing, my dear.”

“Oh, no, you’re up to your old pranks.” She placed his other hand on her other breast. “Really, Joseph, you are insatiable!”

He shook his head and bent over to kiss her. His hands stroked her bare breasts softly, reaching up to tug at her long, red hair. Fingers moved and bodies shifted; his hands sifted through her mane and hers fell in fluid motions across his back. Their lips entwined tenderly, increasing their fervent worship of each other with inclusion of teeth and playing of tongues. Eyes flitted opened and closed, teasing their vision with images of passion followed by blissful, oblivious darkness. These were the night moments that Mara loved most, the tingling of the fingers, the tenderness of intimacy, the physical worship of living. Fires flew and pain became beautifully orgasmic. Darkness and light entwined for a moment, as their bodies, melting and fusing into a conglomeration just as the sweat of their bodies glued them together for a solitary moment. All sensation and emotion, that’s all their bodies were. And soon it came crashing together and apart, like a rainstorm on a parched prairie of pansies. She laughed heartily, almost shaking away the intensity and purpose of the moment, her head hanging over the edge of the bed, his panting mouth buried in her chest. Her laughter increased in intensity, powerful and moving. Its volume consumed the sounds of shouting outside of the window and caused her lover’s head to shake. He looked up at her, perplexed and breathless, as her merriment continued. Soon he was engaged as well, and they were convulsing with laughter, holding each other close and shining with sweat and merry tears, a motion in a dark room that was gradually filling with the light of dawn.

As they began to quiet, Joseph held her face in his hands and said, “Oh, my darling, you bring such joy into my life.”

“No, Joseph,” Mara answered softly, her eyes penetrating in their gaze. “I only bring to your attention the joy that is already there to be had. One of many things that remain for you to learn.”

_________________________

Transmission received: Electronic Message via Walden Station Satellite

Time: 3 P.M. Midwest Time

Status of Message: Confidential

June 14, 2011

TO: Godfrey Richton

FROM: Richard Teston

The lab that you requested has been fully prepared on our station. The expenditures have proven to be less than we expected; figures will be sent to you within the next two days. We are very pleased with the results. Within the last week results have been triple that of a single month in the Richton lab. No disturbances have occurred to date, and, to our knowledge, all is secure. We estimate penetration time to occur no earlier than one year. All experiments have made definite progress and shall bring new innovations to the market within two months, at our estimation. No press disturbances to note. I will include an update with the numerical data you have requested.

God go with you,

Richard

______________________

Sarille walked across the street, the golden light of morning fighting its way through a thick layer of smog. Misty, dirty figures fought their way past each other like sands in an hour glass that weren’t certain of gravity’s direction. He had been scuffling his feet across the dirty concrete all night, passing sweatshops, virtual reality dens, drug dealers, bordellos. It was New Orleans in all her former glory, except for the actual location; since the shores had flooded, the glitter and glamour of the Cajun state had found its wily ways into the heart of Alabama and Mississippi. Its hedonistic lifestyle found fertile fodder in a downtrodden world, and its low principals met a wider circle of influence. The city never seemed to end, but he was sure that he was close to the suburbs. Grocery stores that looked more like scientific atrocities became more numerous. Another day of walking for his restless mind and he would be away from the loud squeal of the city and safely nestled in the murmuring hum of suburbia. Then to Texas, and then to Nevada, the land of dreams. From there, he was unsure. “Out of here” was the only certain goal.

A reflection of himself in a window attracted his attention. For the first time in fifteen years he took a good look at himself. No, he had looked once, only seven years ago. A time he had conveniently blocked from his mind. This counts, this time, I am really paying attention. He summed himself up: brooding, pale, dark. He slouched a little, but his eye sparked with a new life, somewhat as if modest of its own new knowledge. What new knowledge? That he knew nothing. That he could base no judgements upon that which had been handed to him for so long. It was time to see his life for what it really was. Perhaps he felt his life in its present state bore nothing but futility, but the spark was part of a future of explanation. He may never find happiness again, but he could at least understand. To see everything in a fresh perspective would be his main goal prior to death.

So what was certain? That he was born to die. What else did he know? That was all that he found to be certain. He looked at himself and thought, You are going to die, Sarille. He let it sink in. He let the notion permeate his being. No shudder. He felt freedom in the knowledge, strangely enough. How will I die? That was not certain, either, but he could picture many forms of death and felt no fear. Then I have nothing else to fear, for death is the only certainty. I cannot have any control over my death, but, from now on, my life is my own. It was a very strong beginning. It was a thought with weight, one that he could hold within his palm and flaunt at any sign of danger. It was the main road for his future travels. He looked at himself again. Leather jacket, grey t-shirt, blue jeans -- all torn in some fashion. Nothing new. Boots. Hair. A hint of a grin?

Yes, the grin was there. The grin was a new touch.

He put his hands in his pockets and turned to face the world again. The air shimmered with a fine haze of mist, tinting all that surrounded it in a green smear of smoke. His feet shuffled to the rhythm of his heart as he plodded carefully, without hurry, through the sand folk. He watched them all maneuver around each other, afraid of touching, of passing the plague of humanity amongst each other, a humanity that they all possessed but did not wish to admit to. For once he let the arms brush against him without fear. For a moment he felt them as living beings with direction, no matter how misdirected. No longer were they lumps of flesh seeking to procreate, seeking to take, seeking to survive fitfully. They were trying to get somewhere, and they were all perfectly terrified of each other. Whose offspring would off their own? What man would steal their home, their life? Who would survive in their place? What fatal error would bring about the end of their unaware lives? No one knew, and they lived in terror of the future knowledge. The unseen knife was the most piercing. What he would give to meet its maker.

Sarille stopped in his tracks. Across from him lay a Bible store, blue letters above its doorway declaring it as the “Word of Life Bookstore.” Since the tangible beginnings of the chaos eleven years ago, Bibles had been the bestsellers. Not that they were not originally so, but people felt a sudden insatiable urge to catch up on what was happening to them, just as they had the insatiable urge to buy the daily tabloid. The impulse was the same, as any person would seek to discover the grotesque nature of their doom in the words and opinions of others. It was a sick fascination, with very profitable results. The printing companies that had taken it upon themselves to invest in the making of Bibles had found that business was booming and that the market was virtually infinite, almost equaling that of the computer industry. However, the computer no longer became an acceptable fall-back for survival; the Bible carried with it a much-desired superstitious nature that appeared to be the cure-all for the plagues of the times, and tapped into a spiritual power beyond reason. It carried a magic all its own.

“A few bucks should do it,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled some bills from his pocket. He walked inside somewhat uncertainly, for it had been a long time since he had been interested in anything involving Christianity, especially the Bible. Somehow it was now necessary for him to find meaning in that which surrounded him, and it seemed perfectly logical to pursue further knowledge within its ancient wisdom.

