Pretend to be Strangers

As the chatter in my head grew too loud and the walls of my house grew too close I was moved to take a walk. Along one of the various streets around my neighborhood I encountered a man, a stranger, though somehow familiar. He sat upon the sidewalk, wearing a light jacket and dark sunglasses. A subtle, yet cocky, grin formed upon his lips and I could tell he wanted to strike up a conversation. I was not really in the mood for a chat, so I waved at the man, averted my eyes to the asphalt, and walked faster to get the point across. The point was not taken by him.

“Are the dogwoods in bloom?” he said to me as I passed by.

Suddenly the chatter in my head stops and my mind is still. I stop and turn to the stranger.

“It’s not really the right time of year. Aside from that, the dogwoods haven’t really bloomed for years- there’s a blight.”

“That’s a shame. I have great mem….” he pauses as he speaks as if wishing to avoid tripping. He grins and lets out a sort of giggle as he stands up.

We regard one another for a while. One stranger to another, yet not in the sense of persons who do not know one another. This is another sort of strangeness.

“So…is this where you live?” He asks carefully.

“Yes, up the street from here.” It’s hard to know the right thing to say.

“It’s a lovely place. I would have loved to have lived here. Unfortunately, things just didn’t work out that way.”

“You did what you could.”

He looks at me with an heir of alarm and caution. “Careful. Can’t be too direct.” he says through a smirk.

We make a silent agreement to pretend to be strangers.

“Well, now what?” This is killing me, though the only voice in my head now is his.

“How bout a walk?”

The breeze is cool and the sky is a bit gray. We walk in silence for the most part, though we comment here and there about the weather and play a movie quote game.

“I haven’t walked this long in a long time. These hills are killer.” He sits down on the sidewalk and unbuttons his jacket. I stand over him. The sun is setting and he appears to be fading with the dimming day.

“Is this where I leave you? We haven’t even returned to where I found you.”

“I always happen to be where you find me.” He says through a sort of frown. He seems to have grown older, though I can’t quite tell how.

I look down on the ground at his feet, lost for words.

“Zack.”

I refuse to look up. He stands and walks toward me. He towers over me, just as he did in life. I look up at his face and he takes his sunglasses off. Behind them are revealed a broken soul lost for words.

“I miss you, son.”

Gone. The familiar stranger vanishes. I am left alone on the streets that intersect reality, memory, and fantasy.

“I miss you too, dad.”

I walk away. The chatter in my mind coming back, though whispering for now.

Viable

“A 6000-ton block of ice will make impact with the surface in three minutes.”

I’m half bent over a toolbox, absentmindedly picking through the tools I’ll use to start the assembly of the bot that will assist me. The mind of the bot has already been uploaded from the satellite and is being projected through the speaker system of the spacecraft. I landed two hours ago.

“That will completely wipe out all life on this planet!”

“You are the only life on this planet.”

I stand straight at the bot’s rather cold response, but it’s right. I close the toolbox with my foot: there’s no point continuing this task anymore.

“What a waste.”

“The company will indeed lose hundreds of millions on this investment, but these ventures are meant to show the viability of terraforming a given planet. Had the company devoted more capital here, they would have lost more, but their business practices have produced results that will prevent them from losing more on this planet in the future. So in reality this venture, though costly, was not a waste.”

“The cost of tracking this planet, and sending terraform supplies over a number of years, and training and finally sending me after a lengthy litigation process: these are wastes!”

“The return on investment in the current case is invaluable. The company knows not to spend more here and may gain a better grasp of comet activity in the region. This will ultimately help in the formulation of navigation charts. This loss could turn into a huge gain in navigation consultation alone.”

“How could this comet not have been detected after YEARS of tracking this planet?!”

“This planet exists on the cusp of known space. There is only so much that is known about this area. In addition to terraforming, this mission was one of reconnoiter: to see beyond the boundary of limitation. That was the purpose of the telescope you were eventually going to build.”

“Yes, I know the purpose of the telescope.”

The landing site is riddled with crates sent years ahead of me. My mission was to make this world hospitable to other humans. Me and the bot were going to build the terraforming plant and the telescope. We were going to set up the colony that was to be the launch point of exploration in this sector. Now that will not happen. This planet is a comet magnet. It will not support life.

“I’m going to die.”

“Irrelevant to the mission at hand.”

“I wasted my life on a bust.”

“The mission was a success in that it will prevent the company from investing further capital and personnel on this planet.”

“I only have one life. No matter how invaluable my being here is, I will not benefit from the company’s future investments. It does not matter to me. I am going to die.”

“That is irrelevant. We are assets of the company and came to test the viability of this planet to support life. We have proven that it cannot.”

“I’m scared.”

“Your fear does not devalue our being here. Nor does it change the trajectory of the comet, or the prior decisions you made that brought you to this place.”

“Crap in one hand and wish in the other…”

“Exactly.”

“You aren’t good at comforting me.”

“I exist to assist you in assembling the terraforming plant and telescope. My capacity beyond that is limited. Since the tasks are a moot point now, my operations are depleted of options.”

“I’m going to die alone.”

“I will also be destroyed in the impact.”

“Please! You exist in the Cloud! Your whole operating system is stored in a satellite orbiting this planet’s moon! You will continue to exist- I WILL NOT!”

I want to look this bot in the face so it would see my anger and frustration. So it could see and understand the fear and desperation behind my words. But it is only a voice speaking through loudspeakers. I will never get around to building a face to yell at.

“Not even enough time to go for a walk to clear my head.”

“It does not matter.”

“Yeah, I know what matters. It’s just not me. I don’t matter.”

“Your purpose is served. Beyond that function, you have no other operation to serve.”

“I could have.”

“Irrelevant.”

