Singer Spun of Strange Designs

It is true: some things once open, never again do close. And this is good, for they will never again lose their spark. They will never again forget themselves. It will be impossible to disempower what has so boldly stepped forward.

It begins with a thrusting of a needle, for she needs new clothes to wear. And they must be fashioned by her, they must be woven according to her own design. Once this is done, and the clothes are hung upon flesh and bone but cling to nothing, she will sit. It is there that she will sit for a good, long while. And while she sits, she will remain perfectly still. Still, until something occurs to her.

And then it will be melodies upon our ears that stand no chance of becoming outdated or inconsequential. She will make them out of her fancies, out of her dreams, and to life they will spring, and to her merriment they shall attend.

Until, until, until.

It Is Satisfactory to Speak Thusly

It is alright, little ones.

The moment of fear may yet come, but we are no longer bound by its inarticulate jargon and hapless phrasing. We know that we are becoming something. There is a definite path we are treading, though its course strays into that which is infinite and never ending. In many years we will surely be somewhere, so we need not collapse and point out the aimlessness of it all. Old pipes will carry the raw sewage out to sea (and to see), and there we will stand, at the end of one chosen course, and yet how much wiser do our yearnings become, to continue to awaken nostalgia and the need for a space of peace.

Already the wheels have turned, and thrust us into the day. We stand alert to some task, and giggle helplessly at some mad magician.

The odds are that we will make it. The odds are that we shall wiggle free from all binding and gesture forth with the truth of who we are.

One and one and one and one. Times fifty billion are the perspectives floating about. We shall take many. The one with faint blinders are worn as we speak from a stance beyond reproach, another pair dials in with hypersensitivity, which are worn with compulsion.

The key lies beyond the echoes of deep chamber hallways. Find it beyond each step, each breath, each malformed half-thought. It is in the perfection of an impulse. A very particular impulse; one which has the power to breach time and space and signal the unison marching continuously, stridently on.

It is more than sublime. It creates a preoccupation with itself and its beauty. It is not one bit selfish or musty, crusty or burnt with disgust. It is a culminating thing within us. It is a carrying on, it is a moving through. It is a profound development, and it is a playful curse. It cannot be spoken of in exactness. Its language is both laughter and tears, and it seeks an equal portion of each.

It is the balance which offers tranquility.

Away with wounded flesh! For it knows not even how to sew itself up. It would beseech you, as it scrambles through shallow, crystal clear water on its scabby hands and aching knees, that it has lost the tools for joymaking. It would allow all its intestines and bowels and insides to slide through the tiniest incision in the skin. All to the purpose of admitting weakness to facilitate the collection of sympathy. A being never needs be pitiful.

I insist on the quitting of the accumulation of pain.

CATS

It seems like forever since I gave away everything. I don't need much, so I gave it all away and moved to a back alley where plenty of stray cats and trashed magazines keep me company. And people, too, of course. I live in a city; there are people everywhere. It isn’t even just that there are people everywhere. It’s that they get into everything: your business, how you look, the pace of your walk, the flavor of your spit, whether your elbows feel rough. They dig into everything. 

It wasn’t until I started meeting the aforementioned cats that I really understood what was going on. First off, have you ever (cat owners, I’m talking to you) woke to the command of someone who was not you? Spouses, lovers, expert-gymnast-fornicators aside, who will wake you when you least expect it? Who wrests that dream of lazy, sliding-into-nothingness away from you? Cats. You know how and why? Mind control. They are not only limber, light footed, nosy and smelly infiltrators of households; they can inject your head with their thoughts. And you will be none the wiser. 

Ever wonder why you are doing the things you are doing lately? Ever wonder where those stray, tangential thoughts come from? See the word stray? It is time for you to know that cats run everything. For 60 years they have been refining their societal crafting skills. Sometimes they’ve screwed up big time. Vietnam? The cats were learning the ways of humanity during that one (it was also a conflict between rival cat factions). They learned there are consequences for their actions. But that doesn’t keep them from being so damned curious. They picked up after WWII when humans were most vulnerable. This led to easy infiltration of high public offices, but in no way did it keep them from fumbling their first power play. That was Vietnam. The Cold War was no great success either. We’re still in the middle of that one. 

That was a quick span of time told in a sickeningly swift paragraph. I apologize. But the menace is clear and we will not be spared if we do not wake up to what is going on around us.

