Kingswit

Short story posted in Subtle Mud, called Kingswit.

In a post-apocalyptic world, but one where ecosystems have regained their balance and people have become scarce, shy of technology, shy of one another, shamed perhaps, three travelers come upon a man they know vaguely from various encampments. He was a man people avoided as if he had rabies — he was sick with the disease of mind that had destroyed the world. They could recognize that easily. The man had been brutally beaten and left paralyzed by wandering tribes, who are themselves susceptible to the old disease. One of the three travelers stays with the paralyzed man for a few days, until he puts him out of his misery. And it’s about the guilt this causes, the poisons it stirs to the surface.

A second tone poem of sorts mentioning Seldon is also added to the site, and here’s an excerpt from that:

Sometimes I wonder if this is a different earth, if there were no survivors after all, and this is all there is to the great beyond. I think the survivors walked through a curtain of some kind and everything smells and feels differently now. The earth has grown larger again, too vast for a journey of several lifetimes. That’s what happens in the absence of technology. A weary, wary and quiet anarchy reigns now.

Now and then you pass an outpost where they still use a diesel truck to drag tree trunks; but most of them have become rusty bones hidden in the brush. 

There’s almost a taboo about technology now. It holds the embers of the previous world.

There are only a handful of people for every 3 days journey. People are shy, an inherited shame I think. Maybe in other places the power vacuum has been filled by warlords. But in my experience nobody wants that kind of power now. Power is another ember of that lost world.

The Oven Mitt: A Comedy About Psychopathy, Guilt, Fascism and Death

Oven mitts

I feel sorry for the left oven mitt because we don’t really need it. Sometimes I wear it when it’s not necessary, just to give it a boost.

This sounds like I’m trying to be cute, but it’s a raw confession. This is no joke: I recently bought a bottle of beet juice because I felt sorry for the bottle. It felt like walking past a homeless person. And I even spoke comforting words to the bottle as it languished in my refrigerator for weeks, before I finally had to throw it out, because it tasted like shit.

It makes me sick to hear how amused I sound by my own antics. But it’s the act of confession that provides some needed respite, and respite always produces a certain giddiness. That’s why priests always thought I was making stuff up in the Confession booth. As a result, I don’t think they gave me sufficient penance. But it’s confusing the way they made us worship a statue, and then believe that a tasteless wafer was the body of Jesus. They encouraged us to blur the line between animate and inanimate just as we were learning in school that nothing is real unless it can be measured, and everything is basically an automaton, including our own biological drives and patterns of thinking.Read More »