The Valkyrie Moon

I find myself running in the woods at dusk. It is almost too late to leave, but there is time yet. The chill of the evening already grabs at me in the shadows of the trees, but the sun’s rays liberate me- a last charge into the wood to cover my escape before he retreats to recover his strength for the morning. I was too long wandering in the wood.
On the footbridge between here and there fallen leaves stand upright between slits in the planks. Their shadows cast thick paws with long claws. As the sun sets, their shadows grow longer as legs stretch themselves from their paws and begin to pull up the rest of themselves from the diminishing light. I crush one in my flight and see its shadow mangled- a leg now made lame for the chase it was waiting to begin.
The moon casts a mournful gaze upon me as it takes from the sun what remains of his day’s strength. She knows her limits in the darkness that is to be her regretful watch. He retreats behind his horizon wall, but not before imparting upon her the strength to command.
Darkness. I am alone and the night chill has overtaken me. I no longer have the confidence supplied by the sun’s ample strength now that night’s brigade has landed. A cutting wind rips past me as I collapse upon the bridge. Tumbling leaves, an innocent sound in the light of day, I know to be the foot falls of large paws racing toward me. One leaf drags upon the ground as it is pushed along by the wind- a limping paw. Gusts of wind produce a howl from the bridge. The hunters are upon me. I am finished.
The moon rises full from the tree line as an ivory shield climbing from the trenches, charging with the white light of the sun’s surviving warriors. They strike the darkness as warrior priests wielding spears. The hunters are put to bay by the Valkyrie moon as I am surrounded by her warriors and bathed in her holy light. Though mighty and hardened by the day’s battle, her light can only go so far- her warriors cannot dismiss the darkness, but puts a distinct terminator between myself and night. She has determined to be my shield in hostility. Her light is to be my escort through the night. Savage shadows dance in her varying light that pierces through the trees. Though they grab, they cannot overcome the strength of the light around me.
The warrior moon lights the path ahead of me as she marches along her orbit. Though she cannot grant me free range, her care and ability to shield me from the immediate darkness gives me confidence to walk alongside her spear men.
We walk among growls hidden among creaking boards and snapping twigs. Eyes glare from impenetrable darkness and drool drips from fangs unseen. I am surrounded by dread and horror veiled in night and given voice by the conquered earth. But I am cloaked by a cool and quiet light- the reminder of the strength of day even in the dead of night. We are a vigil of the day in the night.
We make great success cutting through the dark path until we reach the covered portion of the bridge. Though it is riddled with slits and holes and has a couple of windows along its side, the moon’s current angle does not allow much light to pour into it. The darkness within is as the darkness of an inkwell.
I look up to my savior standing aloft her heavenly post. Desperation and frustration pierces through her ghostly veil as the tree line rises up to wall her off from me. The night begins to close in as her light is grasped by long, dark fingers.
Panic. To not move would invite the dark to grab me in the moon’s receding flight, whereas to proceed forward would most certainly be to walk into an ambush. Leaves rustle around me as they skirt the diminishing light that cloaks my person and enter the entrance of the covered bridge. The night is making ready to close in on its prey.
The moon flares out in glorious brilliance- one last charge of might before the inevitability of falling behind the tree line. The evening has begun to become overcast and the moon’s radiance magnifies her light across the landscape. The misty glow of light fills the covered bridge with a dim glow that is enough to drive back the night, though leaves stand erect in the haze, casting paws that claw defiantly at her breech.
I rush into the dim haze, avoiding paws that writhe to stretch out of shrunken darkness. Cold breath seethe out of dark corners, imperceptible eyes glare from the pitch-black rafters. Halfway through the tunnel, the light begins to fade- the moon is being clutched by the shadowed fingers of darkened trees. I flee to the one corner of the tunnel where the last soldier of moonlight stands. His spear points toward the encroaching darkness as his brilliance begins to fade.
A mangled leaf drags upon the ground, a limping shadow making its way toward me. The light angles itself toward it, but the hunter dodges the spear and gazes on from a place the light cannot touch.

We are surrounded. We are trapped.
The soldier begs me for forgiveness as his armor’s glimmer dims and his spear shortens. The moon succumbs to the tree line and he fades away. I am alone.
Darkness again. And cold. The creaking of the bridge and the howl of the wind. Darkness is victorious and its hunters slowly approach me. I avert my head away from the formless terror that is upon me and I notice a glimmer upon the rafters and scattering around it.
The lake! The moon has diverted her forces to shine upon the lake beneath the bridge! They shine up through the planks in ripples, casting wavy light through the floor of the bridge. Wavy spears shove their way through slits and pierce shadows. I take the opportunity to run for the exit, for I do not know how long this surprise offensive can last.
I escape the bridge, but its exit is darker than its entrance. I run with the hope that I can outrun the hunters. I hope they are still entangled with the last shards of moonlight. I hope they have forgotten about me.
I am brought down upon the foot of the bridge. Heaviness weighs upon my wrist as a mangled leaf drags itself upon it. An imperceptible growl- too low for my ear to hear, but implanted in my head none-the-less. Teeth, formless as night, brush against my neck. All is lost.
Light! A spear of it is hurled through the trunks of trees and smashes into the side of the Vengeful Hunter. He leaps back and sees the moon shine in glimmering rage as she falls beneath the tree line and levels off with the horizon. Her soldiers race through the trees and charge to defend my position. The Hunter slips back into the shadows as I am surrounded by shards of brilliant light.
I look upon my savior, the Valkyrie Moon, now pale and faded from the exhaustion of a night’s battle. I look upon the Vengeful Hunter, who bides his time in the thickening darkness surrounding the ever fading light.
The Vengeful Hunter slowly approaches as he sees the waning glory of the moon. His opportunity is finally here.
A bird chirps. We both stare into the trees. Then another. And another. Until the forest is filled with the sound of birdsong. The Hunter looks at me in vile hatred- dawn is here! His body becomes translucent in the hazy red of early morning. He lunges at me, teeth bared and aimed at my throat. He passes through me as the sun’s rays work to dispel the cruel shadows of night, driving them back to whatever darkness remains in the wood. I look behind me at the Hunter who is fading, a silent hatred boiling in his eyes as all that remains of him recedes back to the realm where light knots him into a mere shade beneath the leaf. Now there. Now imperceptible. Now gone.
I look upon the remains of the Valkyrie Moon, now a battered shield in the dawning of the new day. The sun kisses her upon the cheek and bids her rest behind the horizon wall. Her white form glows slightly orange where he has kissed her and she looks upon me with joy, knowing that now I am safe from the ravages of night.
She withdraws behind the horizon wall the conqueror of the night, her glory now passing for the safety of daylight.

In Other Parts of the World

“That’s strange…”, I say staring at the computer screen. 

It’s late night, or early morning depending on your nocturnal habits, and I find myself reading articles from the North China Post for reasons that I don’t fully grasp. 

“That can’t be!” I’m staring in disbelief at the screen, on the verge of hysterical laughter. I’m tempted to call the newspaper, but can’t really think of what I would say to the phone representative. I instead find the main Twitter handle of one of the editors of the paper and send them the following:

“@RealJonChang are you sure about item 5 in the obituaries?! Pls respond ASAP!”

I re-read the info on the page for a third time:

“Jason Roger Ferdinand. Auditor. Beloved uncle. Died at age 38. Survived by mother and younger sister. Dearly missed”

I stare at the screen and bring myself to say, “I’m dead…tomorrow. How could this newspaper know that?”