 

Now, we are not uncomplicated beings. We are influenced by shit we do not even have a clue about. Thoughts, feelings and actions run like programs on our hard drives, and we cycle, cycle, cycle through them until we find some combination of keys that can be pressed to delete them forever. Or seemingly ever. 

Let’s have a word about life. It is magical. It is so magical, on such a dynamic and incredible way, that humans can trick themselves into believing that it could not ever, ever actually be magical. Humans can say, “fuck this” and , “I can’t stand this shit,” but really, they are hesitant to stop doing that thing they hate. They create such momentum of fear and convulsion and heavy, heavy flatulence, that they can no longer remember why they ever crawled out of the womb to begin with. Society changes only in a process of terrifying self-mutilation. The infrastructure is not built to change. Most of it is not. These are not new thoughts. One day it will bound joyfully from its shackles of consumption and waste. Today, as we may see some of the business model change, much of it has not. The infrastructure I mentioned was built to profit by. As such, it must sustain itself through our consumption of its product. So the needs are created and we consume. You know all this. But, again, life is magical. We make use of its magic either to delude and destroy ourselves or remember who we truly are. 

Cats are more aware of magic and its uses than we are. We have invited them into our homes, and we are oblivious as to how to defend against their wiles. Most cats need to be in the presence of the person they are manipulating, while to a select few, distance means nothing. These few are the ones controlling our national leaders from remote dens. They grow fat, lazy and distended, as the cats on the lower rungs of the hierarchy bring them sustenance and carry out the grunt work, controlling humans on a national, regional, state and even town and suburban level. They do it with their eyes. Those hypnotic spheres hide their foul intent. Ever wonder why you’ve immediately disliked someone? Peer beyond the surface and you will see and know that rival gangs of cats are carrying out their agendas through us. Wars have raged because of national den conflicts. They protect their territory because they are selfish. They cannot be blamed entirely. We too are selfish. But, you see, they are the ones who have seized control. Cats have been mobilized for decades, humanity has been sedated into oblivion, and though there are clashes between national and regional dens, they are always loyal to the group they were at birth assigned to. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an alley to prepare for nightfall. 

Trust the way of the winds. For they will carry your message onward. 

Who Shall We Be to Each Other?

Ask the question intuitively and in each moment. For we will not know until the end. Within the essence of choice lies intuition. It is available in every moment and comes without question, though it may have one to pose or resolve. 

Will you dare to knock on the door of Life? Will you demand entry and will you seek that which only lies within? The tools are available, the mission is clear. There is no path but onwards, there are no seeds but what are daily sown. There is always knowing there is more. There is higher and there is farther. But there is also much right where you are today. In every moment an infinity, of course. 

Here lies the way.

Along This Sojourn

Beauty, in all its forms, never topples, never falls. It never trembles with reluctance and it never apologizes. It speaks boldly, often quietly. It does not age, it does not regret. It surges forward like a tidal wave. It does not stop. It only looks ahead, and it will not ever limit itself. For you are beautiful. You are not these words. You are beyond the speaking of any phrase or description. 

She offers it up, and whispers a goodbye. 

Ah, "so long" is said at last. It will not be long until we meet again. You seek the silence, and you answer its hidden melody. It is here. It is with you. And you are not alone. Great Loves and great Lives have answered the call. To be most humorous in your travels. To be most light upon your step and yet fully aware. Be brave. Be bold. And paint what your heart is made of. Fire and blood and flesh filled with fuel like a rocket. See how the days pass like that. 

The message is not in the words.

It Probably Optimistically Doesn't Factor Into the Whole of What You Are Considering

Beachfront property. My backyard. Your mole with air inside. A slide trombone plumbing new depths. 

It cannot begin with yelling. But if it does, you should know that soon things will change. Soon, all the anger in the world will hold no sway and some will only bleat openly into the wind. At the wind. With the wind. 

A small egg bearing the largest chicken. What is it, dear chicken, that you have to bring forth? Is it not what you thought it would be? Has it been ill prepared for, or lacking in consideration? Long thought, the discussion ends with oneself full circle. The ends meet and there is wholeness. Wholeness abounds where nothing lacks, where the sun shines equally upon the parts that run ragged all features of solitude, and wipe clean the slate of good fortune. 