He wandered down the aisles, watching the people around him with a new frame of mind. One haggard-looking man in tatters perused the bookshelves, his eyes finally settling on a small, pocket-sized book. Sarille sauntered over to his side and looked at the man’s likeliest purchase. It was the book of Revelations. Head down, the man eyed Sarille suspiciously before reaching up to remove a copy of the book from the top of the mountainous stack, nearly knocking down the “On Sale” sign with his trembling. He did manage to drop the book, however, to which Sarille responded by retrieving the book from the ground and gently handing it to the man. “Whadya mean standin’ over me like that, fella?!” the old man exclaimed, snatching the paper bound book from his outstretched hand. “There ain’t nothin’ you’rn can steal from me that ain’t no one stole before, you lecher!” Sarille stepped back, symbolically raising his hands and replied, “I meant no harm, honestly. Only trying to help.”

The man scuttled towards the registers, moving sideways as to keep his eye on Sarille. “Yeah, you says so, but ain’t no one around here not tryin’ to get around on no one else. Yous like the rest... makin’ kind gestures to get me money. I sees how you is. But ain’t no matter whether you twas bein’ kind or no. I ain’t no fool, and yous a fool if you think so, or if yous tryin’ to do no kind gesture... Ain’t time for kind gestures, ain’t time, ain’t no more time.” The man threw his money down on the counter and scuttled out, looking behind himself the whole way. “Ain’t no more time for no one... We alls goin’ to Hell, you see, and your kind, too.” He tried to laugh, but was choked off by a sudden fit of coughing. “You and me goin’to Hell, but I’ll be damned if I’s goin’ down lettin’ no one pull the wool on me, no sir!” With that he was gone, his figure disappearing in the haze of the outdoors.

Sarille turned around, feeling not so much bewildered by the man’s behavior as astounded by the normalcy of it all. It suddenly seemed very sad for him to find this kind of treatment to be the norm amongst human beings. He continued moving down the aisles wide-eyed, barely aware of the several pairs of eyes that followed him for a number of minutes before returning to their own business of salvation. His new realization was not so much of a keen second sight as it was a cruel double take; no longer was Sarille able to convince himself that there might be a haven beyond this kind of living. If this was the norm here, what kind of norm resided elsewhere that allowed this kind of life to take place? And why would anyone allow it to exist?

Quickening his speed, Sarille rushed down the aisles, looking for a Bible, scrounging his memory for a best pick. Long ago his mother had taken him to church; it was a regular occurrence, full of smiles and snickering. He tried hard not to remember the context of his search, but the warmth and love reached to him through all of these years, despite the darkness that accompanied it; his heart began to ache with longing for old times. Further back his mind drifted, to the amalgamate smiles and contempts, the hidden meanings in words, the prophecies, the doomsaying and fortune telling, the cheek-pinching, truth-hiding, vendors of pretty-packaged lies. He imagined himself, a ten year-old child, spinning madly amidst this group, their wicked well-lipsticked mouths speaking in well-known tongues as they turned about his head, yelling ill-kept promises. How simple these petty contempts seemed to him now, nothing in comparison to the crowding calumny that he now faced. He felt himself running down memory lane, toward a lesser evil, when he tripped and caught hold of something in the now: he faced the book he was seeking to remember. The realization jarred him, leaving him to wonder where he was, for a moment. Then he knew and the knowledge became security. He did not know whether he feared the present more than the past, but, no matter what he wished, there was only the future to press on toward, and so he did, taking the paper-bound Bible in his hand and moving toward the front of the store.

The clerk eyed him mistrustfully, before taking the book and looking inside its cover for the price. He punched the numbers into his calculator, asked for the money, gave Sarille change upon this exchange, then slid the book across the counter, ending the encounter with an unenthusiastic, “Come again.”

Sarille took the book and slid it under his arm, vacating the building as hurriedly as possible to stave off the uneasiness that was washing over him. Though his beliefs in the church had changed dramatically since he was a boy, he could not help but feel disgust at the way “Christian” affairs had changed within the past fifteen years. They had become for the most part a kind of sick cult organization, where people looked toward an unyielding heaven for a sliver of hope. The Christians were no better to him than the crackpots next door.

By the time he got down the block, the early morning town criers were making their rounds. They were easy to spot, donning dual planks that hung in front and back, either painted with scriptures or the words, “The End is At Hand,” or, “Are You Ready for the Coming of the Lord?” It was like a cheesy Armageddon film and all seemed so over the top. Were the criers any more prepared for the coming of the Lord than anyone else? How was it that they could presume their sin was less than that of their neighbor? Their noise pollution was a sin in itself, not to mention the excessive loitering. Why cry about the death of humanity at the cost of neglecting what remaining life there was? Easiest to cry about the ills of humanity rather than to bring a solution to the forefront, Sarille thought.

Finding a clear spot on the cracking curb, Sarille pulled out his Bible to perform a ritual he used to do regularly as a child. Whenever in doubt about a future action, he would open the Bible to a random page, close his eyes and point to a line that would hopefully give him enlightenment. Though he was not sure whether or not he could ever trust the Christian faith fully for the nourishment of his soul or the plotting of his course, the habit he had at one time acquired seemed a perfectly natural solution to his problem. So he closed his eyes and let chance take him to an advisor.

He opened his eyes to see his finger on Isaiah 51:10-11. He read the scripture silently to himself:

Are You not the One who dried up the sea,

The waters of the great deep;

That made the depths of the sea a road

For the redeemed to cross over?

So the ransomed of the Lord shall return,

And come to Zion with singing,

With everlasting joy on their heads.

They shall obtain joy and gladness;

Sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

The scripture perplexed him greatly; he did not see how it could apply to his situation. The first few sentences very obviously referred to Moses’ journey across the Red Sea, and the rest predicted a future that was in no way possible for this world. At least, not any time during his lifetime. But, since this method of prediction had always been useful to him in the past, he did not set it aside as useless and tore the page out, folding it up and putting it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He would leave it as a riddle to be revealed with the passing of time.

As Sarille wandered the streets, he became more and more overwhelmed with sadness. Ever since his childhood he had felt the ills of the world more keenly than his peers. Any type of suffering, especially that of other individuals, reached him more deeply than most people. Hearing of deaths in other people’s families would provoke him to become depressed throughout the day. He was careful not to be the cause of anyone’s suffering, even at the cost of his own happiness. Rarely was he able to find good to be on a weightier scale than that of evil; to him the world seemed full of darkness. Though this thought had never provoked him to feel life was futile, it had also made his happy moments few. This had always been his way, and never had he questioned it. One man’s suffering was always nothing in comparison to the multitudes of people his suffering could save. He was always the Taoist and Messiah at heart, however conflicting these positions could be despite their similar principles.

He looked up to see the sun fighting its way through the haze. To his left, little children ran past him, chasing each other merrily through the alley. To his right, an old man pawned off old jewelry, pausing in his efforts to cough. Sarille shook his head and hurried his pace.

