A Psychedelic River

White Fence

At the south end of the clearing, the giant evergreens climb up, masking the mountain which the hillside inevitably slopes up to form. To the north, the gold rush remnants of the town center can be seen past the mostly dry riverbed and the railway, which for safety reasons is encased in a skeletal frame of steel girders. Both rail and river run east past the restaurant whose ornate tables and brick walls adorn the clearing's ridges, and west along a dark hiking trail, which appears to gradually wind upwards into the hills.

We finish our breakfast, and I start for the tunnel which leads under the train tracks and into the town. But Carl calls me back.

"Hey! What are you going that way for?"

I look back confused. "I thought we were here for the rides... that new mine car one is supposed to be pretty good."

"No way, those rides are just... too tacky. Not worth the trip."

I'm a little annoyed, as I've never seen the rides myself. This is my first time in this popular ghost-town-turned-theme park, and tacky or not, I'd like to at least experience it. "Then... why did we drive out here so early?"

"We're here to see White Fence."

"Well, look - can we check out the town for an hour, and then see White Fence?"

Carl rolls his eyes, and hurries me along. "Dude! It's only showing until ten. That only gives us a half hour to get out there..."

"Okay, okay..." I turn back and follow the others, as they hop across the stones which pepper the riverbed's shallow stream. "But... well, what is White Fence, anyway?"

Carl sighs. "You haven't heard? It's like, this big fence. And it's painted ALL white."

I stop on a large boulder, and look at him cockeyed. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dude, it's supposed to be really cool." Carl follows the others up the small ridge on the opposite bank, and walks between two of the girders onto the train tracks.

"Christ. All right, I'm coming." I run up the hill after him, and through the same passage. But as I land on the tracks, I find myself alone in the train's strange open tunnel.

I look around for Carl, but neither him nor the others are anywhere in sight, not inside of the tunnel, in the woods just to the south, or the backsides of the buildings to the north. I run down the tunnel, searching - but as I pass the next girder, the scene outside changes, to a vast, painted desert. One eyebrow raised, I pass the next girder, to see a bustling iron city, belching smog into the air.

Before long I realize why this town has become such a tourist destination - thanks to the genius engineering of this tunnel, it's accessible from just about any point in the country. I run down the hall, scanning each possible exit, looking for one worthy of exploration - and forgetting all about Carl and his stupid White Fence.

Summer Home

Through the windows I can see the outer walls of this mazelike building as they stretch onward, the twisted corners blocking any end to the structure from sight. My grandfather built this summer home by hand, and while it retains the same color scheme and general shape as the house he more or less built for my parents, it has none of the focus or structure of his usual work. Instead it's a chaotic mess, with fully furnished rooms leading into unfinished hallways, and dead ends or secret doors around every corner. 

No, this house doesn't seem like something he would build. It seems like something I would build. 

I have vague memories of coming here in my youth, so perhaps it was an inspiration to me. The walls seem to have been re-ordered, though, so any memories I have are clouded in unfamiliarity.

I climb the stairs into a wing I certainly never came to as a child, probably because it had yet to be built. Opening the door, I find that the main chamber is a replica of my parent's room, only twice the size, and with a floor made entirely out of bedding. I navigate the floor carefully, climbing over the giant quilts and blankets which pile up and form virtual mountain ranges throughout the room. 

Walking down one of the many valleys, I can see a pair of feet sticking out from under a sheet, and realize that my grandfather is in fact asleep in the bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I tiptoe back to the door, my footsteps carefully aware that even the slightest touch might cause the whole bed to shake.

The door gives way to a different room entirely, one of the darkly lit, attic-like rooms which seem to be exist in between the walls of the other rooms. At one corner, I find a pile of strange electronic equipment, which upon closer inspection is musical in nature. 

Never aware that my grandfather had any musical interest, I am surprised, even moreso when I examine the devices themselves. Against one wall sits an electric pipe organ, with input plugs for guitar or microphone. Plugged in devices have their sound bent to the correct pitch and channelled through the pipes, which creates an otherworldly choral sound when I use it for my voice. Hung on the room's central pillar is an electronic box which uses a similar process to create less organic sounds - by combining the effects of both, I can create sounds even more alien.

The true find, though, is a custom guitar-like instrument, built with a thick single string which zig-zags as it goes down the fretboard. Each line segment on the jagged pattern forms a certain note when pressed near the center, and by moving the finger slightly to either side can slide up or down a half-note. At first this seems a rather difficult and impractical way to create tones which a normal guitar could have just as easily - but as I experiment with the device, I find that its unconventional style is the perfect fit for the other two instruments. 