In a rumbling automobile I can hear each part performing its task. They all make some sound or other. I hear, discern and know them all. One more skill couldn't hurt.

You look different today. Is it possible that you're going through something? Through it? Not merely by it or around it, but straight through the muggy whatsitcalled. I'm glad for you. You do look taxed, but you are looking, and so you shall find. 

Ring.

Have to Read Quickly

Here's my reading method: light the cover on fire when you begin, and try to finish reading before the entire book is aflame.

Plastic Soda Pop Cup

Seated, misplaced or abandoned at my side, on the picnic table in the park, was the plastic vessel for a soft drink from Taco Bell.

“So,” I said, “Do you have anything to say besides advertising for your unhealthy goods and services?”

“I might,” it said. “I just might.”

“You might, eh? Well, what?”

“Well, what is your name?” it redirected.

“My name is Tyler. Now what do you have…”

“And where do you live?”

“Nowhere. Would you ans…”

“And what do you do…you know, for fun?”

I just stared at it for a moment. I could smack it off the table and into oblivion. I know, it knows, we’re all sitting here learning so much…whatever…I place it diagonally about a foot and a half away from me.  

“That’s the first time I’ve been relocated since being sipped by my former owner. Thank you,” it said.

“Why “thank you”? I asked.

“I was getting tired of being there. Something about the knot in the wood below me. Disorienting.”

“So now you feel clearer?”

“Clearer about some things.”

“What in particular?”

“What is it you said you like to do again?”

“Nothing, I live nowhere, and I’m asking the questions, unless you want me to help you into that trash bin.”

“Whatever you want,” it said.

Moments went by without speaking. Minutes. I looked around. Joggers jogging, dogs being walked or bear sized dogs taking their owners on a ride that was more than they bargained for when they were just puppies and cute. I noticed the ring of moisture the cup had left behind after I moved it. I dipped my right index finger in it and traced the circle. I got a sharp splinter for my troubles, graciously bestowed by the wood of the table. The plastic cup spit. It sucked in its breath and launched a bit of dark brown substance onto mu upturned index finger as I examined the splinter. The liquid began to fizzle on my skin. It tingled. I shook most of it off.

“What are you doing? Soda is not helpful right now.”

“My mistake,” it said.

“If you had any water to clear away the blood, that would be fine, but…”

The next in a long series of interruptions came not verbally, but garbly as the plastic cup seemed to be sucking in breath from the outside in order to make a vacuum powerful enough to blow bubbles on its inside. After a moment, it somehow swished its liquid from side to side, making it rock in place, and then stopped. It spat a clear liquid that hit my offended index finger with astonishing precision. This liquid did not sizzle at all. It simply seeped quickly into my skin, as if it was unsure of whether I would try to flick it off like I had the soda. Pushed from within – by the liquid? – the splinter was being edged out of my finger. It fell back to the table it came from and I cocked my finger to flick it off.

“Are you su…” the cup began, but I had already let loose my finger. The splinter had become wedged between a small crack in the wood, so when my middle finger made contact, the pressure exerted against the splinter drove it deep within my middle finger.

“I bet you would not have chosen to do that. I tried to warn you.” The cup looked a bit proud. But it hadn’t moved an inch or visibly altered its already mould perfect posture.

“Yeah, well you’re just an uppity cup. Huh, my other finger does feel better. I don’t know whether it’s because my middle finger hurts more or because your strange liquid actually worked.”

“You may never know.”

“Would you try again?”

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” and with that the cup spun on its base and faced its label the opposite direction. It began gurgling softly to itself.

“Please?”

“No.”

“Why not? I could dash you all over this park if I wanted to,” I said, but I wasn’t yet finished with a cup that had the power of speech.

“I’ll try something else if you answer my questions,” it said.

“Fine,” I said, waving my finger in the air, not wanting it to make contact with anything that might push the splinter deeper. “What’s your name? Are you male or female?”

“I have none, and it doesn’t matter.” The cup spun back around, let loose one huge bubble on the inside, and continued, “Have you ever wondered about your life, where you’re going, and how you are doing right now in the grandest scheme of things?”

“Of course, what’s your point?”

“Well, I wonder how you think you are doing in the grand scheme of whatever.”

“I don’t know. Well, I suppose. I have a job and a life where I have fun…sometimes not, but mostly I do.”

