Oil glistened on his skin, showing trails where their love had rubbed him smooth; he was bronzed, buff and satin, the affect on the senses intoxicating to the one who lay amidst rumpled sheets.

Wait a minute, baby...

Long sweep of inked hair fell forward, obscuring his chiseled face from her gaze. His movements were sleek, leashed power beneath corded muscle, reminding her of both the passion and tenderness he had shown her during their long hours together.

Stay with me awhile.

The words, were not her own, and yet they were, sticking in throat and mind like overly warm honey, dripping down in to silence.

He had warned her of the dangers of their coming together, had told her of the light, had hinted at more, but now as the fire of longing gnawed in her belly, reaching long, tenuous fingers ever lower, her head pounded with the realization that he had never intended for this to happen.

Unable to give voice to the words that all but choked her, she reached out, slender fingers lightly brushing his arm.

"Valen?"

His dark eyes lifted to meet her stare, reflecting a myriad of things he would never discuss with her. He was not unmoved by the hours they had spent in each others' arms, for that matter his traitorous body was still showing signs of his arousal.

Then, a shimmer of something passed over his eyes, a softening that warned of emotions he could ill afford.

"Asha, close your eyes," he let out thickly. "Lie down and go to sleep. Try to forget all about this night. It never happened."

Her breath caught sharply in her throat, the sting of the words hitting her like a slap in the face. His own breath expelled harshly. For a intense moment, he steeled himself against the pleas her eyes made, the soft inviting curves of her bare breasts as the low lighting played over them, making them far more tempting that they had a right to be.

Asha held very still, seeing that he was torn. At last, she reluctantly lifted her hand from his arm, feeling a sudden chill at the lack of contact.

She could hear her own heartbeats pounding in her head, she could almost hear his in the suffocating quiet.

Valen groaned, dropping his clothes and turning. His hands drifted over her curves again, relearning the planes and rises of her body, seeking the secrets that she had bared to him throughout the night.

"I need you," he whispered, choked on his own weakness and desire, never having expected such a reaction to her, not to anyone.

It was so easy to welcome him, sinking back against the tumbled bedding, arms open and warm, her mouth eagerly meeting his in a ravenous kiss of dueling tongues and sweet, low groans. Her hips rose to tease him of their own volition, her instincts kicking in as thoughts fled, and passion rose.

Oils rubbed between them, spreading and warming, making his entrance even more sleek than it had been before. Her gasp filled his mouth as he thrust deeply, remembering that hot, tight feel of wet silk clinging and clutching, his hips falling into a rhythm old as time as he reclaimed what a feral streak in him demanded was his to take.

Long legs slid against him, hugging and teasing before wrapping around his back, eager to drag him deeper into her hungering body. Rise, fall, push, pull their bodies moved against the other in timeless battle for fulfillment.

Asha savored the heat of him filling her, touching the depths of her with no hesitation, and yet there was still that odd tenderness that nearly broke her heart with its beauty.

Valen tightened his hold on her, possessing and protecting as he pushed as deeply as he could, then withdrew to plunge again and again. He could smell her, taste her, could feel the tremors of her orgasm rising swiftly as his own teased him, determined to make him wait for release.

Eyes flashing up at him, Asha nudged him onto his back, changing their positions as she rode him, tearing her mouth free and tossing her head back as she screamed her pleasure.

Valen came on the heels of that, his mind blanking as a wash of sensation drowned out his every thought. Reeling from such intensity, he sank in to momentary unconsciousness.

Tired, heavy lids slowly rose, his hazy eyes seeking the lovely vision that had fallen across him, her breathing ragged, her tumble of dark golden hair streaked with his sweat and hers, their mingled scents filling his nostrils as he breathed deeply, knowing what this moment of letting his guard down could cost him.

                                        The help will go without miles counting.    
                                         - Mother Meera, in ‘Answers’

It happened in that time of significant trouble. The outward dilemmas had finally ceased. These included but were by no means limited to the two women that had appeared, and through a particular sort of magnetism, caused certain misfortunes to Jacob and themselves. They had been like sirens or like some kind of bright purple or orange fighter fish adorned with painted bodies. It took a long time to put them in abeyance, along with other more amicable contacts that had turned conspiratorial. And what was more; there was no twelve step program for matters of the soul, or even for more nuanced problems of the secular type. But it had been done, and to give up the past proved akin to letting go of a chemical dependence or at the least something sorely required.

