When the Present is a Distant Memory

Hakon started the day like any other: he rolled out of bed, washed his face, and went to the kitchen. Fully rested, he poured a glass of water and turned on the food synthesizer. As his nutrient-dense, savory meal was created, he took a step out to his balcony to breathe in some fresh air. It was autumn, but it hadn’t started getting cold yet. He could see the other homes and buildings, but none of these were large enough or close enough to cause much of a change in the horizon: he could see the ancient, smooth and grassy mountains in the distance. Birds were singing. A bell chimed, signalling that his food was ready.

Sitting down at his kitchen table, he ate a meal resembling chicken eggs cooked over easy with some toast and an apple. Of course, only the apple was a natural product. People hadn’t consumed real chicken eggs since the dark ages when people still ate flesh and crammed creatures into cages for food. Hakon couldn’t imagine such a time; he grew up around food synthesizers, and in his day-to-day life, fruit was the only source of food which people obtained outside of the synthesizers. It wasn’t that the synths couldn’t create fruit, it was just enjoyable to gather some fruit from the orchard now and then.

Fed, Hakon started to walk to his office. It was very nearby. He was greeted by nearly everyone he passed, and he greeted them as well. As he neared Cynthia’s Grub, he realized he had forgotten to bring any food with him. He stopped at the cafe.

“Forgot your lunch again, huh?” Cynthia greeted him.

“You know me too well,” he replied.

“Here, take this one. I had a feeling you’d be in, and synthesized one of your favorites: spicy noodles with mushrooms.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I owe you one!”

He had wanted to say more, as per usual. He had been developing quite the crush. But he didn’t want to bother her while she was working. He needed to get to work, anyway.

And soon, he was there. His office was fairly standard: a thick glass dome with an adjustable tint, a small couch, and a desk. He had a small refrigerator under his desk, but he chose to keep his lunch out in a sunny spot to keep it warm. He fired up his musical synthesizer and got to work.

“Work” perhaps wasn’t the best word for what Hakon and Cynthia were doing. It wasn’t as if any currency was being gained. Their society was primarily powered by the sun and wind, their daily necessities synthesized with the resulting electricity. Work was just a way for people to get out of their dwellings to pursue their interests. The format of “exchange” was a hold over from the dark ages. Proper etiquette dictated that one said “I owe you one!” when receiving an item from someone else. Only those interested in ancient history really understood that this was a holdover from when abundance first became common. The concept of owing someone something was actually quite foreign to most people, as it implied that needs weren’t always met by default. Most people didn’t enjoy thinking about such things.

Hakon passed the time the way he typically did. He tuned his oscillators, and then he started with some long, sustained drones with evolving textures. He always liked hearing things like that in the morning. After tweaking some filters and adding another harmonically related drone, he felt he had created something that others might enjoy listening to as well. His tapedeck was integrated into his music synthesizer, so he simply hit the record button. He enjoyed his lunch while listening to his new song unfold. Cynthia had made it just how he liked. He felt happy thinking about her. He thought to himself, “Maybe I should forget my lunch tomorrow, too. I’ll leave a bit early, and if she isn’t too busy, I’ll invite her out to dinner…”

Hakon was satisfied with the song he had made, and decided he was done with work for the day. He uploaded his tape to the Network, where anyone who was interested could make a copy of the tape to listen to. Outside of music and food making devices, the technology of the day wasn’t all that complex. They were just nice tools. He was feeling a bit more pensive than usual after work, so he found the stream that passed through town and followed it to the mountains until it started getting dark. He hadn’t been thinking of anything in particular, but was completely lost in thought. He found himself back at his little house, and unusually exhausted. He decided to forgo dinner and went to sleep. He was asleep almost as soon as he was in bed, and was dreaming almost as soon as he was asleep.

Hakon didn’t always remember his dreams. They usually just felt like little stories, and he often didn’t find much meaning in them. People in general paid a lot of attention to dreams, but also recognized that they weren’t always important. That night, Hakon had the strangest, most vivid dream he had ever had in his 34 years on Earth.