I receive a response back on Twitter. 

“That was incredibly fast…” I say as I look down at my cellphone.

“@Ferdthebull Item 5 is vague term, pls clarify. All our obituary data is up to date however.”

I respond back,

“@RealJonChang thanks for the quick response. What info do you have on Jason Roger Ferdinan?”

Another unbelievably quick response,

“@Ferdthebull only that he passed away earlier today. Aside from that only the info you see in the obituary.”

“@RealJonChang Why would you have that info?”

“@Ferdthebull what do you mean? We print what is submitted to us.”

“@RealJonChang who submitted the obituary.”

“@Ferdthebull the individual’s mother I believe.”

I call my mom.

“Hello?” Answers an irritable and groggy voice

“Mom! Mom!”

“O my gosh, Jason, what?!”

“Did you tell the North China Post that I was dead?”

“Jason…what?!”

I hang up and log back into Twitter. 

“@RealJonChang you’re lying: my mom has not contacted you.”

“@Ferdthebull that’s not surprising, but the article is correct.”

“@RealJonChang I’m not dead!”

“@Ferdthebull I’m sorry for your loss”

“@RealJonChang that’s not what you say to someone after you publish to the world that I’m dead!”

“@Ferdthebull over here Jason Roger Ferdinan is dead.”

“@RealJonChang well where I am right now I am very much alive!”

“@Ferdthebull you might change your mind when you get to this time tomorrow.”

“@RealJonChang which would be yesterday for you as well, in which case you’ll probably have already published where to send flowers for my funeral!”

“@Ferdthebull I wouldn’t know: I haven’t seen what’s going into the evening edition yet.”

“@RealJonChang do you know how I die?”

“@Ferdthebull all we know we published in the obituary. Check back tomorrow for more info.”

“@RealJonChang but according to you I’m dead so how can I?!”

“@Ferdthebull good point, but if you happen not to be, the evening edition prints at 10 PM CST.”

I wonder at the strangeness of it all. That I am dead in one time zone while being very much alive in another. In my own. So what do I do with that info. To go to sleep would be to risk dying in bed while staying up worrying the rest of the night would do absolutely nothing to keep tomorrow from coming. 

“Well I can’t just stay in this time zone.” I say stupidly. I live in California- what am I going to do, jump in the ocean and keep swimming west? If that wouldn’t kill me than I don’t know what would (and hey perhaps my body would wind up floating over to China and that’s how I would wind up being mentioned in one of their newspapers).

This is pointless. Nothing I can do will change tomorrow and nothing tomorrow says will ever convince me to just accept it. There’s nothing else to do except to wait and see who turns out to be right. 

In the Shadow of the Sun

“It’s cold.”

“Cold? It’s August!”

“I’m aware of that.”

Sam presses his hand again Margaret’s cheek.

“Holy cow you’re freezing!”, she shrieks as she leaps away from Sam’s hand.

“See?”

“That’s not natural, Sam!”

“I know.”

“It’s 95 degrees out here!”

“So my weather app says…”

“We’re not in shade! We got out of the car two hours ago!”

“You trying to convince me I should be hot? I know I should be hot.”

“I’m not trying to convince you! I’m…making sense of it.”

“Externally processing are we?”

Margaret gave a little glare to Sam, “How long you been feeling cold?”

“I dunno…Last winter…but maybe before that too.”

“You don’t remember the last time you felt warm?!”

Sam shakes his head.

“Take any warm showers lately?”

“Yeah…scalding sometimes.”, Sam lifts his shirt and reveals a burn mark, “I don’t feel the heat but I sure do feel the pain so I got that going for me.”

“Sam this is serious.”

“Is it?”

“Let’s take a lap.”

“Margaret it’s 2 o’clock and I’m wearing jeans.”

“Perfect! You’ll feel hot and disgusting after our run!”

“Disgusting, yes, but hot I very much doubt.”

Margaret gets behind Sam and shoves him into a trot. They circle the small park at a jogger’s pace. Margaret even urges Sam to do a second lap just for good measure.

Margaret wipes the sweat from her forehead, “Ok let’s see that sweat!”

Sam stood there panting..but dry as a bone.

“This is impossible!”

“It’s me.”

“Are you sure you’ve been warm before? Maybe you don’t know what real warmth really is.”

“Of course I’ve been warm before! How ridiculous!”

“You sure you’re alive?” Margaret asked with a smirk.

“Well I have had the urge to eat human brains lately…”

Margaret rolled her eyes, “I’m out of ideas.”

“Well I didn’t ask you to solve anything, Doctor.”

“How does it feel, to always be cold?”

“Uhh…cold.”

“Comeon, you know what I mean.”

Sam let out a sigh, “It’s frustrating. It’s lonely. It’s joyless. It’s like being forsaken by the Sun.”

“Drama much?”

“You asked.”

“Forsaken by the Sun. That’s an interesting thought.”

“Yeah, like being in its shadow.”

“Impossible, since the Sun doesn’t cast a shadow in and of itself, but an interesting analogy.”

Sam walks over to a bench by the shade. Margaret sits down next to him.

“Well you can’t be completely forsaken- the Sun’s light allow your eyes to see afterall…well that’s an assumption on my part. Let me ask, you can see, right?”

“Yeah, I can see.”, Sam sighs, “abandoned by the Sun’s heat. At least he lets me use the light.”

“Now don’t go anthropomorphizing the Sun now. I’m sure the star isn’t purposefully withholding it’s warmth from you.”

“Yeah it’s me not him.”

Margaret rolls her eyes and they sit in silence for a while. The park was lively with children and couples. Birds sing in trees. Dogs bark.

“It’s a beautiful day.” Remarked Sam.

“It is.”, replied Margaret, “It’s a shame you can’t enjoy it with the rest of us.”

Sam looks at Margaret, “I said I was cold, not miserable! I can enjoy aspects of the summer, if not the heat.”

“I suppose there is a benefit in that. What I wouldn’t give to not feel like I’m boiling.”

They share a laugh.

“Still…you said you were lonely in your coldness.”, she turns to Sam, “I don’t like that you feel lonely.”

“I have you here with me. That’s worth more than warmth.”

Margaret grins. They had been under the shade for a while now (enough time for Margaret to dry off, but not quite cool).

Margaret touches Sam’s cheek with her hand, “Hm…still cold. I was working on a theory that perhaps you warmed up in the shade.”

Tears start rolling from Sam’s eyes.

“Sam? What’s wrong? I’m sorry.” Her eyes were full of compassion and regret for her joke.

