Previously on Alphabetic Fish: the protagonist has vowed to renew himself, but has done very little except write his diary. He met an alien called Efedrina at the pharmacy. Part A is here, and Part B is here.
I thought I knew my purpose,
so clear it was:
books were pages I might turn
and never a moment
for artichokes I might deflower,
petal by petal,
dipped in lemon juice and oil.
Previously on Alphabetic Fish: there were no such fish, but the forlorn protagonist made a vow to turn over a new leaf, or any leaf, as long as he overcame his shallowness. The previous episode is here.
Today I will begin my real life,
the life that’s tailor-made for me.
But first off, I’ll check the weather,
innocuous conversation might be on the cards.
Delfina and the newly-pseudo human known as Pierrot are on their way to Dapto in Delfina’s trans-reality transport, a junkyard Plymouth, which gets from A to B by successively crossing to timelines where the Plymouth is closer to B. The previous episode is here.
The park left us beside a dirt track,
gravel flowed like a river,
the vines covering the Plymouth wilted,
rolling hills rippled and roiled,
eroded into scrubland.
And when the scenery stopped,
we were in Dapto,
in someone’s backyard.
In an unsatisfactory narrative sequence, the forgettable protagonist, who is alone even in his dreams, realized he could hear the motor that turns the universe through timelines. A while later, an apocalypse came along, and the humanoid Delfina told him it would be best if she buried him alive in sephine.
We’d escaped the alien mechanisms,
their aleatoric annihilation of all life,
and reached a stretch of cratered
parkland at the Menai.
In a pendant past, still waiting to become, my dreams were ever wandering in a lifeless land: the high night of suburbia, where the homes were anthracite compressed from smoke, and the streets all ran with bitumen, flowing over aeons to Nocturnia.
I have signed up with the magical Meerkat Press to produce a two volume set entitled The Purpose of Reality: Lunar, a collection of poetry, and Solar, a collection of short stories, both with artworks.
The mellifluous Meerkat published the Love Hurts anthology, where my story Jacinta’s Lovers appeared, and it is a great pleasure to work with them again on The Purpose, which will be edited by the talented and thaumaturgical Tricia Reeks.
Inconstant light will be updating once per month from today, rather than once every three weeks. The reasons for this relate to the persistence of reality. It has nothing to do with the wood ducks, so they tell me.
What are you writing? Come on, let me see.
When Eloise left, she took most
of the crow in the fridge, just left the bones
and the beaks for me, but I didn’t care—
they were always my favorite bits.
When the morning’s rays are slanting through the kitchen windows, it’s time for mathematics.
Once upon a cereal box, I read of the analytical and inestimable Doctor Petal, who was confounded by the nature of free will, and chose to coalesce the time stream to make the future as irrevocable as the past.
When the rain fell sizzling down, damp with lightning, she observed the protozoa in each drop, waiting to reach the underworld to complete the polygon of life.