an original, metaphysical fiction serial
8/21/17 1.2


We stood across from each other in my studio, a half-moon tacked onto the side of our cabin made entirely of glasson. If you haven’t heard of glasson yet, you will. It’s one of the materials newly created and used in this phase. It’s malleable—you can push it out at spots or draw it in; it’s 1-sided transparent when it’s commanded to be; and it boasts of the capability to refract sunlight to whatever frequency your work or mood requires.


Everybody loves it.


I don’t sell the stuff, but I should.
I’m telling you to nudge you to get to know your way around the electromagnetic spectrum.
If you wanna hang, that is.


He narrowed his eyes into my thoughts and dared me to make the line-up. It’s a game we play within the game we play. He knows I love to be in charge, but I pretend to be unsure of myself for 3 to 5 seconds before pouncing. You know, for sport and fashion. Spice is something you add for taste.

“Ok,” I grinned and rolled out the light pattern mid-air between us. “Here’s what we have on deck today: Two locomotives and an underground.” I pointed to irregular lines in the glistening weave. “And lunch out of doors, please.”


‘Locomotive’ and ‘underground’ have new meanings now, ‘lunch’ the same. ‘Locomotive’ and ‘underground’ describe rare, one-time pathways between planes. Some are special-ordered inward - loco’s. Some are accidental - streamer’s. The rest are randomly occurring and amazingly valuable outward pathways, unders.


We aren’t the transit authority, though we have been granted authority over this band of transit.
We’re sort of like growers, curators, guardians.
It’s an open market system and opportunists like us track and tackle the pathways we want to influence.


By the way, what’s coming in and out isn’t in human form.
Yet.




TBC in the next serial release…

an original, metaphysical fiction serial
8/18/17 1.1


A bright, brisk winter morning crept over the mountain and danced across our town until it fell at the foot of my bed. Tossing sleep aside, I abruptly sat upright. At the threshold of there and here I was always the most conscious of my task. It throbbed within me like a second heart, only deeper and more steadily.

He still wasn’t awake. I bent towards him and nudged his handsome face with my cold nose. ‘Wakie, wakie,’ I whispered and gave his scruffy cheek an exaggerated lick. I couldn’t help it. He was always my favorite human. Even now, with all we know, all we do, I can’t get enough of his hands on my waist.

He groaned away the night and stretched his machine of a body. Knowing my inclination to hit the ground running, he aroused quickly to the here and now, and directed his strong arms to dart out, seize me, and pull me into his bare chest. The same thud, call, ache beat miles below its surface.

How did we find each other?

That’s another story that’s not yet or quite relevant.
And we must stay relevant.
Time, imaginary little thing that it is, only stays on our side with the diligent application of intentional relevance.

Write that down.
You’ll need it.
TBC in the next serial release…