The problem was that there was an inner life also. Its ache and voice would not be dulled or stilled. Universal processes and all of that. Jacob just went along, having faith in things unseen, which as they say, is a definition of faith in itself. Soon days and weeks turned to months and even years. He was in some kind of transition period, difficult to be sure, but necessary. It resembled the abyss, of which he was familiar, but was not an abyss as such. Turquoise can be mistaken for shattuckite, as both have various blue hues and are beautiful, but both hold different characteristics and properties, come from different mines, and most importantly of all, assist in different purposes. The uninitiated might scoff, and say a stone is just a stone, and both are stones, not flowers of Southern France, Chinese lanterns, industrial machinery, crochet needles, or metropolises, and those times of dark are just that,- times of dark and nothing more or less. But though both prove difficult to maneuver within, and appear similar, the abyss and the time of transition are not the same animal.

In the middle of it all an archetypal and esoteric figure made an appearance. She came to see Jacob and Kara in a part of the night that was deepest and most silent. A part of the night before and yet beyond- in depth- the proverbial witching hours. A labyrinthine part that inhabited a secret envelope contained in an under layer of an under layer. There are things there, and they are difficult to remember. Jacob had lived there at times, and Kara was a visitor to such places, and often came back from those places to speak about future events in the lives of those she knew.

The figure appeared with a door behind her, and holding an object in her left hand, though the exact identification of the object was not known about right away. Kara, normally a woman of strong spiritual stature, was starting to go into shock, and soon was paralysed with fear. The figure was tall and looking out from black eyes that stood under white hair. She wore a long green dress that had small symbols emblazoned on it. Jacob walked over to her and hugged her. At his point, as stunned to her core as Kara was, she went into an even deeper shock.

Trembling.

Awe.

Angst.

Trembling.

Laboured breath.

Mind off.

Something else on.

Trembling.

Trembling.

Trembling.

The woman was staring at and straight through Kara. The figure looked and looked some more and then with unwavering intent, in a raised voice, spoke one word. It was the only word that was spoken at all during the visit.

“Kneel!”

And so Kara knelt. With a sure-fire immediacy the figure raised what she was holding in the hand. She then struck Kara with the cylindrical object.

Shock.

Crashing.

Body.

Second body into first.

Shock.

In a moment, they were out of that instance. Kara explained to Jacob that the woman was simply too powerful. Sitting up in the bed and staring into space she said, “I was overwhelmed...”

    “She came to tell you to take it easy on me,” replied Jacob.

    “Why does it always have to be about you?”

     “It doesn’t,” said Jacob, “Maybe she just came to kick your ass.”

In the light, by the new hours of days, Jacob contemplated the Empress. He thought about other things, such as Mother Meera, a divine incarnation of the feminine that worked mostly in silence. He had written to Mother Meera once upon a time. Her words, if there were any sent back from Germany, did not reach his hands those years and years ago. But she had spoken to answer questions at some point and Jacob remembered reading the words of the divine mother. She had said that ‘The help will go without miles counting’.

Maybe, Jacob thought, for now, somehow, with the aid of the divine feminine figures, he had managed to end up on the right sight of the difficult transitory hours.

Charles wondered what his new parents and grandmother were going to be like. He had spent many years in the orphanage since his parents died and he often wished he had a family again. Now the carers and the orphanage director had told him his new parents would be picking up tomorrow and taking him "home." He had met the couple a few times with the director at the orphanage and after every meeting he had with them, the director would always say what lovely people they were. "And your new grandmother is such a delightful lady and an excellent cook!" she would add. Charles wondered how she knew if she was such a busy lady she hardly had time to leave the orphanage as she was always saying to see the grandmother but he supposed grown-ups had their own way of finding out things.

He spent much of the following morning looking outside the window of his room which he shared with three other children, watching the cars entering and exiting the orphanage grounds through the front gate. What sort of house did the new parents live in? He had already seen their car and knew what a swanky black sports sedan it was. What was the new grandmother like? Was she really a good cook?

He saw the shiny black car glide through the front gates and sail as if on air into a spot in the visitors' car park. Charles saw the two front doors open. The couple in black got out of the car, the woman straightening her hat and brushing her clothes. He saw the two walk out of the car park quickly and onto the path leading to the director's office. Not long after, one of the carers entered his room.

"Charles, your new parents have just arrived," the young woman said, "are you ready to go? Got all your things packed?"