What had made him leave? What had started him on this quest? It must have been the letter. One morning a week ago, Sarille had explored his old letters and correspondence with friends, wondering where such a rich past of people had gone. The years had passed, and so had friends; his life had become devoid of human sharing, and he soon found himself seeking comfort in the creativity of humanity since he couldn’t find humanity itself. Books, television shows, movies, Internet. But they, too, soon lost their human glow, becoming paltry and meaningless in nature. The word humanity had taken on a new meaning, and the new definition came about five years ago on this day: June 12, 2011. Life had changed drastically since then, and especially since that day seven years ago when he read the letter that unsettled his carefully constructed balance and met the woman who wrote that letter. These combined factors left Sarille groping for new meaning in life.

She was a writer. He never knew her real name, but did know her pen name and initials; Virginia Silver, initials M.B. Though he could at one time find her books in every bookstore he passed, he never knew the name that would allow him to find her again amongst the masses of real people that he passed everyday. At one time he had hunted her relentlessly, hoping to find this optimistic beauty again, somehow feeling that, if he found her, the sunshine would come back and he would finally find happiness. But she did not want to be found. He read articles on her, hoping that one day she would reveal her true name. She never did. He looked through newspapers, hoping for the announcement of a book signing in his area, but they never came. Virginia Silver stayed far away, leaving trails of books behind her, flourishing in her preparation of ideas, nourishing the world with hopes of a pretty future.

Sarille had met her when she was barely known. She had come to New Orleans to sign her works at the various bookstores in the town. Her last signing for the city was at the bookstore across the street from a coffee shop where Sarille was taking refuge. He saw her for the first time as she crossed the street, her long red hair covering her face as it flapped in the wind. He remembered the moment vividly: the sky was a perfect cerulean blue, the sun was coming down at an angle where she had to cover her eyes to see where she was going. With her other hand she held her leather jacket close, fending off the December cold. Leather boots protruded from beneath a grey wool skirt that came down to her ankles. He could remember hoping that this beauty would come inside for coffee. His wish was granted. She stepped inside, stopped at the door, and inhaled with satisfaction, declaring, “Thank God, it’s nice and warm in here.” Her cheeks were rosy and plump beside the wide smile that widened on her lips. She sat at the counter and quipped with the clerk about something or other, laughing with a vitality that Sarille had never seen before. Her white teeth glistened, crooked, beneath her burgundy lips while she chatted with the woman at the counter. She glanced over at him and seemed a little surprised that he was staring at her, but did not look to be discomforted by the fact. Indeed, she smiled at him, took her coffee, and approached his table. Sarille felt himself smile.

They talked for some hours, refreshing their coffee frequently, laughing at each others’ sarcasm, pointing out flaws in each others’ philosophies. He found out that she was nineteen and had just recently published her first two books. She found out that he was twenty-six and had worked as a creative consultant for the past three years. They finished one last cup of coffee. He took her home.

Both seemed amazed by the level of comfort they felt with each other. Had Sarille believed in past lives, he would have attributed their easiness with having met before. They made love that evening and the next, spending the day in between in constant laughter, discussion, exploration, and sharing. When he woke up that second morning, she was gone. He could still smell her flowery perfume on his pillow. He did not sleep well for several weeks.

It took him a few months to give up the search for Virginia. Meanwhile, he bought her books religiously, and was overjoyed when one of her hardbacks included a picture of her on the paper cover. She had cut her hair and was wearing makeup; she looked more serious than he had remembered her, but she still had the same smile. He had cut out the image and put it in his wallet. Looking upon it made him simultaneously sad and joyful, but he continued to look upon it with hope.

Another year passed where he never saw her. By then he had let go and sought out other lovers. They came and went but never could he find someone that compared to his beloved Virginia. It was when he had completely given up any hopes of finding her that she had appeared again in his life.

It was the day after July 13, 2008, the day after the third exodus to the new moon station, Walden. Walden was going to see its largest and most prestigious pilgrimage yet; nearly ten thousand people were taking the journey, many of them being doctors, scientists, businessmen - all members of the educated elite. Sarille had taken the day off from his job at the television station to overcome a sudden illness. He was taking his temperature when he heard a knock on the door.

Virginia was on the other side. A wan smile played on her lips and her shoulders hung low. She seemed very tired. Her hair was in a loose bun and she was wearing a silk summer dress of pastel colors. She dropped her overnight bag wearily, tears streaming down her face as she threw her arms around Sarille. It was as if she had never left.

They kissed and cradled each other for nearly two hours before either of them attempted to speak. But Sarille did not need to hear her speech to know what was troubling her. She did not need to ask to find out why Sarille had grown so ill. It was the moon station. They both knew what would happen now that this new exodus had taken place. The masses would be near helpless for many years with the sudden loss of these people of importance. Sarille pictured the future suffering with such vividness that all of the coming torments attacked his mind and body in a very tangible way. Virginia saw all of her hopes for a happy life shattered, not just for her, but for the rest of humanity. Despite their mutual sadness, they comforted and consoled each other, bracing themselves for a very difficult journey.

They made love that evening with such a passion neither had ever felt before. The time lapsed like melting candle wax that night, until the lovemaking came to a close, and they discussed the future. What had once merely separated them was now trying to tear them apart: Virginia wanted to continue to struggle to find the sunshine and roses, to become involved in the politics and movements to bring enlightenment to the masses, while Sarille wished to stay put, quietly living his own life and not wishing to tire himself with a futile battle. Virginia argued that salvation was theirs to lead people to. Sarille argued that, not only was there no such thing as true salvation, but that each man had to plot his own course in his own way, and that leaders could only be misleading. Neither budged, and, again Sarille found Virginia gone the next morning. Apparently both had grown more settled in their beliefs since their last meeting. This time Sarille moved on quickly, though he never took a lover again. He had not read any of Virginia’s books since.

It took reading Virginia’s letter to make him want to leave the lifestyle he had so long protected. Though he could never find the strength or purpose he needed to make the difficult search for happiness, he could at least begin the search for meaning. For him to ever find contentment, he had to have meaning in his life, he had to understand the life that he and many others fought so hard to protect and keep animate, no matter the costs, no matter the futility. Perhaps he had once found meaning in his way of life, but now he no longer did. And it was Virginia’s words of seven years past that jarred him out of his stupor and sent him on a journey for truth.

So Sarille pressed forward, one foot in front of the other. Hopefully time would bring him where he needed to be. Maybe he would eventually find the truth behind the scripture he held in his pocket. If he was lucky, he would discover the happiness that Virginia had begged him and many others to seek. He often traveled the iffy road.

__________________

August 5, 2011

During this morning’s meditations I had another dream. This time it was about Dewy’s father. I have always had dreams about him, but never have I seen him in a vision directly, though I think I can indirectly tie him to the mysterious man in my other visions. He was sitting on a black horse and I on a white. We rode side by side for some time, sometimes meshing together to form an androgynous figure on a grey horse. Then we separated to far distances... He turned into a red dragon and breathed fire from his mouth. I, too, turned into a yellow scaled beast and inhaled the fire that he let out. Thus we were once again entwined, together exploding from the heat. And from the flames was born a phoenix of golden orange. It flew around a dead orchard and breathed fire upon the withered trees. They sprang leaves and fruit instantly. Then the phoenix breathed into the sky, bringing the sun back to life. It was very beautiful. I don’t want to make any suppositions about these visions yet, though I do have some ideas. I will ponder it for a little while before jumping to any conclusions.