Sam turns to her and looks her deep in the eyes and whispers, “Your hand is warm.”

Hybrid Garden

It was late as the old man delayed sleep further by shuffling around his memory yet another time. 

“What was that one…”

By his age memories often mingled with one another and he found that the ending of one memory oft times sparked the remembrance of another, though these days they all seemed not to trigger one another but rather to bleed into each other. Were his memories the genuine way that it happened or had they mutually corrupted one another?

“Corruption is such a foul word.”

He preferred to think that the flowers of his memories cross-pollinated with one another and that his memories had become hybrid memories- having characteristics of multiple memories in one. 

“Of course, I am but one person, so perhaps it’s not that the memories are becoming intermingled with one another so much as they are becoming more a part of my person. Dissolving so to speak as they are absorbed into my very personhood.”

An amusing and comforting thought. The old man smiled at that. Of course the question had to be asked,

“Or, am I becoming a part of my memory?”

An interesting thought, and possibly too philosophical a thought to delve into at such late an hour, but he was old and a wandering mind was the blessing of long years. 

“I am the one who’s body is dissolving, whereas my memories remain fresh. So I will dissolve and be but a memory. Perhaps my memories are not becoming me, but rather I am becoming my memories.”

The thought startled him: that this long life had been used as a sort of gathering period- that his body had been given only so much time to create a memory for his being to fall back into when his body had dissolved and he became nothing more than his memories. Does memory make one old, or the reaving thereof? Would I stay young without the accumulation of memories? It is true that babes grow as they gain memories…

“That’s ridiculous! Aging is inevitable!”

But to age without memory would be a folly. To refuse to create memories for fear of the ongoing procession of time- that would be the horror! To die without a memory. To have nothing for your person to slip back into when the body dissolved but the fear with which the body lived its life.

“Horror.”

But why think these thoughts? The old man clearly had memories to fall back into. 

“A fortunate thing, to not have lived for fear of memories.”

It was far too late for such thoughts and besides which he forgot what memory he was attempting to bring up. 

The Ink

“This isn’t the same ship you left in.”

The Daredevil gave a coy glance to the Coach. 

“Sure it is…mostly. It’s just the engines that are slightly modified.”

The Coach looked closer, “Modified? What do you mean? How? Who?”

The Daredevil left three years ago in a small cockpit attached to four experimental rockets. The company that designed the Hellburner rocket system had been unable to secure government contracts after successfully obtaining patents due to the lack of successful field tests. The buz created by the rocket was, of course, spectacular given the power output, but worries centered around this very thing: the rocket was deemed unsafe and too impractical to bother investing into. Desperate and seeing their 15 minutes slipping away, the company and its few investors made a last gamble and declared they would foot the bill for a field test to prove the safety of the Hellburner. They declared they would set the speed record with the engine and make a statement that could not be ignored. 

They created a media frenzy when they declared their competition for a pilot. Thousands of would-be record breakers stepped up to pilot the ship. The company’s scientists created stringent tests to distill the very best volunteer pilot, not only tests to push the physical and mental limits of the pilot, but also their resolve to set a record. The pilots were tested to see if they would risk their lives for the record- for the sake of the engine. In the end the pilot that was chosen was not one of great fame nor was the pilot even the prime physical or mental specimen. But the Daredevil was resolved, and therefore chosen after the year long competition. 

After another six months, the ship was unveiled to the public and government inspectors. The company set out to prove the Hellburner’s speed and safety and practicality. The field test was designed to not only test the speed of one engine, but rather the capability of the Hellburner to work in a cooperative environment. Four Hellburners were attached to the ship. This caused much worry among the regulators, since the safety of the rocket was already in question. But it was a bold move to prove the practicality of the engine, and the Daredevil was up to the responsibility of demonstrating it. 

Government regulation and an assortment of treaties regulated where private field tests could occur in space. After much negotiation about scheduling and direction, and much agonizing with the regulators about safety, the company was granted a field test in an unoccupied area of space known as the Ink to the public- an area devoid of stars and planets (at least to the naked eye). After the negotiations were finally completed, the company held another contest to generate buzz around the mission- this time to name the craft. The ship was deemed “Quill” six months later. 

“The company will probably have to update or get a new patent for the modifications done to the Hellburners.”

“Your flight was deemed a disaster! The company went bankrupt when they were unable to record your speed or the integrity of the craft after you hit maximum velocity…whatever that might have been. Apparently they didn’t put enough time into designing the Quill’s instrumentation and that led the government and the public at large to believe that such carelessness suggested that they didn’t put enough time into the Hellburner’s design either. People thought you were turned into dust once you activated the quad engines.”

The plan was to take a lap around the Earth to pick up velocity to reach the Moon. Then to take a lap around the Moon and perform  a short burst. The final jump into the Ink was to occur off of Titan: one lap around Titan and then fire all four Hellburners at the peak of the slingshot maneuver into the Ink. The test would demonstrate the distance the engines could transport the craft and the subsequent velocity of the trip (and, of course, the safety and practicality of the quad engine system). The math that went into such a demonstration was nightmarish (as told by the media), but after much checking and re-checking by the government regulators the project planners were given the go ahead to perform the test per their calculations. The flight went seamlessly, the craft computer performing the bursts at precisely the right time. The Daredevil flew the craft naturally. The last words recorded by the pilot were, “ready to go like a bat outta-“- the transmission cut off once the Hellburners ignited. 

“No, I didn’t become dust.” said the Daredevil with a smile. 

“We lost you…What…what…hap-”

“I’m tired. I’ll talk later.”

The buzz about the project came back. The now defunct company and investors were thrust back into the limelight after the Daredevil’s return. Speculations regarding the flight varied wildly and a new-found interest grew again among the public concerning space travel (something that had become so regulated and standardized by the government that the spectacle and wonder of it had been diluted). A single televised interview was to take place concerning the events of the flight per the Daredevil’s wishes (the pilot did not wish to repeat the story over and over again). After that the pilot agreed to undergo physical and mental checkups by government regulators and the company scientists. 

“Three years ago the Quill set out to prove the speed, safety and practicality of the Hellburner engine system. When the quad engine system lit off the shoulder of Titan, the craft disappeared, many presuming it to have turned into ash mere seconds after ignition. It goes without speaking that the pilot was thought to be incinerated as well.”

A slight chuckle went out from the audience who were privileged enough to either buy or win a seat to the interview.  

