Moonwalking

As a youngster in the early 1980s, I reveled in making fun of Michael Jackson, all the while secretly thrilling to the songs I heard on the radio or saw on one of the music video shows (I wouldn't have MTV until the end of the decade). I watched the Motown tribute show when he unleashed the moonwalk; enjoyed the epic silliness of the "Thriller" video; loved Eddie Van Halen's solo on "Beat It." 

What I didn't do was buy "Thriller," It wouldn't be until I was in college that I picked up a used vinyl copy of it. Of course, you really didn't need the album -- seven of the nine tracks were released as singles -- to experience the album. 

By then, the long decline had also begun. Still in his early 20s when "Thriller" was completed, Jackson tried to recapture that particular spark album after album, but never succeeding. Instead, he went from "Dangerous" to "Bad" to... well, further and further downward. The irony that he declared himself "The King of Pop" just as he was slipping was music royalty wasn't lost on any observer.

And his eccentricities -- likely hidden behind his workload ahead of this -- came more and more to the fore. Plenty has been written about those, both harmless and allegedly criminal. For a time, he was a punchline and still a vital musician. During the past decade and a half, he just became a punchline.

I don't know if the concerts he was preparing for would have repaired the damage, but they did show that Jackson still had his fans. After all, he sold out 50 concerts at London, which is just a mind-boggling number. Maybe this was a real comeback, driven by years of ugly allegations, financial ruin (how does a man who sold hundreds of millions of albums and controlled one of the most lucrative music portfolios fall so deep into debt?) and personal actions that threatened to dwarf his music.

Instead, Jackson's gone. And while I can't fathom what he became, I can still dust off my copy of "Thriller," and try to moonwalk back into the past.

The Valley of Thunder (part one)

The party stopped on at the hilltop – you could almost call it the summit – and looked far out to the east. The Green Wash spread out before them, stretching out for thousands of miles. So far, in fact, that Gilbert thought he could see the curvature upwards of the shell. They had already been on the road for two months to reach this point and had seen marvels beyond count. Still, the sight of the wash took Gilbert’s breath away.

 

“What’s that in the distance?” asked Spencer, who at 13 was making his first ever pilgrimage. This was Gilbert’s fourth. So far, Spencer hadn’t been that awed by what he’d seen, but the youth rarely are. It takes years to truly understand the subtle marvels of the world. “Is that where we are going?”

 

Spencer had noticed what appeared to be a storm about 100 miles further along. It covered a wide expanse of ground. From experience, Gilbert knew it was larger than the country they came from, far far away.

 

“Yes,” said Helen, the group leader. “But we still have a long journey ahead of us. This is a traditional place where people stop on the journey. We will need to be fortified before we enter the Wash.” Helen set the dozen pilgrims on assigned tasks. Gilbert and Spencer gathered firewood in the nearby copse of trees.

 

“Why are we stopping?” Spencer asked. “It isn’t even full sun yet. There would seem to be hours left before we would be forced to stop on our journey.”

 

Gilbert laughed. “Don’t be impatient. The grounds of the Wash have their own dangers and we need a full span of light to get from here to the next safe spot. Do you see that spec there, about halfway between us and the storm?” Spencer nodded. “That is how far we will journey tomorrow. There is a second way station that we will make after that. On the third day, we will be at the Valley.”

 

“What is it?” Spencer had spent most of the past two months asking questions, only Gilbert seemed patient enough to answer them. “I have heard everyone speak of the Valley since I was a youngster, but no one has ever said what is there.”

 

Another laugh. “Part of your journey is discovery. It is not my, or any else’s, place to say what comes ahead of time.”

 

Spencer nodded. As he had the last few dozen times he’d asked Gilbert for information about the end point of their journey. He’d tried every possible tactic, but all had failed. While there were five other newcomers on the journey, none of them were nearly as inquisitive. Gilbert was reminded of himself on his first journey, perhaps another reason why they had been paired.