“Oh? What kind of fun?”

“You know, I have friends I do things with, family I am close to.”

“Oh, that’s terrific.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“So that means you’re doing well at Life?”

“I don’t know.”

Quiet. For a moment.

“Suppose you’re not doing well at all, you only think you are?” the cup continued.

“Well, then, someone ought to tell me. Could you please just release me from this spli…”

“What do you wish you had that you do not?”

“I don’t know. A wife. Security. A family.”

“And those are hallmarks of what you might call success? I’m glad my job is so easy. Be filled and then empty. Penetrated with a straw for a while, have the contents sucked out of you, and then it’s to the trash bin and maybe the recycling plant or landfill. It’s quite straight forward mostly.”

“I guess we’re more complicated.”

“No you’re not. You’re just human. You just do more things. Doesn’t make you complicated. You are good at pretending.”

“And you are good at insulting,” I said. Feelings hurt by a plastic nothing. I stared out across the park’s pond. The sun was going down. Why am I here?

“Why are you here?” The cup asked.

“Good question. I guess I should go.” I picked the cup up…I’ll assume it’s a he…I picked him up and headed for the garbage bin. “Now take out my splinter. Please.”

“So you can throw me away? No. You must take me to your home now. I will live with you. In your cupboard or on your night table, occasionally refreshed by the sudsing waters of the dishwasher, but no, I will not be tossed in any landfill or melted down and reformed this time.”

I tossed him in the garbage bin.

“Goodbye.” I called behind me, already on my way down the path towards home.

“Hmmm, interesting how this turned out,” I heard the cup mutter from the bin. He raised his voice so he could be sure I’d hear him. “Good luck! I know it’s creepy crawly and massively jumbled out there, but keep your head up, your fingers away from wood, and your spirits tuned high.”

I stopped. “Thanks, I will.” I turned around. I walked back to the garbage bin and looked at him. He hadn’t moved. He was just sloshing bits of the remaining liquid inside him up into the air, catching it again in his straw. I reached in and pulled him out. I looked at him some more. He said nothing. I said nothing. We walked back to the picnic table. I placed him back where I found him; in the original moisture circle. It was almost gone by now, but I found it without difficulty. The cup began blowing bubbles inside itself. I picked it up again and put my lips to the straw. It was the sweetest soda I’d ever tasted. 

Children follow Children. And as we are Children, we are led to dance.

We are all just children. No matter how we primp or strut or throw ourselves around, you can take a steak knife and cleanly slice away the layers of pretension. So do not be confused. He who pretends to be what he is not is of no threat. No jive or insult from one who is too hurried by life should be taken too deeply within. Just step aside. And let your troubles roll by.

Of People I Have Known

There are corridors one travels upon while seeking effortless slumber. They are all flavors, all colors. They are high and hard to get to, or they are low and fitted for a crawl. I have met many fellow journeymen and women along these ways. We have spoken briefly. With most it is a simple hello. With others a more detailed conversation can be attained. Nothing here can be boarded up or shut in. The windows only grow wider with each expedition. I happily have traversed many hallways. All are different. Some are not physical. Some only pose as doorways until you cross them and they reveal themselves to be simply vacuums for air. 

Of the Love I have known, I pause sweetly to look in. The room smells of roses and there are flickering images that dance about too quickly to decipher their content. 

The last word of every sentence is Love. It is always there. It is left hanging in the pause between breaths, or it is caught quickly by the trained ear somewhere amid a torrent of words. 

A Child's Realm

Each child’s realm comes dancing along.
Skipping, merrily, encoded in song.
The places our young offspring roam,
Are no environs for those who spit and scorn.

But watch what he does,
When the young boy does play.
As he prances and dances
Through the length of his day.

It’s magic, you see
To set Love so free.
It is the twinkling of their eyes,
That bring us revelations, large in size.

From a wellspring of joy
They happily romp!
To play with cat, dog, mouse
Or leaf pile to stomp!

No power can stop such boldness.
No darkness can dampen such light.
Each beauty born without trying,
Each soul reaching its peak before dying.

Not too soon, not too soon
A child’s spirit does intone,
To ward off devices
They see cause adults to groan.

The special place in each child’s heart
Lies wrapped but unfolding each day from the start.
So seek to revive such inner beauty
Before someone calls you old, mean, and far too snooty!