“Three weeks ago an object was detected along the outer rim of regulated space. A small, brightly-glowing object just beyond Pluto. A mere week after that this brightly glowing object had reached the Asteroid Belt. It was determined shortly after that that this object’s trajectory was the Earth. You were lucky to be going the speed you were: the major consensus was that you were some tiny, rogue comet that needed to somehow be ‘shot down’, but the calculations just couldn’t be figured out.”

More chuckling as the Daredevil grinned and nodded. 

“The object slowed to a crawl (figuratively speaking of course). It was determined to be a ship. Then it was determined to be THE Quill. The craft was met at the orbit of Mars and escorted to Earth over subsequent days by military personnel. And now the Daredevil sits before us in seemingly perfect health. Welcome home.” The interviewer’s smile was full of warmth and affection- like a grandparent. 

“Thank you, it’s good to be back.” The Daredevil said with a genuine heir of relief and weariness. 

“You have been in seclusion for the past few days leading up to this interview.”

“Yes, I have.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Eating lots of ice cream. I’ve missed ice cream.” Laughter and clapping erupted from the audience. “And I’ve been figuring out how to say what I need to say.”

“You requested that I ask you questions to help you tell your story, rather than just open the floor up completely to you.”

“Yes…it’s been a while since I’ve, well, talked and I think making this more like a conversation will help me.”

“Understandable. I suppose you haven’t conversed with another person for three years now.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You don’t realize that three years has gone by, or rather, the time was not apparent to you?”

“Can we talk about that later?”

The interviewer laughed, “Of course. Let’s just establish a few key things: you are a pilot, not an engineer or a scientist or a designer.”

“That is correct.”

“And yet you returned in a modified ship- Quill Mark II so to speak.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Can we build to that question?”

“Sure. How about we start at the ignition of the quad engine system: What happened?”

“Streaks. My vision became streaks. My physical senses became likewise. I don’t know how else to describe that sensation. It was like…seeing and experiencing life in an oil painting.”

“What an interesting analogy. How fast were you going?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue. Fast. Faster than I or any human has ever gone I suspect.”

“What happened then?”

“The oil solidified again and the streaks became fixed points once more, as did I. It was a disorienting and sickening feeling. Like, I dunno, being born or something.”

The interviewer nodded. 

“I saw a great, blue light- a star.”

“A blue giant?”

“Yes.”

“Know which one?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“The Hellburners were dry, but I had a little fuel in my thrusters. I saw a small planet orbiting the star and made my approach to land on it.”

“Did you perform any atmospheric tests to determine its, well, environment?”

“The Quill had no such instrumentation on it, besides which, I really had no other choice other than drifting out in space.”

“No, I suppose not. What happened when you landed?”

“I hoped my mission was a success and I opened the cockpit. I…I decided that rather than wait a couple of hours for the oxygen to run out I would just take my helmet off- either I would or would not survive.”

“Seems rather reckless.”, declared the host with a rather stern look.

“I’ll grant you that not everyone would have made that choice, but they were not there- I was. I was alone on an unknown planet being torched by an unforgiving blue light.”

“I’m sorry…so it was hot?”

“Very much so. Another level of hot. Transcendental. The light touches you in ways our orange dwarf does not.”

“Hm. I imagine the tests that will be run on you following this interview will determine just how deep its touch goes.”

“Possibly…I’m not so sure any instrument was created or designed within the years of my absence to test such things.”

“You’ve gone through quite the experience.”

The Daredevil nodded and stared off.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just getting used to everything not being tinged blue. It’s…mind bending…I forgot how diverse colors were.”

“Fascinating. What happened then?”

“I modified the Hellburners to run cleaner and faster on a readily available fuel source, plotted a path back to Earth and came home.”

“Uh…no, that can’t be it.” The interviewer was dumbfounded. 

“Yeah…I mean, in essence that’s what I did. Guess that’s what delayed my coming back.”

“Once again: you are not a scientist.”

“No.”

“An engineer?”

“No.”

“An electrician?”

“Ha! No.”

“An astronomer, a geologist, a physicist?”

“I’m a pilot. What’s your point?”

“My point is you described doing what it takes a whole team of people of varying skill sets to do- by yourself. And yet you are only a pilot.”

A blank stare from the Daredevil. 

“Please…don’t be afraid to elaborate.”

“Crazy…you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“The whole Quill mission was crazy! Crazy would fit right into the narritive!”

There was laughter from the audience, but it was visibly shaken- nervous for the pilot’s response.

“I had help.”

“The planet was inhabited?”

“Yes…in a manner of speaking.”

“Wha…when was contact made?”

“When I arrived into the system.”

“Radio contact?”

“No…it more…more was like…radiated. Contact was penetrating. I was guided to the planet and I took my helmet off.”

“I’m afraid I do not quite understand…wha…was there air?”

“No…I didn’t need it.”

“What do you mean you didn’t need it?”

“I don’t know how to explain it! I’m not a biologist! It was a different plane of existence! Oxygen, nitrogen…these things aren’t needed there! It was like…being in suspended animation, but I moved. I lived beyond the needs of my physical body…perhaps despite the needs. I don’t know- words escape me.”

“What were the inhabitants like?”

“They weren’t…and yet they were.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They existed, but only so much as my mind gave them ability to exist.”

“Are you sure you weren’t delusional?”

“You see…already I’m being called crazy!”

“No! No, I do apologize! I just…how was interaction? Psychic? You mentioned another plane of existence: were they in another dimension?”

“No. They live…they exist in whatever medium they are presented with. And yet another presence is not required for them to exist.”

“So they existed in your mind?”

A glare radiated from the Daredevil. 

“I’m attempting to understand.”

“In a sense…but to be more accurate they communicated by being a part of my mind. They existed so much as my mind had the ability to accommodate them. That is why it is impossible to describe them: they are limited to the mind…or something like that. I suspect that interactions with them would be different for each person and would open up, or rather reveal, new aspects about them. They took up the knooks and crannies of my mind and were revealed within that limited window.”

“Do they exist when no one is there?”

“Yes, they were there before I landed, and they were there after I left. They only …I think life on that planet exists as a radiation of some sort…that blue light…that blue heat.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yes…I’m just confused.”

“So they helped you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“They somehow knew what I needed and…directed me.”

“But how would these beings know how to redesign a ship or chart you back to Earth? You didn’t even know!”

“I don’t know! They KNEW me and somehow in that they knew how everything about me worked and how everything I interacted with worked and how existence for me worked and…how to get me home!”

“We’re you…are these parasites?”

“No…they just are and I just am and we somehow met in the middle.”

“Was it possession?” The interviewer looked nervous. 

“No…I was me the whole time.”

“Was?”

“Am?”