 

***

 

At first sun the next morning, they broke camp and set out. It would be a hard day’s hike to the first waystation, though at least it would be a relief to not have to climb. They followed the well-worn path down the side of the tall hill and finally, as the second sun uncovered, onto the green veldt of the wash. That morning – and again as they approached the land – Helen warned all to stay on the path. The older, veteran pilgrims took positions to the outside and behind, leaving the newcomers in the middle. Gilbert hung to the back, unbuttoning the cracked leather holster for his ancient field gun he had carried on each of the pilgrimages. The gun had been in the family for at least 10 generations, only used on these trips. Though hundreds of years old, it still held its charge well and had made a satisfying hole in the target when tested two months before. Since then, it had remained in its holster.

 

Spencer wandered back, as Gilbert knew he would. “This is not a place for conversation,” Gilbert told the youngster. “I’m sorry, but no questions today. Just watch the green and do not wander from the path.”

 

Amazingly, the youth listened to this, though he still stayed close to Gilbert throughout the day. In the high grass on each side of the path, there were occasional rustles and sudden glimpses of fur and teeth and eyes in small gaps, but nothing emerged during the long day. Finally, they approached the way station. It was far more fort like than any of the other camps they’d seen on the long journey. Again, they paired up to make camp – though part of their duties this time were to make any repairs needed and to make sure there were enough supplies on hand in case the station would be needed for an emergency. Mostly, the wide plain was deserted of travel – but the way stations were available to anyone who wished to use them.

 

Day two was much like day one, except that everyone was tired from the previous day’s long walk. Nerves were frayed now, and not as much care was taken. Twice, the older guides grabbed charges who had wandered too far from the path and were in danger of what lurked in the dark grass. Spencer, remarkably, wasn’t one of those people.

 

That night, he did have questions.

 

“What is so dangerous about the grass?”

 

“We don’t know. No one has ever gone in.”

 

“Then how do you know?” Spencer interrupted.

 

“Let me finish. No one has gone in and come out again. My grandfather says that on his second time, a great paw came out of the veldt and grabbed a charge. It happened so quickly he wasn’t able to even un-holster his pistol. All of the guides on that trip spent the next three years in Far Wastes for penance.” Spencer nodded at this. It was a great shame to lose a charge on the journey. “It is rare, for we know not to journey into the Wash, and the inhabitants know not to visit the Endless Path.”

 

“How…”

 

“Enough questions. We make the last stage of this journey tomorrow. Rest, and be ready.”

 

***

 

Rest was difficult, for the storm that shrouded the valley never ceased. Even from a dozen miles away, the crashing of thunder and sight of lightning never ceased. For the first timers, there was also the excitement of being on the last leg of the journey. And tomorrow, they would be on the road to adulthood.

 

The first dawn came. They broke camp quickly and began their final day’s walk. The path widened considerably as they closed in on the valley. The danger from the sides lessened, which allowed all to focus on the sound and fury that lie ahead. Helen stopped at midday for a break, a few miles from their goal. From here, they could see the stones that lined the top of the valley. And they could see that the clouds were not of vapor, but dust. And that the lightning and thunder did not come from the sky, but from the valley itself.

 

There was a stench in the air, unlike any that the newcomers had smelled before.

 

Helen kept a steady pace for the last few miles, though all of the youth wanted to run ahead and see what was there. By the fading of the second sun, they arrived at their destination. The path ended in a cul de sac. The sound was intense – each of the members had stuffed cotton into their ears to drown some of it out. Once they arrived, the main group was held back, while each guide took their charge to the tip of the space and then down to view what was below.

 

Each came back alone.

 

Gilbert and Spencer were second to last, though it took quite an effort for both to wait patiently. Gilbert loved this view, if not what was to follow. At last, they took their position, and Spencer looked out and gaped.