“Mama, come’n help me pick the fruit!” Mara’s three year-old daughter bounced in front of her, pulling at the end of her skirt. “You been writin’ all mornin’. I wanna peach!”

Mara smiled tenderly at the child. “Come here you little imp!” She pulled the girl close to her and hugged her ferociously. The young one giggled with delight. Mara held her by the shoulders and looked into her big blue eyes, pushing back a strand of bright red hair that hung over her full face. “I love you, Dewy-Dewdrop.”

“I love you, too, Mama-wama.” Dewy smiled back and sat still for only a moment to receive her mother’s tenderness, then went back to tugging at her skirt. “Hurry, Mama, I wanna peach!”

“Okay, okay, I’m a’comin’!” Mara got up from her seated position beneath the apple tree and followed her daughter into the orchard. The orchard was full of a variety of trees and surrounded a large greenhouse and its neighboring field. Everything Mara needed for food was there; the only times she made trips into town were to get tools and other necessities. She had staked out the place for some time before actually settling down two years ago. She had wanted a proper home to raise her child in, but she hadn’t been in so much of a hurry that she was going to take anything that would prove to be less than her expectations. With some work she and Joseph made a fine little farm. Together they dug a ditch from a nearby lake to bring irrigation to their crops. With their own two hands they had built a fine house. It was a small haven from the world without.

Mara had never envisioned herself as a farmer as a young girl, but she liked it nonetheless. Much better than living in the city, where she could never be certain of the safety of her little girl, but could be certain that neither she nor her daughter would find happiness.

They stopped at the nearest tree, where ruby peaches dangled, ripe for the picking. Dewy jumped up in an attempt to reach one of the peaches, but found herself to be too short. Mara lifted the girl up so that she could pick one. Her small fingers wrapped around one of the voluptuous pieces of fruit, and, just as she got ready to take a bite Mara said, “No, don’t eat it, yet. Take it down to the stream and wash it off, first.” She put the girl down. “‘kay, Mama.” Dewy bounded across the field to complete her mother’s request. Mara smiled, her eyes hazy with emotion. “Such a good little girl. I have been so very blessed.”

Mara looked off into her fields, hands on her hips. It was harvest time again, and she always got an odd sensation at this semi-annual occurrence. It was a sort of ending, and endings always left Mara in a strange mental state, for she was usually doubly attacked by the sadness that accompanied the completion and the happiness that came with the new beginning. But, this time Mara knew somehow that a very big end was coming... The sadness and joy that accompanied this nameless conclusion was so much bigger than anything she had felt before. She was emotionally unprepared for the knowledge, no matter how vague it was. Indeed, its vagueness is what frightened her most of all. She was a child born of certainty, and any unknowns frightened her. She had run away from unknowns most of her life, disguising her fleeing in a burst of intellectual enlightenment, hiding her tracks with futile explanations. But she could not run away from this one. So she stared into the future with frustration and wonder, unable to keep her mind from wandering from every pleasant moment, questioning the dark cloud on the horizon as it was illuminated by a rising sun.

She turned around to walk to the green house. Taking a handwoven basket from the front, she looked to the horizon to see Dewy approaching, hopping across the grass as she dripped with peach juice. Mara smiled in spite of herself, shook her head, and went into the glass enclosure.

Just as she began picking tomatoes, Dewdrop came inside, brandishing a clean-picked peach seed. “Here, Mama. Another seed. More peaches!” Dewdrop was grinning from ear to ear, proud of her accomplishment. Mara took the peach core and replied, “Thank you, Honey. Good girl. Put it in the basket with the rest.” The little girl did as asked and came back to stand before her mother. “Wanna help Mama pick tomatoes?” Mara asked, ruffling the girl’s hair.

“Uh-huh.” Dewy nodded energetically then began picking. She looked through the tomatoes expertly, discerning with great care the ripe tomatoes from the unripe. “Tell me again, Mama, how things grow.”

Mara smiled. “Okay, Dewy-Dewdrop. Inside every seed of every plant, there is a little magic. Some seeds have stronger magic than others, and, when you put it in the earth, the earth casts a spell on the seed. But, you see, the seed needs ingredients for the spell to work, like water and sunshine and good food that comes from the earth. And sometimes the spell works and a little life comes into the seed, and it begins to grow arms to reach for the sun. And when it doesn’t work, the little plant isn’t born. But the earth doesn’t stop working. It casts the same spell over and over again, until the plant gets big, or, like these tomatoes, it makes pretty fruit. And flowers are just there to be pretty, for the earth to decorate herself, like jewelry. It is all part of the earth’s gift to us. That makes you and me magicians, because we help the earth cast its magic spell on the seeds. And then we pick the fruit and eat it to say, ‘Thank you.’ And then we start all over again so that we can have food again.”

“I wanna grow up and grow things like you, Mama,” Dewy exclaimed. “I wanna make pretty flowers and peaches. I wanna be a big magic lady like you.”

Mara laughed good-naturedly. “You can be whatever you wanna be, Dewy-Dewdrop. You know, I wasn’t always growing things. I used to write stuff.”

“You still write stuff, Mama. You always write.”

“It was different, back then, sweetheart. I wrote things for other people to read.” Mara brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I stopped writing when you were born. At least, I stopped writing books. Your Mama had a lot to learn, and she wanted only to give you the best. That meant giving herself the best, too.”

“”What was my real Daddy like, Mama? Did he write like you?” Dewdrop asked, her cheeks glowing green in the tinted light of the glass structure.

Mara sat back and gazed upward, sighing heavily. “Oh, he was a thinker. He made ideas. He made ideas for other people to carry out. He was a true genius, and like most geniuses, he was tormented by his own mind.” She turned to face her daughter and brushed back the girl’s hair. She smiled. “I’m sorry, honey, I guess it’s too much for a little girl to understand.”

“I think I know...” The little girl looked slightly confused, but held a level of adult comprehension on her face. “But what is a genius? Was Daddy a bad man?”

“Oh no, Honey, he was a very good man. No, a genius is someone who is very smart, smarter than most people, like someone who can see far into the future and bring the ideas of the future into the present. It’s someone who has ideas that can change the world.”

“If Daddy was not a bad person, why’d you go? Was he mean to you?”

“Oh, gracious no. Gosh, I wish you could understand, and maybe you will when you grow up.”

“Please tell me, Mama. I wanna try to understand.”

“Okay, sweetie.” Mara sighed and began to twirl her hair about her fingers. “The only thing that your Daddy did wrong was not to use his ideas. Ideas are no good when you don’t use them. Your Daddy had ideas that could change things, but he never used them. At least, those are some of the reasons I went away. Your Daddy and I had different thinking.”

“But, Mama, you always told me different things were good because they make us see more.”

Mara smiled and brushed her fingers across the girl’s cheek. “Yes, Darlin’, I know. It took me awhile to figure that out. But now Joseph is your Daddy. Doesn’t he make you happy?”

