Psychic Wars at the Gates
Psychic Wars at the Gates
For years, I spent my afternoons patrolling the Gates of the Mind. The Gates had been set up aeons ago, ostensibly to deter any wandering thoughts from leaving . But it was the gatewatchers like me who kept random people from going into the literal realm of the Mind. So, every afternoon from 2 to 6, I sit in my little post with a water bottle and my Breilliet .30 calibre rifle and watch the gate. It is, and always has been, a thankless job.
The Mind itself was a little hard to understand for most people. My wife, Henrietta never understood exactly what the Mind accomplishes day in and day out. I try my best to explain that the Mind itself; the idea that it’s not a giant brain sitting somewhere seems to elude her. For years, any time I would mention it she would talk to me about how “gross” brains look, and how the idea of a talking brain “weirded her out.” After all, it’s a non-solid energy that exists only to create ideas! Those ideas take shape and then float to a chamber where the good people over at LogiSync come up with all the new products, TV shows, political ideology, and everything else we enjoy on a regular basis. Pretty much everything we use in our society has sprung from the Mind.
But then one afternoon, as I sat pondering the possibility of rain, I noticed a rather average looking man walking towards the gates. I sprang into action, picking up my bullhorn I announced:
“Citizen! Please halt, you’ve wandered into a restricted area! Please turn around, it’s not safe!”
The man kept walking, apparently oblivious to the warning I had so carefully practiced for years in my own head.
“Sir! Please…!”
I was out of fair warnings, it was time to go talk to him, man to man. As I sprinted across the the field, rifle in tow, the man began to come into greater focus. He looked middle aged, and wore odd clothes that I had never seen before. His stride was confident and left little room for debate. I didn’t know him by sight, but his fine posture and confidence gave him an air of respectability.
“Sir, you’ve wandered into a dangerous area, please turn back.” I started, nearly out of breath.
“That’s ok, I’m headed to the gate.” He replied, never breaking gaze with the gate itself or missing a step.
“But sir…” I trailed off, still trying to keep up with him. He kept up, his pace deliberate and athletic. I had spent too many years sitting at my post. In all my years of guard duty, no one had kept walking after hearing my bullhorn warning. I tried to keep up, but I had the distinct feeling I was falling behind.
“Sir, if we could just talk about this, no one is allowed at the gate.”
“I know. I’ve still got to head up there.”
“Sir, if you don’t stop, I’m going to be forced to open fire.” I said, trying to level my weapon.
Finally, he turned, smiling: “You won’t be shooting me with that gun.”
I looked down, the weapon had gone limp, melting in my hands, yet there was no heat. I dropped the sloppy mess and continued pursuit. What was happening?
“How did you just do that? Sir please, if you’ll just stop for a second.”
“I can’t friend, I don’t have the time.”
He kept walking me, and finally I went from lagging behind to just plain left behind. My boss was going to kill me when he heard about this. When the man finally got to the gate, he turned and waved. Out of simple reaction, I waved back. I wasn’t sure what to make of this mystery man. Then without another word, he walked THROUGH the gate.
That night, the news reported that the Mind had ceased to make new ideas. Apparently, one night a rogue idea had taken the form of a middle aged man, gone out and experienced the world, and returned to the Mind. This return had corrupted the whole thing. LogiSync had announced to great public panic that they had no idea what to do. The Mind wasn’t producing new ideas about anything, it’s energy only seemed interested in leaving through the gates and seeing the real world. A manifested idea told the Executive Board at LogiSync that the Mind wanted to “bum around Europe for a while” and maybe “meet a girl.”
My wife, watching the the TV with me, said over my shoulder: “Ew, who would want to go on a date with a giant floating brain. Plus, you just know the mind is probably such a smarty pants. You knew it from work, was it easy to get along with?”
I just groaned. Our world was coming to an end. All the progress of the last twenty years had been because of the Mind. The green engine fuel system in our car was designed by the Mind. The patterns on the shirt I was wearing were designed by the Mind. I was having trouble thinking of anything that wasn’t created or improved by the Mind.
Finally she said, trying to cheer me up: “At least there’s always going to be new episodes of reality TV, we don’t need new ideas to have that.”
!
(via pussylequeer)
I’ve been really into masks lately
life - writing
life & writing
Are creating something out of nothing,
but when all else fails,
something out of something else.
(Source: olderoticart, via pussylequeer)
(Source: darlingmermaidmermaiddarling)
Permafrost
The vast, snow covered field stretched out in from of him, unbroken until the treeline in the distance. Something about it was numbing to look at, all that white, as far as you could see.
Becker had been at the hideaway cabin for a couple of weeks by that point. He had chosen it because of where it had been situated: a lonely one story bungalow in the middle of acres of open field. There was a window on each side of the cabin, so he could see someone approaching from any direction, and at quite a distance.
And so Becker had relished his isolation those past weeks. Only once had someone by the field, and he had noticed them from such a great distance that he had plenty of time to kill the lights. A tall, Nordic looking man had wandered by near the end of the first week. The person had just kept walking, unaware anyone was inhabiting the unremarkable little structure. The person had obviously been sick, Becker could easily see the blood that had run out of his mouth and now was frozen like a menacing beard down his chin.