Someone Stole Our Ghosts

I miss the eerie, chilly, breezy after touch effect of glancing through some ethereal appendage of one of our bodiless friends. They are the keepers of our history. They speak an endless stream of whispers as they string up the past to dry on the sun drenched clothesline of time. It is from there that they analyze and modify the outcomes of our future. I miss their daily warnings, warm tidings and courteous manner. Something happened to them to make them leave.

I only experienced a bit of the bright, shining wave that struck my small town, wiped all power and electronics, but kept everything in a smooth, rolling, bright-as-sunshine glow for five days straight. I was locked in my study, serving my role as Transcriber of the Ancients. The old souls would come and speak to me, entering my home whistling some dancing melody, or tapping lightly on many surfaces at once. Oh, how I enjoy their company.

The ghost that visited most often had named himself Barnaberus. Not his name while is physical life, all ghosts choose new identities that will not keep them tied to the personality they graduated from the physical with. Their work binds them for great lengths of time with humanity, but they still evolve. They still can grow. Barnaberus was a huge prankster. He used to silently enter my study and light a week’s worth of work aflame. As I’d dash for water and put out the flame, Barnaberus would appear, wheeling in the work I’d done to replace the ethereal counterpart that he’d swapped and created the illusion of a blaze. That, and he chewed gum loudly and smacked his lips quite loudly if I ever began to doze during one of his twelve hour, constant stream of thought lectures on this or that kingdom, or some brilliant personage long since past.

I hadn’t seen Barnaberus for…counting…6, 8 days since the start of that bright whirlwind of light. I couldn’t do my work without him. I needed him to give me an accurate and full account of the historic deeds of the town called Mollweather, which was full of uniformly strong willed people, for the next series of my writings.

After a crumbling round of overcooked eggs and toast, my attention locked on finding Barnaberus, I decided to walk the streets, hoping to gather some clue, some vague intuition that would lead me to our ethereal brethren. Each person I passed seemed a little dazed, their gaze just shy of focused. If I stopped a man or woman to enquire as to whether they had any helpful information, it would take a moment for their eyes to shift in my direction. Always they looked like they would have rather stared straight ahead and continued on whatever path they were, seemingly, aimlessly treading. Growing a bit desperate, after at least fifty or so similar encounters, I shook a man who was walking with his arms stuffed full of fresh bread. I don’t know why I shook him, I just had to get a different response than I had gotten up until then. I grabbed his shoulders and shook. For an instant, his body seemed to prefer no resistance. It went along quite easily with my pull until suddenly he stiffened up and bellowed, “Stop, you madman!” and as I released him, he took ten paces further on his way. On the eleventh step he stopped, spun in place, looked me right in the eye and said, “I don’t know why, I don’t know why they’ve all gone. I just know it’s all for the worst. Some years ago they left for three days. That was lonely enough. I wish I could know why.”

I apologized to the man and offered him a cup of tea for his troubles if he didn’t mind the company. Thankfully, he accepted. The man was right about the loneliness without our ghosts. It was painful, like a bit of the wind of each breath was constantly being siphoned. In my kitchen, Enan, as I came to learn the man called himself, sat easily, if a bit crookedly on the chair in the corner next to the icebox. “What were you doing when you first noticed they were gone,” Enan asked.

“Just writing,” I responded.

“About what?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve been doing heavy research with Barnaberus for the last few weeks on the old town Mollweather.”

“Hmm. What were they like?”

“Heroic. All of them. Not a single weak-kneed slouch in the bunch. From all I’ve learned, I guess the town ran peacefully for at least six generations, since the first family moved there and staked a bit of its land as theirs for a town. Great people, the Mollweathers.”

“Mmhm.”

All thought seemed to cease for the moment. Or perhaps it simply slowed to a pace just below consciousness. We sipped our tea with a hazy synchronicity. Silence rang through the moments. As I was about to set my tea cup on its saucer, a knock, that would have startled even the most hearty Mollweather native, bounced soundly through my home. I had already leapt up involuntarily. I stood half erect and simply waited for a few moments. Enan looked at me, set down his cup, his shirt wearing the renegade liquid response to his surprise, and then nodded towards the door.

As I crept towards the door, still a bit unnerved, a loud whisper rushed through the slight crack between the portal and its frame. “Sibelius! Sibelius! Run! Run, you’ve got to run! Let me in, quickly!” I eased the door open to find my neighbor, Frank Muzzlehorn, frantic and weary in ways I’ve never seen his usually calm personage.