The dream began the same way most of his days did: but when he went to his balcony, three strange figures were sitting at a table, waiting for him. One of them looked vaguely human, but with long, pointy ears. The other two looked a bit more like insects, but had some humanoid features (they were apparently bipedal, for one thing). The human-looking one addressed him.

“I hope we have not alarmed you, Hakon.”

“Maybe just a little bit. Who are you?”

“Let me first say that you are currently asleep. This is a dream, and you have nothing to fear.”

“That kind of makes sense,” Hakon said. He was fairly open minded, and while it wasn’t unheard of for guests to make themselves at home without invitation, Hakon had never seen creatures like these before.

“We have a very important decision for you to make. You have noticed that we appear strange to you. That is because we are not creatures of this planet. My companions and I are all from different planets, very distant from yours. Many, many years ago, your people sought to find us. They sent complex devices into outer space. As you know, your ancestors lived very differently than you do now. In their age, the greatest danger to humanity was other humans.”

“Yes, I learned a little about this as a child. Apparently they would kill each other in competition over resources. I never really could understand why they would do that.”

“Your ancestors were plagued with destructive ideas. Do you know much of their power structure?”

“I know they burned some sort of noxious material for fuel, I think made from the corpses of long dead creatures…”

The beings laughed a bit, “No, not that sort of power. You must not be particularly interested in ancient history.”

“Not particularly. What do you mean? I think one of the things we have in common with our dark age ancestors is power.”

“You speak of power in terms of energy. The power I am speaking of is about control over resources and other people.”

“Oh, right. That was another thing that never really made sense to me. It seems mean and unnecessary.”

“Suffice to say that your ancestors came from a deeply unfair time. A small group wielded a lot of control over everyone else. They would bicker among each other and trick their populations into fighting. It was a terrible time.”

“Yes, I don’t really like thinking about it. It sounds like such a nasty way to live.”

“It was, and their nastiness is why they failed in their attempts to meet creatures such as myself. It is that their world is gone that we now reach out to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. We have been monitoring this planet for a very long time. In your dark ages, there would have been individuals in charge, but in your day, no one wields ‘power’ and so there is no reason for us to pick anyone in particular to contact. You live in such a place that it is easy for us to contact you in this way. Had you fallen asleep later, we likely would not have met.”

“I see, I was in the right place at the right time, then?”

“Precisely. And now, we ask you for permission to visit your planet in physical manifestation. As wonderful as your life is now, contact with creatures such as myself can improve things. You could travel through space, meet different sorts of creatures, and experience unimagined wonders.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But it is solely up to you. Will you welcome creatures from the universe to your planet? As it is no longer a hostile place, your society is now welcome to benefit from the wisdom of many societies.”

“Um.”

“Do not answer right now. Think about what this means. We will see you once you have decided.”

And with those words, Hakon found himself in bed. It was morning. He was awake a bit earlier than usual.

*

The day started like any other: Hakon rolled out of bed, washed his face, and went to the kitchen. As his nutrient-dense, savory dish was synthesized, he stepped out onto his little balcony. This triggered his recollection of the dream. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

“Why did they choose me?” he thought. He remembered what the creatures had said, but it did not satisfy his curiosity. “Such a decision does not seem fair to leave to one person. Even if what they say can only be positive, what if that is just from my limited perspective? They said I must decide, but they did not say I could not seek advice.”

With that thought, he left without eating. He went straight to Cynthia’s Grub. Her cafe was not open yet, but Cynthia was awake and having her meal at a table outdoors (she lived in the same building as her cafe – Hakon only worked outside of his home because he enjoyed walking around town, especially walking past Cynthia’s Grub). “Hakon, are you alright? It’s early for you to pass by.”

“I’m actually not passing by; I came to talk to you,” he replied. Cynthia blushed. “I… had this dream.”

Cynthia listened attentively. When Hakon finished his story, Cynthia spoke. “I see, that’s a big decision.”