Charles grabbed his carry-bag holding his clothes and his backpack crammed with his teddy and toy dinosaur and followed the carer down the corridor, down the stairs, through the dining-room and a maze of hallways and into the director's office. Already the couple in black were sitting there talking to the director. When Charles was ushered in, they stopped talking and turned to look at him.

"Don't be shy, Charles," the director said, "you've met your new parents before. Come and say hello."

The man got up and shook hands with Charles. "Hello, Charles," he said. Charles looked at the man's thinning brown hair and grey eyes framed by round spectacles. The man's grip was moderately firm and the hand itself was warm and slightly moist. Charles relaxed a little and smiled.

"Hello, Charles," the woman said. She was the most beautiful woman Charles had ever seen. Already he had been dreaming about her at nights. He shook her hand with its shiny red nails and soft palm. A whiff of expensive perfume made him sneeze.

The three adults spent an hour talking, filling in forms and drinking lots of coffee while Charles sat fidgeting and sneaking glances at the beautiful woman with her honey blonde hair and soft brown eyes. He wondered what sort of mother she'd be. Then everyone stood up and Charles had to stand up too. "Thank you very much for all you've done for us," the woman said, "we'd better start taking Charles home so he has time to settle in."

"And Nanna's probably got a big lunch waiting for us and she won't be happy if the food gets cold," the man added.

"Well, goodbye Charles," the director said, giving the boy a hug and a kiss, "I hope you'll enjoy being with your new family."

He hoped so too.




The new family drove to one of many large mansions in a faraway suburb. Charles had never seen such large houses before. In front of his new home was a huge front garden with many flowers, shrubs, a fountain and a long driveway leading to a double garage. The car stopped just before one garage door and everyone got out. The boy wanted to run around in the garden to see if it was all real but the couple herded him into the mansion. An elderly woman, just a head taller than Charles and possessing glittering eyes set into a gnarled face that reminded the boy of an old witch in a fairy tale he'd read, came into the large polished foyer. She was dressed in black with a white apron over her dress. "This is Nanna, Charles," his new mother said, "Nanna, this Charles. He's the new addition to the family."

"Hello, Charles," Nanna said in a dry and crackly voice. Charles remembered the fairy tale in which a little boy was locked up in a cage by an evil witch who visited him every day to check if he was getting fatter. The boy would offer a chicken bone to her to feel. Nanna inspected Charles closely and pinched his cheek hard with her bony hand. "My," she exclaimed, "you're a dear little boy. I could eat you up for breakfast!"

Charles's new father cleared his throat. "Let's take Charles's things to his bedroom and help him settle in." The couple led the boy up the grand spiral staircase into the hallway and to his bedroom. There was just the one bed there but the room was twice as big as the one he had shared with the three boys back at the orphanage. Charles took his two toys out of his backpack and laid them on the bedcover. The teddy and the tyrannosaurus looked very old and grubby on the cover.

"Would you like to rest a while, Charles?" his new mother asked. Charles nodded. His new mother's voice was soft and gentle and hard to resist. "Poor boy. You must have had a hectic morning. You have a lie down if you want. I'll get Nanna to bring up your lunch later." After putting away Charles's things and showing him around the bedroom and then the bathroom, the couple then left Charles alone in the bedroom. The boy looked around. There was a desk next to the bed. There was a chest of drawers where he could display the tyrannosaurus on top. He went over to the large window opposite the door and looked out. A large garden, a tennis court and a gazebo stood below. Charles couldn't believe his luck.

He heard a knock on the door and turned around to see it swing open. Nanna bustled in with a tray holding covered plates and a glass of fruit juice. She walked over to the desk and set the tray down. "I've made a nice hot lunch for you, Charles," she cackled, "I know boys your age like to eat a lot! I hope you like roast chicken and vegetables. Did they feed you well at the orphanage?" She started to go back to the door without waiting for an answer. "I'll come back in an hour to pick up the dishes." She looked back at Charles intently and he had the feeling she was sizing him up. "Enjoy your meal." She went back down the hallway. He could hear her chuckling.