The interviewer licked dry lips, “Did you come back alone?”

“I guess that’s what I just figured out. Or, well, what we figured out , right?”

“Yes, I suppose we did.”

The studio audience nodded in unison. 

“Such fascinating new thoughts we now have. Such expanse in self-awareness. Surely more discoveries will be made on this curious planet.”

The news feed dies as the camera is overwhelmed by the intense blue heat of the room- As the memory of that planet transitioned to the present reality of our own. 

A Slight Chance of Showers

I look into her big, pretty eyes and gulp.  I had been thinking about this moment since breakfast.  Indeed I had been formulating a strategy as to how I was to approach this situation since the day before yesterday (when I should have taken care of it).  Her stare back at me contained within it the odd mingling of both defiance and grief: as if she were preparing to duel with a once close friend.  This had to be done though, it could go no longer without being addressed.

“Alright, baby girl, ready to take a shower?” I say with a huge smile and mock enthusiasm, hoping that would provide enough of a subterfuge to my own trepidations about forcing my four-year-old to take a shower.

“No!” she exclaims, narrowing her eyes, pouting her lips and folding her arms.  I feel a cold sweat develop on my forehead:  round 1 goes to Millie.

In an attempt to win her over to logic, I switch tactics:  I take the sock from her left foot and take a giant whiff from it.

“PEEEE-EWWWW that stinks!” I exclaim.  There was no need for mock enthusiasm that time:  the sock’s stench brought tears to my eyes.  They were like a smelling salt to my determination to clean this child-the situation was indeed dire.

Millie giggles and blushes, “You’re silly, daddy.”  At least the ice melted from her countenance.  Time to lay the death stroke.

“Honey, you don’t want to be smelly do you?  Wouldn’t you rather be clean?”  I say this with a pleading in my eyes akin to the eyes of those bargaining with a addict to seek help.

“Don’t want to take a shower. Want to eat Cheerios…and go…to park.”  She’s making up excuses, and in any other context that would be a sign that I’m about to have my way, but one must remember that when it comes to little children, negotiations work differently, and the creation of seemingly random excuses is just a tactic they use to distract you from the main objective.  This conversation could last for hours if I allowed it, and I should know, because that is exactly what happened last night.  Round 2-Millie.

I change tactics again.  I stand up and walk around my daughter to the shower.  I turn it on and adjust the settings that will eventually yield the perfect temperature shower.  My daughter glances at me over her shoulder, her eyes displaying disinterest.  I ignore her glance and continue to fidget with the faucet knobs, “She’s just putting up a façade.  In her head she always knew it would come to this.” I whisper to myself in un-assured reassurance.  I turn to face her as I let the water bring itself to the optimum temperature.  I sit down on the edge of the bath tub.  Millie turns to face me, cocking her head and smirking in such a way as to disarm my once firm determination to have this child clean before her mother arrived home from her trip.  “She’s enjoying this!” I think to myself as I abandon the logical line of argument and switch tactics once again to bring about somewhere within her four-year-old heart a sense of pathos for her father’s situation.

“Honey,” I look into her eyes with my most pitiful expression, “your mother was hoping that I would make sure you took a shower every night so that you would stay clean.  When she comes home this evening and bends down to hug you she’ll know you haven’t showered when she smells your hair.  And then daddy will be in trouble.”  I frown at her ever so subtly.  To my chagrin her smirk widens into  a toothy grin.  I forfeit round three to her.  Steam is rising from the warm water at this point and I’m getting a bit uncomfortable sitting so close to the warming shower.

“Daddy the water is too hot!” she exclaims in mock terror as she points to the steam, “I’m scared!”

Great, she’s already trying to take round four before the ref even rings the bell to begin the exhibition.  She’s preparing to knock me out and call it a day.  I adjust my seat on the tub as I try to formulate another tactic.  By this point little droplets of water had begun to form on the edge of the tub and before I knew it I slipped into the shower.  High, shrieking laughter bounces off the tiled walls as warm water sprays on my head and chest.  By the time I pull myself out of the shower I am soaking wet.  I’m standing haggardly as my child looks me up and down giggling to herself.  I’m thinking it’s time to give up.  But then I remember her mother and recall how I’m more scared of her scorn than my daughter’s and gather the last bit of my will power and determination.

“Honey,” I start, before the lights flash and dim and a distant boom of thunder rumbles through the house.  She looks around in amazed curiosity.  The sound of rain can be heard on the roof and windows.

“This must be the storm the news was talking about.” I say distantly.

“Storm?” asks my daughter.

I know she knows what rain is.  I know she’s just trying to delay her shower by creating another topic of conversation.  This time, however, instead of trying to box her, I switch to Jiu-jitsu to try to use the weight of her own tactic against her.

“Yeah it’s raining outside.” I say with a professor-ly air.  “Say, have you ever played in the rain before?”

Her eyes light up and a huge grin spreads across her face.  She thinks she won.  She did, but so did I.

“Tell you what”, I say as I turn the water off in the shower “Get your bathing suit and meet me at the front door and we’ll play in the rain for a little while.”

She darts from the bathroom to her bedroom before I really finish the sentence.  I stand up to leave and then look back at the shower.

“Might as well, just in case.” I say as I reach for and grab the soap and shampoo.  The storm gathers strength as I leave the bathroom.

“Thank you, God, for a slight chance of showers.”

Knickknacks

I put down my coffee cup on the glass top coffee table situated in front of me.  As I stared up from it I looked into the eyes of my host and realize with a slight shock a surge of disappointment in them.

“Ahem.” My host stares down.  I follow his eyes and see that he is staring at the coffee cup.  What could be the problem?

It’s one of those ornate pieces of china.  A real piece of art.  As is the table.  The ceramic coaster it had been brought to me on was quite…

“O goodness!”  I notice I had laid the coffee cup upon the bare glass top of the table rather than on its coaster…which was barely an inch away from where I had landed it.

“So sorry!” I say as I hastily place the cup onto its rightful place atop the coaster.  “Sometimes I wonder where my mind goes…”

“Quite all right, my boy!  Just considering my wife is all!  She spends literally days at various stores and shops and bizarres and what have you hunting these various knickknacks down and hiring various craftsmen (after hours of negotiating price, of course) to repair and restore them!  Don’t know where she finds the energy to do such things.”  He motions around the room.  It was, indeed, full of varied knickknacks ranging from elegant to exotic.  All of which, of course, were in pristine condition.

“Well I suppose everyone must have a hobby- a passion as it were.”