 

The dust obscured the landscape, so you could not see that the valley was, in fact, a deep and long gorge. It was nearly 10 miles wide and at least a mile deep. And within it lived…

 

Monsters. That was the only word that befit the creatures below. They resembled the lizards and birds and animals of the land around, but grown to massive – impossible – sizes. Gilbert had seen ancient pictures that resembled these great beasts, but when in the flesh there was something so much greater to see. Below them, in the river bed, a green-scaled creature – like a lizard, but standing upright – fought with a creature of the water, a giant snake that seemed to coil on endlessly. Overhead, two giant vultures – at least 20 foot in wingspan – fought for the right to be the first to feast on the carrion. The stench of death was deep within the air here.

 

“It is amazing… but where are the others?”

 

And below, they could see four small figures, picking their way along the rock face, headed for the bottom of the canyon.

 

“Here we part,” Gilbert said. “You six, of all of the lands, have been chosen to take this journey. Across the valley is a second stair. At the top, we will wait for five days. If you return.” Gilbert paused. Only once had he returned with his charge. “If you return, you will be groomed and courted as a great leader. You have the use of all of the supplies in your pack, and your friends, if you wish to band together. And your wits. Do not forget your wits, Spencer. They will be your greatest ally in the coming days.”

 

Spencer nodded and then turned while fighting back a tear. As he began to clamber down the steep path, Gilbert watched him for a few moments and then returned. Helen guided her charge – her youngest daughter, Melody, as it was – and then returned a few minutes later. The six guides said nothing of the trip they had taken, or what lay ahead. The silently walked to the side of the space and uncovered a waiting hover ship. They climbed in, breathing fresh but scentless air for the first time in months. Helen checked the systems and then guided the ship slowly up and then over the storm, safe from any of the creatures below. It would take about an hour to clear the space and then land again. After that, there would be the wait.

 

Gilbert always hated the wait most of all.

 

 

Day Three: Dead Sun "Bible"

Something a bit different today -- here are some preliminary thoughts on a shared-world I've been working on over the past couple of months...

Dead Sun Bible:

Dead Sun is an umbrella name for a planned series stories set in a shared science-fiction setting. I want this to be more of a loose association of stories in a vaguely shared environment instead of something with a tightly constructed backstory.

The Dead Sun is the name given by the inhabitants of a solar system at the far end of time. The “sun” is a device – about one quarter the size of our sun – that provides both a gravity well for the system, but also has some ill-defined role in how items arrive in the realm.

The system is roughly the size of our solar system – 35.5 Astronomical Units in diameter (an AU is 93 million miles). Within this vast space (the volume of the sphere is 258,023 AU) is debris culled from throughout the universe and time. Whoever built the Dead Sun didn’t leave an instruction manual, or an easy blow-by-blow chart as to how items – up to the size of a planet – are grabbed, or how people are found to populate it. This is known:

1) Items are drawn from throughout time and space and even from dimensions outside of our own.
2) Though the “sun” doesn’t give off light or heat, those who are brought are expected to survive, at the very least, the journey, so atmospheres, light, heat and gravity sources are somehow provided.
3) Every attempt to penetrate the Dead Sun has failed. Those who make it all the way to the center do not return.
4) Though ftl and warp-style ships are possible (and something like that must be used to drag folks out of time and space) they do not work within the system. Even faster ships will take several years to make it from one edge of the system to the other.
5) Those who try to escape are turned back by the Dead Sun at the border of its influence. Sometimes, ships cannot pass. Some may be transported to a random spot inside the system. In others words – once you are there, you are stuck.

Stories:

This is an anything goes type of environment. Not only are items drawn from throughout, but time itself is fluid in the area. There are thousands of habitats within the area, some as small as spacestations, others vast pieces of a Dyson sphere with their own artificial suns and sizes much larger than the Earth. It’s also big enough and travel is slow enough that a region wide empire is most likely impossible, not only due to size (think of the Romans and how they fell, only much much bigger) but also the nature of the place. You could get halfway through the empire and then discover that the places you conquered the year before have regressed 20 years and all of your troops are gone.

That isn’t to say regions can’t have wars, or vast threats, or heroes. Just about anything in a science fiction (or some types of fantasy – remember the Dead Sun pulls from everywhere and everywhen) can go.