“Yes! I’m not particularly satisfied with the reason I was chosen.”

“It’s a compliment though, isn’t it? I mean, why not you?”

“What would you do?” Hakon asked her.

“I’d probably come ask you,” Cynthia laughed. “Yeah, it feels strange for one person to not just represent all people, but what about everything else on Earth?”

“Exactly! While I can at least consult other people, what about the birds? Would they be ok with this?”

“Right? What if a mosquito tries to bite one of these creatures and gets ill?”

“How like you to empathize with a mosquito,” Hakon said. He enjoyed how sweet she was.

“Fine, fine, what if dogs think they smell bad?” Cynthia laughed.

“Well, I think I have my answer, really,” Hakon said. “I simply cannot speak for the other creatures. And without their permission, I have no right to change this ecosystem in any way.”

“I think that is a good choice,” Cynthia said. “I suppose you will see them in another dream?”

“I guess so,” Hakon said. “…May I come tell you about it tomorrow morning?”

“Please do, Hakon. It is always a pleasure to see you.”

That evening, Hakon dreamed of the creatures again. He gave his answer.

The creature he had spoken with smiled in reply: “Humanity has passed our final test. You are correct, it would not be fair for one human to speak for all creatures of your planet. Your ancestors saw this planet as their property to destroy if they wished. You do not. However, I have not told you the entire story.”

“You see,” the creature continued, “your species is the last on this planet which we have asked this question. All of your fellow creatures were invited into our group even before your previous human dark age. They have never strayed from their purpose on this planet, that was a uniquely human problem. There is actually no purpose in us physically manifesting on your planet. My kind is not limited by such concepts as physicality. What you have done is taken down the barrier which keeps humanity out of this much larger society in the non-physical realms. Every human dreaming right now is in fact witnessing this moment. Humans will no longer be trapped on Earth in their dreams, and other beings are no longer prevented from interacting with humans. Welcome to the intergalactic fellowship!”

One Moment

It’s hard to say when exactly the system failed. It was probably a few years ago. But just as the powers at be continue to prop up our perished economic system and society a-la Weekend at Bernie’s, society at large goes on as if things are alive and well.

There was one particular moment when it was all unmistakably clear, though.

One sunny summer day in Australia, I went to have lunch with some classmates in celebration of completing our first semester of law school.

Carrie, one of my Chinese friends, asked, “Where have you been the happiest? Do you like it here better than in the US? What about compared to Japan?”

I didn’t really need to think about this one. “Definitely here. Things aren’t perfect, but it feels pretty good here. I know my wife’s MBA program was a bit of scam, but I think she’ll find a job here and we’ll be happy. I don’t really even think I’ll be visiting home anytime soon,” I said.

Concurrently, my wife was reacquainting herself with a Hindu goddess she had once worshiped.

I came home from lunch, and my wife and I were sprawled out on the most comfortable couch I have ever owned. It was a pale green cloud for the two of us.

My phone suggested I read a news story about how the migration policy of Australia had changed, and it was almost like a targeted attack. By the time I finished law school, I would be exactly too old to be allowed to use my new degree to get a job in Australia.

Within weeks, we found ourselves crammed into my wife’s childhood bedroom in a small town in Oklahoma, our lives in Sydney feeling completely unreal. The world we had spent our lives in no longer seemed to be there anymore.

When my wife got hurt a few weeks later and no one cared to stop and see if we were ok, I felt in the pit of my stomach that the world had ended.

Nothing was ever the same again after that moment. In that moment, it became unbearably obvious that we were seeking help from a corpse. That all of us were living inside the belly of a long-dead beast.

And once that veil was lifted, it never came back.

The Painting

Yolanda stands at her easel, immersed in the colors and forms she is creating.

The seconds turn to minutes to hours.

To days.

Yolanda no longer sees the easel.

She looks around and sees nothing but the world of colors and forms she had dreamed.

Yolanda lives in a dream.

Collide the Tide

Linda stepped out onto the deck. Her legs were steady despite the rolling waves. The sun was warm, but the drops of water in the air were cold. She was happy to be wearing a coat.