“Indeed!  It seems to be her method of expression.  Anyway, she can be rather vehement when she notices one of her pieces being treated in a less-than-respectable manner.  Hence my worry over the coffee cup.”

“Once again I’m very sorry for that sir!”

“No, no, no!  You misunderstand me, my lad!  I was more concerned for your safety when I was pointing out your faux pa.”  He gives me a wink.  He cares to preserve my dignity in the event his wife should walk in to collect our dishes.  What a caring host.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Ah, well, you’ve just arrived from a rather long journey and it would be quite rude to have you berated by my wife for a simple…“cultural” misunderstanding.”

“Well, wait a moment, we use coasters where I come from too!  It’s just that I slipped up is all!  I’m a bit nervous:  this being my first trip down.”

“I’m so sorry, my lad!  Didn’t mean to give offense!  Here I am trying to preserve your dignity and what happens?!  I presume myself into insulting you!  And after inviting you here!  I’m so sorry!”

“No please, sir, it’s quite okay.”  This Victorian way of communication is exhausting, “Truth be told I’m having a bit of a hard time remembering which words to use…and this clothing is a bit uncomfortable….”  Goodness was it uncomfortable.  And the air in the house was so stuffy and warm!

“Ah, yes, you must excuse our protocol.  Certainly it would be quite a thing to adapt to.  I’d invite you to undress, but…well…”

“No, I understand…I can bare it.”  For a while, anyway.  I might be cutting my trip short…much shorter than originally intended.  None of my friends who had been down warned me about this…though they did always tend to visit the less-populated regions with the “less-strict” inhibitions concerning clothing.  Now I understood why.  Goodness this clothing is horrible!

An awkward silence ensues.

“Would you like to try a cigar?”

“What’s that, exactly?”  I had to be careful about what I allowed myself to intake.   The coffee I had earlier was harmless enough, though the Danish that came with it was right out.  I don’t even see how they could eat such things!

“Well, it’s dried up tobacco leaves formed into a sort of cylinder by hand.  One lights one end and breaths in through the other.  Quite a pleasant and relaxing experience.  A good apparatus for breaking the ice!”

“Seems harmless enough” Silly, but harmless, “Yes, I’d love to try a…what did you call it again?”

“Cigar.”  My host said with delight

“Ah, yes, ‘cigar’.  I’d love to try one!  I’m here for the whole experience after all!”

My host pulled out a small, wooden box (pristinely shined and crafted, of course) from a shelf (likewise of the highest quality and craftsmanship) next to him and opened it up in front of me.  In the box were a row of these rather large (in comparison to the box) brown cylinders.

“Just like you said they would look.”

My host smiled.  I stared at the row of cigars for a while before he told me that the proper protocol at this point was to simply take one.

“Thank you, sir!  Didn’t want to slip up again.”

“Quite alright”, he said as he grabbed one for himself and placed the box back upon the shelf, “There I go assuming you knew what to do.  Completely my fault.”

“Now what?” I ask.

He snaps off one end of his cigar with this rather ornate, bejeweled, hand-held guillotine.

“This end will go in your mouth.” He hands me the contraption.  I examine it a while.

“Fascinating device, sir!”.  He smiles as I snip off one end of the cigar and hand the device back to him.

Next, he pulls out from his jacket pocket yet another hand-held, bejeweled device.  With this device he lights a small fire at the other end of his cigar.  As he does this he takes puffs from the snipped side.  He hands me the device.

“Did you see what I did there?”

“Yes, sir, I should be able to replicate the procedure.”  I take a closer look at the device.  Though it is quite sophisticated-looking, in reality it worked rather primitively:  the fire is created through an interaction between friction and a flammable substance.  I make a note on my log.

“Quite rare those are!  Quite new too!  The very cusp of a new era of technology!”  I smile at him as I attempt to simulate his method of lighting the cigar.  I suck in and immediately start coughing violently.

“Xuuuoh-vo-va-xi!”  I let slip.  After regaining my composure I find that my eye has boiled over with snot and that there is a horrid taste in my intake valve.  I still did manage to hang onto the cigar though.

“Excuse me!”, I cough again, “I do not think that my absorbital glands will allow me to ingest more into my system.”

“I’m so sorry!”

“No, please don’t apologize!  You were merely being hospitable! “

Damn fool nearly killed me!  O well, trips like these are always associated with a degree of danger.  That’s one of the features that make them so appealing.  I hand him the cigar and he places it on what he calls an “ash tray” (yet another ornate decoration) to allow it to smolder.

“Perhaps your body would be more receptive to cognac?”

“Excuse me?”

“Cognac.  It’s a brandy.  An alcoholic substance you drink.  Quite lovely, really.”  He had an heir of hope about him about this particular suggestion.

“Thank you for your kindness, sir, but at this point I do believe that I’ve pushed my system to the limit enough for one day.  Perhaps another time.”  He looked disappointed, but I could not risk my safety here for proper etiquette.

“Shall we get down to business?” I say to bolster his spirits (I knew by his cerebral output that he had been wanting to get to this since I first sat down, but felt restrained by protocol.  Silly custom).

“Oh only if you don’t mind!” he said blubbering but obviously excited.

“Not at all!”

“Well, like you said rather accurately earlier, everyone has to have a hobby.  Me and the gentlemen at the local billiard room have a sort of custom from one month to the next to ‘outdo’ one another in whatever rare form of artifact they can get ahold of and present to the group.  One week Gerald (he’s a colonel stationed in the horn of Africa) brought back a spear from a fortified city that no Westerner had ever entered before!  Thomas (he’s a captain in Her Majesty’s Navy) brought back the shell of a giant mollusk from an uncharted island in the Atlantic!  Alexander (a high-ranking bureaucrat in the East India Company) once brought back a crown from one of the palaces of the Raj…”

And so on.  One object after another brought back from foreign lands by his friends.

“…And me.  Well, I’m an astronomer.  Not much need in that career for traveling abroad.  All I’ve ever brought to our meetings are whatever knickknacks my wife can come up with.  They are routinely laughed at, ‘The consequence of not having a real occupation’, Alexander likes to quip.  It’s what I love though, astronomy!”

“It’s foolish of them to demoralize you like that.  What you do will have significant impact for your kind in the future.  As you said earlier, you are on ‘…the cusp of a new wave of technology’.  If only you knew how radical a future you are to have.  Your occupation will prove most important.  And you are playing a vital role in laying the foundations for both its maturation and legitimization.  It is quite important indeed.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.  And, after all, it is how you were able to find and initiate contact with me.”  He smiled as I settled more deeply into the leather chair.

“Thank you.”

“I’m only telling the truth.”