“Oh yes, Mama! I love Joseph! He plays horsie and reads me funny stories.”

“And gives you baths.” Joseph stuck his head in the doorway, grinning at the pair.

“Oh, yay! A bath! Can I have a bubble bath?!”

Dewy ran to the man and he picked her up agilely, swinging her about before giving her a bear hug. “You’re no fun! Little girls aren’t supposed to like baths!”

“I love’em!” Dewy emphasized her statement with a dramatic nodding of her head. “Can I please have bubbles today?”

“Sure, why not. Just be careful, cause you’ll use them up soon enough, and it’ll be awhile before we get any more.” She nodded her head dutifully while he put her down. “Now off with you to the house. Lemme talk to your Mama a minute.” She was soon running to the house with all the speed her little legs would grant her.

Joseph shook his head, smiling all the while. He sat beside Mara and looked up at her somberly. She rewarded him with a wan smile. “You miss him, don’t you, Mara?” he asked with a concerned expression on his face.

She looked off into the distance and bit her lip. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But it doesn’t make me wish I were with him. Nor does it make me love you any less. It’s just different.” She turned to face him and gave him a weak smile. “But I am here with you right now, and the present is all that counts, right?”

“You don’t sound so sure, Mara.”

She widened her grin, but the increased size did not increase its sincerity. “No, I’m not. Funny, isn’t it? How one’s philosophies change throughout life? Just a month ago I was perfectly happy... And, though I’m still happy, I’m letting the dancing shadows in my mind rule my existence. Maybe I should just ignore them.”

“I wish you could,” Joseph replied, his eyes hazing over as if he were at some mental distance. “But, I don’t think you should.” He grabbed her hand and stroked it with his fingers. “I heard what you said about him. About how he failed to execute his ideas... You’re a genius, too, Mara. I think you’re faced with the dilemma he was. Whether to sit back and leave men to rule themselves, or to take control of the destinies you see ahead of you and others. I think that, if you ignore the voices, worse things could happen than if you listened.”

“That’s easy for you to say. It’s not your happiness at stake.”

He cocked his head to the size and gazed intently at her. “You know that’s not true. Besides, you know that more than happiness is at stake here, at least, more than your happiness or mine.”

“I still don’t know, Joseph. It’s all too different. I don’t want this. I am going to fight it until I am sure there is no other way. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.” She pulled her arms about herself as if warding off cold. “You don’t know what it’s like. It’s too deep for me to see into, but it taunts me with enough knowledge to leave me baffled beyond belief. I never thought I would seek the truth to become so overwhelmed with questions. I thought the search would bring answers. And now I am a bundle of confused wires, with no place to hook myself. And the wires keep increasing. I’m not an engineer, but I’m trying to perform the job of a rocket-scientist. And I keep wondering why it is me? Why do I get this task?”

He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her gently. “I don’t know the answers, Love. I am sure you will figure it out in time.” He rose. “Guess I’d better be off to bathe the young’un. I hope your mind clears, Darling. I wish I knew what to do to help you, but my knowledge is limited. I have never been able to reach as far as you have. You or Dewy. But I know you will find the answers. I have that much faith in you.”

“Thank you, Joseph. I’m sorry I can’t be my chipper self, lately.”

“I’m sorry, too. But that’s the way things are, I guess. You’ll work it out.” He stretched his lips in a meager attempt to smile before leaving. Once he was gone, Mara buried her head in her skirt and began to cry softly.

______________________________

“Richard Teston.” Pavo repeated the name to himself as he cradled the pages of figures to his chest endearingly, walking down the sidewalk to the Richton building with simultaneous purpose and uncertainty. “Richard Teston.” Two steps back, one step forward, that was how his gait seemed. Yes, he was moving forward, and it was the mere resoluteness of each step forward that overpowered the two steps back. “Richard Teston. Godfrey Richton. Jesus.” Shocked and disgusted, flattered and bewildered. Pavo pulled forth a hand to brush the curly, black hair from his eyes.

“For you, Renee. You will see the ocean, yet.”

Pavo finally reached the Richton building, and walked through one of the last working revolving doors that were in existence. It made him feel important again, like he had in the days of NASA and Caltech. It made him remember what scientists had been around for. It made him remember why he had decided to become a mathematician, a scientist. It made it all make sense, for just a minute. Kings of intellect. Donning the royal garb of the fractal. Showing a numerical figure almost as divine as Renee’s once ample, athletic figure. He wasn’t so sure if he thought it could ever be so splendid again.

“I’ll never complain about waiting in line at the bank, I promise.”

But what was a bank? A sham to swindle money out of someone, that’s what it was now.

“God, what I’d do for a McDonald’s hamburger. No, just one, just one fountain pen. A mechanical pencil. A calculator that worked all the time. Hell, just someplace I could get mine fixed, at least, fixed properly.”

He was walking up the stairs. He had already forgotten about Richard Teston and Godfrey Richton. He had forgotten about the future, the future he saw ahead of him, only moments from now. He was immersed in the glittering image of a purposeful humanity. Life with dignity. Milkshakes and french fries.

Besides, he did not want to think of the new job that awaited him. Or its implications. He knew more than Teston would tell him. He knew what they were about, better than anyone. The tabloids, the stories, they didn’t fool him. It was a scratch at hope... and also the destroyer of it. For tens of thousands of people. No, for millions. And he was going to be a part of it.

“I swear, Renee, before it’s all over, you will see the ocean again...”

_______________________________

Nicole stepped into the flat, dropping her coat on the table with a very apparent weariness. A little girl of about eight ran up to her, grinning from ear to ear, and wrapped her arms enthusiastically about Nicole’s ample waist. Nicole grunted in reply, smiling all the while. She bent down to pick the little girl up and returned her embrace. “Now there, you’re getting heavier all the time. How’s my sugar cookie doing today?” She pinched the girl’s cheek, her grin only hinting slightly at the exhaustion she felt.

“Nicole!” the little girl squirmed to face her as the woman brought them into the tiny kitchen that adjoined the room. “I’as wonderin’ if you’d ever get home! Where you been?”

Nicole put her down and went to a dishpan filled with water. She rinsed her hands and wiped them on a nearby towel that was ratty with use and age. “You know where I’ve been, Sheniqua. I went down to the shelter to do a bit of work before I went to my classes. You hungry?”

Sheniqua nodded her head diligently before hopping up on the counter to sit on it.

“Now, you know what I told you about sitting on the counter, Cookie. Ain’t that much space as there is... How am I supposed to cook?”

“I know, I know,” Sheniqua replied as she obediently hopped back down.

Nicole looked at her and shook her head, smiling all the while. “You’re hopeless.” Her words did not nearly express the joy she felt at seeing the little girl at the end of her long day. Taking Sheniqua in had been the single best thing Nicole had ever done. The girl’s folks had tried to stowaway on one of the ships headed for the moon station several years ago, and had been imprisoned (and only God knows what else, Nicole thought) for their attempts to escape this harsh world. Sheniqua had been taken from them and put up for adoption and, since her folks had been close friends to her family, Nicole had felt obligated to take the little girl into her care. Things had been tight back then and only gotten tighter; they had started out sharing the flat with Nicole’s mammy, and soon found themselves sharing it with her older sister and close friend and schoolmate, Jack Camper. Though her mammy had died a year ago, things seemed much more cramped than they had a few years ago. Unfortunately, Nicole was sure they would only get worse with time.