The fruit juice was fresh and slightly sugary. He lifted the cover off the chicken and vegetables. The smell was heavy for chicken, pieces of which were blanketed in a thick, velvety brown gravy and onion bits. He scraped the gravy away with a knife and saw the smooth, soft white meat. At the orphanage, the only chicken he had eaten was the cheap barbecued kind with dry crinkly skin and tough, stringy meat. He speared a piece of meat with his fork and bit some off. The flavour was strange, the texture unfamiliar and the meat was tender. He ate all the chicken and most of the vegetables except the Brussels sprouts. He even ate the bread roll as it was softer and fluffier than the bread rolls he was used to. He ate up the stewed apple and cream and since there was no-one there to watch or berate him, he licked the dessert dish clean. He remembered to wipe his hands and mouth on the napkin and put everything back on the tray.

Nanna came back with a cup of steaming chocolate. "Did you enjoy your meal?" she asked. Charles nodded. The woman went over to the tray and tittered at the remains. "Charles, in this house you have to eat all your vegies if you want to be strong and healthy. Look at the Brussels sprouts you've left behind! This won't do, my dear. Just think of the poor children in Africa who can't get to eat such good nutritious food. What a waste!" She put the chocolate down on the desk and picked up the tray, muttering to herself. Charles felt his face go warm as he watched the cold green leafy balls on the plate being taken away. Nanna saw his red face. "Maybe you'd like these heated up for dinner tonight?" she suggested, her eyes shining with murky intent.

Charles hesitated, then shook his head. Somewhere in his mind, the door of a cage clanged shut and there was a child's sigh from behind the bars.




When he went to bed that night, two hours after a casserole dinner with carrots, the Brussels sprouts again left untouched, he had a vivid dream. He was riding on his tyrannosaurus (blown up to huge size) towards a large castle with tall shining turrets and a double garage. In the castle was a beautiful queen with honey blonde hair, soft brown eyes and shiny red nails being held prisoner by a cackling old witch who looked very much like the witch that had locked up the boy in the cage in the fairy tale. Charles was going to rescue the queen with … with … what? He had no weapons with him? How was he going to rescue the queen if he had no weapons? He stopped at the driveway and at that moment Charles woke up. He found himself back in bed and the dinosaur shrunk back to its usual puny plastic self sitting on the chest of drawers near the desk.




He spent the next day exploring the mansion and gardens. He ventured into all the upstairs rooms and most of the downstairs rooms but Nanna barred him from the kitchen. "It's no place for a child!" she said, "I'd be so ashamed if you came in and saw all the mess and dirt. No-one comes into the kitchen except for me!" So all Charles was able to see of the kitchen from the dining-room doorway was a large stainless steel refrigerator with large black handles, cupboards with granite tops and a stone floor. Everything looked shiny or at least well scrubbed and smelt of strong ammonia.

The gardens were large enough for Charles to race around in several times and still find something new and unexpected like little mushrooms in a patch behind the tennis court, a chicken bone under one of the shrubs or a little cloud of flies buzzing over a small dirt hump behind the gazebo. He liked the gardens – everything grew and blossomed so beautifully and colourfully. It would be a huge shame if someone were to come and dig up all the flowers, shrubs and grass and take away the gazebo.




The following day, his mother took him to see the headmaster of the school that was several blocks away from home. Charles marvelled at the huge sports ovals and playgrounds. Since it was school holiday time, there were no other children about.

The headmaster was a plump man with spectacles covering piggy eyes and perched on his blotchy red nose. He led the two around the school buildings and grounds. Charles gaped in awe at the classrooms while the adults chatted.

"By the way," the headmaster said, "we still have a couple of boarding vacancies for boys of Charles's age if you're both interested. I'm sure Charles, coming from a background where he's had to share a room with several other boys, would be at home in a boarding school situation."

"Would you be interested in boarding here, Charles?" his mother asked.

Charles looked up at both adults. He didn't know what to say. The school surrounds were grand and the thought of being with a lot of boys his age sounded all right but there was work that had to be done first. There was a little boy still trapped in a cage and there was a beautiful queen who needed rescuing.




Charles and his mother went to the school's clothing pool to get his school uniform and bags. The question of boarding had been left open as there was still time for Charles and his parents to make up their minds. After getting his uniform, they went back home for lunch. Charles thought he might sneak into the kitchen for a quick look after lunch but once again Nanna stood sentinel in the dining-room doorway.

"I don't want you picking up germs in here!" she insisted, "who knows what's lurking in here? It's no place for a child. Go on, out of here!" Odours of household bleach, anti-bacterial spray and disinfectant rose from behind Nanna and over her head as she stood over the boy.

