Solomon at the height of his power sought to resurrect Babylon, a city in the desert where the mythical garden of Eden could descend upon. Scouring the far reaches of his realm, he discovers traces of a dried-up system of water ways that had long been scrawled out by the passages of time. The nexus at their intersections form a vast underground hull several miles wide, the result of perhaps a meteoric impact from ages past. Entering the cavernous space, he finds faint trickles of water emanating from an unknown source. Following the residual streams leads to the entrance of a sealed chamber blocked by a massive boulder. Two large hand-prints cover its side along with an inscription in an unknown yet familiar language. Placing his hands over the impression, a woman’s voice whispered from without. “Beware of floods. Towers and arks won’t save you this time.”
Apologies for any offenses beforehand 🙂
- Fetch the native!
- Fetch the change!
- Aww… is that your finger of death? Here’s mine
- Et tu Fandango?
- You have some barks on your hands.
- Ruff texture
- Couldn’t give two woofs.
- Thank me for my love!
- He really does love me!
- How narcissists and codependents ideate.
Sally and Paula adored their older sister Martha. Growing up in the orphanage was difficult as food, warmth, and time were all in short supply. Discipline kept all the children in line and the daily tasks would grind even the toughest pieces. Sally and Paula were particularly at risk as both carried troubled pasts. Sally survived her parents in a train crash but the incident continued to haunt her in dreams. Paula who had a stronger constitution entered the orphanage against her will after her mother abandoned her one day in the middle of a crowded street market. The two found themselves often at odds whereby Paula would lash out at Sally in fit over a silly mistake. Sally would then retreat into herself which further infuriated Paula. Often, someone else had to intervene as to stem the tide of escalation and abuse. That role fell into the hands of Martha, one of the orphanage’s younger sisters who possessed an uncanny motherly disposition but had otherwise never known life outside the dormitory’s grounds. Perhaps it was a prescience of her own fate or a mild form of agoraphobia instilled from birth that bound her so. Whichever the case, the trio found themselves in a dynamic that would eventually reconcile two, sever the three, and entangle a fourth. Such are stories for another time.
A young pigeon once asked his cell mate if there was life outside the cage. The older bird, having pecked away the button that once yielded sweet cakes gave a wistful look and replied
“These wings could fly me to places beyond the eye’s reach. Those cakes however ruined it all for I now only dream of cake and so keep waiting.”
“That seems quite sad, but I don’t fully understand” remarked the younger pigeon. “What does it mean to fly?”
The older bird sighed and said “To fly is to live”.
“Tis a waste”, Abaddon exclaimed. “So much potential, only to be bottled up and cast into the depths. It rotted him from within.”
“Indeed, avarice turned him foul and his demeanor acidic. A miser he fell with the passage of time, the enemy that could not be preserved.”
“A gilded cage would not staunch such decay. Did he take his wealth to his grave?”
“No, a change of heart transpired by death’s door. He gave his majority to the orphanage.”
“Ah, so he realized but moments late. A saint he would have been. No soul can be caged.”
“And then I saw myself in the rear view mirror of another car…”
“What did you see?”
“I was hideous! My front bumper lay torn, half drooping over one wheel like some appendage. Headlights shot to pieces, and my front hood… mutilated!”
“How did it make you feel?”
“The worst. Like I had been discarded, tossed aside into the rubble after so many winters had passed. That will never happen right, doc?”
“Can you describe the car that you saw yourself in?”
“Oh, it was shiny, modern, luxurious even. Maybe a black Mercedes. It never turned to face me.”
“How‘s the relationship with your mechanic?”
“He does a great job. Never had any complaints although sometimes he takes these photos.”
“And the relationship with your hosts?”
“Hmm. Sometimes I feel they don’t acknowledge me. Like I’m just a tool for carrying them from place to place. They don’t even offer to take the wheel from time to time… Always glued to their smart-phones as if eyes couldn’t bother to turn. And then there was the incident with the latte… Left a stain for half a year on the back-seat until the mechanic finally pointed it out! Then he started taking pictures again.”
“I can see that you feel neglected, under-appreciated for your work, and resentful for not receiving any love after so much giving.”
“Yes, it just seems so unfair. Sniff…”
“I understand, but not everyone will be so reciprocating. Do you think it is fair to demand love when love is unconditional?“
“No… it isn’t fair either. What should I do then? Lower my expectations?”
“Get rid of them. But don’t stop yourself from giving out of gratitude. It may help to find some other clients in the meantime.”
“What about the mechanic?”
“Get rid of him.”
Daedalus lurched over in agony as he hit table. Tears trickled down his face as he gripped the antenna in pain. The shock had flooded his consciousness with the voices of an entire city’s grievances. Oh how he wished the Rosetta shard had never came to him. The product offered telepathy in exchange for some real-estate in his cranium. TELEPATHY!! Did he think eavesdropping on the thoughts and dreams of others was a good idea? Mindless chatter, insecurities, wish-fulfillment, self-love, self-hate, profanity followed by more profanity… You’d think people simmer down this time of the night but it’s more the same. More like the shard from Babel he bemoaned while turning up the TV volume to drown out the voices.