World Read online

  WORLD

  By Aelius Blythe

  First Smashwords Edition

  2012

  #FuckCopyright

  Table Of Contents

  Note

  Desert Snails Sleep

  Love Letters From the Plains

  Alive

  Kennedy

  Warrior

  The World

  Author

  NOTE

  This is our home.

  The beauty of the natural world, leaves of grass, blue skies, open plains – we have always waxed on about this Nature.

  What about our Nature?

  A useful tool or a beast that needs to be controlled, technology – just as much a fixture of the environment for those grown up digital, as the grass, and the skies and the open plains – misses the poetic raptures given to the skies and the natural world under them.

  But the sky is above us.

  We are in the world too.

  And this, this is our Nature. More than a tool, more than a beast, this is our natural world.

  In the woods, a grizzly lurks behind a blooming blackberry bush. A deadly snake ripples through a peaceful marsh. Sunshine fades before a freezing rain. And helpless isolation sits just this side of serenity and solitude.

  Here, too.

  Grizzlies haunt our world. Snakes hide on the trails. Rainy nights freeze travelers. Crushing isolation leaves its scars.

  But there is sunshine, too. Sunshine, and serenity and solitude and peaceful places. The berry bushes bloom here, too.

  Here are the windows that look onto distant corners of the earth. Here are the shelves of infinite libraries. Here is the hive mind, the lone voice, the compulsive intellect, the wildly creative.

  This is our home.

  Dangerous. Miserable. Deceitful.

  Beautiful.

  It is our Nature.

  Once buffalo roamed the plains.

  Under the open skies, over the endless grasses and the crystal clear sunlight, buffalo roamed. The plains were lonely. Expanses, vast and empty, hostile and alien, stretched underfoot. Dangerous. Miserable. Deceptive.

  Beautiful.

  And the buffalo, too. The buffalo were dangerous. Heavy herds, tramping and wild, stretched over the plains. Dangerous. Menacing. Volatile.

  Beautiful.

  Gone.

  This is our home. These are our plains. We are the buffalo. Dangerous. Lonely. Deceptive.

  Beautiful.

  Here are the stories of life on these plains – the wide open skies, the things living under them, and the stories that come out from under those skies.

  Desert Snails Sleep

  The wallpaper munched. Toothless, it gummed the room inside it. Drear tapped one finger against the window sill, again then again, and ignored the wall. The shadows in the corners of the room edged closer, they wavered when headlights passed or when a light flicked on in the next house. Sickly plaid wavered, brown bars against tan bars. The bubbles under the paper and the tears in it and the messy spaces where there was no more paper blinked in and out of focus like dirty sores in a gaping and sickly mouth.

  "What happened today?"

  "Nothing much."

  The menace of the walls disappeared with those two words.

  "I know. Boring isn't it?"

  But it wasn't. It wasn't boring. Nothing in that window was boring. And Drear lived in that window.

  He lived in the window and was never bored because there he forgot the walls and the wallpaper and the wavering plaid, and the sickly gaping mouth of the room.

  The silver glow of the night was a comfort. Shadows and dark spaces lurked outside the window, but the night wasn't menacing. It wasn't claustrophobic. It wasn't lonely. It wasn't any of those things that the darkness of the room was. The darkness on the other side of the window sill held infinite possibility. The darkness inside the room was a trap.

  On the other side of the window, there was always some place to go. On the side with the wallpaper, there wasn't any place to go except between the walls. The side with the wallpaper, was finite. On the other side of the window, the there was everything.

  There was Eyes.

  A snail sat on a leaf.

  Drear watched.

  "Hey, Eyes?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Snails in the desert can sleep for three years. Did you know that?"

  He never said hello. He didn't need to. Just like the shadows under the rhododendrons, Eyes would emerge as soon as the sun went down. She was easy to talk to and there was no need to fill up the space with formalities, especially with so many interesting things to talk about.

  "I didn't know that," she said.

  "Yeah, it's because it's dry. They sleep to retain moisture."

  The shadows on the other side weren't menacing or claustrophobic or lonely – well, they might have been, but Drear wouldn't have noticed. He only noticed the people, and the people drew the night outside the window close, drew it up around themselves, comforting, cozy. They, not the landscape, not the shadows – Drear didn't notice those – they made the night interesting. He didn't care for the places.

  He came for the people. People like Eyes. And Eyes came to him.

  "What about fish?" she said.

  "What about them?"

  "In the desert. What do the fish do?"

  "Fish in the desert?"

  "At the oases and the like."

  "Oh. I don't know. I don't think it's their job to retain moisture. They live in a pond or whatever, right? So it's the pond's job to stay wet."

  "So the pond sleeps."

  "Maybe."

  "And the desert?"

  "What about it?"

  "Does it sleep?"

  "I don't know."

  And so they talked.

  They talked about things that didn't matter – that didn't matter unless you were a snail, or a fish, or a desert, or a pond, or Drear or Eyes. They talked until the silver light turned gold.