"Don't worry, Charles," his mother said, seeing his bewildered look, "Nanna's always been concerned with keeping the kitchen clean and well-stocked. When Nanna was a little girl, her family was very poor and never had much to eat and where they lived was very dirty. They didn't have a bathroom and one of Nanna's sisters died as a baby. That's why she's so fussy now and why she wants you to eat well and keep clean."

Charles was not convinced by this explanation. The beautiful queen in the castle was under the witch's spell. On the other hand, if the kitchen needed so much cleaning as to stink of chemicals, then there must be something bad in there after all.




That night he woke up feeling thirsty. Riding the dinosaur to the castle with the self-powering rocket launcher was tiring. He got out of bed and pressed the intercom button. Nothing happened – no crackling sound that indicated someone had heard the buzz. He pressed the button again. Still no answer. Everyone must be asleep. He picked the little torch his mother had given him in case he needed to make trips to the bathroom at night and switched it on. He followed the light through the hallway, down the stairs into the foyer, into the living-room and then the dining-room where he saw that the doorway to the kitchen was open. Dare he go in? Somewhere in the living-room, the clock gently sounded the hour. He looked at the time display on the clock and saw it read 1:00 pm. Well if it was 1:00 pm, everyone must be fast asleep so he would have to go into the kitchen himself and get the glass of water.

He shone the torch onto the stainless steel fridge facing across the kitchen floor. The handles were very long and vertical. He padded across the tiles in bare feet (how chilly they felt!) and tugged at one of the handles. The door did not respond to his efforts. With the torch in his mouth, he tugged and tugged with both hands until the door yielded with an audible sigh and a puff of cold air.

The light went on inside the fridge and revealed its contents. Charles dropped his torch and screamed.




Five days later, Charles and his parents were sitting in the headmaster's office. Charles smiled at the plump man and graciously accepted a chocolate bear biscuit the headmaster offered him.

"Well then, Charles, everything is settled," the headmaster said, "on Sunday just before school resumes, you'll be boarding with nine boys under Mr Friedman's care. There'll be three other new boys in your dormitory." He smiled. "I hope you'll enjoy your time." Then he turned to the parents. "Don't you worry about Charles, I think he'll be just fine here. We'll keep him and his curiosity busy. Children like him may be quiet but in my experience they're very resilient and resourceful."

"Thank you so much, we're so grateful," his mother whispered, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief sodden with eyeliner and mascara stains. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw she wasn't crying but she was trembling. His father sat with bowed head clasping and reclasping his hot and sweaty hands.

They heard a knock at the door. The headmaster got up to open it and a young man stepped inside. "Ah, Mr Friedman, good morning. This is Charles, one of the new boarders in your group. Charles, this is Mr Friedman," the headmaster said. "Mr Friedman will take you to the dormitory and show you around. Then he'll bring you back here." The headmaster looked at the young housemaster. "Thanks."

"Will do, sir. Let's go, Charles." Mr Friedman and Charles left the office together. After they shut the door behind them, they heard a muffled burst of crying and a man's voice mentioning something about cannibalism in the headmaster's office. Mr Friedman raised his eyebrows quizzically and Charles shrugged his shoulders and looked suitably puzzled in reply.

As they walked towards the dormitory, Charles pondered the events of the past few days and felt rather sorry for his distraught parents. The police had questioned them over and over and found them innocent but the removal of Nanna had hit them hard. Yes, he was also sorry about Nanna after all she had endured as a girl – now she was sitting in a jail cell for who knows how long. He was sorry that the kitchen was now dirty and messy because forensic investigators had taken parts of the fridge as well as all its contents away. He was sorry that in his dreams the little boy had fallen out of the cage and squashed the evil witch dead, the dinosaur had destroyed most of the castle with the rocket launcher still unused and the beautiful queen decided to lock herself in the garage. But he was not sorry that soon he would be eating normal chicken again, barbecued dry, tough, stringy and tasteless.

Hordes of people descended upon the peaceful castle grounds of Chariton’s favorite giant, Rye Fitzalen, for the much-heralded Magic Carpet Rides and other Summer activities such as Summer Bathing, Dancing, and Garden Mazing Madness.

A total of 20 lovely and intricately woven carpets stood hovering at attention in the enormous back cobbled stone courtyard where excited guests of all ages waited to be seated. From antiquated and intricate to minimalist and sophisticated, the carpets are known not only for their expert flying skills and keen sense of adventure but also for their mid-flight storytelling via song. ‘The songs were my favorite part! If I want to fly I could use my own wings but I could never hear those kinds of stories. They know stories about the skies and how land was formed and what used to be here,’ said carpet rider Perline Ott.

