LIVE – R002

“2.17. Scholastic Philosophers are disqualified from saying anything of interest. We need recombination – not regurgitation.”

 Robert Pepperell, The Posthuman Manifesto

Vitor watched the tiny bird-lady Angela watching him. Her eyes were not the color of marble Bianco Sivec, sky Cerulean, sea Turquoise. She didn’t match the rest of the tall cliff-place. Once again, he fought the irresistible urge to bend her like a plant twig. What an unlikely creature! If he filled his lungs, pursed his lips, and puffed vigorously, she would fly into the air like the gulls of pure white above the sea.

Inside would be nice without Angela. The floors of dark smooth charcoal wood. Walls of periwinkle. Comfortable symmetry abounded. Yes, she must go. Vitor had forgotten about the lemon cookie until now. Vitor split in two, much like the blue-green glazed slider doors leading to here, inside. One Vitor wanted less motion and fewer distractions. One Vitor wanted yellow-tasting soft cookie from Angela.

Vitor was taking a vote with himself. Symmetry versus lemon cookie. He wanted both, hence the dual Vitors. “Symmetry,” he said aloud to himself.

Thunk. Onto the plate-glass table which held the Polar Bear Seltzer and his glass, freshly emptied, lay a thick rectangular block, larger than his large hands. Three surfaces of ultramarine ripply, wavy. Three ridged areas off-white with random spots of red which didn’t move around like the gulls outside. On the top plane, in complicated golden lines, “Webster’s New World College Dictionary.” He liked the blue top. “Lazurite,” he said.

Slide. A tiny hand, familiar, over his shoulder. The large blue object was displaced by a smaller thinner item. The top swung up. Not sideways like the large doors Angela had shoved heartily. A tiny window or door? How could anyone pass through? A portal of darkness into the deep night void. It must be a really small place within. What good was that? Some more lines of angles and bends, in silver gleaming, “SAMSUNG.” Lots of little squares with white mysterious lines, no two little squares alike.

“Watch,” said Angela. Vitor decided he would overlook all the confusion she was piling up on top of him and wait some more for the lemon cookie. She pushed a little silvery button that made white figures on black come and go too fast to remember them, not that he’d recognize what evil they represented. After the small evils dissipated, little colored blobs moved about like insects. Pulsated. A box of insects!

“Bugs, Angela?” Laughter this time like ringing little bells. Her eyes ran water out of them. Laughing. Crying. Was she nuts, he asked himself? He would have to find out about nuts now. One more problem from Angela. Soon she must die, with or… Without! Lemon. Cookies.

 “Bugs, sometimes bugs, Vitor. Microsoft.” Angela now discussing Her Soft Crow. Infested with bugs. Was she a witch? If so, Vitor was as good as dead with that pair of magic boxes assisting her.

All of a sudden, a blue ocean sky showed up in that tiny window! Night time vanquished! A little white rectangle pulsing, demanding attention? “Password,” in swirl lines on top of a white box smaller than his finger. This must be a place for the witches spell. Too late. Doomed.

She grasped his right forefinger squeezing it like a vise. Pushed the magic squares, sealing his fate for eternity. “S-H-E-L-L-E-Y” runes of death by Victor’s own hand!

The little window transitioned to milk-white. More evil swirls, Devil-Writing, as if he hadn’t enough already. Vitor wept like a baby, chest heaving, why Vitor?

Blue Red Gold Blue Green Red. Lots of Black. Evil Black Spell-Words. Vitor finished! Dead. Killed by pretty witch Angela.

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About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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