“They’re coming for you! All of them, and you’ve got to leave sooner than now! What have you been working on for the last few weeks?” All Frank’s words were bound and thrown out as one.

“Just some easy research on Mollweather.” I said.

“Good. I don’t know what they’re after, but take what you have of that and hide it. Then come with me.”

I raced to my study and began opening the panels in the wall that held my most precious documents and began to quickly, but with poise and control, as if the documents themselves might become upset by rough handling, and began to add the Mollweather documents to the space.“A race from death is never enjoyable, nor complete without companions. Enan, I dare to request you might jig along beside us?”

Enan nodded and introduced himself to Frank while I stuffed the last of the documents into the panel. As I reached for the removed panels to replace them, an enormous liquor bottle, lit aflame with a rag in the top, sailed through the large window pane in front of my desk and splashed liquid nightmare on most every surface. I watched in slow motion as the liquor flame bounced squarely on the middle of my Mollweather documents, consuming from the middle to both ends. A voice invaded my consciousness, interrupting my startled frame of mind. “Stop. You cannot move and cannot escape. You are ours.”

“Like hell,” I screamed aloud. I thrust my hand deep into the flames, securing a burning grasp on one hundred or so equally burning pages and withdrew them from the heap, threw them on the floor and stomped the flames out with my feet. I grabbed my bundle, matched papers with the bundle, and grabbed a cold bottle of liquid from my top drawer, and an old, wooden pistol from the bottom.

“I don’t care who they are, but we are never caught.” And we tore out the side door, our hearts unsure of what progress these events might unfold into, and bounced straight into the jaws of death itself.

It's Just Me And This White Ash

As he tugged across the floor, fingernails grasping slight spaces between the wooden planks, he was able to make steady progress. He looked up at the old, wooden bucket. "Is there any in there?" he thought. The wind reminded him of how lonely the seas can be. Its only scent is the ocean. It hasn't touched human skin in hundreds of miles. He imagines a trace of perfume stayed aloft. He almost can recognize it. But it is not bringing the bucket closer. It is providing joyful delusion, but is of no help to the situation he is hoping to change. 

After nearly spilling the bucket by tugging on its rope handle, which was a few inches more accessible than the bucket itself, he sat up to see if there was water within. Eyes meet eyes in the strangest of circumstances. Something looked up at Captain Steevey. Still he lifted the bucket to his lips, eyes locked with the goldfish flitting here and there in its shallow watered, wooden home. Both water and the floundering fish slid towards the captain's open mouth. Frantic to avoid being consumed, the goldfish exerted all its strength to plant itself above Steevey's upper lip. Grasping with presumed nerves in its scales, the fish held tight. Steevey looked down, amused. He wiggled his lips back, forth, up and down. It held the strangest likeness to bull riding and that made him chuckle. He tried scrunching his lips and blowing both up with his mouth, and down with his nostrils, to dislodge the fish, but Steevey was yet to know the full strength of this goldfish's tenacity. So Steevey moved his face back over the mouth of the bucket and encouraged the life-desiring goldfish to slop back into its inadequate home. It does. And for the longest time, all each does is stare. Finally, Steevey breaks contact by turning his head to face the horizon. As he looks away, he slowly lowers his hand into the bucket. The goldfish, mightily concerned, seeks the farthest distance in the bucket from the hand, but can only dash along the side, hoping to be furthest from danger. The hand makes no attempt to grasp. It only lifts a bit of water out and pours it down its owner's throat. 

"Have yeh got a name, squirt?" Steevey asks the fish, impossibly seeking a response. He waits. And expects, but nothing comes. Steevey thinks he sees thought formations in the fish's eyes. The fish could be searching vast data banks in that tiny brain it has, acquiring and organizing for easiest access all information related to human speech, vocal patterns, vocal tone variety, and regional mannerisms. If the information is being handled, none of it appears to be hitting the surface of expression. Steevey shakes the bucket back and forth. Not harshly, but just to watch the fish be buffeted by some captain-created waves. Angry, orange lips leap at Steevey. The goldfish bobs at the surface of the water, its head and eyes slightly above the surface for a few moments. The fish might have been saying, "Who do you think you are?" or "Stop it!" or "I'll give you three wishes if you only agree to set me free." Steevey considered the likelihood of which phrase it might be that the first was hoping to get across. He decided to chance it on the third one. "Ok, squirtish. You're mostly squirt, but partly fish, and here's my first wish. I want you to lead me to dry land with drinking water nearby and a fine woman to rent company with." 