A key to all of this is that there is no master plot underneath it. Continuity only matters within a single story or series of stories. Contradictions aren’t just fine, but encouraged. More than anything, I want Dead Sun to be messy, the way comics in the 1960s or TV shows like the original Star Trek and Doctor Who were. The hope is that as more pieces of the puzzle are crafted, interesting spaces for stories will emerge, but are not in turn constricted by a vast bible that has all of the details down the last piece.

Day Two: Metamorphoses

Metamorphoses

By Ed Huyck

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug.

Heh. Old Gregor had it easy. This morning I woke up and I was the July 1957 issue of Playboy, complete with staples that caused me great pain in what, I think, would be my back.

I woke on the couch, unable, of course, to move. The TV was still on, and the morning round of infomercials was already underway. Great, I thought. I can learn more about the Abdominator while I sit here without any abs to speak of. And while someone may enjoy flicking through a 1957 issue of Playboy, being it meant I couldn’t actually see any of it. Not that I had a way to turn the pages.

I sighed. Or gave a glossy paper version of it anyway. I closed my metaphorical eyes and hoped that this one wouldn’t last. While the previous week hadn’t been all that enjoyable, at least being a Roomba meant I could move around – and get some vacuuming done as well.

***

I was a man once, with a job and a girlfriend and some friends as well. I had a name too, though that really isn’t important anymore. Anyway, I went to work five days a week at Fractal Industries. They did… something big and scientific. I was just support staff. I could have been working for a bank or a producer of petrochemicals or anything else. That doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t.

And I had friends. We’d go out Friday and Saturday nights, and sometimes Sunday night as well. OK, Monday through Thursday were also a possibility. We all worked downtown and would meet after work, before grabbing the late trains back to our homes.

And there was my girl, Nancy. We’d get together when I wasn’t out with the guys; or we’d do something with my friends and her friends. We’d even gotten to the hanging out with family stage of the relationship.

That’s all gone now. I can barely remember what she looked like.

***

It’s Tuesday, the worst day of the week for me. That’s when my mother comes by, and here I am, a 50-year-old issue of Playboy. Now, I’m not worried she’ll toss me out – she can always recognize me, even when I’m a garbage can or a set of encyclopedias. It’s just… it’s always embarrassing when your mother finds your Playboys and Penthouses and the like; now imagine that you are actually one of those. Yeah, not fun.

The door unlocked. “Harry, I’m here,” she called. Ah, Harold. I was Harold. Right.

Of course, I didn’t say anything. That wasn’t unexpected. It was a rare transformation that allowed me to speak. My mother – short, nearly 70 and with a big head of blue-gray hair – approached to the couch. She saw the magazine, tisked a bit (she always knew what I was; must be a mother thing) and then set about tidying up. She came over once a week, bringing groceries that I may or may not eat; taking away the spoiled food from the previous week and generally chattering for a couple of hours.

This had gone on for years. I’ve lost track of time, but I’ve seen a number of seasons pass out my window. She came over every week and I knew she must have handled my bills – rent, electricity and cable. The phone was long gone and I really couldn’t use a computer enough to make it worthwhile. At least, that’s what she said.

She chattered away through the morning, talking about cousins that I barely remembered and the comings and goings in the neighborhood. She’d propped me up on a pillow on the couch and changed the channel to ESPN, which she thought I liked. I really didn’t, but it was better than spending the day with the Abdominator.

Finally around noon, she made lunch for the two of us. I sat on a chair in the kitchen while she ate. There were two plates. After the meal, she cleaned up, tossing away my food. She gave me a few more words of encouragement, replaced me on the couch and gingerly – with a pained looked on her face – kissed me on the logo.

***

I’d never read “Metamorphosis” before my own… condition started. Once, I was transformed into a kind of Tolkien Orc and I was able to get out of the apartment for a few days. During that time, I made a few visits to the library and found a copy of the Kafka, hoping there might be some clues to my own life and maybe a way to solve it.

I tore through the book sitting in the library, ignoring the looks from patrons and librarians who were shocked by my appearance (though I wore a heavy coat and hat) and smell (there was nothing I could do about that). I read it that afternoon, and was disappointed by the time I reached the end.

