At midday, Becky races through the tree-lined streets, pack swinging and bubblegum snapping. She’s vowed to arrive on time to chem class. Her skirt swishes at her knees and she smiles at the street bums, singing with the airy pop song playing through her headphones. A palm-reader once claimed that Becky’s life purpose was distributing joy to God’s creatures, and her bliss-generating duties are keen: dazzling smile, soaring soprano, and endless encouraging words. But watch out, Becky! A light portal crossed your path! One sneaker-clad foot sinks into liquid transdimensional light, which feasts first on bone, then on flesh. Oh dear, that’s the end. Regrettably, these light portals originate from a mean dimension. They dislike joyful souls. They glitter prettily in the sun, but they’re greedy things, always manifesting at inopportune times and gobbling up organic molecules, the sweeter the better. Her shoes melt, and her eyes freeze in disbelief and bodily failure. Her headphones bleat as the metal wires corrode, but the plastic remains whole, synthetic and safe. The pop song dissolves and abandons its linearity, but Becky’s melting brain ruins her cognizance of this metamorphosis.
I saw it all, Professor! I, her loyal friend, was helpless to intervene. It was awful, especially because she’d worked on her term paper all night. I’ve been crying all morning! One of the theoretical physics students thinks he can retrieve her with a complicated quantum formula and a particle accelerator. If he’s successful, you don’t mind if she drops off her paper late, do you? We’ll just slide it under your office door. I’ll make sure she washes her hands really well so the light doesn’t get into your files.
***
Musical Inspiration: No. 6 Von Karman Street by A Sunny Day in Glasgow. Chaotic, yet perky and undoubtedly assailing any synaethesic listeners with a shower of unrelated colors and tastes. It’s like someone took an old-school shoegazer song and applied the literary cut-up technique to it.
As I wrote this, I couldn’t help but think of the numerous boho Instagram accounts featuring beautiful young girls in feminine clothing doing romantic things like twirling in a meadow or draping themselves artistically across old furniture. My morbid side imagines an unfortunate future for the beautiful girl. The furniture sprouts teeth and devours her, or the tranquil meadow turns into a howling abyss from which the Old Ones emerge (she’s snack number one of 6.5 billion).
My attempt to recreate the latter scene is in the photo above. Fortunately, I have yet to be eaten by the plush Cthulhu.
I’ve given up on making excuses for my brain. I just let it entertain me.