A sailor approached and was waved away. She didn’t come outside to talk. “These damn men can’t wipe their own asses without asking me about it first,” she thought.

Looking up at the sky, and then down to the horizon the direction of travel, she knew the storm would begin just before making landfall. “A little rain never hurt anymore,” she thought. But she didn’t mean it. She knew it would hurt a lot.

When the ship came crashing into the dock on the storm surge, she was glad that she had not expressed the sentiment out loud, despite how banal the experience had become. All the same, she had no plans of going out to sea ever again anyway. She didn’t care what happened to the ship. She dove into the black water as the ship was dragged back out in the receding surge. Her and her crew had had to abandon ship at a port due to storm surge too many times to count. In this instance, she waited until everyone else had abandoned the ship before diving in.

When Linda first went to sea, things like this didn’t happen. She had heard things like this would happen some day, but the media and politicians all implied she’d be dead by then. They were wrong about how quickly the world she grew up in would deteriorate, along with just about everything else.

She clamored onto to shore and could see most of her crew had survived. “Human hubris is the root the of all evil,” she thought as she waded through the garbage.

a dense kind of Helsinki

Kafkaesque sadness, saffron authentic dress,

I don’t know at all.

Kaleidoscope gig, functional jig,

Jacqueline and James halting on drum skins,

and Haskell-made programs.

Lakes lie fallow, leering and hollow,

Kermit dufs unending shallow sheep,

and Ekhafni escapes again.

Drawing Lady

The paper is off-white or maybe cream. She has a steady hand. The charcoal stains her fingers as she presses against the page. It makes a gentle sound.

She looks up from the page.

She returns her gaze down, and bites her chapped lip.

She struggles to understand why she struggles to draw a completely straight line. Her hand is going where she wants it to. But the line is always sloped one way or another.


	

dreaming

Part twelve of Twelve Stories.

Hakon and Courtney share a glance and silently decide it has become more than appropriate to begin running, as whatever lies ahead is likely to be, if nothing else, better than drowning, and at the silent thought of drowning, Hakon remembers everything – his silent childhood, his missing patient’s delusions of a coming zombifying plague and his investigation into it which brought him to the mediation retreat with Courtney and Maryl and the others on the beach filled with black crabs, how a blood sample he had no knowledge of how to do anything with and retreating to a cave with Courtney was all he managed to accomplish in his attempt to combat this plague his delusional patient had tried to warn him of, how frail he was in the face of the very zombies he felt he alone was prepared to encounter, and how, in the midst of everything, a storm surge or something filled the cave and he saw images of flowers and ceilings, and the sound of his and Courtney’s wet running feet becomes softer and softer and his field of vision dimmer and dimmer and he feels the cold water deep in his lungs and all around as he finds himself still trapped in the very same storm surge with salt water stinging his eyes and Courtney unseen as he drifts into the sides of the cave which don’t even harbor the slightest pocket of air, unable to control his body and the feeling of pressure and cold finally ends and he feels as though he has just awoken from a decades-long dream, no longer a being bound by flesh and gravity to a long-cursed planet, but true freedom on a level he had never known, feeling awake and for the very first time, ready to begin the day.

Collapsing

Part eleven of Twelve Stories.

The water rises in the tunnel or cave. All along the direction behind their backs, creeping higher and higher, it gets wetter and wetter.

Courtney clasps her hands to her face. Damp and dark, she wonders how it is she can see the water at all. The earthen cavity affords them seemingly endless space to move forward, their little fire long ago consumed by water.

They reach the foundation of what appears to be a fountain. Grasping at gilded golden railings, they now know they are in a tunnel and not a cave.

Hakon’s hands tremble at the infamous insignias coming into sight upon the walls. He wonders if the journey is just beginning. Kicking all Kafkaesque notions aside, limiting logic more morosely, no other notions remained in mind.