No answers. No clues. Just poor Gregor getting worse and worse until he died.

Great.

That hasn’t happened to me yet. Maybe the continual transformations keep me strong. Maybe I’m made of sterner stuff. Maybe Kafka was just a sad sack loser who couldn’t get a date.
***

Nancy split up with me in the second week of my transformations. I was a wild goose that day, which made it easier for her. All I could do was honk while she told me that it wasn’t going to work.

“It’s just… you’ve changed.”

“Honk!” (But we were getting so close. I even liked that family dinner we had last month, even after your uncle set the picnic table on fire.)

“I can’t do this. You never were that responsive to my needs.”

“Honk?” (But I did everything you asked, even took up yoga.).

It went on for some time like that. She’d list off my faults, from my love of going out and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon while watching bad local bands to the fact that I never swept very well and always missed the crumbs under the cupboard. My self-esteem would have been shot, if there had been any left to destroy.

“I’m sorry, Harry. It’s over.”

My plaintive honks were ignored as she returned my apartment key, and then took hers off the ring. “I don’t imagine you can call, but I’d hope that you wouldn’t when you can,” she said as she left.

I honked one last time in sorrow and went to drown it out with some fresh fish my mother had brought over for me to eat.

***

The afternoon is always the worst, especially when I’m trapped as an inanimate object. Creatures have needs – eating, shitting, sleeping and the like – that can be used to fill out the day. A magazine, however, can do nothing but watch. I can’t even truly sleep in this condition.

Instead, I watch the sunlight slowly grow on the stained carpet (even the best cleaners in the world can’t get pony droppings or the acid from a fly’s mouth out) and sometimes watched what was on TV. There was an early round of a golf tournament on today. I never had any interest in the sport, but endless days spent stuck in front of a single channel had made me an expert. So I hated every moment as I analyzed Tiger Woods’ game and wanted to shout at Phil Mickelson’s caddy as he made a particularly bone-headed club choice.

Alas, none of that for me. So I went back and watched the sunlight some more, wondering what the evening would bring.
***

The first time it happened it was a bit like poor old Gregor. I remember the evening of strange dreams and feeling odd in the night. When I awoke. I couldn’t get out of bed. I tried to push myself up, but my arms didn’t work the way they were supposed to. Then some – instinct perhaps? – made me rock side to side and I flipped over from my back to my, I discovered, six feet. I scuttered to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Not a cockroach for me. Just a big fucking beetle. I tried to scream, but just some chittering came out. After that, I don’t remember much of the next few days. Of course I didn’t go to work and listened in vain as the calls piled up on my answering machine. My mother called in panic as well and then visited. She screamed when she came in and ran out right away. The next day, she came in again.

“Harold?”

I can what I thought was a nod. Somehow, she understood.

My mother didn’t touch me that day, but she did bring me some appropriate food. She called Fractal and told them I’d had a breakdown and would not be able to work for the next few weeks. She managed to get me sick leave – and then burned up my vacation days – before she admitted defeat. I “resigned” (as much as a six-foot long beetle could).

The next night, my dreams were odd once more. I awoke and felt different. More solid through the center. Was I back?

Not quite. That day, my mother found a small front loading washing machine in my bed. She understood right away, put me upright and then – always the practical one – did a load of my laundry.

***

Though I don’t sleep in this form, I do slip into a kind of fugue state. I was “awoken” from that in the middle of the night by the sound of someone forcing the door. It had happened before. The burglars would take a few things – there really was little of value – and go. Twice, I’d been creatures, which gave them a start, especially staring down a giant parrot who screamed “Gregor was a loser” over and over again.

There was just one this time. A man in his 20s it looked like. He saw that the TV was still on, but noticed that no one was about. The TV was an ancient model, so no one ever bothered with it. Instead, he grabbed a few spare dollars from my wallet (my mother always kept some in there, for hope I guess) and a pile of CDs I hadn’t listened to in years.

Then he saw me. And smiled.

