World Read online

  But he was there.

  Still there, there in the dark room. He tried to tell them. Still there.

  They worried about him. They tapped agitated fingers against protruding knuckles. They wrung their hands. They folded their arms, leaned their heads in and consoled each other. They whispered like he was in his last days.

  But he was safe.

  Safe in the dark room, watching dangers from afar, setting traps for the traps, putting eyes on the eyes, lurking over the lurking tyrants. He was safe. He was there.

  Safe.

  Alive.

  Peter squinted in the dark.

  His brow creased so deep it ached. He squinted in the clear glow. Borneo squinted back. He shook his head and looked away. There were traps closer to home, too.

  He rubbed his tired eyes, took another sip of the no-longer-fizzy drink and hunched up reflexively.

  He worried about the whisperers. He worried about them as much as they worried about him.

  A drop of the no-longer-fizzy drink slid down the empty can. The last drop. One hand reached down below the desk, pulled out another. Pffft. He sipped the drips bubbling up over the opening. Warm, too, this one was, but still fizzy. He squinted and hunched forward, as if that could bring him closer to the target, closer to the danger closer to home.

  He tried – tried and tried – to tell them it was important. They worried about the wrong things! But they didn't hear. They shook their heads and rolled their eyes and whispered like he couldn't hear them.

  He could.

  He tried to tell them that the darkness didn't make him deaf. He listened. He heard. But they didn't. They bent their heads and tapped their agitated fingers and crossed their arms and whispered as if he couldn't see them.

  He could.

  He tried to tell them he could see them, too. He could see the light, the shadows, the agitated, tapping fingers around the corner under the dark, sad sleeves. The light didn't make them invisible. He wanted to look up and tell them he could see.

  But they didn't look back.

  And they whispered to each other like he couldn't whisper back.

  He could.

  He tried to tell them that the darkness hadn't made him mute. He could talk, talk to them. If only they would talk to him! But they didn't.

  He tried to tell them there were things to whisper about, that there were important things to worry over – not him.

  But they didn't know.

  They didn't know this world, not like he did. They weren't so sure footed. They couldn't spot the traps and the thieves and the tyrants and the spies. He tried to tell them this.

  He had to come here.

  He didn't come for fun!

  He came to explore. He came to feel out the traps and rogues. He came to map the wild landscape, to build roads around the traps and havens from the thieves and tyrants and spies.

  But they didn't hear.

  LOL.

  Peter smiled.

  He didn't come here for fun. But it was fun.

  The warm drink had lost its fizziness, but not its potency. Peter took another sip. Arms reached up towards the ceiling, he stretched, twisted his neck right and left, looked into the black corners, rested his eyes in the dark room.

  The moon peaked through the slice between the curtains. He watched it for a moment before turning back to the screen.

  He smiled wider.

  A mother held her newborn – red and wrinkled and crying and younger than he'd ever seen before. And human.

  A man saw an angel. Saved, he said. Saved him, he said – eyes sparkled and danced in fervor and conviction.

  Peter smiled.

  Things were okay here.

  He tried – tried and tried – to tell the whisperers. In between the dangers, things were okay. He tried to tell them when they stopped whispering. He tried to tell them about the things. Things he never saw before, things he saw again, things he'd seen but never understood, things he understood and never seen – it was all okay.

  A soldier died proud.

  A friend met a friend.

  A cat yawned.

  A man had a drink.

  A girl sang.

  A car crashed.

  A panda sneezed.

  A revolution began.

  Then another. Then another.

  Things that were clear here, like they weren't elsewhere. The mother and the newborn and the man and the angel and the soldier and the cat and the drinking man and the singing girl and the car and the panda and the revolution and the other revolution and the one after that: it was all connected, connected in a way that he'd never understood before.

  And it was okay.

  He could see the entire world and everything in it and he understood.

  He understood how everyone was the same: in the same world, sneezing and drinking and singing and crashing and revolting. And he understood how everyone was different: pandas and girls and drinking men and newborns and mothers and rebels. And that was possible here.

  And it was okay.

  No. It was beautiful. It was–

  A snort broke the quiet.

  Peter looked.

  The world was still. That world, anyway. The hallway, the room. That was still. Silent. For a moment he watched it.

  Another snort rolled through the quiet hallway.

  He sighed.

  Then he turned away from the quiet hallway and the sounds of sleep. Turned back from that world. Turned back to the beautiful world where tyrants and pandas stood just a few pixels away from each other.

  But the quiet hallway rested on his periphery. And the sounds of sleep padded on the edge of his hearing. That world beckoned.

  Could go back... it whispered in the silence.

  And it was right. He could go back. Back to the whisperers, back to the sleepers. He could see the way back - it was not far, just through a screen. It was easy, too, just stepping into a different glow.

  He could go back.

  He could leave the panda and the newborn and the mother and the man and his angel, and the soldier and the cat and the drinking man and the singing girl and the car and the revolution and the other revolution and the one after that.

  They didn't need him.