Recently, Magic Carpets region round have been added to the list of Endangered Species as all the ones currently in existence have all been handed down and no new ones have been created. In spite of many attempts and access to a wealth of modern technology, Inventors are simply unable to duplicate the mind-boggling intricacy of the Weaves. Undoubtedly, there are only a few of the true ancient breed of Magic Carpets now in existence. Couple that with a history cloaked in mystery, and it is easier to understand why the many attempts to create new Magic Carpets have led to disastrous results.

The case of Henry Akore was for many alchemists a wake up call. After hundreds of attempts, he was finally able to get one of his carpet creations to fly and then he was never heard from again.

Many ask, ‘Why? Why won’t the carpets just reveal their secrets?’ But most experts doubt that the carpets know or even would know how to communicate the secrets of their creation. That valuable information is buried in Time.

This is why Fitzalen’s Garden Party continues to draw so many adventure seekers and curious creatures. They all attend to take a peek and perhaps a ride on one of his famous carpets.

Long lines swept about the castle gardens, with eager folk waiting their turn and wringing their hands with worry that they wouldn’t get their favorite carpet. And of course, there was no shortage of anxious faces that worried, ‘What if? What if the carpets got too tired?’ But Fitzalen himself was the proud caretaker of the Magic Carpets. After each journey that lasted a healthy half hour of forest flight and water wandering, he carefully brushed the back of each beautiful carpet with a silken brush that he dipped in a strange oil, and the carpets quivered in gratitude. Yes, it was clear that Fitzalen treated each of his carpets with respect, and they in turn did the same.

No more than 3 passengers were allowed to ride at a time. One of the first rides was taken by a group of young teenagers who excitedly took their seats atop an ancient and sturdy looking carpet with mystical scrolls that stitched out a maddening picture in purple and gold. They laid securely on their stomachs and held on to the front and were quickly swept up and away into the day— Carpet after Carpet followed them and then shot off to the right and to the left. Two children were instructed to hold on tightly and not a single safety belt was used, as Magic Carpets have an untarnished reputation for never dropping a single child! The children’s carpet was a lush, velvety affair with embroidered yellow and green faces, and the children squealed as the carpet whizzed them up and away towards the forest. Two sweethearts climbed aboard a daisy decorated rug and in an instant they, too, were gone. About 40 minutes passed before the group of teenagers returned with large smiles and immediately began to tell their tale:

‘We went over Sangamon Forest and to a volcano! Inside we saw a fossil of a dragon! It was the coolest place we’ve ever been and we’re going back there right now! Perfect place for a clubhouse and no one knows where it is but us.’

All the while, Fitzalen listened as he prepared the carpet for other passengers, and somehow one could see him living vicariously through the stories as if it was him up there flying around. It is common knowledge that giants are far too large to ride a magic carpet and this is bittersweet as Fitzalen’s carpet collection is one of the best around. The carpets being the proud creatures they are, they won’t flock together to give their master a bit of joy, but Fitzalen insists, ‘It’s the smiles & the stories that come back that really make him happy.’

In the cold, strange atmosphere of this planet we called Earth I sat in the stupor we had all come to regard as 'normal.'

A disease had struck humanity.

People no longer had any want or need to communicate with each other on any personal level. The electronic landscape consumed the human psyche like a digital tidal wave. Children no longer played in yards. The world existent outside their windows fell tragically to the world inside their heads.

The internet was supposed to save the world. It was supposed to revolutionize the American economy and revive a dying country. Instead what we got was a four-figure jerk-off box. This sort of technology could have ultimately helped create self-sustaining utopias, perhaps even ended world hunger. But instead we found ourselves white-knuckled with lust while our husbands or wives were out of the house or sleeping. The sexual landscape had changed so drastically that it was no longer a singular act between two people but rather a repeatable equation applicable to almost anything. We literally fucked machines. The pornography epidemic was nature's way of alerting us to a threat of extinction. Nature was telling us to breed, or to die. 

The least of our worries was the Atomic Bomb. It was the social network that had caused the end of the world. People became more inclined to communicate via electronic device. They became content to stay in their homes experiencing friends and family digitally through pictures and textual communication. Reality became something existent inside their heads. It became another world; an elaborate fantasy where man could act out his most sexual of desires. It became a stage, alone on which the individual stood to battle with their own existence. They stopped caring about the analog world around them. The onset of this sick digital psychosis within the human brain did not lead us into salvation but rather into a dark pit of damnation and sin where we remained until the end of days, stupefied. 