As I explore this universe of new sounds, I can't help but hope for my grandfather to wake up soon - the two of us have more to talk about than I ever dreamed.

Rodney

A New Career In A New Town

This steep freeway that dives into downtown boasts a beautiful view - not just of the surrounding bay, or of the dense forest of skyscrapers jutting out along the northeast corner, but of the massive rupture which an old earthquake opened in the ground, long since filled with sea water and converted into a tourist attraction. The upper floors of a few sunken skyscrapers can still be seen poking out through the water, these have been reinforced and converted into restaurants and resorts, and are considered by many to be one of the finest, tackiest vacation locations in the world.

Parking hastily, I rush across the city's busy streets, late to meet my friends. I find all three and shake their hands in a hurry, making the necessary introductions between the husband and wife on one side and the female friend on the other. But the greetings are rushed, as the movie starts now and is still ten blocks away. We must make haste.

We pass by a narrow and rickety wooden pier, which snakes around to the other side of a massive Spruce Goose-like biplane, converted into an antique ferry from one side of the sinkhole to the other. The wife in our party stumbles upon an oversized stuffed duck left near the pier - looking out, we see a family boarding, their infant passenger dropping his toys over his mother's shoulder, while his family moves forward, oblivious. 

"Wait!" we cry as we run down the plank after them, scooping up a small purple cat and an enormous teddy bear floating in the water as we go. We run up the stairs to the vessel, and are finally able to catch the couple's attention in the craft's entryway. They thank us, their faces overripe with sweet smiles, and move on to the central seating area.

We turn to leave, but are shocked to see that the ship has already left the pier, next stop the city center's south end. We cry for the craft to stop but the pilot's chambers are too far off, and our requests go unheeded.

"Tickets?" says the receptionist at the entryway, whose checkered uniform confirms a "Flo the diner waitress" look already suggested by her homely face.

"What, tickets?" I respond angrily. "We don't want to be on this thing! We were just giving that kid his toys back!"

"I'm sorry, sir..." she rolls her eyes rudely, "but you can't board the vessel without paying the fare."

"We know that," adds the husband in our party. "So turn around and let us off!"

The waitress sighs. "We can't turn the boat around, sir. Please take a seat, I suppose we can have you pay when we reach the terminal at the other end."

"PAY!?!?!" I shout irately. "We're not paying you one cent! We don't owe you anything!"

Another passenger, apparently unaware of the situation's details, scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Jesus, relax guy. The fare is just two dollars."

"Two dollars we shouldn't have to pay!" the husband shouts at him.

"The price isn't the point!" I turn back to the receptionist. "We're going to miss our movie, and be stranded at the opposite end of the city, all because you started the ship too soon!"

Trying to treat us passively, she has moved on to a job more in line with her appearance, picking up used dishes left by the customers, covered in some unidentifiable brown pastelike fast food remnants. "Sir, this ship has specified departure and arrival times. If you had only read the..."

Enough of this. With a lunge I push the plates piled atop her hands onto her dress, the unnatural food staining it a less natural color. Immediately, I am struck with regret - not only have I escalated the situation irreversibly, but potentially embarrassed myself in front of my movie partners.

Turning around, I see that I have nothing to worry about, on the second point at least. My company has acted on my cue and is currently creating a chaotic ruckus - the wife has climbed atop a table and is kicking food left and right, while the girl hurls plates around the room like frisbees. The husband is engaged in another room diagonal to this one, presumably in an attempt to storm the cockpit. I consider trying to stop them, but realize such a move would go against my instincts. Grabbing a plate of my own, I join in the assault.

Suddenly a loud sound is heard - not quite an alarm, more electrical and sharp - and all on the ship fall to the ground, clutching their ears. A second later, I black out.

------

When I come to I am sitting in one of the plane's many booths, the other seats all empty except the one opposite me, where the baby from before sits on his mother's knees. He is speaking to me, his diction perfect despite his lack of teeth, the conversation a continuation on some unremembered topic.

"...and print media is declining right alongside the music industry, probably to a greater degree. Both are quicky being replaced by digital media - but the idea of an artist making a living solely off of his website is a little unrealistic. Movies and games are bound to go in a similar direction as digital exchanges take over - I'm sure you've heard the theory before, that the artists of the future will probably be working on their projects only in between their full-time, paying jobs."

"Well... what should I do then?" I ask in a daze.

"Oh, settle down on something more realistic, I think. I could easily set you up with a job here on this ship, you know - or one of our other vessels. Your friends have already agreed - accepted jobs under me to work off the cost of the damage they caused. But it shouldn't be looked at as a punishment, it's actually quite a nice gig. These vessels are large, not a bad place to start a family. You get to travel quite a bit - and keep in mind we're just a few weeks away from getting these things airborn again."