“Hey, where are Cloi and Jack?” Nicole asked, suddenly struck by the quiet in the place. The place only consisted of the one room and the kitchen, so it was unusual for any semblance of quiet to find refuge in the flat.

“Cloi’s gone to work early. Don’know where Jack is. He was gone when I got up.”

Nicole frowned. She had never been fond of what Cloi called work. It didn’t surprise her that strip joints had found more of an audience in these trying times. It had started out harmlessly enough with Cloi being a waiter, but had ended up, as it usually did, with Cloi becoming a stripper. God bless her, though, she did bring in most of the money that paid for this fairly decent home they lived in. And there were not any real alternatives, unless they wanted to raise Sheniqua in a bad neighborhood. Nowadays, if you gave up your house, it was gone for good. Only those who were lucky enough to have had a decent place to live and were able to afford it were able to have places to call home after all heck broke loose. Nicole and Cloi had managed to keep this place, and, come Hell or high waters, it would be theirs until death.

Nicole put an egg on the skillet, dropping a tiny bit of lard into the pan with it. “Shame on them for leaving you here by yourself,” Nicole declared almost as an afterthought. “They know how it is around here. You’d think Jack coulda waited before he went off gallivanting.”

Sheniqua shrugged with the usual indifference of an eight-year-old. She was idly examining a tiny spider that was making its way across the surface of their little refrigerator. “I can take care of myself. Jack left before Cloi, anyways. Cloi didn’t wanna leave, she just got called in.”

“Wonder what made them call her in this early in the day? Don’t tell me they need her services at ten in the morning.”

“Nah. I think they wanted her to help get set up. I don’t know, some kinda party. I think Mack Thompson’ll be gettin’ married to Rita.”

“Really, now? Hmph. Well, I’m sure they’ll be happy together. Maybe Cloi will get a bit of extra money in.” Nicole flipped the eggs a bit and frowned at the thought. Though she preferred to see people get wed and had always been happy to see a marriage – there had been so few of late – she knew a marriage of means when she saw one. They always made her sad. Like there was no such thing as true love in the world, not anymore. She remembered sadly the weddings of her girlhood. They were happy. Full of tenderness. Now Cloi was coming in early to clean up for a dirty old bachelor party she’d get to demean herself for later that evening. All to put a roof over their heads.

Sometimes Nicole began to think she was fooling herself into thinking that her schooling would bring her somewhere beyond where Cloi was being forced to work. But she knew she was wrong, even as she fervently dreamed. Nicole didn’t even have the body to do what Cloi did. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to continue the betterment of herself and survive the grueling day-to-day torture that she did. Work during the day, the shelter in the evening, then school some nights. It was hard to bear. It was sad to watch as Sheniqua stayed home, inside most of the time, having to raise herself. Well, that wasn’t true. Ever since Jack had moved in, Sheniqua found herself with a good friend and pseudo-parent. Jack had been a Godsend.

“God bless us,” Nicole mumbled under her breath as she turned off the gas stove and began to scoop the eggs onto a plate.

Sheniqua looked up, apparently having heard Nicole despite her attempts to keep her apprehensions to herself. The girl’s eyes got big and she looked sad, but did not make any comments. She merely turned to her spider, scooped it up gently into the palm of her hand, and let it go near where the floor met the cabinets. She sauntered back to the table, a steaming plate of eggs awaiting her upon her arrival.

“Aren’t you gonna eat, Nicole?” Sheniqua asked as she eased into the only chair at the small table.

“No, no, you go on ahead. I gotta get ready for work.” Nicole began to clean up the small mess she had made, dumping the pan into the same water from which she had washed her hands only moments ago.

“But you got time to eat, dontcha?” Sheniqua insisted.

“Go on, now. There’s not enough. I’ll wait until supper.” Sheniqua didn’t touch her food, only gazed imploringly at her guardian. Nicole smiled in spite of herself and put her hand on the girl’s head lovingly, playing with her braids as she did so. “I promise, I’ll eat at the shelter as soon as I get there.” Sheniqua seemed marginally satisfied as she looked up at her elder. Nicole gave the girl a kiss on the cheek. “Sometimes you’re too old for your own good, Cookie,” she said as she turned around to change her clothes.

“But not for your own good!” the girl declared to her as she picked up her fork.

Nicole gave her a wan smile. “Go on, now. Eat your breakfast.”

________________________________

These were the moments Adam liked best. Sitting in the corner, underneath the overhang of blanket he had constructed for himself. They couldn’t see him, and it frustrated them beyond relief, he knew that. But they let him stay, especially on days like this. Talks and meetings, that’s what they were all about on day five, so he could find peace in the personal resort of his blanket.

“When will I have a friend, Spirit?”

An answer came, as it always did... Not in words, but in pictures, faint swirling images that he could somehow instantaneously translate into words. Fractal colors swam through his mind’s eye, whirling and chaotic, but with an order that manifest itself only in the subconscious. The voice said, “soon, my son. It will not bee too much longer. I am sending a friend your way.”

“What will they be like? Will they have long hair, or short?”

“Long and golden.”

“And will they be my friend forever?”

“Just as I am your friend forever, child, they will be your friend forever. They have always been your friend, in times past and times future. Your friend will be your constant companion, your eternal fate.”

“And will they love me?”

“Most certainly.”

“Will we be happy together?”

“Yes, son. You will be the beginning and definition of happiness.”

“I don’t understand, Spirit.”

“You shall, in time, my son.”

The boy turned over and laid on his back, gazing into the sky of his goose-down tent as if he were watching coiling clouds roll past him on the rayon surface of the blue blanket. “Spirit, I am happy when I talk to you. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, you may,” the voice said in a brightening of color that implied joy.

“I learned my name yesterday... I learned what a name was. I call you Spirit, because I knew Spirits before I knew names. What is your true name? What do I call you?”

“I have no name, son. None of us do, not the way you imagine. Our names are marked differently, in a way that even you will not yet be able to comprehend. I call you son, but you are much more than the mere title suggests. But, if you must call me something, you may call me One.”

“Why that name, One?”

“That, too, in time I will help you understand. Be patient. You will know these things as your life unfolds.”

“Is there more than this room for me to see, One?”

“Yes, son. It is beyond here, there are things beyond what you see. There is a world of abundance, waiting for sowing. There is also a world within, in your being, that you will one day learn to see.”

“How do I start?”

“You already have.”