  The glare of the sun hit the window, and Drear tapped a finger a couple of times on the key with a picture of a sun. The computer's screen fought with the natural light for a second, then brightened.

  It didn't matter, though. He wouldn't need it again until the next night.

  "Sun's up here. Past my bedtime."

  "Goodnight."

  "Goodnight." He sat back and yawned. One finger tapped the mouse and the window closed.

  Love Letters

  From the Plains

  ONE

  My love,

  I want to grow old with you.

  We can grow old together in a little apartment – we don't need much space. Who wants to grow old with space? Just a couple of chairs – we don't need a whole set. Who wants to grow old with chairs? A table – one will do. Who wants to grow old with tables? Some curtains (so we won't corrupt the neighborhood children) and a bed and a couple pillows will do – just a couple. Who wants to grow old with pillows?

  No.

  I want to grow old with you.

  Just you. Just you and me in a little apartment with a window or two and a door to the world.

  That's all we need.

  We don't even need to leave.

  We don't need to leave even when it's sunny. Even when it's the fourth of July and there are fireworks and everyone's at the park and there are picnics. Even when it's New Years and there's a party with champagne and cheese and little hors d'oeuvres. Even when it's happy hour and drinks are half off and there's a live band and no cover. Even when it's opening night for Indiana Jones 12 or Pirates 23 and the lines wind around the corner of the theater. We'll download them later to watch with pizza and bathroom breaks. (If we get a porn file by accident, it's okay. We can watch it anyway if it doesn't have a virus (but we'll open it on a Mac to be safe.)
We'll get the real thing later.) Maybe later we'll go to the theater when the crowds have dispersed, when they've gone home to write bad reviews, when they've forgotten about the movies. We'll go then.

  We don't need to go out (except for Indiana Jones 12 or Pirates 23 when the crowds are all gone.) Day-to-day, we don't need to leave our little space with a couple of chairs and pillows and a table and a bed. That's all we need.

  Besides, Pizza Hut and the mailman and BitTorrent deliver.

  I want to grow old with you.

  I want to grow old with you sitting in our little space, cozy and bundled up when it's cold. Just reading.

  I'll say Hi, sometimes, from across the room. And I'll smile when your messages pop up while I'm reading the news – even if it's sad. They'll be short, the messages – maybe even just smileys. I'll smile when I see one from you and I'll send one back because I want to see you smile too when I look up across the room.

  Then at the end of the day when the screens become too cold, we'll keep each other warm.

  :-)

  TWO

  My love,

  I thought of you today.

  I thought of going outside with you.

  One day.

  No need to rush. Maybe it will be an accident. Maybe one day when we're together in our little apartment settling in to watch a movie, we'll call for pizza and the delivery queue will be too long. Maybe we'll have to visit one of our sick aunts. Maybe we'll need groceries and the delivery fee will be too high. Maybe the birds will be particularly loud or the sun particularly bright or the blooms on the lilacs particularly sweet.

  Whatever the reason, we'll go out.

  Today, I thought about that.

  About us going outside together.

  One day.

  When we get a moment we'll lay in the sun. It will be hot and we'll wonder at how hot it is. We'll wonder at how hot the sun is on our skin, even through our clothes. We'll wonder at how hot the sun is, how much hotter on our skin than on the other side of a window. And how much brighter, too! We'll turn our heads to the side because we can't look up at it.

  It will be nice.

  We'll lay in the sun on the grass. The grass will be prickly on the backs of our necks and on our arms if they're bare, but soft everywhere else. Maybe there will be some things crawling around us, but we'll just brush them away.

  It will be so nice!

  Other people will laugh.

  Other people will laugh and say, "It's not so hot!" Or "The sun, so what? I see it every day!" But we can lay together in the grass – turn your face into the grass and smell it, isn't it nice? – and we'll appreciate it. We'll appreciate the hot sun and the bright sunlight and the grass and the fresh air.

  Other people will laugh because they think we're funny.

  We'll laugh too.

  But we'll laugh because we love it. We will. The sun and the light and the grass and the air. Like it was the first time to see it all, we'll love it.

  When the sun gets too hot or the breeze gets too cold or the grass gets too damp, we'll go inside and remember how nice it was to lay in the sun and the breeze and the grass. Maybe we'll open the curtains after that and look at it from inside.

  When we're old we'll have nice skin.

  Won't it be nice?

  :-)

  THREE

  My love,

  You know that video of the little dog and the baby? The one with the pink ball and the baby on the bed and the little dog – a little white one bouncing and bouncing and bouncing, it was fluffy, too. I love it. You know the one?

  (It's the one you just sent me a minute ago.)

  I sent it to you last week.

  When I saw it just now – just now when you sent it to me – I smiled. Not at the baby, not at the bouncing puppy. At you. And me. And how in sync we are.

  I smiled.

