LIVE – R014

“Ancient and future evolutionary traits exist in the present… Ultimately, we work towards a more wide-ranging idea — a posthuman biology — an ethical imperative which reminds us that, in a technological age, life is no longer containable in ‘simple’ life.”

Norah Campbell and Mike Saren, ISSN 1473-2866

 The Corvette Grand Sport softly cooling emitting clicking mechanical murmurings, celebrated its birth and premier one-hundred-MPH run alongside the Atlantic Sea. Aleister Parker — newly foisted friend of Vitor Weiss — gently cradled the mysterious entity pretending to be an old-fashioned cell-phone — that little plastic brick genus capable of mere voice and text communication.

Vitor, do you see! Parker was mesmerized by the montage of events unfolding, layered on the mild curvature of the automobile windshield. They had arrived at an all-night Dunkin’ Donuts, 01:30, half-past-one in the morning. The orange pink brown latte colored reflections merged with the schizophrenic swirling sea, coal-black horizon, pixelated grays identifying the Shoals Islands, a one-second periodic blue-white flash of the marker beacon defending haunted Skye Isle.

A large dark falcon, perhaps? Not the fat fish worm shell-eating gull birdies. From the Parrot Cove Cliff-House… Angela Weiss lives there. She fed me lemon cookies and Polar Bear Seltzer the day I was born… When, Vitor? This morning yesterday. Vitor replied with precision ambiguity. No not from Angela’s! Phew!

Vitor paused, continued… Beyond that dark horizon, half a world away, mountains of snow so cold teeth rattle in the harsh winds. Not a lovely white gull; a large dark dragon shearing a gray sky, all the blue has frozen, fallen into the snowy ground, to the earth’s core…

Vitor, are we tripping? No Aleister! We “tripped” inside this black automobile, is your memory defective? Angela is much brighter than you — and she must be twenty times your age! Ancient! Tiny and old, but beautiful and loving. My Old Lady, you called her…

Aleister: that large black dragon makes chopping sounds, “chopper” it’s called? It has little round feet of rubber on the underside, large-front, small-rear. A great square wing atop turning, a junior version at the tail, bent. Turning too. It’s down now. Men are coming out it’s side. It eats men, not little sea-beasts!

Four large scary men in black snow-suits. Long dark tree-things like master Jimi Djinni, Priest Of Rock, but lacking ornate lines, pegs, delicate strings. Their long-tools are thin, rough-looking, unglamorous. These men are not here for celebration — their minds writhe like serpents of dark misery!

Vitor! You see it? Aleister, of course I see it. The machine in your soft girlish hands, self-christened “Monkey-Mind-Machine,” it does that for us, to us. Do you find that odd? As I mentioned, I am merely, nearly, one day old… You are not, you told me 1988, that must be several days ago, right?

Vitor, I’m over twenty!

Yes, Aleister, and a bum, you define in your own terms… Are bums inferior to Angela? Unlike synthetic beings who are not native to the land at the edge of sea?

Aleister Parker regarded himself in the Corvette’s mirror, slapped himself hard. Smack!

Vitor, he exclaimed, the men are running through the snow, bang thump! Do they see us Vitor? I’m scared… Calm down Aleister, they resemble a pretend-highwayman — as you once were, before the SIG Sauer helped you become nice. Reformed, refined.

Are you saying this is not part of the Dunkin’ Donuts scene, not an offshoot of the nice ‘Vette, obsidian?

Amidst mountains bordering Pakistan, the village hunkered down waiting for spring, sheep-grazing, pine-nuts gathering. In a tight hut, multi-shelved, a handful of men bundled, shared company, comfort and warmth, unaware there would soon be fewer men.

From tightly sealed rectangular orifices sunlight beamed beatifically amidst rolls of polyester construction film, bottles of water, sundry items labelled in glyphs of another realm. Wires green black, connectors — chased cobwebs, dropped, terminated at some sort of communications device. Satellite? PC?

Rugs: green — dark olive — alternating stripes and checks — gray slate, black, burgundy — fractal patterned — denied the frozen ground beneath. Men, caps turbans beards. Thoughtful eyes. Waiting.

Sharing silence and portent.


About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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