It wasn't until I met Audrey Clemens, who I believe to have been my doppelganger, that this became all so clear.

I met Audrey in high school. But that wasn't when I truly met her. I met her a number of years later and she was to share with me my last glimpse at humanity. 

We began talking on a social networking site to which we both belonged. 

“We aren't so different, you and I.” she said into the other end of the telephone line. 

“What do you mean?”

“You will see." she replied. 

She laughed from the other side.

“I think the world is going to end.” she said. 

“Oh yea?” I replied. What a silly thing to think; that this could end.  

We spent two days together before moving in with each other. At the time we thought it to be young love that caused our quick-handed affair of the hearts. It wasn't until the end of our relationship that I realized that something much more complex was occurring somewhere off in the cosmic ocean. 

The glow of the LCD computer screen illuminated Audrey's face. The dark circles under her eyes were an artist's rendition of the state of the human race. Like a futuristic Mona Lisa, her dark, dyed black hair shined under the luminescent essence of her alternative world. 

“I think I'm going to buy a new purse.” she declared proudly. 

“Why?” I asked, my tone redolent with distaste. 

“Because I need one.”

“No. You don't.” 

“Well I want one.” 

“That doesn't mean you need one though.” 

I began seeing large similarities in the way Audrey and I conducted ourselves and our lives. She was compulsive, like myself. We both spent money beyond our means. We both smoked cigarettes; forever telling ourselves we are going to quit. We often talked of doing things and taking action of some sort, in regards to something. However we both seemed to sit, complacent with our own mediocrity. 

We shared similar compulsions, yes, but it was a sickness I would soon find out that lay inside our heads. 

“What?” I said, averting my attention away from the television set. 

“What?” she said back to me. 

“I wasn't paying attention to what you were saying.” I said, as she continued on, like an illuminated god, reigning over her increasingly digital domain. 

“I think the world is going to end.” she said.

“Oh, I see.” I said, drawing my attention back to the television screen. 

We, like most of humanity, were similar in the sense that we only cared about ourselves, about our own thoughts and were content to only talk about ourselves. We were all stuck in our own apocalyptic heads. 

As I studied us and our own pathologies I noticed the compulsions that we shared were both similar and increasing in severity; that our condition was not only representative of us but most of the world. 

We, as a collective whole, were disoriented. We saw the world as a distorted image. We saw it as a place to entertain ourselves, fuck, and most enjoyably, shop. 

I noticed within us the almost automatic need to spend money. It was the last night we would be living together. We lived in a small studio apartment up north on the east coast. We decided to part ways because of the disease, as I soon began calling it. 

“That $170 dollars was refunded.” Audrey said while checking her online bank account . 

She had left her debit card at a store the week prior and an employee racked-up $130 worth the porn and $40 in gas. 

“Good.” I said. “You were just saying that you had no money.”

“Let’s go shopping.” she said with exuberance.

“But I thought we decided to go hiking.” I said. “And you just got done complaining how you never have any money.” 

“I know. But I really want to buy myself a Christmas present.” she replied. “Are you mad?”

“No. It’s fine.” I said. 

“Are you sure?” she asked. 

“Yes.” I answered. 

I wasn't. 

The florescent glow of the department store sign was magic in her dark brown eyes. 





The consumer landscape was more of an infrastructure where the advertising companies dictated the human psyche. No longer did we govern ourselves by basic logic but rather according to what we were told to do. 

And what we were told was to consume. 

I watched the people at the checkout. One by one the parasitic virus that called themselves the human race stood in line to purchase their momentary pieces of happiness. And they happily waited in line to pray to their made-in-China gods. 

“Do you like this dress?” Audrey said, pulling me away from gawking in wonderment at that car crash that was now the human organism. 

“It's fine.” I said.

I watch them as they are herded like cattle in the electronics department. 

I gaze at our mighty race as they claw at each other for the remaining lap tops on sale for $179.95.

The week prior I had been in the same spot returning a television I had compulsively bought.

The wall of televisions behind them, in giant letters - unknown to them - read:

"NUCLEAR ATTACK ON NATION'S CAPITAL. WASHINGTON HAS BEEN DESTROYED' 

“I think it's the end of the world.” Audrey said, who I didn't realize was standing next to me. 

“Looks that way.” I said.