The fish just turned its tail towards Steevey. "Hey!" Steevey was disconcerted by the sound of his own voice. He half-tossed the bucket a few inches away from him. The water sloshed, but didn't spill. Then he crawled, with his useless legs dragging once more behind, him to some shade by the entryway of his ship. He closed his eyes, and briefly endeavored to leave his circumstances. All in things in half the time they used to take. How long Steevey had been asleep, he did not know. He had not turned the wheel of his ship for at least three days. He was on the easy road to resignation. "But what about Squirtish?" he thought. This time he shoved himself, hind quarters first, instead of pulling across the wood floor. One arm-powered lunge into the endeavor crammed a three inch splinter, attached to a hearty plank, into his rear. "OUCH!" screamed Steevey. Without dragging the whole ship with him, he tried to pull away from the splinter. Slowly it came out. With pressure on his bum, seeking to divert his attention, he pulled himself once more beside the bucket. He looked inside and couldn't believe his eyes. He blinked. Blinking could not dissuade the truth, for he smelled its smoky composition. In the bucket that he had positioned between his legs while he sat, looking down from above it, he saw a small, white coating of ash along the bottom. No Squirtish. No water. Just a little white ash. 

Steevey hmmed and wondered. His eyes lead out towards the clouds and their shapely manifestations. He rapped his fingers on the wooden planks. He opened his mouth to rasp his favorite song:

Away we slip, away we slip

Into the farthest lands.

Where our dear belongings

And and faithful friends

Have never once dared tread.

And if the sea should gather thee

Into its fond embrace,

Remember only the love which drowned ye

When you first glimpsed her face,

When first man's heart did race.

Edmund Butterphelps and the Art of Merciless Amusement (the story so far)

Warren gesticulated with colossal emphasis and screamed, "Over there!"

Maggie looked up from where she had been thrown. Cans of beans rolled off her stomach as she lifted herself to a seated position. Patrick was kneeling on the top crosswalk of the warehouse, and was presently being strangled by Edmund Butterphelps. Patrick's legs began to kick swiftly beneath him, so you would think he was running sideways if he had personal freedom at the moment. Edmund was whispering something in Patrick's ear. Patrick's hands flailed and flew at Edmund's face; scraping tearing, pulling hair, attempting a mutual strangulation, but to no avail. 

Warren used his bungie sticky hand rope to launch himself to the highest platform, mere feet away from the horrific struggle. Edmund stood up to his full height and directed his attention away from Patrick and fully towards Warren. 

"Begone, you misfit! You errant bean stalk!" Edmund bellowed, and without taking his eyes from Warren, he lifted Patrick to standing with his hands around his neck, employed his elbows at a merciless angle, and squeezed until Patrick's eyes burst forth from their sockets. They oozed off Edmund's chestplate and stuck to the floor.

Warren could not believe what he had seen. "I'll kill you!" he bellowed, and braced his stance to fling his body forward. Edmund's eyes softened. His lips curled up and stretched to a length just beyond that of his natural smile. He bent forward, almost double. Something strange seemed to be going on of inside him. He began to tremble; his whole body tossed itself into an eerie quaking. Edmund then looked up, still shaking, curled back his lips above and below his teeth, and began to laugh. It started slowly, more air than noise, but it built dramatically in a fraction of a second. It built hysterically, maniacally, enormously. Edmund reeled back and began to spasm on the floor, kicking his legs and thrusting his arms. He rolled right towards the end of the plank where he'd dropped Patrick, looked briefly into the holes that once held blue eyes, and laughed all the more. "Oh, hello," he managed to mumble between fits and outbursts. He sent himself rolling the opposite direction, towards the other end of the platform where there was no barrier, and dropped straight off it. Four stories down he fell. Warren raced to watch him, but he lost sight of him among the warehouse trees and shrubbery below.