He smiles and gets back on point, “Well, just for once I’d like to show up and present them with something that would completely baffle them!  Just floor them!”

I nod, “I think I have something that will help you in that regard.”  I reach into my jacket pocket and continue, “Where I’m from it’s rather common place.  Just a ‘knickknack’ as you would call it.  Here though…well, there’s nothing like it here.”  I fish out of my pocket what appears to my guest to be a colorful, smooth stone half the size the palm of his hand.  He knows it is not terrestrial simply because of its colors (they are not what one would find on this planet)- they exist in a strata of vision that is incomprehendable for humans, so it appears to fade into and out of view in their eyes in a series of rather flamboyant colors.

“My word!  That is quite a thing!”

“It is a stone from one of our beaches.” I said, lying.

“Is it steaming?”

“It’s called ‘radiation’.  Your sciences do not quite grasp the idea of radioactivity yet- some manifestation of it are harmful, some not so much.  This is of the later variety.”

He grabs it out of my hand greedily.

“You must promise me though that you won’t expose it too much to the public view.”

“O yes, of course!  Thank you so much!  This will really knock the boys out tonight!”

“I’m sure it will.   Well, sir, as much as I’d hate to admit this, I really should be going:  I find that the coffee from earlier and that cigar really aren’t agreeing with me and I should probably seek some sort of medical attention back home.  I’m sorry I can’t join you for dinner like we planned.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, of course!”  He did not care now that he had his prize.  “Will you be dropping in sometime in the near future?”

Not while you’re still alive, primitive, “Sometime in the future, yes.  If that would be permissible?”

“Why certainly, sir!  Always a pleasure to host guests!”  He focuses his attention to groping the object in his hands- trying to figure out its exact size and shape and texture, which will be impossible for him to do given his (and other humans) inherent inability to do so.

“I can see myself out.”

“Yes, yes, of course.  Have a good trip home!  Sorry for the sudden illness!”

Such a considerate host.  I smile and make my way out the room and down the hall to the front door.  I smile at his wife as I pass her by the stairs.  She scowls (I suspect she figures I ill-treated one of her beloved knickknacks).  I walk out the door and slam it hard behind me (much to her vocal chagrin).

The object I gave my host is a rather volatile, yet relatively stable, energy-encapsulating device.  We use it to power our technology (for example:  it gives our vehicles the energy needed to achieve the thrust necessary to attain light speed without the need to carry a large, cumbersome storage tank of explosive liquid).  If ill treated, it has the tendency to explode.  Luckily for my host and his kind, however, they currently do not possess the tools necessary to ill-treat it.

It is a sort of yard stick I have left them.  A proxy with which to measure their progress in comparison to our own.  One day they will find a way to experiment on it and be able to cognitively grasp what sort of device it actually is.  And that will be the day they will prove to be a threat to our reign.  And the ensuing explosion will be a retaliatory strike taken on our part for their failure to follow proper etiquette and protocol with things that are outside their scope of understanding.

One fell turn deserves another I suppose…

Context

Suddenly the lights went out.  It’s always sudden when they go out.  Maybe it’s only sudden to me.  The lights probably don’t think it’s so sudden.  Probably think it’s rather normal.  Just another ceasing of electric current.  Nothing out-of-the-ordinary.  I guess “suddenly” really just relies on the context.  Of course, lights have no brain to understand the context of anything.  Or this thought.

Did you also notice that you have no clue what the context is?  Everything is coming to you rather immediately.  Now you may think that immediately and suddenly are mere synonyms of each other, but given the context of this current situation they are not.  In regards to me, “suddenly” refers to the situation I am in – “immediately” in your case merely is stating that you have no idea what the context is, but rather know an action that has occurred and not the information or events surrounding that action.  Again:  context.  Changes the meaning of words even. Weird.

A story has to start somewhere.  And I chose to have you start there.  Guess that’s because it’s what’s on my mind right now:  the fact that I can’t see right now is kinda taking precedent over other thoughts- including what led me to this point and that…

O right.  That’s why I would be concerned about being in a room that went suddenly dark (despite the lights and you, dear reader, not necessarily caring (or rather, knowing why to care)).  By now you can probably infer that I’m not going to bed.  Or setting up for a surprise party (what a delightful twist that would be!).  I have no control over this darkness.  Really I have no control over anything.  I am merely relaying the facts.  I can’t even control how fast my eyes adjust to the darkness so that I could see (though ever so slightly) again.  Again, another matter of context, I suppose:  if my eyes knew the utter urgency of the matter then I think it would be safe to say that they would be adjusting quicker than they are.  They do, however, seem to realize that it is dark.  So while they do understand one context, they do not understand another.  I suppose function helps to form context (or is it the other way around?).  Eyes are meant to see.  If they are impeded from doing so then they will adjust until they can.  They do not seem to care about the why though…

The reader’s function is to read.  The narrator- to speak.  We don’t necessarily care why the other person does what he does, just as long as he carries out his function…

Why bother carrying out this function? Does the reader really care why the lights went out suddenly?  I have not even been established in your minds as a person yet (by the way, yes, I am a person).  I certainly care- otherwise why would I be saying all this?

Wait, I do care that you care! I want you to understand that I want you to be reading this.  That I want somebody to sympathize with this situation.  I want you to be tense because the lights went out suddenly.  I want you to be as tense as I am.  Even though you don’t know me…

I’m sorry this is how we were introduced to one another.  That I didn’t give a back story.  That I didn’t tell you what led me here.  That I haven’t told you my dreams or goals, or my job or if I have kids or if I’m rich, happy, lonely…

I guess it was rather rude of me to just come at you the way that I did.  To be so direct and so immediate.  For not having you in my life up to this point.  For wanting immediate relationship with someone I do not know…

Or ever will know.  I guess you’re kinda rude too- suddenly peering into my life for…whatever reason.  I may be reaching out in a desperate attempt for attention, but you are a faceless, emotionless voyeur to me.  You will not respond to my need for help or attention.  You only want to know where this is all going.  You want a reason to care.

Guess that’s where our interests intersect.  Though I do not know you, I have faith you are reading this.  And though you have no clue who I am or what I am doing, you read on in the faith that you will be compelled to care.

And in this revelation I realize that I have probably lost you.  You know enough about me to realize that you don’t care what happens to me in this dark room.  I am a nuisance because I just won’t get to the point.  I realize that to you this seems like a long droning text file, but to me this is happening in a flash (as with any of your thoughts).  The room is dark and I can’t see what’s happening…

Otherwise I’d tell you.  And in the panic I’ve forgotten how to introduce myself.