“I am excited to see my golden-haired friend. I will call them Gold, until I see them. I can imagine my friend. Gold, long hair and smiling, like gold, too. But the lips are bright, like apples. The hair, it has curls, coils, like rings of gold. And eyes like water. But their face... it kinda looks like every other face I’ve seen. It’s everyone’s face, all put together. And the smile loves me and it loves all of them, too. All of the other faces, I mean, that are put together to make it. It loves the apple on it’s lips and it loves the water in it’s eyes. It gives the water to others, it rolls out in drops for the other people who don’t have the water for the apples that go in a person’s smile. But they don’t give me any water... No, they say I don’t need it, because we both have the same water in our eyes. I can’t wait, Spirit -- One, I mean. I hope they come soon.”

____________________________

Sometimes Sarille fancied he was a Bodhisattva, staying on the earth to help others find Nirvana. Virginia had attempted to dispel the notion with a laugh. “You do not look like you have reached Nirvana to me! Smile a little more often and I might be convinced.” If anything, Virginia seemed to him a prime candidate for being a returning spirit whose sole purpose was to help others find Nirvana. She had made it her purpose in life, and had actively sought out the salvation of the world. Though he had not heard anything about her in the media within the past few years, he was certain she was doing her part somewhere. Once again, he was left wondering where she was. Her smile haunted him like an all-seeing heavenly power.

Fog reeled like dragon’s breath through the midday sky. Sleeping like a bum in the meager warmth of newspapers was quickly growing to be a tiresome pastime; Sarille hoped some guiding light would come soon, before he gave up hope and went back to his small studio apartment. It didn’t have heat, but at least he could live the remainder of his days in some minor shred of humanity. He was in the most dangerous part of town, with no money to be bereft of by the street gangs. Half of the gangs would kill their victims; another fourth would especially kill victims that did not have any money.

Sarille decided to take stock of what he did have. A lighter with one cigarette, to be saved for later, and, upon close examination, twenty dollars in his inner jacket pocket. He grinned and surreptitiously repocketed the money. It would not be wise to announce his wealth to the world, else it would be taken from him.

As he walked, a million thoughts rushed through his mind with a strange sense of incongruity. However, he knew they were a train of thought, just moving so fast that it made it difficult to discern the track. It had always been this way for Sarille – his mind was hard for even him to keep up with, and almost always replied to “What are you thinking about?” with “Nothing.” It was usually too difficult to explain and too bizarre for the listener to comprehend. He remembered how Virginia would prod him until he confessed his thoughts. “Of course you’re thinking something. Everyone’s thinking about something.” She would chuckle when hearing his strange response, then ask him to tell her more about it. He shook his head at the drifting of his thoughts. It had been so easy to give her up last time. Now he could not stop thinking about her.

Sarille, like most teens, had gone through his wild stage of life. Drugs, smoking, drinking, bands, parties, women. He had even dropped out of college when it was still popular to attend. Deep in the lifestyle, it had been surprisingly simple for him to make the decision to pull out; it had only taken a police chase to sober him up. He realized that this life had been the closest haven from a life of absurd church-going and church-goers; instead of finding something new right away, he went back to the old life to seek out comfort. Like a man wounded whose body rejects a type of blood, his lost innocence would not allow him to mold to this lifestyle again. It seemed false, wrong. Thanks to acid, he had seen the size of outer space. Thanks to women, he had known the depth of pleasure and pain. Thanks to the world, he had seen how much suffering God could cause, whether by his actual ordaining or mere name for men to believe in. He was emotionally tired and quickly growing bitter to the world’s escapes. So he turned to his learning and explored the Tao. It was logical, unassuming, harmless, and, most of all, did not claim to have any answers. He changed his life, found inner quiet, and made no sudden moves toward anything. He took a position as a creative consultant to pay the bills; his life experience, wisdom, and intelligence made him a prime candidate. Soon he became known as an expert in his field and, despite the pleas of co-workers and other lovers, did not see fit to move up any higher. He became very docile and unmoving. Convinced that one day an answer or propelling force would find him, he stayed where he was at in life, struggling through each day though the job became more unbearable with the passing of time. Somewhat bitter, though accepting, Sarille went through life, sacrificing little things here and there to satisfy his lingering martyr leanings as well as giving him some distinguishing trait. He had an amazing capacity to give in the strangest places, and would often do so until worn out. Turning his back toward the flogging, he would moan, “Why am I so kind?” then silently take his blows with a kind of resolve only dead men show. He was determined at odd times, but always sagely, even when the need for creative consultants waned. Never having saved quite enough to move away, he took a job as a dish washer and lived sparingly from the remainder of his savings account. Two days ago he realized that none of the answers were coming to him, but the force was too strong within him, begging him to leave, to do something. What he needed for change came from within in the end. Now he would wander until another force came to propel him, or at least guide him in the right direction.

Maybe his cause would find him soon. Perhaps he would find Virginia. Her own aging and searching may have found the answers that had never found him.

__________________________________

August 28, 2011

Dear Joseph,

Hello, son. I am very unhappy that you have disregarded all of my letters to date. It has been nearly four years since the last time I spoke to you, and you rudely hung up the phone on me. I suppose it does not truly matter; God deals us only that which we are capable of handling and deals the proper hand to those who persecute us. But I do still love you, son, and wish to show you how much by asking you to join me. I am sure you have heard a few words regarding the moon station, Walden. I invite you to join me, and to continue your long-forgotten studies here. You will be safe here, and able to live a fulfilling life. Besides, no one can be certain how much longer the Earth shall be able to sustain life. At least, not superior life. I beg you to reconsider your decision to live away from me. It would be a shame for anything to impose upon the tranquility you an your mistress have created for yourselves.

God go with you,

Richard Teston

______________________________________

‘Well? What did he say?’

‘He will take Dewdrop and I. Since he believes she is my daughter... He won’t...’

‘I understand. When must you leave?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘That will be good for her. People and a proper environment...’

‘Please don’t cry, Mara. We don’t have to go. I won’t leave, if you will let me stay.’

‘No, it is best. I will be alright.’

‘Are you sure? Really sure?’

‘Yes... I’ll help you pack.”

________________________________________________________

Flipping through the last book, Mara stopped on a random page.

“Happiness. It is a need for which everyone possesses an unending drive. We all work towards it in our own various ways. We create deities and philosophies and sciences based upon this drive. Sometimes we go astray. Sometimes life misguides us so terribly that the drive becomes misshapen, and our original goal becomes, through metamorphosis, the last thing we would seek. In order to keep the search fresh and alive, we all must shed our gods, philosophies, and sciences and unite as human beings. We must become One in our efforts toward that goal, or we will all wallow in misery... together, as One.”

She threw it on the pile. “Childish dreams,” she muttered. “I should have listened to my mother, to Sarille. We can only take care of ourselves, and no more. And those we love.” Wiping a tear from her eye, she stepped back from the pile of books that sat at the center of the living room, determined not to break down, not to bend, weak and giving in the wind of change. “At least Dewdrop is alright. I know she will thrive on Walden.”

One match burned in her finger, awaiting its mission. Past visions burned in its wake as it fell to the floor. Mara turned her back on the books, the house, the visions, the past and walked casually through the kitchen as the living room became an inferno behind her. A backpack waited on the counter; she put it on and walked out of the house. The noon sun shone down on her from without, her blue jeans and white, sleeveless shirt bright in its rays. A glance was all she gave her home before she donned a pair of sunglasses and began the journey down the forgotten dirt road that would, in a roundabout way, take her to the city.