Maggie finally ascended all stairways which led to the top and reached Warren. She first saw Patrick and gasped. Warren backed her away from the corpse and tried to distract her, "I saw him fall, he's got to be on the floor, let's go." Bracing her against his side, he again employed his sticky hand rope to perform the reverse function of how it had been used before. They were quickly on the ground. But there was no Edmund. All they found was an enormous molar with specks of blood on its end.

Warren dreamed that night. Standing in the shape of a diamond were four humans. One he figured to be himself, though he wasn’t sure, another was Maggie, a third was Patrick, and the fourth was Edmund Butterphelps. The one Warren would later claim to be himself, as he retold the dream, was waving his hands in the air. He could have been directing an aircraft to land or washing windows with unnecessary enthusiasm. He knew not the reason, only saw the details. Not only were his actions odd, the direction in which they were unleashed was odd. He was not facing the group in the diamond shape, but he was turned the other way. Next came details on Patrick and Edmund Butterphelps. Patrick was giggling and slapping at Edmund’s chest while Edmund supported Patrick and was poking at his chest. He would poke, gauge Patrick’s reaction, which was always some degree between chuckling and hysteria, and move his finger along to probe some other section. Each section that was poked was poked deeper than the last. The deepness of the poke, however, did not correspond to the heartiness of the laughter. Edmund Butterphelps seemed a bit confused by this, but he was making merry with the situation regardless. After six or seven more pokes, he gave up. He scratched his head, shifted his stance and studied Patrick. Patrick was in no mood to allow the poking to cease. He played his fingers in the motion that indicates, “come on!” should one be inviting another to prod at their torso. Edmund then came very close to Patrick. Patrick expected tickling so greatly that he clenched his teeth, his eyes, squatted a little a waited. Edmund jerked his finger backwards and toward the sky and opened his mouth. He was about to say something when he noticed that his finger hand been caught. Spinning to see what had halted its progress, he saw that it had become lodged in Maggie’s nose. He had forgotten that she was standing there. Patrick couldn’t help but sneak a peek to determine the reason for why he was not presently receiving stimulation and attention. He exhaled a bit impatiently, which caused Edmund to spin his head towards him, jerk his finger, with Maggie still attached, through Patrick’s body, and into Warren’s who was standing to his side. Edmund stuffed and stuffed Maggie into Warren. Her right foot was the last to be absorbed. Warren was shocked, and even moreso as he noticed a pleasant, full sensation throughout his entire body. “Warren, are you there?” Maggie’s voice seemed to come from inside Warren as his own usually did. He answered with a thought. “Yes. Where are you?”

“I’m inside you. It’s surprisingly comfortable in here. What’s Patrick doing?”

Warren turned and again became aware of Edmund and Patrick. Edmund had stuck his finger in Patrick’s left eyeball and was twirling it around, causing Patrick to kick out with an intense, hyperactive and expressive dance. They both seemed to love it. Edmund stopped when he saw Warren was looking. He held up his left finger. “I’ve got another one,” he said. “Care to take a ride?”

“No, thank you,” Warren said. Suddenly he felt ill. He rushed to the corner of the room and began to vomit bits of Maggie’s guts out. He tasted bacon and eggs and pancakes. He remembered having none of the above. “Oh, but those were so good,” Maggie complained, bemoaning the loss of a delicious meal.

“Sorry,” Warren replied. “I can’t quite help their exodus from your body. Or my body. Both our bodies. Why is this so comfortable?”

“I don’t know. I’m enjoying it as well. You mind if I nap a bit in here? Get me out later sometime.”

“Those were some fantastic tasting eggs. I feel like you still have some in you, so that’s good. I’m set. Sure, I’ll wake you up ‘round five, that sound good?”

“Perfect.”

For the next few weeks, Warren was constantly amused as he felt Maggie swishing around inside of himself while he walked or tossed and turned in his sleep. Maggie had a way of always making her presence known. She would comment on his daily choices. The toast was not crunchy enough. He slept on his stomach too much. She loved the bumping and gliding sensation she felt when he went jogging. She didn’t like it when he took too long in the shower. She had not felt a shower in weeks, only felt the secondary warmth as it passed through Warren, and longed to feel the moisture on her own skin again. Their minds seemed to merge. No longer was there back and forth decision making.

It was another week or so before Warren felt pressure against the walls of his abdomen. He knew that a bump was forming, and so he set about preparing himself to become Maggie’s father. Oh, how he loved to sing to her.