“Hmmm,” he said, to himself I’m sure. “50 years old. Vintage. Worth something I’m sure.”

And he grabbed me and ran off. I was in a bag next to my wallet and a copy of Starship’s Greatest Hits, so I couldn’t see a thing apart from the fact that track six was “We Built This City.” I could feel the cool night air as he raced down the street and then got into his car.

Now I don’t know where I am. I think I’m in a footlocker that the burglar has. I’m next to a bunch of junk that he must have lifted from elsewhere. My back jostles against a pile of Xbox 360 games and when there’s light, I can still see my damned Starship case. Sometimes, he plays it and sings along in a tuneless voice. Other times, he pulls me out and uses the pictures of now dead or at least ancient women to play with himself. It’s not a pretty sight, and my pages are starting to get wrinkled.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I usually don’t stay as one shape for more than a few weeks. And there are odd dreams tickling on my consciousness. And the man never leaves the footlocker clasped shut.

Hmmm. There’s so many things I haven’t been before.

A panther sounds nice. Yeah.

So as I drift off into nothingness, I keep the image stuck in my head, and hope that when I come back I’ll have four paws.

And sharp teeth.

Gainfully unemployed

As I am between positions right now, I'm working hard on my fiction. I plan to post the daily fruits of that labor here. All of this is unedited and off-the-cuff, but I'd love feedback as to where it is going.

Day one:

The Curator

By Ed Huyck

The Curator unlocked the door to his office, disturbing the stale air that had collected over the long holiday weekend. He sniffed at the air twice and then headed to the window. Now open, the window let in air that was not much fresher than the outside, but at least provided some comfort in the early morning. By afternoon, window shut or open, the office would be stifling.

The Curator thought little of this. He removed his black overcoat and equally black suit coat. He sat at his dilapidated chair, feeling it list to the right. He caught the foot on the carpet edge, evening it out enough so his back would not ache by day’s end.

His comfort – as much as it was – dealt with, the curator – 55, gray and running to fat despite his best efforts – pulled over the box on his desk and gathering another, heavily laden ring of keys, he began anew on the task that had consumed him for so many days.

The box had arrived at his office more than a month before in a package unasked for and with no return address. Just his name – he thought his name was included on it – and the museum’s address. Inside, sat the box, which glistened as if oiled, but was dry to the touch. It measured 7.23 inches on the long sides, and 4.33 inches on the short. It was 5.28 inches in height. The Curator had a Mathematics professor if those numbers had any significance, but none were found. Though black of surface, careful study showed that there were patterns within it, swirling in patterns that – again – no one had identified.

And there were keyholes.

They dotted every part of the surface of the box; 106 tiny keyholes. The ring of keys had come with the box – there were 106 keys as well. Those keys were a myriad of styles. Research showed designs that went as far back as the invention of the lock. Some were steel or other hard metal. Many were copper. A few were stone.

Another friend, or perhaps acquaintance, who worked as a locksmith looked at the keyholes and keys. They did match, he had said, adding after further examination “there was no way on this Earth to open the box without the proper keys.” The locks could not be picked (another favor, a friend of a friend this time). That was due, in part, to the fact that all 106 keys needed to be inserted at the same time, and then turned, one by one.

That had taken the Curator – days, weeks? He was not sure anymore – to determine, as he first tried a single key in sequence in each of the locks. That failure did give him a pair of intuitive leaps. One, if the former owner wanted the Curator to open the box, and had provided these tools, then it followed that these tools needed to be used. And two, if a single key was not to work; it would follow that in such a fiendishly designed device that all of the keys would need to be used. (A third thought – that someone was playing a fiendishly complex practical joke on the old Curator – did pass through his mind, but the man ignored it and then forgot it immediately.)

Since then, he had spent his days painstakingly first identifying each of the key holes – with small pins that he was able to insert in the somewhat pliable surface of the box, that he then tagged with the number 1 through 106. He affixed similar tags to each of the keys. A journal by his side kept track of which permutation he was on. It was nearly filled. His mathematician friend – in their final conversation – said that the task was folly and that it would take longer than the Curator’s remaining lifespan to complete. Better, he said, to continue randomly inserting the keys. It would have about the same chance of success.