The baby makes a tempting offer, and he's so damned adorable that it's hard to ignore his suggestions. But somewhere inside me, my ghost is whispering that this ship is just a prison, one I've been lured onto to distract me from the things I need to do.

I stand up. "You make a tempting offer, Baby. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn it down."

The baby giggles, a trail of spit running down his chin. "Turn it down? I'm sorry, but that's not exactly possible."

"What do you mean?"

"The moment you set foot on this ship, you entered into my world. If you work here you work for me, and you don't leave here until I decide your work is done."

"Or what? What if I refuse?"

The giggles continue, as the baby and his silent mother slowly fade into invisibility. "Then you're on this ship alone. If you don't think that sounds bad, I'll give you a little taste of what it feels like. Someday I'll return - I'm certain that by that time, you will have made the correct decision."

As their espers finish fading I rise, and run through the halls of the empty structure, the geometry of its rooms seeming to change as my gait becomes more frantic. Looking out the window, I can see that the cityscape outside has faded as well, leaving me and this small maze of rooms isolated in the center of an endless, featureless sea.

Alliteration of the Ghetto

As the light changes, my car climbs forward, past the run-down inner city school and on to the site of my friend Neil's recently opened public art installation. I can see the cold concrete letters jutting out over the temporary trailers in the school's parking lot, but still in the shadow of the freeway hastily assembled over this sad, shady neighborhood.

Slowly the sculpture comes into full view and Neil's joke becomes clear. The project, intended to give the participating artists a chance to represent their favorite musical acts, is easily the most prestigious offer he's had yet. But in a rare use of irony, Neil has opted to neglect his artistic skills and instead simply craft giant lifeless word sculptures - and stranger still, he has chosen even to ignore his personal taste and only represent singers with alliterative double M's. Mandy Moore, Marilyn Manson, Mindy McCready... I guess I can understand the joke, but this seems particularly abstract, even for him. 

His earlier claims that he had found the perfect location are bewildering as well - the piece is square in the center of St. Francesco's most crime riddled neighborhood, on a hill overlooking downtown, but on the opposite side of the freeway from the exit, and invisible from all major roads. I wonder if, as an Englishman, his instinctive sense of the streets is backwards - and if, when looking on a map, he had erroneously marked this road as the site of the offramp.

Whatever his mistake, poor Neil's artistic practical joke is now paying the price. Already, several of the letters have been marked with graffiti - and while the code of their neon red language is alien to me, I can't help but recognize one particular pattern. Each of the words begins with the same character - presumably an "M" in reference to the piece. But as I circle again, and look closer, it becomes clear that these aren't simply "M" words chosen at random - they flow with a surprising structure, and seem to be divided into verse-like blocks. As I focus more closely, the overwhelming mathematics connecting the work become clear, and I realize that I am looking at one of the great literary works of the century, written in a tongue that most of us will never be able to understand.

The Shell

The crowd moves down the stairs, following the line as it weaves in and out between the brightly pointed coral formations of the sea and the smooth dark rocks of the steep cliffside. Behind and above us, headlights can be seen pulling into the few open parking spots which line the highway, and beyond that, the stony incline becomes steeper, the foot of a mountain enormous enough to block out the rising sun. To the south, a river's mouth separates us from the plateau of a high class coastal town I found only recently, its chaotic streets a labyrinth of luxury. To the north, a bed of fog hides the highway that I know snakes through the cliffside for many miles, and the ever-growing range of mountains that protects the inland valleys from the wild sea.

And straight ahead, the path leads down to a flat walkway carved out of the reef itself, its multitude of branches all centering on the mammoth clamshell amphitheatre, half-submerged in the sea. When watching it, the waves seem to flyby in slow motion, crashing against the coral spires which shield the structure from a seemingly destined flood. The shell's giant lips part, with the bottom half forming the floor of the entryway and the top half a ridged awning. As our line slowly shuffles past the unmanned box office window and into the halls of the structure, we pass ornate organic pearl frames, posters of upcoming acts inside. And of tonight's headliner: Laurie Anderson.

The walls of the main chamber seem to pulse with life, though we of the audience all know this creature died a century ago, its soft innards petrified by the unique properties of the surrounding sea. We find our places among the perfectly chiseled, mirrorlike seats, waiting for the lights to finally dim. I wonder aloud if the night will feature material from Anderson's legendary "Moby Dick" project - a neighbor nods and confirms that the show's aquatic setting is more than coincidence. We are suddenly silenced by the parting of the red curtains, and as we stand to better see the show unfolding ahead of us, we find the scene around us has already started to fade, pushing us back towards waking life in an infuriating anticlimax.