August 2001
I brought a cricket into the bath with me. I sat there in the tub, warm water to my knees, and the spout was running in such a way as to force the creature into a lazy whirl. I was a little uncomfortable when the cricket came too near, but it didn't seem odd in the slightest that I would have brought it in with me. I wondered if it could breathe, and watched as it alternately dived and then bobbed to the surface. Good, it would be just fine then. Except I noticed what seemed to be a detached limb resting still on the white basin. Oh dear. Was our friend falling to bits then? "Now look here, Mr. Cricket," I said. "I must know right now if you plan on getting back out of this tub." Perhaps by way of an answer, another limb - this one more substantial - then unhinged itself from the struggling cricket. Having my companion disintegrate before me seemed rather distasteful, particularly as I didn't wish to be immersed in the broth when it did.
My mother and I were in a guest's house. They were gone, and she and I were doing the best we could to tidy up before their imminent return. I found my mother in an immense tiled shower, roughly proportional to a raquetball court. Only the tiles were dingy with detritus, and worn with age. She was attempting to wash some of this sludge away, but the controls to the spouts were proving difficult. They were indeed complex, and I examined them closely trying to gauge their function. There were knobs and handles and switches of all types, assembled and retrofitted in what looked to be a haphazard fashion. And from the wall above protruded a similarly baffling assemblage: spouts and vents, ducts and tubes. I tried the controls randomly, but the water shot out in a way that defied intuition, and I glanced at the floor to see that the grime had only become damp. Lifting another handle, I saw a ropy gray substance emerge from a grating in the wall, like thin strands of lint yarn. I understood this to be dry soap, and grabbed a fistful of the stuff, and admired it with wonder. I was content enough just to let things remain as they were if things were going to be this difficult, and I said as much to my mother. I would take the ropy soap with me though.
The mechanical pencil did not allow for much nuance, as far as the shading of a figure. I had put it together out of several disparate pieces I'd found lying on the counter while my brother looked on. Forcing the pieces to fit, the pencil seemed likely to break at any moment. In the meantime, I moved my hand in loose circular motions over the sheet of paper, soon forming a gray macrame-like tangle of overlapping circles. The sink by my left arm was filling with water, and several drops of water landed on my canvas due to the sheer force of it. The ropy doodle had become the sinew of a winged lizard demon, the contours of its face highlighted in red ink. Another drop landed on the paper, forming a white oval, as if the water were somehow bleaching the yellowed paper on contact. I became frustrated that this drawing, nearly complete, was spotted with moisture, and decided to quit while I was ahead. But then on a whim I eyed the plastic tray of water in the sink basin, and thought that I might actually be able to take advantage of the water's properties on the paper. I lifted the paper by its corners and immersed it in the tray drawing face down, taking care to expose it evenly. Then, hoping to avoid the red ink running in only one direction, I lifted the paper and turned it 180 degrees and immersed it again. After just a moment I lifted the sheet from the tray and turned it over on the counter. To my dismay the drawing had washed away almost completely, the only traces left being a few gray bruises and pink stains around where the head had been. The paper was very white otherwise. I voiced my disappointment, but laughed at the humor of it. My brother came over to inspect the paper and i just shook my head. "It was a giant winged lizard," I said.
Our ragtag group was involved in decorating the underground tunnel, an otherwise bland, tiled structure like an abandoned subway. Suddenly we were set upon by a more rambunctious gang, and several of our members were forcibly constrained. It seems that the color scheme we'd selected was one the rival gang deemed to be "gay." The word held no meaning for us, and their aggressiveness seemed to come from a need to prevail rather than to argue the particulars. The colors we had planned to use were realized in real time on the curved tile walls for all to see, through some mechanism I didn't know. We stood our ground cautiously as their leader faced us at the head of his group. He told us that the main color was now going to be black, whether we liked that or not. With a sweep of his hand many of the red tiles darkened until they were black. The design was now primarily black and red in a square, mazelike pattern. Those they'd captured were struggling against the gang members holding them back as we all looked at the new design. A senior member of our team then spoke up against the other team, in a move I regarded as risky. As he swept his arm through the air I believed I could see, as though projected into my imagination, a hand holding a paintbrush as it painted the black squares blue. When he finished, our original design was before us again, nearly intact. This infuriated the leader of the opposing band, and his words following were of vengeance. I saw a glint of something in his hand, and was able to make out a syringe full of clear fluid. He announced to us that the fluid was pure adrenaline. I didn't like how the situation was escalating, and was filled with mortal dread. Holding the syringe in his fist, the rival leader plunged the syringe into the temple of one of the hostages, and then let go so that the capsule was sticking straight out. The victim spasmed once, and then was still. Their leader moved with a flair, like he was performing, and the next act saw him approach the syringe again and draw the plunger out just a bit so that the clear fluid within was met by a trace swirl of amber. Then, gritting his teeth in the most horrible sneer, he drove the plunger down with his thumb. The victim seized violently, and then hung lifelessly in the arms of his captors. I was horrified, and felt in a near state of panic. How could this be happening? Would there be no repercussions for them methodically killing a man? Perhaps in answer, I saw the leader of the rival gang preparing a second syringe.
The light coming into the room was dim and distant, with thick shadows consuming most of the detail. But in a wan mote of light I saw something pass before my eyes the color of the tan carpet. It blended perfectly, so as it passed into shadow I lost track of it. I stood still in the middle of the room waiting for another movement, and when I saw it I acted quickly, swatting the insect with great force. But I knew that I'd missed. Somehow I knew. My attempt to dispatch the intruder was ineffectual, and additionally I had now drawn attention to myself. I squinted against the darkness, and managed to find it again: a rather plain-looking brown, segmented creature, much like a mealworm. That's when I felt something brush lightly over the hairs on the back of my hand. What was this? I forgot about the mealworm immediately and tried to focus on something else that now danced before me. I could barely make it out because it was so slight in the darkness. I saw a short string of colorful beads, and long tendril-like legs that protruded like wisps from this mass. The creature danced about, as on eddies from my own rapid movement away. And as it drew forward I felt another tickle, and this brought goosebumps as I considered its improbable intent. Surely it was not conscious, this alien insect. This line of thought was all the more unsettling because of the ease with which it blended itself into the shadows, its rhythmic bobbing meshing with the patterns of light playing in my own retinas. Where had it gone?