  The panda and cat and newborn and mother and the man and the angel and the drinking man and the singing girl and the revolutions – all of them – would be just fine without him watching.

  He could go back.

  It was only a screen. Only a screen between the cat and the drinking man and the singing girl and the car and the revolutions and the soldier and the man and his angel and the mother and her newborn and the panda and... everything else.

  Only a screen, and it could close.

  It could turn off. Blink away in an instant – so easy! Just different windows on the same world, and they could close.

  And the whisperers were so sad!

  They thought the screen kept him from seeing them, hearing them, talking to them, living with them.

  It didn't.

  The light switch clicked and the yellow light poked into the room again, but it was not so strong now. The sun had come up and the lights were mingled.

  The hallway tapped as the shadows woke up.

  Peter reached for little buds of music, playing alone and hushed on the desk beside the second no-longer-fizzy drink. He put them in his ears. Then one arm folded on the desk, cradled his head beside his computer.

  Smooth plastic sang him to sleep.

  Outside in the yellow hall light, shadows walked past the room. Eyes flicked, once, twice, towards the doorway. Fingers tapped uncertain on the walls. An aged hand under a black sleeve hesitated on the doorknob. Then they continued past.

  It was only a screen, but the shadows didn't penetrate. The shadows around the corner didn't see. They didn't hear. They mourned in silence and whispers.

  And Peter slept.

  Warrior

  Thunk.

  A sword slipped from an empt
y hand and no one reached to pick it up. Hoards rushed on – there were other swords, other hands.

  But one hand lay still. One sword lay still without a fight. And somewhere music played and feet rushed, and voices cheered and swore.

  The dropped weapon cooled.

  "Well, you had to expect it."

  "Shhh... shhh..."

  "But you had to–"

  "Shhh."

  "Come on, you can't feel sorr–"

  "Show some fucking respect."

  Hands hid snickering lips. Heads shook and eyes rolled. Here and there people chattered, and everywhere they watched.

  And laughed.

  (Every place but one – there a hush choked the laughs.)

  A hush covered the road and the funeral moved through it. The funeral moved through the quiet and everyone saw.

  Everyone.

  A gate clanged open, then tombstones lined the way ahead as the empty hand, the still and swordless hand, moved through it. Somewhere. It was somewhere far away. But everywhere – everywhere – people watched. Down the road the funeral wound and everywhere – everywhere – people peeped out to watch.

  And laugh.

  "You had to expect it."

  "Shut up."

  "I'm just saying–"

  "Don't."

  Thunk.

  A sword slipped from a fighter's hand. A long battle – well fought – slipped past unaware and none looked down (yet) to the sword or the hand. Silent and still, the one laying beside the other.

  Fallen.

  And the hoards rushed by – not yet laughing.

  "RIP, man. RIP."

  "That's what you get–"

  "Shut up."

  "I'm just say–"

  "Shut up."

  Tombstones lined the way, somewhere at the end of a hushed road. Grass folded quietly underfoot. The funeral moved past, left the tears unfallen by the wayside. Open ground smiled at the company.

  Laughter followed at a polite distance.

  But here and there, disquiet fell on others still standing on the field and they looked with unease at the weapons in their hands. Warrior children waiting for their turn watched close and wondered if it hurt. Others shied away.

  And they watched.

  They peeped out, openly, or hidden here and there, they peeped out from behind their screens, they peeped out from far–flung windows and watched the open mouth of ground swallow the fallen, and watched the glowing epitaphs flick by, watched from afar.

  Some paused.

  Some shivered.

  And some laughed.

  Sleek plastic piled into crisp cardboard, cold weapons, empty armor – dropped and not picked up again.

  "You could sell it," a quiet voice insists. "You could sell it."

  "No."

  "You need to get rid of it. You could sell it online. Make some money out of it. Make something... something out of it."

  "No."

  "But you could make something out of it – something to remember him–"

  "I'm not going to forget."

  "I didn't mean... I just mean... let it go. Let it all go."

  "No."

  "What are you going to do, just keep it? But–"

  "I can't let anyone else have it."

  "Someone else could get some use out of–"

  "No. It killed him."

  "It didn't."

  "It did."

  "He just... he was just taken. It just... happened."

  "No."

  The controller went in last. A cardboard flap closed over the scraped and worn thing. One corner, dented from its fall, poked up from the box. Then it was pushed down. It was cold.

  A mourning father sealed the box.

  There was no battle there.

  Somewhere an identical piece was warm, slowly reaching the temperature of the hands that held it. For a moment, one hand let go, trembling just a little. It rubbed sleepiness out of bloodshot eyes. Then it returned to the still-warm plastic.

  Kennedy

  When the car started, the CD started.

  Kennedy never stopped the music before cutting the engine. The music would move with the car – start when the car started, stop when the car stopped, and occasionally jolt when the car jolted. Like a soundtrack.

  But his personal soundtrack never clued him in to the danger around the corner with sudden chords or ominous tones. It never foretold his victories with a triumphant score. It never warned him about the lean times ahead with melancholy undertones.