  Thank you.

  :-)

  Alive

  Stoppit.

  The sniffling didn't stop.

  The black swatch of a sleeve's edge wavered in the doorway. It curled around the doorknob, quietly, gently. Veins ran down a worn hand to fidgeting nails tapping on the brass handle. The dark fabric, the veiny hand, the fidgeting nails flashed one moment. Then they were gone.

  But the sniffling continued.

  Stoppit.

  A light switch snapped. Yellow light flickered in from the hall.

  Peter flinched.

  The light poked at the corner of his eye from the corner around which the black sleeve had disappeared. Infuriatingly soft and dim, it was worse than no light at all. The darkness inside the room was better. The dim yellowness on his periphery irritated his eyes, his head, even worked his way down to his stomach and made him want to be sick. He turned towards the doorway and squinted in the unnatural light.

  The shadows in the hallway did not notice.

  Elbows rested on crossed arms, heads bent, hands fidgeted, fluttering lips whispered. Clustered in the soft light, the shadows worried.

  "I miss him."

  "I know..."

  "I don't know... I don't know."

  Stoppit.

  Peter grit his teeth against the whispering, as if that could silence it. It didn't. The whisperers didn't go away and Peter fought the urge to put his fingers in his ears like a child. He turned away from the light and the shadows and the mutterers outside the door. He thought about getting up to shut the door, but that would just prompt more whispering, more head-shaking.

  He unclenched his teeth and tried to ignore the yellow light and the whispers.

  There were things to do.

  Things like traps.

  Traps opened everywhere.

  Eyes were watching everywhere, watching where they shouldn't. Tyrants lurked in the clouds, lurking over shade where people cowered. Thieves lurked around corners.

  There were always things to do.

  Peter rubbed the crust of sleepiness out of his eyes. A warm, no-longer-fizzy drink beckoned from his desk, just by his right hand. He grabbed it and sipped and stretched his eyes wider against stubborn, heavy lids. And he ignored the whispers.

  There was a trap in Borneo, a dark cloud hovering somewh–

  Peter paused.

  The sleeve was back.

  Eyes still on Borneo, he tried to focus on the problem at hand. But the sleeve danced on his periphery and he watched the movement out of the corner of his eye, the black fabric over the veiny hand, over the fidgeting nails.

  Black, always black like mourning clothes, the sleeve flickered around the door again. But then it was gone, and the whispers followed.

  "I don't know... I don't know."

  Stoppit.

  And this time, they did.

  The mourning clothes and the whisperers inside them moved down the hallway. The whispers faded.

  The light switch snapped again.

  The yellow light disappeared.

  The hall was silent, and the room, too – both now blessedly dark. Alone now, Peter shook his head.

  I know, I know.

  They were so sad!

  He'd tried to tell them – tried and tried – to tell them not to be. There was nothing to be sad about – nothing! Not in that hallway anyway. There were traps and spies and thieves and tyrants (didn't they cause enough grief?) But not in that hallway. Not in that dark room. Not there. The whisperers weren't sad about that anyway.

  But they were sad.

  They put on sad faces and walked around looking at the ground and sniffled and muttered and were sad anyway.

  The light flicked on again.

  The sleeve, the tapping fingers, the whispers were back.

  "Good night."

  Peter looked up. "Good–"

  But the hall was empty. The whisperer was gone.

  Good night.

  He took another sip of the no-longer fizzy drink.

  Sleep... whispered a tiny voice in Peter's head. Sleep...

  He shook the voice off.

&nb
sp; They could sleep. The whisperers in the black mourning-like clothes. They didn't see the thieves lurking in the shadows and tyrants looming in the clouds and spies watching around each corner (even though they worried as if they did!)

  They could sleep.

  The world didn't.

  And neither did Peter.

  The light switch in the hall clicked one more time and the infuriatingly soft and dim light disappeared.

  And he was alone again.

  The dark room clicked.

  It tapped in time with his fingers, speaking the world, tapped in time to the messages coming and going, coming and going, coming and going – messages between friends, between enemies, between strangers. (Sometimes even between the thieves and tyrants and spies and traps (but these didn't speak back.)) Sometimes it tapped in time with codes, unreadable mysteries sent between initiates. Sometimes it tapped in time with some language or another, and sometimes a rough translations.

  The dark room glowed, too.

  It glowed, not like the hallway glowed. Not a dingy, yellow glow like old teeth. Not a dim sheen that illuminated the cracks and divots on painted walls. It glowed a clean glow. Bright. Sharp. A glow that illuminated the whole world - it was beautiful!

  The room whirred a little sometimes, too. It puffed and chimed and spoke, too. And sometimes it sang.

  But not now.

  Now it was quiet.

  They were so sad!

  He'd tried to tell them – tried and tried – to tell them not to be. But they were. They missed him. They peaked around the door and snuck sidelong glances in from the hallway. They whispered like he wasn't there.