The Curator remembered hanging up the phone. They had not spoken since.

As was his morning routine. The Curator opened the key ring and began to lie out the keys, one by one, in front of him on his desk. Once, there had other papers, projects and even a computer there. Now, it was bare, except for the box and the rows and rows of keys.

He opened his notebook to check the last sequence he had begun. Key 47 was the first one, followed by a predetermined order that would put all 106 in the proper spot in the current order. The Curator peered through his thick glasses, adjusted in his seat a bit to find more comfort, and began to insert the keys.

Nothing disturbed him that morning – or any morning in recent memory. The fetid air from outside grew hotter, but he did not notice. The outer office of his department was empty, as it always was on Monday morning. His phone did not ring. The last time the Curator had attempted to call out during the day, he had discovered that the phone had been disconnected.

He worked steadily through the morning. His fingers were fat and clumsy and the keys were small, so the Curator needed to take great care to not drop any of the keys and to place them properly in each keyhole. It would take him most of the morning to do one full task – insert the keys, see if any of them would turn, and then carefully remove them back into their proper spaces on the desk. Then a checkmark would be put by the combination and he would begin on the next. The Curator never took lunch, so on a good day of nine or ten continuous hours of work, he may complete four turns (he would never leave until the day’s task was complete and the keys were back on the ring).

The morning went slow. The growing heat from outside made his fingers sweat and the keys slippery. Combined with the box’s natural slickness, this meant the Curator took far longer for the first sequence that Monday morning. In fact, it was far past noon by the time he had completed his latest futile task and replaced the keys on the desk.

He paused for a moment, stretching his aching back. He thought of closing the window, but the air conditioner also did not work and the heavy sun outside would do nothing but beat down and make the room even hotter, and his own fingers even slicker.

Instead, he carefully picked up key 48 and began anew. As the afternoon grew older and older, the task seemed to go slower. Finally, the last key – numbered 27 – was inserted. The Curator went to keyhole 35, which seemed to have some give, so it was where he always started.

He tried the key.

A turn.

A click.

The box unfolded itself before the Curator. He sat back and pushed his glasses back on his nose. He felt, suddenly and inexplicably, empty. He peered inside and saw:

a garden unlike any upon the Earth. It was thick and lush, verdant and full of a sweet aroma. The trees were thick of trunk and reached high into the sky. Instead of the dull roar of traffic, the Curator heard only bird song and the nearby rhythm of running water. He wanted to take off his sweat-stained suit and jump inside, but knew he could not.

He saw:

An infinity of lights running off into the distance black sky. Around him was dull steel and plastic. He looked down at his hand, and it was covered in a heavy glove. He could hear nothing but his own breath, in and out, amid the silence of space.

He saw:

The deepest fire of the world, lost far below ground in the molten core of the earth. He could feel the heat in all of his pours, but he was not burned, or even singed. The Curator could sense shapes and creatures far below him, dancing within the magma like cats with a ball of string.

He saw:

A grasping hand. Now it was many grasping hands, trying to take deep into the darkness. He thought of resisting, but saw no point in that. The hands grabbed and grabbed and dragged him, but the Curator felt no fear. Just peace.

He saw:

Nothing.

The Curator turned the key back and the box closed with barely a whisper. It was growing pale outside. Though he wore no watch, the Curator knew the day was nearly done. He slowly removed each of the keys and placed them back on the desk. Once the task was done, he carefully placed them back on the key ring and then snapped it shut. In his journal, the Curator erased the marks by the last two entries and then closed the book. He stood up for the first time in hours and stretched. After a visit to the adjacent bathroom, he came back to his office and closed the window, noting that the sky had become overcast. He grabbed his suit coat and coat and headed for the door, shutting off the light behind him. At last, the Curator locked the door behind him with a satisfying click.

As he walked out into the empty and dark office, he wished he had brought an umbrella, for it looked like rain.