Solid concrete reveals itself underneath the sand, and gradually, there is no sand and only concrete and the sound of Hakon and Courtney’s footfalls reflecting off the walls of the concrete shell they traverse, forced unceasingly forward by the rising water, which seems to be gaining speed, their wet shoes adding an audible weight to their steps, all of which making it very simple for anyone to hear them approaching.

An Instant

Part ten of Twelve Stories.

The sediment washes away from the land into the sea. A lone lily once stood upon a cliff here. The cliff is no more, it has become the shore.

An unremarkable cafe once stood upon the sand, and for a brief period, enjoyed the benefits of beach-side property.

But when the water level rose, the sea consumed more land, and the cafe, just as easily forgettable as it was, was easily forgotten. No one came to the beach for the cafe in the first place, and people wondered how they could stay in business, as seaside coffee struck most people as an unpleasant combination of heat and heat.

Sand stretched from the inland desert all the way to the sea now.

What was once grass was now all just sediment. Not one creature walking upon the sand had seen the greenery that once covered the land.

Hakon, in fact, had never even seen a lily.

Hakon is a human, one from a long line of what is called a civilization. Civilizations are what people call their communities over time, sort of. Hakon, like many others, assumed his civilization was the product of ages and ages of development – progress. Attending a meditation retreat on the shoreline of a great desert, it hadn’t occurred to him how the land had changed, how what was once the precipice of a cliff with a perfect lily was now deeply underwater, how many different people had enjoyed the same scenery over the ages, and how a select few had enjoyed it with coffee.

Cliffs had become picturesque beaches, the sand of the beach had met the desertification of the land, pushed back by the relentless rise of seawater, and different civilizations occupied everywhere Hakon had ever been. But Hakon could have never known that things hadn’t always been the way they were.

Hakon sits blank-faced on the soft sand of the tunnel or cave, for the first time considering how he has arrived in this situation with a strange woman who’s name he cannot recall, painfully aware of the feeling of having forgotten something important, questioning if things hadn’t always been that way.

Cafe Ceiling

Part nine of the Twelve Stories series.

Like so many ceilings in the US, the one in this cafe is white. Based on the ceiling alone, you’d have no idea where you were. Like, you’d probably think it was a house, as to who lived in the house, even if you lived there, you couldn’t tell.

You couldn’t do it.

It has those little ridges that oh so many ceilings have. There appears to be some indiscernible pattern in them. The overall pattern is mysterious, but there is some shape which seems to be repeating, although not entirely the same. Kind of like circles, but not a circle with a drawn perimeter, but with the circle’s area made of lines radiating out from the center at random angles.

A circle with a radius equal to one has a circumference of exactly twice the value of pi.

But these, again, aren’t perfect circles adorning this cafe ceiling. If you were to draw a border around each of those bunches of ridges, they would each be vaguely circular, but kind of oblong and irregular.

The ceiling has either been freshly painted, or is completely free of watermarks. Not the kind of watermarks that are used in branding, but the brownish, dirty kind that the word leads ones to believe are caused, somehow, by water. It, the water, has to pass through what could only be described as suspicious roofing (as keeping the elements at bay being one of the precise purposes for bothering to roof oneself), manage it’s way through the ceiling material of any attic space which may or may not lie above, if there is any, and then it, the water, must seep through while simultaneously being halted by the ceiling. Somewhere along the way, the water must become foul and leave a brown stain or something. The appearance of the cafe ceiling does not give any clear indication of the presence of other floors, or if this is the top floor of the building, or if there was some sort of attic, the lighting only revealing that a window or door must be open while eliciting nothing regarding a sense of elevation. No green glow of plant life reaches the ceiling, just the soft white light of an overcast sky or maybe a LED lamp or something. The ceiling is much too well lit for anything less than a tremendous lighting setup, so it’s probably natural lighting. The lighting makes shadows of the ridges of what is maybe paint, but reveals no lines of paint brushes or other tools. This alone, however, is not enough to rule out the possibility of paint covering watermarks on the cafe ceiling.

One could call the ceiling of this cafe unremarkable, in a way.