____________________________

“I want her to be our other test subject.” The voice came from a man who wore a black wool jacket and clasped his hands tightly behind his back. Finally he turned around, to acknowledge the silence his statement had received. From the front, his face revealed a keen oafishness that betrayed his stately dress. His hairline was receding and his hair was peppered; his face was wide, ruddy, and full of wrinkles. It was easy to assume that these wrinkles came from smiling too much, for he was currently wearing such a completely, falsely amiable expression that it seemed severely out of place. However, his height, powerful grin, and meticulous dress all served well enough to be counted as disarming. All of these had suited him well, for Richard Teston had once been renowned far and wide, before the war. They had not suited him well enough, though, after the math, for his name had been one easily forgotten in the tumult the harsh times had created. This had been a boon; he had disappeared easily, taking reign of other plans.

The man he spoke to was quite the contrast in appearance; Michael Chen was youthful, slender, and of average height. He sat behind a desk, thoughtful, and, though his clothes showed no presumption, he had the look of a keen hunting dog, his eyes angled elegantly inward to meet his broad nose for deliberation. Unlike Richard, Michael’s power was held completely through his demeanor and actual intelligence. Teston had been lucky to find him; though the elder man would never admit it, Michael was the true force that had held him in his high place the past five years. Michael had not yet replied to Richard’s question and it made the old man smile all the harder. “What do you think, Michael?”

Michael’s English was flawless. He looked back at the numbers on the computer screen and replied, “I think we need a female subject.” His gaze fell back on the other man with a piercing resonance. “I don’t think, however, that you should be the one to choose. Your decision is far from being without bias.”

Teston took a seat in the chair that sat in front of Michael’s desk. “Your point is well taken, Mr. Chen, but she is the closest thing I have to a daughter. You have to understand my wishes –“

Chen stared at him, unflinchingly. His jaw tightened. “Your wish is not unlike the wishes that kings and emperors have possessed throughout time, Mr. Teston. Every empire seeks the propagation of its heirs. However, you must remember that we are no longer a patriarchal society. Science reigns supreme, and we shall use its methods to choose a partner for the boy.”

A thud sounded as Teston pounded his fist angrily against the metal desk. “God reigns supreme on this moon station, do you hear me, Mr. Chen?!”

Chen narrowed his eyes. “Yes, you do not have to remind me.”

“God damn it,” Teston muttered. “Why did I ever take you with me? You are a heathen. One of those dregs we left behind.”

Unaffected by his tirade, Chen continued to input data into the computer. He did not look at Teston as he answered, “Because you cannot live without science, Mr. Teston, no matter how powerful your God is. At least, if you wish to fulfill your plans.” Teston appeared to be fuming, but remained silent as Chen rose, picking up a pack of cigarettes before heading toward the door. He looked back at the elder man and grinned sarcastically. “Besides, Richard... God took away Eden in your Bible. Only science can bring it back.” He winked his eye and turned around. “If you will excuse me, I am going to go smoke a cigarette.”

Teston gritted his teeth and finally prodded Chen’s retreating figure. “What is your answer, Chen? I will find –“

Chen waved his hand as he began to turn a corner. “When she arrives, bring her to the lab. We’ll do some tests.”

The last of his blue-green shirt disappeared behind the corner. Teston sneered and grunted, “God created science, you fool.” He took a glance around the office before leaving himself. With a sigh, he said, “It’s all very well, though. Just as long as things are moving along as they should, there will be no trouble.”

_____________________

The last touch was a picture of Renee, displayed somewhat shabbily from a frame that she had created at the beginning of her breakdown. Things had not been so obvious then, and Pavo had merely thought she was adjusting to her new surroundings. They had been forced to sell the house, in exchange for the dump they were now living in. However, thanks to Pavo’s new job, his respectable desk, his crisp business suit, they would be moving into one of the few condos remaining. From paupers to princes they would rise, all thanks to what Pavo knew... and would be forced to keep secret. Even against his principles.

Gently he caressed the picture of Renee.

“Your wife is lovely.” A woman made an appearance from the cubicle behind Pavo and walked to the front of the desk.

“Thank you,” Pavo replied with a wan smile, gazing somberly at the picture as he spoke. “Those were better days.” He tapped the glass a couple of times before solely meeting the gaze of his new coworker. He couldn’t help but think of the similarities in appearance that this woman bore to his wife. At least, at a younger age. Hair of the same shoulder-length brown and warm brown eyes to match. However, the rest of her was very different; even her smile was completely different. Unlike his drastically-changed Renee, it was very certain, aware, and sane. It displayed a sharp intellect, cutting wit, and persevering humor. Many things Renee had lost with her mental breakdown.

She smiled at him widely as she proffered her hand. “I’m Elysia Champ. I just thought I’d drop by and say hello...seeing that you are my new neighbor.”

Pavo smiled back, with an ease that didn’t seem to fit him these days. He grasped her hand softly. “Pavo. Pavo Remirez.” He brushed his fingers nervously through his black hair and looked around. “Thanks for coming by. I was beginning to wonder if there were any real people around here. It’s been so quiet since I started getting settled.”

“Everyone’s at the Hub right now. I was on my way there, myself.”

Pavo reached for his jacket and replied, “Oh, I’ll go with you, then. You can show me –“

She gave him a half-smile and settled him with a slight hand motion. “Sorry, Pavo. It’s restricted, until Bennett shows you the ropes. But we can go next time.”

“Bennett?” A look of understanding flashed across Pavo’s flushed face. “Oh, right, Bennett. Yes, he is our supervisor. Well, then, I guess I’ll finish straightening up my desk. You wouldn’t know by any chance what I get to do after this?”

She shrugged her shoulders. Her grey suit, well-pressed, only wrinkled slightly at the motion. “Nothing, really. Not on your first day. Bennett will be at the meeting for the rest of the day. I suggest you go home and get some rest.” She smiled broadly. “It’s pretty busy around here. It might be the last night of decent sleep you get.” Glancing at her watch, she continued, “I’d better be going. Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Pavo nodded. “Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Seven o’clock. Right-“ she pointed to the cubicle behind him “-there.”

As she walked out the door, Pavo called after her, “Have a good night!”

She looked at him over her shoulder as she departed, and waved. Pavo sighed and looked down at his meticulously neat desk. “Well, not much left to do,” he said quietly. “Guess I’ll go home.” He picked up his jacket and wrapped it around himself, inserting each arm awkwardly as his expression drifted off into thoughtfulness. Keys in hand, he walked through the glass doors that led into the main hallway of Godfrey Enterprises. It did not take a small man to appreciate the grandeur of the architecture; the ceiling rose in celestial columns and spirals of smoothly polished stainless steel and copper. Glass shimmered all about him, revealing in many places a hint of the setting sun, fighting its way through greenish smog, winding through the cathedral-like interior of the building and reflecting off of numerous shiny surfa