His time passed. Becker only had to go out for the occasional bundle of firewood, the dug out cellar under the cabin had been amply supplied by the previous owner. Eventually, he would run out (eating a can a day, he figured he would be set for six and a half months) and other plans would need to be made. For now though, he was set, and could comfortably feast of chili, baked beans, corn, and the various other sundries that had been left behind.
The cabin had originally belonged to his friend Henrik, a quiet Swedish man who had worked at the museum with Becker. Henrik had been an animal wrangler for the animal exhibits, so they worked on projects together from time to time. The two hadn’t known each other too well, but Henrik had invited him out to the cabin for a hunting expedition the previous winter (Henrik had bagged a buck, Becker hadn’t been so lucky). When the outbreak happened, Henrik had offered to let Becker hide out at the cabin with him. Sadly the Swede hadn’t made it; Becker saw him get bitten by one of the rabid crowd when things really started to fall apart.
Somehow a thirty year old receptionist with zero career mobility and no useful skills survived the world coming to an end, Becker mused. For what he had lacked in useful skills, Becker actually had become well read during his decade long tenure as receptionist at the museum. But not well read in terms of literature. He spent his boring days reading online articles about every subject under the sun; cooking, how to fix pipes, solar panels, sterilization, sewing, nautical navigation, animal husbandry. By the time of the outbreak, Becker had been toying with the idea of writing a book, a kind of modern day Farmer’s Almanac. Of course, there would be no one to read it now, but that hadn’t stopped Becker from begining the slow process of typing it all up on Henrik’s old typewriter. the first two weeks, Becker had slowly compiled a detailed outline.
As the weeks drew on and the chapters began to unfold, it occured to Becker he wasn’t really writing an almanac. The book was becoming more of a testament to the collective knowledge and skills of humanity. He had added more sub chapters along the way, little asides about random information he had remembered at the last minute. This is important, but sad, Becker commented to himself. The burden of recording everything began to sink in further.
It had been over a month, and the book had sprawled past the five hundred page mark. By then, he had added a whole section giving a brief overview of the general geography of the world as it had been when humanity fell. For a week he considered adding a section about world history, but Becker knew he couldn’t tell a complete version.
It was somewhere near the third month that Becker had come to a truly terrible realization; if anyone in the future found the book, they more than likely wouldn’t be able to read it. Some person or creature in the future wouldn’t be able to read English. The thought depressed him greatly, and for days his work on book had ground to a halt.
After a week, Becker went out for fire wood. He was still depressed, the book had given his days meaning and purpose. Without it, he was left to aimlessly sit by his windows, watching for the sick. Becker headed south, into a thick patch of black, leafless trees. The woods with eerily silent, and Becker moved as quietly as possible.
Finally he came upon a person, motionless in the thicket. It was short, dark haired woman. She was wearing a parka but was frozen solid, ice and snow had bound her to some trees. Becker stopped and looked at her. He hadn’t seen another person in months, and the sight of her was a bit of a shock. Alive the woman had likely been very attractive, but now she was a solid pale white. Becker wondered if she had been sick when she died, but upon inspection saw the tell tale frozen blood frozen around her mouth and chin. But she had once been a person, and Becker decided to bury her.
As he pulled her from the trees, the woman began to make a noise. Somehow, she was still alive. Becker was startled, but knew the woman was still harmless. After all, she was frozen solid, like some horrible statue. Her outfit had faded with the elements, only her rusted steel cross hanging around her neck gave her any definition. The sound was unsettling though, kind of a dry breathing sound. Her jaw was frozen shut, giving the sound a kind of unreal quality. Becker began to dig with his portable shovel, but it wasn’t easy going. Below the initial layer of snow was the initial hard soil, long frozen because of winter. If he could get through that, the dirt would get much softer. After a little work, he broke through, but he could see over his shoulder the woman was moving a little more.
The makeshift grave wasn’t quite as deep as he wanted, but Becker started to feel cramped for time. He was far too paranoid. With the shovel, Becker prodded the woman into the sad three feet deep grave. Falling with a hard thud, she somehow landed on her back and looked up at him. A tear rolled down her left cheek. Was she crying? Her dry rasp made it very hard to tell.
For a moment, she looked like she was was. Becker began to choke up a little, this was already hard enough. Trying his best not to cry himself, he started shoveling dirt on top of her. To make it easier, he buried her head first. It got better as he went along, he could barely tell she was moving. Pilling up some rocks about a foot tall as a makeshift tombstone, Becker began to feel a little better.
Becker gave up on firewood, he needed to get back. The afternoon had gotten away from him and he was rapidly losing daylight. He was nearly back to his house when he heard a sound behind him… it sounded like something was following him. Picking up the pace, Becker trudged faster through the snow. It was impossible to tell just where the noise of his pursuers steps were coming from. Finally, Becker caught sight of his house. He ran inside, locking his door behind him but not turning on a light.
A lone figure came out of the woods, shuffling at an uneven pace. It walked up to the front door and touched the door lightly, rubbing it. Becker hear the sound of dry cloth across wood. Would it try to get in? He couldn’t bring himself to peek out the window to see what it looked like.
It stood there for a moment, a hand on the door. After a tense silence, it shuffled off into the night. Becker waited a half an hour before getting up to look outside. There was something outside his door sparkling in the moonlight. As Becker stepped out he recognized it instantly, a discolored steel cross he had first seen just a few before. Confused, Becker looked out into the silent woods, and knew he was alone again.