  At least, it hadn't so far.

  But sometimes he imagined it did.

  Kennedy punched the player. His knuckle hit the stop button. Once. Twice. The CD shot out and hung there, still, clamped in the player's mouth. He grabbed it. Gently, slowly he pulled it from the slot.

  One hand on the wheel, one hand on the now silent plastic thing, he glanced into the rearview mirror. The street behind was clear, but the face looking back from the mirror, not so much. The perfect smoothness of his suit didn't extend upward to his face. Lines of worry creased his brow, framed his lips, clouded his eyes.

  He looked at the thing in his hand.

  Flat.

  He smiled at the thing. His lips curled up with pride as he admired it.

  So flat.

  And it was. It was so flat, so small he could hold it in one hand and steer out of the parking space with the other, like he was doing right now.

  You couldn't do that with all technology. Not records. Not instruments. Not a player piano. Not an orchestra. Maybe tapes. Back and back and back there wasn't much music that he could hold in his hand.

  He looked out at the road.

  His foot pressed carefully on the pedal and he merged forward into the traffic on the main street.

  He grimaced at the sign ahead.

  The bubble of admiration and pride started to shrink. His head started to shake, wagging back and forth just a bit at an invisible opponent. He clenched his jaw, whacked the turn signal and turned right.

  The CD was flat, but it was still there.

  He chucked the CD aside. It clattered on the dashboard.

  His foot pressed on the break and he slowed ahead of the crosswalk at the corner. A kid walked into the street. He crossed, head down, in front of the car. White earbuds shone under his dark hood and one hand flicked through the touch screen in his hand.

  Kennedy glared at the kid, who didn't look up.

  Flat! he snarled this time, silently in his head.

  That wasn't real music.

  It wasn't real anything!

  Flatter than CDs. Flatter than the tape in tapes, flatter than the paper the lyrics were written on. So flat you couldn't even hold it in your hands. You couldn't hold it at all. You couldn't browse the shelves for it, open the case, hold the words in your hands. You couldn't get it signed and put it in a frame. You couldn't line it up on a bookcase.

  You couldn't feel it.

  He glanced right, then left. His eyes caught the rearview mirror once more. He shuddered minutely at the rapidly aging face. He wished he didn't care, but he did. Working with glamorous people would do that to a person, would make them peer at the little lines, instead of looking ahead, peer at the little marks of where they'd been, not where they were going.

  He looked away from his reflection. Back through the front windshield. The kid was gone now and he moved ahead.

  A few lines were hardly his biggest concern.

  Old age was chasing him. And it was so much closer now!

  "The Old Days" were no longer the days a hundred or two years ago when cars made their way through horses and shoppers on the snowy streets. "Old Fashioned" didn't mean sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch yelling at the kids walking over the lawn. "Old" was something recent now. Not something from the history books. Not something he couldn't remember. Now, the Old Days were the days twenty years ago when a square package, flat and wrapped in comics was a CD. When you could following along with the lyrics in the li
ttle booklet.

  When music could be help in the hand.

  Those were "The Old Days."

  Kennedy tapped his free foot on the floor of the car and waited for a traffic light to change. He drummed impatient fingers over his upper lip. The traffic didn't do anything to distract him from his thoughts. His upper lip was smooth; he didn't feel old. But here he was listening to a plastic disk, a disk that would end up in a landfill somewhere if it wasn't lucky enough to be kept as an antique. No, it wouldn't be that lucky. There were too many plastic disks for them all to have value. Most would end up in landfills. Who, besides a few old geezers like himself, would bother keeping some old pieces of plastic?

  The days became old faster and faster, and, to his dismay, his face seemed to age along with them.

  The light turned green and he drove ahead. He grimaced at another sign, this one pointing left. He turned, following the arrow, and pulled into the lot of the courthouse.

  A moment later he slammed the car door. Behind him, the CD sat on the dashboard, a silent soundtrack that failed to warn of the danger around the corner.

  The World

  The world darkened.

  Once it was beautiful.

  Wide roads traversed the country, ran under the light, rolled under wheels, carried goods from here to there and back. Markets to market, house to house, country to country, hand to hand: they carried goods along wide and lighted rolling roads. Good roads.

  Sparkling bays opened up onto the wide and wild ocean.

  No – oceans (there were many.)

  Wide oceans, expanses going over the whole world touched every shore and dived down to deep pits with wide-eyed things, and glowing life, foreign organisms. We looked at them – looked at the wide-eyed things and glowing life, looked at the foreign organisms.

  And they looked back.

  Wild oceans, vicious waves, unknown waters swallowed ships and carried villains along the sea roads (they painted the waves red.) Dangers hid beyond waves' crests. We shrank from them – shrank from the dangers and the villains and the unknown, vicious waves. We shrank from them into the light, brilliant light atop the waves (safe places.) They – the dangers and the villains and the unknown, vicious things – shrank from the light into the shadows of the troughs. We peeked, sometimes, looking down the troughs, down the shadows, to the unknown, scary things.